Once in a while, I am reminded of how much work we have poured into this old house. It goes without saying that every surface, inside and out, bears the stamp of a one project or another. We are only the second owners, even though it had well over fifty years under its belt when we took it on, but the house was amazingly unspoiled thanks to decades of benign neglect. The exterior trim was both original and intact, although a regretful colour, and thankfully no one had painted the woodwork. We upgraded the heating and electrical systems and proceeded to make the old girl ours. People say that the test of a marriage is hanging grass cloth together. Yes it is. So was sanding and staining an entire oak floor, while living in the cellar. Over the years this place has become as comfortable as an old shoe. We do stairs in the dark, automatically counting them off. Either of us can find the bathroom at 3 A.M. in any phase of the moon. I thought the house and I were compadres. You think you know somebody.
So it came as something of a surprise on Saturday morning when I stood up after cleaning the bathtub and rotated right into the end of the bathroom door. We’ve been living here for over a third of a century and cleaning the tub is something I have done before. But that cursed door has been playing the long game, patiently waiting decades for me to drop my guard. I slammed into it so hard that my first thought was about teeth — my original and very expensive teeth. Use them every day, as a matter of fact. They were fine but my forehead was another matter.
Naturally I had screamed bloody murder. Windows cracked and the dishes rattled. I sat down on the bathroom floor to wait for Jon, who would certainly thunder up the stairs and comfort me. Nothing. Holding a rapidly swelling goose egg, I staggered down, whimpering. Nothing. Finally the hum in the TV room led me to find my beloved, who was wearing his new noise-cancelling headphones and cheerfully peddling away on his Tacx bike trainer. Boy, those suckers really work. He eventually noticed me.
So a word of advice if you are in the market: if you are buying noise-cancelling earphones for yourself, do so by all means. I understand they reduce stress.
But you might want to rethink their suitability as a gift item.
So it came as something of a surprise on Saturday morning when I stood up after cleaning the bathtub and rotated right into the end of the bathroom door. We’ve been living here for over a third of a century and cleaning the tub is something I have done before. But that cursed door has been playing the long game, patiently waiting decades for me to drop my guard. I slammed into it so hard that my first thought was about teeth — my original and very expensive teeth. Use them every day, as a matter of fact. They were fine but my forehead was another matter.
Naturally I had screamed bloody murder. Windows cracked and the dishes rattled. I sat down on the bathroom floor to wait for Jon, who would certainly thunder up the stairs and comfort me. Nothing. Holding a rapidly swelling goose egg, I staggered down, whimpering. Nothing. Finally the hum in the TV room led me to find my beloved, who was wearing his new noise-cancelling headphones and cheerfully peddling away on his Tacx bike trainer. Boy, those suckers really work. He eventually noticed me.
So a word of advice if you are in the market: if you are buying noise-cancelling earphones for yourself, do so by all means. I understand they reduce stress.
But you might want to rethink their suitability as a gift item.
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