An Irresistible Force Meets this Old House

When an irresistible force such as you
Meets an old immovable object like me
You can bet just as sure as you live

Something’s gotta give
Something’s gotta give
Something’s gotta give

Johnny Mercer, 1954

In this case, the” irresistible force” is my daredevil, scooter-driving husband, and the “old immovable object” is any door frame or wall in the house (and occasionally my car in the garage).  And the “something’s gotta give” aptly describes the collateral damage after each crash-and-burn turn.

I’ve reluctantly accepted that tire tread marks will be the standard on tile, carpet and laminate for the duration, but I haven’t wrapped my head around the destruction caused by the daily demolition derby within our house.  I hear a screech, thud or snap and run toward the noise, muttering, “What now?  Dear Lord, let it not be a weight-bearing wall.”

Most of the time, it’s a simple wipeout of the fresh paint.  Fresh paint?  Ah, yes.  I spent the better part of last year painting and modestly renovating this old house.  Hours spent stretching to the ceiling, ensuring coverage of every square inch, or bent over destroying my back while carefully trimming the baseboards.  I finished just prior to Dale’s diagnosis of Parkinsonism.  (Is irony funny, Lord?)

What I wouldn’t give to rewind the clock…(facepalm).  If I could, I would have invested in several gallons of Kevlar-infused paint to gird the doorframes against the aggressive and uncontrolled scooter driving of my husband.  After each episode, Dale manages a sheepish grimace accompanied by “I’m sorry.  It got away from me.  I can’t help it.”  Bless his heart.

And just like runaway inflation, “I’m sorry” doesn’t buy nearly the amount of redemption it used to, not when faced with the rising pile of paint chips, divots the size of thumb nails, or “keying” the length of a hallway wall by a handlebar that “got away from him.”  It may be okay for Ben Bernanke and the Fed to fall back on quantitative easing to “fix” their problems; I doubt that Home Depot would offer free paint to replace the heaps of chips on our floors.

When I look at the ravages left in Dale’s wake, I not only lament all the time and work of last year, but I shudder about all the repair time and work ahead of me.  Now, don’t get me wrong.  On a good day I wouldn’t trade my precious husband and our modest home for anything.  On a bad…well, we won’t go there.

Aha!  I just had a brilliant, to me anyway, idea for a new kind of caregiver respite.  Instead of a relaxing weekend away to recharge the batteries, I’d gladly stay home and supervise someone…anyone but me…who will tackle all the home repair necessitated by PSP.

So where in the world is Bob Vila when you need him??!