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The joys of owning your own home
The joys of owning your own home (And other reasons to slit your wrists) Sometimes life is happy— music in the air, sun shining in the sky, green grass under your feet, fuzzy bunnies jumping about and Shania Twain undressing in front of you. Other times, you’re in Fresno, feverously attempting to claim your financial aid so you can restock your one-semester supply of Top Ramen while trying really hard to ignore the background of gunshots and crack-smoking hookers offering sex. I have taken one year, two months, three weeks and five days to come to terms with the fact that I live in what is possibly the underbelly of the entire state of California. (And by underbelly I mean one of the many folds of skin within which an extremely overweight individual might lose an entire peanut butter and jelly sandwich only to report to Community Medical Center’s ER with complaints of pain in the abdomen where the doctors discover gangrenous skin surrounding a decaying PBJ sandwich). Really, I don’t think Fresno’s that bad—at least not quite that bad. And I’m OK with that, but only because I have moved to the cultural and artistic center of the city—the historic Tower District. Yes beloved Fresninians and Fresnicks, I now live within walking distance of Club Fred, Starline, Brix, Bobby Salazar’s, Butterfield’s Brewery and a handful of used bookstores. Hell, the Avalon and Veni Vidi Vici are practically in my backyard, not to mention the fact my band’s practice space is nearby. Yes, everything I could possibly ever want and need is located down here (except, uh, of course my education, yeah). So why do I want to slit my wrists? Well, for one, it’s still Fresno. Secondly, the cute little “home” I’m renting has turned out to require a greater amount of effort to make function like a normal domicile than estimated when I signed my rental agreement. Granted it’s not an actual house and I don’t own the thing (which seems to contradict the title of this column, but work with me here), but it is a little duplex and I seem to be pretty much on my own with repairs and such. My latest battle involved my new (used) washer and dryer. We’ll call it “Reetz Vs. Appliance I.” You’d be surprised how much fight a washing machine can put up. Getting it in the door was a challenge for a physics student all unto itself. However (two or three hernias later), I managed to get it inside and plugged in. Now it turns out that plugging a washing machine in requires more than just your average wall socket. Yes, you actually need to employ hoses that carry water into and out of the machine. Go figure. Naturally, the ones that came with it are torn and tattered and didn’t seem like they would work like they once did in their prime. So the logical step was to head to The Home Depot. What shocked me first was that it’s actually called “The Home Depot” and not just “Home Depot.” While it may seem a triviality to some, it reeks of pretentiousness and derision to me. After spending 45 minutes walking the aisles, never once opting to surrender my pseudo-stature of manhood to the butch ladies working there by asking where I could find “those hose thingies that go into the clothes washer,” I stumbled on what I needed. One would think that was the difficult part. Oh no, young Jedi. The difficult part had yet to begin. Once home, I squared off again with the washing machine. “OK Mr. Whirlpool, 1990! You’re going to accept and love this hose like it was your own. And I would appreciate not getting wet.” I’d really like to think that my life does not resemble a Laurel and Hardy film, but sometimes it does. You see, you think you’ve got the hose on tight enough, but then you turn the knob on and your washing machine room quickly comes to be rather similar to a water park without fun slides or girls in bikinis. Remaining calm is a good plan, at least until you drop your tools behind the washing machine and your neighbors are introduced to your colorful vocabulary. Soon, you find yourself at one of the aforementioned bars drinking Bud Lights ($1 every Thursday night at Brix!) and you do your best to ignore the sound of your once-placid domicile floating away down the Kings River. ¡Salud! — This columnist can be reached at collegian@csufresno.edu |
