High Mileage

My car is 11 years old with 198,000 miles, so it is understandable that is has a few quirks. Like the engine running after I take the key out. I can drive down the highway at 60 miles an hour, pull the key out of the ignition, and it just keeps running. Problems arise when I stop the car and don't fully turn it off before taking the key out. As I open the door, the warning bell dings reminding me to turn the car fully off.

This morning I thought my 11 year old car had finally incurred permanent brain damage. I parked at work, turned off the car and pulled out the key. When I opened the door, I heard the telltale "ding ding ding." The running lights were on. I reinserted the key and turned the car fully off. Rather, I attempted to turn the car fully off. Repeatedly. After 5 attempts I called my husband, Marty. "Find the fuse for the lights and pull it out," he advised. I grabbed my owner's manual and headed into my office to research the location of the fuses.

"Your lights are on," one coworker informed me. "Yes, I know. The ignition is broken and I can't turn the car off," I explained. "I can drive you to the repair shop," he offered. "Thanks," I said, "I might need a ride."

I continued to my office. Before I could read the owner's manual, another coworker suggested that I ask our resident car expert, Andy, for help. Andy popped out of his chair and hurried to the parking lot when I told him my problem. I explained the history of the broken ignition switch while the car dinged. He inserted the keys and turned a few knobs. The car stopped dinging. "How did you do that?" I demanded. "I turned your lights off," he said.

Perhaps the high mileage individual with the brain damage, is not my car.

Messy House

I have let this house intimidate me for too long. For too many years I have let perpetually growing grass and constantly accumulating dust strike fear in my heart. I’m not going to take its abuse anymore. I am going to fight back.

Everything was fine when I first moved in. We were happy then. The house had just been built and all of the paint was new. The appliances were all clean and in good working order. The carpet was fresh and fluffy. I loved my house.

We got along great for the first six months. Then I began to notice a change. The air conditioner didn’t seem to be cooling very well. I tried adjusting the thermostat but it just wasn’t meeting my needs. I began to check around. I soon discovered the problem. The filter was clogged.

I went to a heating and AC counselor. “Your air conditioner needs its filter changed every month,” he told me. “Otherwise your relationship will get stale.” That was just the beginning. Soon the house was demanding that I repair the torn siding and decorate the interior. In the summer, it began asking me to water the foundation.

At first I thought that I could keep up. I set up a schedule and regularly watered the lawn. I vacuumed the carpets and cleaned the bathrooms every week. Then the paint started peeling. I realized that I was in over my head. Our relationship slowly deteriorated.

Every time I drove into the garage, the house seemed to mock me. “See the evidence of your neglect.” The paint around the garage door was peeling. The garage door keypad had lost its cover and the battery slowly swung underneath, suspended only by the wires. As I pulled my car in, I had to steer to avoid the freezer and fertilizer spreader that stuck out from the wall. After I parked, I tried to open my door, but the tool chest was in the way. I restarted the car and pulled forward until my bumper snugly fit into the hole that I had previously knocked into the wall. Only then did I have enough room to open my door.

I ran into the house, hoping to escape my guilty feeling. I collapsed into a chair and stared blankly at the ceiling. As my eyes came into focus, I could see the crack that I had failed to repair last year after the upstairs plumbing leak. Guiltily, I dropped my eyes to the floor. I let out a sigh. Then I saw the linoleum that I had torn when I dragged the dog cage across it. I quickly averted my glance to the window in the back door. I was greeted by missing paint where the dogs had scratched to get out.

That’s it! I’m not going to take it anymore. I refuse to be trapped by you, house. I won’t let you bury me under a mound of dust and guilt. I’m going to do what any self-respecting homeowner would do.

I’m going to clean out the garage.