Open House

It’s fun to live in a fixer when you’re making progress. Neighbors stop by and want to walk around your opened up living room. Friends and people from work go out of their way to stop by and visit. They say, “We had to see what you’re working on.“

The compliments are great, but people don’t get it. They say, “This will be so nice when it’s done. I‘ll bet you can‘t wait to live in a finished house.” Even my Mom says, “Please tell me you’ll stay in this house when it’s done. Don’t you want to enjoy the results of your hard work?“

“I’d be bored,” I tell her. I don’t think she believes me. “What would I do without walls to paint?”

Charlie tells his friends, “We like living in a perpetual state of fixer repair. The day it’s done is the day there’s a For Sale sign in the front yard.”

He would rather show people the new foundation downstairs than invite people upstairs for a dinner party. We belong to a Supper Club and when it’s our turn, we pick a restaurant. We’ll never have a house ready for normal visitors.

Living in a perpetual project gives you some leeway when you’re lazy. There’s junk resting on the side of your house, waiting for the next run to the dump. Your garbage cans are out all the time, perpetually filled with construction trash. Your walkways might be lined with six-packs of annuals, waiting to be planted. You’re forgiven: you’re in the middle of projects.

My walkways are, in fact, lines with six-packs of annuals. I broke one of my rules: never plant anything until the outside work is done. We plan to re-roof in the Fall, and after that Charlie’s itching to build a deck or two. There’s drainage to repair around the house and a concrete pad to break up in the back. All this potential plant trampling didn’t stop me from visiting the nursery.

Once there, I broke another rule: never buy plants until you’re ready to put them in the ground. This was two weeks ago, when the plants were adorable and I couldn’t resist. Now they’re long and spindly, and their roots reach toward the dirt on their own. I keep watering them, hoping they’ll hold on.

Cheyenneh, the fifteen year-old wild daughter, promised me she’d come over and help today. She’s at her Dad’s this week and that’s where she stayed. The plants stayed on the walkway another day, too.

Dylan, the skateboarder son, stayed at school. He called me up and said, “Can you bring coolant? There’s a big puddle in the gutter, coming from my car. I’m afraid to drive it.”

I was between errands, and I felt like such a good Mom being home when he called. I can’t remember the last time that happened. I brought him coolant, and he filled his car’s reservoir. I looked under the car and saw coolant dripping pretty steadily from underneath Dylan’s Honda to join the coolant in the gutter puddle.

“Follow me home, fast,” I say.

We’re moving fine until we pass by the elementary school. Kids fill the crosswalks and parents in minivans clog the streets. I lose Dylan at the four-way. I continue, slowly, but don’t see him in my rear-view mirror. That car tends to smoke when it’s mad.

He pulls in the driveway soon after me, meaning he certainly did follow me home, quite fast. He must have gone well over the speed limit after passing the school. I’m just glad he’s home. His car is smoking pretty heavily.

“Park on the grass,” I say. The driveway is full of stains from this car, and I know it’s going to be parked a while.

“I don’t want to start it up again,” he says. “It might catch on fire.”

“You have a point,” I say.

He opens the hood and waves the smoke away. He unscrews things and looks around. I find a cardboard box to flatten and put underneath to catch the spills. He does it in a very self-assured way. He sure is acting very grown-up. I’d be so pissed if this were me. Being seventeen with a smoking car is like being grounded.

When Charlie gets home, he pokes around, too. He says, “It’s not a loose hose or something easy.” He sees the mechanic neighbor across the street and gets him to look under the hood, too. The neighbor points out item after item needing repair. After a while, he stands back up and says, “Get rid of it.”

This is how you donate two cars in two years. If they take it. We donated Charlie’s truck to Habitat for Humanity last year while it was still in good shape. Dylan won’t even start it up to move it to the grass.

If Dylan’s car was a house, it would be a tear-down.

Charlie comes inside and says, “Smells good in here.” We’re going out with friends, so I haven’t used the kitchen. The cat box is clean, but that can’t be what he’s talking about.

He takes in another big noseful. “They should make that into a perfume.”

“Make what into a perfume? Burning Honda?”

“No, primer. It smells like an almost-done room.”

Done, I think, would smell even better.

While we’re at dinner, one of the women said, “On the way here, we stopped for no reason at an open house. I’ve admired this particular house for as long as I’ve lived here. I couldn’t wait to see the inside.”

Her husband said, “Should have stayed outside. 1.3 million, and it’d give you a headache.”

“The paint was so dark,” she said. “Purple, really dark purple in the living room. Dark maroon and really dark orange in the kitchen. I got sleepy.”

I’m thinking about the colors I’m planning to paint my house. Better think about going lighter with the green. I don’t want anyone to get sleepy.

“Oh, don’t do that!” One of the quieter, younger husbands spoke up.

“Don’t do what?”

“Go to an open house on a whim,” the quieter, younger husband’s wife said.

“We were driving around one time and stopped at an open house. We weren’t in the market and we were happy where we lived,” the quieter, younger husband said. “By the end of the day, our house was on the market. We had no intention of doing that. It was the first house we saw and we bought it. Open houses are dangerous. We won’t go anymore.”

They may be quieter and younger, but if this couple lived in a house they put on the market that same day, I have deep respect. Who’s house is in such good shape they don’t have to repair anything before putting up a For Sale sign?

I can’t even plant the annuals on my walkway.

A little help? [] 2:14:56 PM