Angel Ackerman's Blog, page 7

Numbers make me happy

My daughter and I come from very different generations. This first paragraph is absolutely, 100% my perception and my opinion; and I am categorizing or generalizing in a way that I have not researched as fact– not with my academic hat nor my journalism skills. Her generation (let’s call it born around 2000) loves labels. Even when that generation rejects labels, they put new labels on concepts they rebel against.

It took me until I reached my fourth decade to consider, accept and adopt the identity of someone with a disability. The Teenager, on the other hand, studies identities, labels and the DSM as a part of understanding who she is and how she interacts with the world. She ponders whether or not I have OCD, if her father has ADD, but she also has her own ADHD mind, and her hearing loss, which is a powerful combination.

I call her my tornado, but in reality she might be more of a thunderstorm– the crashing and banging, the relentless burst of energy, thrashing winds and then a deluge.

As people we all show symptoms or signs of all sorts of conditions that may or may not be part of a label, that may or may not be something we “have.” And one of the nuances of who I am is that numbers make me happy.

I think the phenomenon has become more noticeable since I starting spending more time with my traveling partner, M., because as someone with Asperger’s, numbers play a huge role in organizing his life. And we talk about numbers when we notice them, because it’s nice to have someone who also likes the comfort of numbers.

I was relieved when I got my current car, because the license plate featured a number I could live with. Speaking of cars, I have been in a special kind of mourning every since that car, my Jetta, turned over to 70,000. (Since I lost my job at Stitch Fix, my daughter has been driving it. She’s put about 12,000 miles on it in eight months.) But The Teenager also sent me a photo when her father’s car turned over to 11,111 miles.

I will transfer money between savings and checking to create more favorable bank balances, ones that are pleasing to see.

And I dread the day I need to close my primary bank account, because the account number features a sequence I particularly like.

I’m old enough to remember when telephone numbers were seven digits, not ten. And the strange sensation of having to add the area code for local numbers and not just long distance. The generation before me can probably remember when phone numbers did not include the local exchange.

And if you are unfamiliar with some of these terms…

These terms and systems originated and grew with the “landline” telephone technology. The numbers directed users to specific systems of wires and before automatic switching, a telephone switchboard operator had to direct callers to specific wires by unplugging them and plugging them back in.

An American phone number is customarily organized like this:

1-XXX-YYY-ZZZZ

The “1” is the country code.

The XXX is the area code which refers to a larger geographic region, like a few counties in a state, depending on population.

The YYY is the local exchange, usually a town.

And then the ZZZZ were specific residents. Like your house number, but for your telephone.

The Unexpected Post Birthday Bliss

Gayle and I have been friends a long time. So last week, she asked, as friends often do, “What are you doing on your actual birthday?”

My birthday was on Monday and nobody celebrates on Mondays. She offered to take me out, if I wanted to go somewhere and have fun. I texted back, “What is this fun you speak of?”

Enormous TV with the best resolution I have ever seen

I asked her the budget, and she said $50. I thought “arcade.” I have been trying to make it to various small arcades in the region, but as small businesses, they often don’t have hours conducive to my plans. So I looked up Dave & Buster’s, knowing we have one by the Lehigh Valley Mall.

Gayle said, “You want to go to a sports bar?”

And I said, “No…. They have an arcade.”

But further investigation revealed that the have half-price games on Wednesday, so I asked if we could postpone until then to take advantage. Gayle said sure.

She tossed lunch into the deal, so I ordered the Hawaiian chicken sandwich with pineapple, slaw, and sriracha. Gayle ordered a house salad and we agreed to share all the vegetables. I say all the vegetables because I replaced my fries with asparagus, and we got sides of Brussel sprouts and roasted cauliflower.

Surprisingly, the Brussel sprouts were a disappointment. They tasted too crunchy, as if they were fresh and raw. The seasoning was decent, but they didn’t have the decadent, drowning in roasted flavor that parmesan-crusted Brussel sprouts normally have when prepared in a restaurant. The cauflower was great— but the dipping sauces for both were heavily mayonnaise-based. And the asparagus turned out to be thin and perfectly dripping with goodness. As was the sandwich, which surprised me with how thick and hearty the patty was and how sweet and abundant the glaze was. A very messy sandwich, but worth it. 

