A couple of people who read my blog have contacted me recently to enquire about the writer’s block that I seem to be experiencing. My reply has been that until I see the humour in current circumstances, I would spare readers my lamenting. I began to muse, would I ever see the humour?

No. Likely not…but could I try to see the irony?

Last month, on the drive to a family gathering, I seized an opportunity, presented by the rare absence of our kids, to entertain my husband with lugubrious moaning about a multitude of intellectual and emotional struggles that I have been experiencing of late.  He drove, while patiently acting as a sounding board for my midlife blubbering.

That’s not to say that the feelings I experience aren’t valid. These thoughts certainly swing in and out of my mind.  More often than I like to admit, I am confronting the reality that certain phases of my life have come to their inevitable winter.

I watch a young mother cuddling an infant or a pregnant woman in the park, and I feel the intense maternal pull for another child.  A profound sense that I am “not done” hits me to the core, despite or  because of the decadence I experience on a daily basis as our daughter’s mother.  Yet, the fact remains that I am too old to make another pregnancy either wise for our family, or fair to a child.

Together, my husband and I soon arrived at the Bottom Line; I am not a 40 something movie star taking a first stab at motherhood.  This is real life.  I tearfully agreed.

Only momentarily quelled, I soon felt the need to continue.  (ClearlyI was determined to optimize this 45 minutes of alone-time like only a pre-menstrual woman can.)  I began talking about feeling trapped, sharing thoughts surrounding my career, and how I had really always wanted to be a doctor.  I considered that I might like to try to get into medical school but once again I was confronted with the truth.  It was too late to start over.

Too late!  Too late!

I continued weeping, undaunted.  “And!  I’ve also always dreamed about pursuing some type of career in home renovating!  Why hadn’t I thought about my other dreams, my other interests?”  I sobbed.  “Now it’s too late!  I love being a teacher but is THIS all there is?  I’m done?  This is my life?”

THIS – IS – IT???!

(I didn’t hear the screeching tires at the time.  There were no shards of glass protruding from my left eye.  I didn’t have an inkling that I had just set in motion a terrible fate.)

Enter, The Investment Property.

We bought it because it was in a great location.

We bought it to make our money start to work for us.

We bought it to try to get a bit ahead in the world.

…how could we lose?

From the moment we took possession, it was clear that something was amiss.  There was certainly a “funky” smell when we went through the home, which we foolishly attributed to the owner’s one dog, three cats, and one exceptionally large snake.  But this sort of “I think I just got sick in my mouth” kind of smell was now in a whole other stratosphere.  Friends and family audibly gasped and swung hands over their mouths and noses the moment they reached the top of the stairs to the basement.  My attempts to kill the odour by scrubbing everything with bleach and water were laughably impotent.

My always-positive father-in-law insisted, “No…I do…I really think the smell is getting better!”

It wasn’t.

Some exploring revealed the basement shower drain was on its side under the basin and water was draining right onto the concrete.  The subfloor was soaked.  We began tearing out drywall and wall studs only to find more problems.  Copper plumbing was abutted end to end and held together with only putty.  None of the drains were vented.  Live electrical wires sat buried behind walls with no marrettes.  Open junction boxes were everywhere, and nothing was grounded.  Several joists in the ceiling had been cut right through.

Four dumpsters later, it was undeniable that we had purchased a complete gut.  As I write, there is an excavator sitting in the backyard, poised to crush the freshly painted (that-could-look-cute-and-cottagey-if-it-were-white) back porch, and carve a 6X6 foot trench around the foundation of the house.  The roofing guy is coming at 2 and the window guy at 3.

Reno girl got her wish…

But now the horrifying realization hits me like a straight right to the solar plexus.

OH MY GOD!  I said I wanted to be a doctor too!!

I can only pray that even Karma is governed by some laws of clemency.

Indeed, my ever-wise mom has always told me, “Be careful what you ask for, as you may surely get it.”

 

 

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