Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Domestic Perils Is What I Call Them

I love our home. Our big blue house, with the leaky roof, and backcountry views. Our Bird House, where quail, gold finches, orioles, blue birds, cedar waxwings, and yes, even scissor-tailed flycatchers visit. Our home with the projects, parts, bits, and bikes, chickens, and people, our very own dust, and rooms, and spaces. Our shelter and nest, our wide open space where friends come to call, and sometimes stay awhile longer.

And every nest, any bird house, will get dusty. Sometimes, it's sawdust, like you see on the heart. Sometimes it's the laundry, that somehow piles up. We make messes. Everyday messes. Living and breathing messes. We make things, and messes come in the making. And some messes come without warning... like the broken water main beneath the driveway, the broken water heater, the broken window. Oh, I suppose we could have seen that coming! These are the occurrences, the entropy, if you will, the matter out of order, that I call Domestic Perils.

Sunday morning... {What? Only three days ago? My, but we have been busy.} Earlier this week I made waffles. A triple batch! This was a bold act of domestic prowess, which is meant to forfeit the powers of domestic perils, by curtailing the consequences of not having weekday breakfast plans. You see, I wanted to make waffles ahead, freeze them, and have those ready to toast for hurried mornings. And I was feeling quite like a domestic goddess for even thinking of doing this, let alone getting the thing done. Waffles. Breakfast. Planning ahead. I believed I had the dread domestic peril of unpreparedness stopped in its sneaky tracks.

This really did go quite nicely. Just slightly undercooked, then layered between waxed paper, sealed and into the freezer! Voila!

And labeled, too? Oh, sure. Why not?

Please note, at this point in the narrative, I am feeling quite swell. I can foresee a really lovely week of out-the-door-to-school mornings with well-fed children, fairly skipping with happy tummies, and me their loving mother, fully dressed, in something other than my pajamas.

Then. This. Happened. The plug wouldn't leave the socket, and was in fact pulling out of the cord, and dangling and hot, and a full board electrical domestic peril was happening. Frack. Frackity, feckity, feh.

This is a domestic peril of the fatal variety. Our darling waffle maker, the one revered in song and poem, is no more. Rest in peace, dear waffle dragon.

Moment of silence.

We returned from two weeks of camping, and travel, August 10, and on that very day, during the very first load of home-from-camping laundry, our washer quit. I tried all the tricks... unplug, reboot, kick, coddle, prayer, walking away, imploring on bended knee, but the washer only snickered, and locked itself down. A total walk-out. This is a compounding domestic peril, when you have both the dread laundry, which must be cleaned, and a dead machine, which must be repaired. And this can also be a moment to reassess perceptions about a dread domestic peril, because the only thing I like less than doing laundry is not being able to do laundry. This is a compounding domestic peril with paradox! Really yucky.

Fast forward to August 19th: Trusted repairman comes, makes diagnosis, orders part, and informs me we own one of the worst washers ever made. Ever. This is a domestic peril of consumer fate. Fortunately, the washer came with the house, so we feel slightly less pain on hearing this assessment of its worthlessness. {At least we aren't the poor chumps that went out and bought the darn thing. Small comforts, denial, ignorance, and high pain thresholds are paramount to enduring all domestic perils.}

Fast forward to August 21st: My Mom and Dad send a link to a washer they insist on having delivered to the Bird House. This is no kind of domestic peril at all, but the highest kind of love and caring, and we accept this offer, thrilled, elated, and thankful.

Fast forward to yesterday, August 26th: The washer is coming! And William and I clear the space, and I am separating whites and colors, and joy is ringing through my heart and hands, because I can undertake the ginormous task of smiting the foe, dirty laundry! But. No. Seems our valves, especially the hot water valve are too corroded, and will likely break and flood the interior wall if turned, and so appliance delivery and installer guy drives away, until we can fix that. Domestic peril of the aging home variety. Stuff gets old.

A little bit I wanted to cry, or drink a Margarita. Neither felt like a good option, so I went to FB and poured my heart out, whined a bit, and took consoling messages from caring friends. It's like therapy for First World problems, social media is.

Fast forward, again, and Geoff is sweating copper on our dining table. Also on the dining table: sewing machine, because William is learning how to sew a waistcoat, and Maria and I are making clothes for her little dolls, wood working tools from William's flintlock pistol project, as well as cutlass parts. Homework, and back to school papers... etc.

The valves really were corroded, and I am super glad Geoff knows a thing or two about replacing valves, cutting out dry-wall, removing drains... etc. And hardly an eye batted when he said, Dang it, burned the table. Somehow these little remarks, the collateral damage variety of domestic perils, barely register. Did I call it a "dining table?" It's more of a workbench. In the kitchen. Where we take meals.

I asked Geoff if he and I could sweat copper, together, our next date.

The soonest I can get the delivery guys back here is Thursday. The water is turned off, so we had to order pizza for dinner. I think the children would call this a domestic peril twist benefit. But, we have new valves!

And it's all shiny and clean, and good. Oh. Yeah... I will be looking at paint colors, inspired by the new drywall section... because I think a new color is in order... a happy to be in the laundry room shade. {What color would that be, I wonder?}

So. Yeah. There are all kinds of domestic perils and messes, and mishaps. I didn't even get to the other domestic peril chain of misfortunes that is our upstairs deck and living room ceiling. This one involves water leaking, termites, rotting wood, and hoped-for new flooring.

One of the worst perils of the home? Uh, being a blogger may be one of the most detrimental domestic perils we face, because anyone more keen on writing about housework than actually doing housework is gonna be a bit of a problem.

I have compulsive blogging domestic peril avoidance disorder. I got it bad.

I love our home. We have a beautiful view... many lovely, good, and happy views.

{By the way... the children ate all of the frozen waffles. A comforting snack. Sunday night. Domestic perils of internal sabotage.}

4 comments:

  1. Ah Natalie, I should stop by more often. I love your dining table/workbench, and I hope you glory in the messy activity of your tribe. I'm not a mother, but I just know you'll miss it when they leave. (I also have a feeling they won't go far, nor stay away long). Also, don't take this the wrong way, but Geoff's valves are gorgeous. I'm more than a little jealous.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Ah, what a happy sight! Hello, Alison.
      Hey, how could I take it wrong... let's face it... his valves are *HOT!*

      Delete
  2. I sweat copper when I have to but have yous seen the wonderful creations called Gator Bites or Shark Bites? They are quick, easy, fool-proof and rated for behind walls...just sayin'. You know, you will need to do this sort of work again as domestic perils are recurrent.

    ReplyDelete
  3. I'm exhausted reading your domestic perils, but you all press onwards and upwards. Bravo!

    ReplyDelete

Thank you for visiting.