With the server’s assistance, we purchased a Dave & Buster’s Power Card with something like 200 (or was it 250?) chips on it. At about 2:30, we headed into the arcade and started our exploration. My first game was a mechanical, full-size version of Hungry Hungry Hippos. I will tell you at our Lehigh Valley Dave & Busters, the blue and the green hippos have a disadvantage, the ball popper holes do not function properly. To digest a respectable amount of balls, one must take advantage of the yellow or orange hippo.

I taught Gayle to play Air Hockey, and Centipede, and then I challenged her to Mario Kart (on Easy) and then we did Hot Wheels. And Rampage! We tried axe throwing and tried our skill shooting hoops. We even did some electronic bowling. And we tried the kids’ games— Cut the Rope and Doodle Jump. 

I looked at my watch and it was 4 o’clock and even though we still had forty chips left (and at half-price most games costs 3.4-5 chips per player), Gayle let me have the power card and now I’m plotting a visit with the Teenager. 

At that point, I picked up the Teenager and we headed to Joan the Photographer’s house. Joan wanted to take me to Point Phillips Hotel for dinner, where they have an on-site smokehouse and some of the weirdness seasonal cocktails I have ever seen.

That region has very Pennsylvania Dutch roots— and my grandfather- and grandmother-in-law are buried in that area. At the restaurant, the waitresses’ shirts said, “if you ain’t PA Dutch, you ain’t much” which led to Joan’s partner claiming to be the most PA Dutch person in the room.

To which I made a challenge. The Teenager is 3/4 Pennsylvania Dutch on her father’s side. Darrell’s mother’s side is Pennsylvania Dutch (his grandfather didn’t learn English until he started school at age five back in the one-room schoolhouse days) and his father’s side is 1/2 PA Dutch and 1/2 Welsh.

The food (and cocktails) were delcious and then we spent some time at Joan’s house, where he partner learned, apparently for the first time, that the Teenager is/was a musician. Discussion ensured of her experiences playing low brass and the differences between a euphonium and a baritone. Some old marching band videos were shared, and one thing led to another and suddenly the two of them had a trombone. 

Amidst a near-full moon, the Teenager picked up a musical instrument for the first time in three years and even though she had never played trombone, she attempted to find some notes.

It brought back a lot of memories for both of us.

How this nerd had the most spectacular birthday

My 49th birthday was Monday, May 20, 2024.

And my illustrator Joseph Swarctz of the Echo City Capers series drew me this “sexy Angel” for the conference coming in the fall. I think she’s fantastic. He asked me, over lattes at Panera because we were being fancy at our business meeting because it was my birthday, if I felt any different.

I had mentioned that as I get older, I suddenly realized how old everything else around me has gotten. Like the used car I bought in 2019, it’s almost ten years old now. And don’t even get me started on The Teenager– she’s going to not be a teenager anymore next month.

The mood (and the drama?)

I expected my birthday to be a catch-up-on-work day. I had hoped my birthday would be such. And I hoped that would distract me from the fact that since my father passed away, my family no longer talks to me. My mother sent me a passive-aggressive birthday card last week and my stepmother, who shares my birthday, made it clear that she does not want me in her life, first by ghosting me for more than a year and then by calling me up in February and listing everything I’ve done that she disapproved of during our 30-year-relationship.

Both my mother and my stepmother have experienced a lot of loss in the last few years, so I’m going to remember that. This isn’t the place to talk about family history, trauma, and the list of all the terrible things that can or did happen to people. We all live, we all love the best we can, and we all make mistakes. I think that’s part of why my dad meant so much to me– he understood that.

My dad

My dad was an extremely imperfect person, and now that I reflect upon it, he would make the most amazing fiction character. He was only five-feet tall and wore black motorcycle boots, jeans and Harley-Davidson t-shirts. He had tattoos, some of which honored the important people in his life. He was an alcoholic, and when I was a kid, he drank a lot. And sometimes that led to violence between him and my mother. Violence that I witnessed.

He also could fix anything. He had this sharp, strategic mind that could solve puzzles. He liked the Pittsburgh Steelers and would play Uno with me as he laid on the couch and watched Sunday night football. Which, as a parent now, I see is the easiest way possible to spend time with a child and still do what you want to do. For a while, I even collected football cards to share something, other than Uno, with my dad.

