I Hate The Weekend
Well, I guess I don't hate "the" weekend... I just hate "this" weekend. In a heartbeat, I would gladly trade this Friday for last Monday. I do not want this weekend to be here.
I'm driving down to LA tonight to start sorting things out at my Dad's house.
My Dad bought that house in the sixties. As far as I know, it's the only house he ever owned. Six kids were raised in that house (my dad's first two step kids, and then my brothers, and then me and my sister.) Forty plus years.
My dad didn't have a will, and so, after probate, that house will belong to me, my sister, and my bothers.
What the hell are we gonna do with that house?
I wish I could begin to explain all that that house is to me.
That house is ALWAYS a work in progress. Always.
That house is where I was born and raised.
That house is cold in the winter and hot in the summer, and the roof leaks, and it's dirty, and it's never very well lit, and growing up you were never sure if the water was going to function properly. It has bugs. It is old, and messy, and falling apart, and I grew up embarrassed because of it.
That house is huge, and sometimes scary, and it creaks at night.
That house is a money pit.
That house is where I learned to ride a bike... and a horse.
That house is where I learned to swim and to play piano.
I played tag in the huge yard in front of that house.
I walked down the long, strange, leads-to-nowhere hallway in that house, and I pretended that I was a fashion model on a runway.
I scrambled my first egg while standing on a stool in the kitchen in that house.
I woke up to 26 Christmas mornings in that house.
My sticker collection is safely hidden on the inside of a cupboard door in that house.
That house touched every part of my childhood.
That house tore my parents' marriage apart. My dad chose that house over my mom and it broke her heart.
That house is at the top of long private driveway that no one would ever drive up... so I always had to walk up. But the driveway made that house feel like a sanctuary away from the outside world.
That house was less than 300 yards away from the gruesome car accident I was in senior year of high school.
That house has my last name scrawled in pencil on the mailbox - I wrote it there when I was in junior high.
That house floods EVERY winter.
My friends and I used to sneak out of that house. It wasn't hard, that house has FIVE doors leading to outside and is long and winding and easy to lose people in.
I was grounded SO MANY times in that house.
Every penny my family had when I was growing up went into that house.
My sister almost drowned in the pool at that house.
My dad built me a tree house in the back yard of that house - with a slide and everything.
That house was home to horses, and chickens, and cats, and dogs, and turtles, and peacocks, and fish, and bunnies... and maybe even sheep.
That house was “that house” on our street – I’m fairly certain that our neighbors prayed everyday that we’d move and that someone would come along and tear that eyesore down.
I've been told that that house builds character.
My name is carved in the cement at that house - and it's spelled without the u.
My mom was depressed for years in that house.
That house threatens to be overcome entirely by plants and trees and other greenery on a regular basis. It is a full time job to keep everything watered and trimmed and sort of at bay.
My dad died in that house.
We had my father’s funeral at that house. My siblings and I, our friends, and our extended family worked for 3 days straight to get that house and the grounds in order. It was so beautiful.
I love/hate that house.
And now it is my house. And I have to go through it and through all forty years of stuff inside it. I have to throw stuff away. I have to throw away my father’s stuff. We can’t possibly save everything.
What the hell are we gonna do with that house?
Sell it? The place I grew up in? The bain of my existence for 26 years? The strange, inexplicable, enigma house with hallways that go nowhere? Can we really sell it? Can we really afford not to?
I do not want this weekend to get here. I do not want to deal with this.
I'm driving down to LA tonight to start sorting things out at my Dad's house.
My Dad bought that house in the sixties. As far as I know, it's the only house he ever owned. Six kids were raised in that house (my dad's first two step kids, and then my brothers, and then me and my sister.) Forty plus years.
My dad didn't have a will, and so, after probate, that house will belong to me, my sister, and my bothers.
What the hell are we gonna do with that house?
I wish I could begin to explain all that that house is to me.
That house is ALWAYS a work in progress. Always.
That house is where I was born and raised.
That house is cold in the winter and hot in the summer, and the roof leaks, and it's dirty, and it's never very well lit, and growing up you were never sure if the water was going to function properly. It has bugs. It is old, and messy, and falling apart, and I grew up embarrassed because of it.
That house is huge, and sometimes scary, and it creaks at night.
That house is a money pit.
That house is where I learned to ride a bike... and a horse.
That house is where I learned to swim and to play piano.
I played tag in the huge yard in front of that house.
I walked down the long, strange, leads-to-nowhere hallway in that house, and I pretended that I was a fashion model on a runway.
I scrambled my first egg while standing on a stool in the kitchen in that house.
I woke up to 26 Christmas mornings in that house.
My sticker collection is safely hidden on the inside of a cupboard door in that house.
That house touched every part of my childhood.
That house tore my parents' marriage apart. My dad chose that house over my mom and it broke her heart.
That house is at the top of long private driveway that no one would ever drive up... so I always had to walk up. But the driveway made that house feel like a sanctuary away from the outside world.
That house was less than 300 yards away from the gruesome car accident I was in senior year of high school.
That house has my last name scrawled in pencil on the mailbox - I wrote it there when I was in junior high.
That house floods EVERY winter.
My friends and I used to sneak out of that house. It wasn't hard, that house has FIVE doors leading to outside and is long and winding and easy to lose people in.
I was grounded SO MANY times in that house.
Every penny my family had when I was growing up went into that house.
My sister almost drowned in the pool at that house.
My dad built me a tree house in the back yard of that house - with a slide and everything.
That house was home to horses, and chickens, and cats, and dogs, and turtles, and peacocks, and fish, and bunnies... and maybe even sheep.
That house was “that house” on our street – I’m fairly certain that our neighbors prayed everyday that we’d move and that someone would come along and tear that eyesore down.
I've been told that that house builds character.
My name is carved in the cement at that house - and it's spelled without the u.
My mom was depressed for years in that house.
That house threatens to be overcome entirely by plants and trees and other greenery on a regular basis. It is a full time job to keep everything watered and trimmed and sort of at bay.
My dad died in that house.
We had my father’s funeral at that house. My siblings and I, our friends, and our extended family worked for 3 days straight to get that house and the grounds in order. It was so beautiful.
I love/hate that house.
And now it is my house. And I have to go through it and through all forty years of stuff inside it. I have to throw stuff away. I have to throw away my father’s stuff. We can’t possibly save everything.
What the hell are we gonna do with that house?
Sell it? The place I grew up in? The bain of my existence for 26 years? The strange, inexplicable, enigma house with hallways that go nowhere? Can we really sell it? Can we really afford not to?
I do not want this weekend to get here. I do not want to deal with this.
Labels: dad, feeling blue, smile, that house
posted by Courtney at 1:40 PM
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