The porch will need to be redone in 10 years or so. Ten years. I'm having a hard time giving a shit about a porch that's going to need replacing in ten years. I could be a doctor in ten years. I could be a millionaire in ten years and be all "What house on Morrison? OH, that old thing?! How quaint it was - I wonder how that porch is holding up?"
Half the roof was replaced in the last few months, but it was a slipshod job, and needs to be re-done. That will be covered by warranty. The other half of the roof --
Wait, let me segue here for just a second. Who puts on only one HALF of a roof? And who thinks that actually sounds like a good idea? If both halves suck, how do you decide which half deserves new shingles and which half can wait another 4 or 5 years? Is it like deciding which child you like better? Which one gets new shoes and who has to shop at Goodwill? Anyway, like I was saying --
the other half of the roof needs to be replaced in the next 4 or 5 years. I hear this and I'm all, "Four or Five years? And it'll cost about $2000? Sheeetttt, give me till next summer, I'll get your half a roof, baby. And it won't even set me back on that riding mower I'm gettin' you for your 40th birthday." (Whoa. He really is going to be 40 next year. That snuck up on me.) And then apparently there needs to be some grading done - cool, playing in the dirt and getting dirty. I can already picture the water fight that would ensue in the back yard after a hard day's labor while hosing off before we go in to shower and call it a day. Of course, I know nothing about grading. I don't know what sort of work it entails - or, perhaps more importantly, what sort of cost. But it's not something out of reach for us. It's not a cracked foundation.
And then there's the foundation. It's fine, really. I think. I guess that's what the inspector said. But there's a lot of water that goes into the sump pump in the basement. Like, a constant trickle. As Jimi put it "It sounds like someone's pissing down there. All the time." Okay, so that could be a problem, but the inspector (who, by the way, was awesome and fantastic and about whom Jimi couldn't sing enough praises) seems to think that a backup pump, in case of power failure or flood, is enough insurance to guarantee a dry basement. He recommended having something looked at to see why the water is there and where it's coming from, but again, that's not something that would need to be done for several years. Again, I don't know the details of the work or the cost, but (say it with me) again, we can handle it.
Jimi, however, has found no relief. He is, quite frankly, freaking the fuck out.
To be fair to this dear sweet man o mine, I try to keep several things in mind, to better try to see his perspective and understand his stress levels right now. They say buying a home is one of the most stressful things a person can do. I'm not exactly sure what credentials "they" hold, but I'm assuming all my co-workers, my parents, my friends, and most of the internet can't be wrong about this fact. I wondered briefly why I wasn't feeling this stress too, but the answer was obvious: I'm always high, and I'm not buying this house. Sure, this will be my home too, and I'll be paying half the mortgage, but he's done all the internet-listing searches. He's filled out the mortgage applications and had his credit building/tax paying/income earning history examined. He's scheduled and overseen the inspections. He's made and chased the paper trails to get all necessary forms to all interested parties.
I'm starting to feel worse and worse for him.
His job is a soul sucker, too. He hates it. He's a loyal company man, and has given them more than I would've been able to without being thrown more challenges and opportunity. Poor guy. I wish he could find a dream job that made his soul sing, opened and expanded his horizons, took full advantage of the gifts he has to offer, but for now, it pays the bills. It's a steady job in a country with a nearly 10% unemployment rate. We're lucky bastards to be employed as comfortably and securely as we are at this point in history, and to bitch feels ungrateful.
He came home tonight with a headache, sore shoulders and an aching back. I greeted him at the door with a stiff gin and three ibuprofen, an offer of a massage and a sincere "I love you." He's in bed now, and I hope he's able to sleep. I'm just going to keep my fingers crossed and hope things work out for the best, as they always seem to do.
After all, no matter what happens with the house, we've still got us. Even if we've got no porch and only half a roof, we'll still have us.
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Please don't make me cry.