My dad would always have friends around with motorcycles or cars that needed fixing. They would arrange trades or bring gifts, which might have been because he wouldn’t take money.

I could tell stories forever about my dad, but the point is, that it always seemed like he gave people the benefit of the doubt, even when it was clear they were a mess, and I think that’s because he understood that we all have imperfections and some of his, he couldn’t fix. He could changed his behavior in a lot of ways, but sometimes those imperfections still hold us back.

So, it’s my birthday. And the only relatives who contact me do so on Facebook– and I have one cousin who posts this fabulous picture of us kids by my grandmother’s pool. I am between my cousins in the middle of the back row.

But for someone who did not expect or intend much birthday celebrating, it was a chaotic one and I have a feeling it might all extend into next week.

The PreGame

On Saturday, I presented a workshop to the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group. So, some of last week I “lost” in preparation for this event, which went fabulously, though I spoke too fast and squeezed what should have been two presentations into one. I thought I could use Sunday to recoup some lost client time.

How wrong I was.

I started with a Substack newsletter for Parisian Phoenix Publishing. You can read that here. I caught up on some email and watched a replay of a webinar I missed when I went up to the Times-News on Thursday. Then, it was time to go to Barnes & Noble in the Southmont Shopping Center where Joe was selling a LOT of books. It was one of our best days there ever for Echo City Capers.

And when I got home, I thought, now I can focus on some ghostwriting for my mafia novel client.

And then the Teenager approached. “Hey, Mom. I’m going down to groom [my friend and fellow author Tiffani Burnett-Velez’s] dog. You’re coming, right?”

Well, five-plus hours later I came home with a full belly and a copy of Tiff’s first novel because we traded– her first, for my fourth. And a cookie.

The family even sacrificed a cherry pie they had purchased for themselves to celebrate my birthday. And Tiff and I talked about neurologists longer than we probably should have. Because mine is the best one ever.

And during the drive home, the Teenager mentions that she has time on my actual birthday if I want to have a little adventure in the afternoon. So, I send her a list of ideas.

My birthday

The Teenager was definitely confused and perhaps disappointed by my final choice of Palmerton, Pa., for our outing. But I have a strange soft spot in my heart for that town and after my trip to Lehighton earlier in the week it felt like an easy choice.

Our first stop was the Country Harvest grocery store because according to Google maps they had doughnuts and a coffee bar inside. And unexpectedly, or perhaps very expectedly, The Teenager and I found lots of fun items in there. Including the iced teas we both had in school, and varieties of cat food that The Teenager’s finicky cat might eat. And for some reason The Teenager wanted puffed rice, and we picked desserts from the cooler and I bought a copy of the Times-News.

Then we walked down the main drag to go have a quick slice of pizza. Imagine our surprise when we discovered an amazing taco pizza, which we chased with a walk past the park and a visit to the public library so I could use the bathroom and enjoy the beautiful architecture.

The Teenager mentioned that she recognized the town and she felt like it was a place she had visited with my father on the motorcycle. That made sense, I told her, because my dad loved to take the motorcycle along the Lehigh River and through the picturesque hills and valleys of the region. So to celebrate him, we spent some time with the crane machine, another of my dad’s favorite activities.

I think what made the day special was that all we did was walk, talk and enjoy the scenery. Toss in some desserts and a good slice of pizza and what more could I ask… well, and it turns out we also had the presence of my dad.

Photos: How I spent my birthday

The Face ID meltdown

In middle school, I was part of the generation of kids who had introductory computer programming classes mandatory in the curriculum. Everyone had to sit at the IBM computer and learn DOS commands. It was 1989, and we had no idea why we would ever need to do this. Our parents were farmers, mechanics, plumbers and other blue collar workers.

At the same time, we saw our first local farms sold and turned into developments. One summer, school let out and in September, at one farm on my bus route, suddenly 8 kids stood at the end of a road by a field that now had houses all over it. But the real shock was when some of these kids had dads that worked in offices and wore suits and carried briefcases.

