I love my next-door neighbors. Not only do they send me hilarious color-commentary observations about My Life As Viewed from Twenty Feet Over, they also serve as my YSJHTFA HIWS (YUP, SHIT JUST HIT THE FAN AGAIN: HOME IMPROVEMENT WARNING SYSTEM).
Today, when I got home from a committee meeting at the girls’ school (A COMMITTEE MEETING! HELPING HUMANITY! HA HA HA!) Neal greeted me at my car with a sober, “You’ve got a problem up there.”
Now, I know I’ve got a problem UP THERE in the hole that is my head, and bless his heart, he knows that too. But the hole in my roof was what Neal was talking about.
He led me into their upstairs bathroom to get a look.
“There it is,” said Neal. “Slates breaking off. Pretty big hole. Water’s probably going straight in to Hannah’s room. Or the attic. If you’ve got some attic there.”
GOT ATTIC? flashed through my mind. I’ve got exposed beams (not the charming rustic kind) and pink fluffy death insulation with death sparkles, and a number of psychic-certified haunted objects up there, but nothing much else. Except a waterslide park for mice, possibly.
“Excellent,” I said, taking in the latest scythe-swipe from the Grim Reaper of Home Repairs, wondering if enough bubble gum could do the trick. “How much do roofers cost?”
Neal snorted and shook his head. “You don’t want to know. Probably cost you $100 just for them to put a ladder against the side of your house.”
“EXCELLENT EXCELLENT EXCELLENT,” said I. “We’ll skip the ladder and I’ll just let them climb me. Maybe we can work out a deal. I’m slowly being sucked into the pole-dancing world anyway.”
Barb came upstairs, clucking. “I leave you two alone and he’s got you in the bathroom.”
“He said, ‘Come upstairs. I want to show you a hole.’ I couldn’t resist. Ha! Ha!”
They humor me.
“Seriously,” I whined, “I see why women feel like they have no choice but to pull an Anna Nicole and marry nice old men with offshore bank accounts.”
“Gold diggers,” nodded Neal, solemnly.
“What am I going to do? This is crazy, right? This is crazy. I’m not crazy. I mean, I AM crazy, but not HOLE IN THE ROOF crazy. THIS is crazy.”
They nodded. They are good, good souls and don’t mind living next door to the mentally infirm.
THIS IS WACK, people, WACK. I am living a joke. This week, I got five notices that my health insurance was gone, got that fixed, was told my unemployment was gone, was told it was extended, then gone again, then maybe reinstated. I fixed that. I paid the bills I could. I packed lunches, occasionally with A PIECE OF MERCY FRUIT THROWN IN, for appearance’s sake. Today, I volunteered at the girls’ school, made a list of the latest new jobs to check into, and I come home to find that GOD BLEW A METEOR SPITBALL INTO MY FREAKING ROOF.
And some folks wonder why I SOUND OVERWHELMED SOMETIMES. That Breed ‘Em and Weep chick is sooo dramatic! No freaking NO, people. NO NO! If I decided to match my level of dramatic response to the level of dastardly life events and home breakdowns that keep rolling on in, I WOULD BE ON TOP OF THE FREAKING ROOF. Do you hear me? Do you hear me, people? I am still IN the house and I am DOING MY BEST but I am allowed to say THIS SUCKS THIS SUCKS THIS SUCKS THIS SUCKS AND I’M SURE THERE ARE SOME VERY LOVELY GOLD DIGGERS, MEN AND WOMEN BOTH, OUT THERE IN THE WORLD.
Recession confession? THIS SUCKS! YES! I KNOW I SAID THAT! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! Oh, I could go on, but you no doubt are dealing with your own meteor spitballs. The thing is? I can’t live lower on the hog. If I live lower on the hog, my children and I become the crust the hog is trying to floss out from between its cloven toes. I can’t budget, because YOU CAN’T BUDGET FOR ZERO, WITHOUT INVOLVING THE SEX TRADE IN SOME WAY.
You KNOW I speak the truth.
Damn it all to hell. I am TIRED, peeps. I am sure it doesn’t show. Write me soothing things, or I’ll be forced to post more poems, and believe me, you don’t want 400 haiku about a hole in my roof.
F*CK.
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