My dad went back and forth between an OTR truck driver and a diesel mechanic. Periodically he would buy a truck (twice he bought the same 1965 Kenworth) and when he had driven our family into debt with the cost of massive tires and gasoline, my mom would force him back to work as a diesel mechanic at a local paving company.

In high school, we got ONE computer in the back of the classroom to print the stories for the high school newspaper and literary magazine. Previously, we sent our copy down to the business classes so those students could type it in columns. Whether the business students typed it or we did it on the computer, we cut it out and glued it on blue grids with rubber cement.

By college, we all had email addresses and computer labs and web sites on Geocities.

My college roommate had an IBM computer that ran Windows 95. And after my freshman year, I saved ALL my money, drove two hours and bought a floor display model of a Powerbook 165, which if you do not know, was the first real consumer laptop.

I’ve been a die-hard, fight-to-the-death Mac girl ever since. And if you want to have the Mac vs PC fight, save your breath and remember, Steve Jobs and Bill Gates both stole their ideas from Xerox.

My point is, I am not a Luddite.

But I have reached the age– and tomorrow is my birthday– where technology issues can unhinge me. I ate half a bag of flaming hot Cheetos last night because the FaceID on my iPhone 13 suddenly stopped working.

I tried being patient. I tried restarting it. At the behest of The Teenager (who only has one more month of being a teenager) I tried to reset it. That failed. And suddenly I was being asked for the password to my bank account. I was faced (pun intended) with having to TYPE passwords and I, for a moment, wondered if fingerprint ID would work… and then I remembered fingerprint ID went out with FaceID.

I tried again. I could not reset FaceID.

Well, I thought, the sensors that read my face must have died. And then suddenly it worked.

I reset my FaceID. Without the help of a teenager.

It still only works about 50% of the time. But, somehow, I will persevere.

Looking for my tribe

So I had two professional meetings today— both regarding professional opportunities. One was a second interview for a niche professional journal, a publisher and sales position.

The other led me to Lehighton, to the Times-News building where I met with some staff members about the possibility of doing some copy editing work for them.

Regardless of how either of these opportunities work out, I had a great day talking to committee people in print media, an industry that has a lot of issues to overcome every day.

But talking to these professionals at these polar opposites of publications, that reminded me of my own passions and what it’s like to connect with others who share that.

Plus…

I love Palmerton, the coal regions and rural post-industrial Pennsylvania.

Life lessons according to Grey’s Anatomy

Periodically, I select a random television series and watch the whole thing, as much as I can get my hands on. Some of the shows come as recommendations from friends or family. Some are pop culture references that I feel the need to know.

With the variety of streaming services, I watch these shows when dining alone or when doing the dishes or folding wash. And I think I like seeing the various storytelling styles and the various characters built over the arcs of these long-running shows.

But no matter what– I just don’t like Meredith Grey as a person.

So with no further ado.

10 Life Lessons from Grey’s Anatomy

1. The people you love will die in car accidents at a young age. Or have catastrophic accidents and have miraculous recoveries. There are a lot of car accidents in the show, and some of them are downright crazy. Some people shouldn’t survive, and some should. Or some people get hit by a bus and die, others fly out a windshield and manage to bounce back from the most dramatic surgeries ever and don’t even have a scar. Drowning is also an issue.

2. Marriage is temporary. Just go with it. People get married quickly and divorce just as quickly. The average marriage on Grey’s lasts six months. And if it does last, people die in car accidents. People marry for love, for lust, for medical benefits.

3. 1 in 4 surgeons get brain tumors. At least. At least THREE of the main characters have specifically brain tumors and then in an unusual moment, one surgeon gets a spinal tumor in season 15. And brain. surgery, even with inoperable or cancerous tumors, is really easy to come back from in the Grey’s universerse.

4. Even if you spent a decade in school and have a lucrative career, feel free to start over in a new path on a whim. Doctors change specialties, or turn down impressive fellowships, or leave the country on a moments notice. And sometimes they become firemen.

5. You can easily change your name, leave the state and go to med school without anyone questioning it. OR if you run into immigration issues, the hospital can ship you off to Switzerland overnight so you don’t get deported.

6. Real friends cover up each other’s crimes and improprieties. I sometimes think this show should be named after the MORALLY GREY aspects of their lives. It doesn’t matter if you sabotage a clinical trial or beat the life out of someone, you can still be a doctor.

7. Most women doctors are lesbians or bisexual. A strange number of the female leads sleep with each other, but it takes until season 15 to have male characters in a gay relationship.

8. Doctors have no child care issues ever, even as a single parent with three kids. These doctors have the most convenient 24-hour day care that allows them to drop off their kids even if they are not scheduled to work.

9. Planes and helicopters crash A LOT. Not only do several characters die in a plane crash– but another character jokes about his plane crash. And those helicopters have a lot of mishaps.

10. Doctors have sex all over the hospital.

Journaling as a reset

A good portion of what I am going to write today will probably reappear in a smoother format over on the Parisian Phoenix Publishing page. (ParisianPhoenix.com) My brain is swirling. My frustration tolerance is low. Anxiety is taking advantage of point one and point two to paralyze my concentration.

These are growing pains. These are the realities that accompany change and even more so, success.

Cocktail contemplations

Last night, I really would have loved a cold beer to sit and sip while I pondered the events of the last few days– but my frugal self would not justify spending money on something so frivolous nor did I want to put on shoes. So I opted to make a cocktail of whatever we had in the house. We had grenadine (the kind with alcohol), creme de menthe and creme de cacoa, because a few weeks ago I had a craving for a grasshopper. That was short-lived. Since then, my occasional cocktail has been a creme de cacao and Coke Zero, because who doesn’t appreciate a chocolate Coke?

Last night I opted to skip the mixer and head toward “Dirty Girl Scout” territory, but I didn’t measure so my pour led to slightly chocolatey mint drink.

Why did I desire a cocktail last night? Because…

Sex Down South Atlanta

I was sitting in my reading chair, hoping to capitalize on the cool evening breeze and spend some time with my cats and my naughty Goffin’s cockatoo. I need to proofread McKenna Graf’s upcoming poetry book, review Larry Sceurman’s new middle-grade dragon story, and somehow manage to not only score some time for my ghostwriting client, but also prepare for the upcoming comic con in Phillipsburg and finish my workshop for Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group.

Let’s be honest. Comic con is a Friday problem, and this was Wednesday. GLVWG is a Sunday problem, and again this is Wednesday. But the other stuff was/is yesterday/today problems.

I receive an email from the organizers of Sex Down South Atlanta. It talked about the 200+ presenters that proposed workshops and they were sorry they could not accept them all. They told us all we could have a discount code to come to the conference and shared the list of accepted workshops.

Now, a friend of mine had proposed a workshop and I was her accountability partner for getting the proposal in. At the last minute she told me to enter a proposal and I laughed– because what do I have to offer at a big sex conference? She said they had a category for writing and erotica.

So, I entered a proposal.

I opened the file attached to the email last night to see if my friend’s workshop was selected. I did not see it. I scroll through the list and reach #31 and see: Explore Your Fantasies and Write Your Own Erotica, and I think, that sounds like a nice offering. As I finish the sentence, my jaw drops to the floor. It reads: Explore Your Fantasies and Write Your Own Erotica with Angel.

My workshop description

Which means the acceptances and the rejections went out in the same email. My proposal was accepted.

I went through my files looking for the proposal and sighed with relief that 1. I have it and 2. It’s reasonable. I spent the rest of the evening talking with friends. Because I’m shocked. And excited. And wondering how the heck I am going to pull off traveling to Atlanta. But that’s a future problem.

So that’s why I needed a cocktail and why my brain is even more overextended and fried than usual.

The Rocket Ship Construction Zone

I had an MRI this morning.

It was my first MRI, to monitor an aneurysm in my brain discovered last year during my random heart issues. Last year they did a CT scan with contrast as I did not know if tooth implants would count as metal. (It does not. They are non-ferrous. I learned this as a more-or-less universal fact from the radiology tech. And to think I made my poor dentist research the screw in my mouth.)

When I called to schedule a few weeks ago, they asked where I wanted to receive an MRI and I chose the hospital that is 600 steps away from my front door. They offered me an appointment at 7:15 a.m. on a Sunday. I agreed.

Roll out of bed, wander to the hospital, get an MRI, and be home while it’s still early for a cup of coffee.

And that is indeed how it played out, and I had my coffee in my hand before 8 a.m.

On the walk over, I noticed this Subura station wagon from Vermont with roses on the hood. Now, between the apartment building across the street and the hospital itself, one finds a lot of out-of-state cars and doctors-in-training. And while I did not linger long enough to read what was written on the windshield, it said something like “you and me forever” and someone had laid a wrapped bouquet of roses on the hood. A marriage proposal? A stalker? A farewell from a lover returning to a place far away as a promise to come back?

I surely hope they aren’t roses, because leaving roses on the hood of a car in the middle of the city in the rain, especially if it’s a marriage proposal is certainly both romantic and stupid.

I arrived at the hospital around 6:50, in part because I know they ask you to register at the front desk and then meander through the facility to reach the waiting room of your particular appointment where you start the registering process again. There are usually insurance card checks, and headshots taken to prevent fraud.

I walk in the front doors and there’s one person, in a hospital t-shirt, sitting right inside. Before I even have a chance to pause or plot a course, she greets me with, “Are you hear for an MRI?”

I say yes, and then she follows with, “Is your name Angel?”

I again say yes.

Now, I know this particular hospital doesn’t do much hospital-ing. They literally only have one floor of inpatient services, and I experienced that last year. I must say the renovations are looking gorgeous, again, nothing like the room I stayed in last year straight out of mid-twentieth-century Americana. At this early hour on Sunday morning, there is no one in the hospital but me and this employee, Rose. No one.

“As soon as I clock in, I’ll take you back,” Rose says. “But we have a few minutes. So have a seat.”

I sit behind Rose in the waiting area in front of the not-even-staffed-yet registration desk.

“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll read my book.”

I have a lovely conversation about Rose, her retirement from one of the larger hospitals in the network, and how she has really enjoyed reading again since her retirement. She clocks in and escorts me upstairs and down the hall to the MRI suite where I sit in another waiting room and Rose greets the staff who are arriving with us for their shift.

I sit and read my book, and the techs come for me. For the first time ever, I am given hospital pants. I peel off my civilian layers and tie on my gown and pants.

Much to my relief they have a metal detector as the final phase of the pre-MRI adventure. I am pleased to report I am not magnetic.

So many of these tests come with so much hype, and I have to say, I think I prefer the MRI to the CT with contrast, because an MRI doesn’t make me feel like I’m about to or in the middle of urinating in my pants.

And they tell you to stay as still as you can– which always makes me super aware of every twitch in my body.

They warn you that the machine is loud and they give you ear protection. If I had to describe the experience I would say space rocket meets construction site. And so many different types of squealing, clanging and banging.

The Starter House

In January 2003, my now estranged husband and I bought our house. We hadn’t been planning on buying a house. Some time in the months after we got married we moved from our first apartment to a bigger one, and I honestly don’t remember why. Maybe the rent went up in that shoddy building or maybe I got sick of incidents like the time the landlord had someone take the tires off my car thinking my car belonged to a tenant who owed him money.

Darrell and I loved our first apartment. We could pass the groceries directly from the sidewalk through the kitchen window. We could sit outside with our cat who liked to play with the neighbor’s dog. And the guy who owed my landlord money– I think he owned ‘The Cat Who Came to Visit,’ the cat who used to sneak in our open windows and sit and watch our fish tank. Or was it our lizards?

Our second apartment was in a sorta-questionable neighborhood but it was only $100 more a month than our first apartment for a lot more space and essentially what was a two-story cottage attached to an apartment building. (This was circa 2000: $475 for our one bedroom in downtown Easton, $575 for our “two bedroom” on Easton’s South Side. Compare that to today. If you want to, do a real estate search on zip 18042.)

That particular landlord and his administrative partner kept putting the property on the market because the insurance assessor kept claiming the building was worth far more than the owners thought it was worth and to prove it, they would try to sell it for that price.

Finally, I had enough. We had a great landlord in that second apartment. And we didn’t want another landlord who would take the tires off of my car.

So we bought a house. At apparently the ideal time to buy a house. It was out of our price range at $95,000 but luckily the price dropped while we were talking to our real estate agent. It dropped to $89,9000. I have never felt so old as I do today writing that.

The next year, the other half of our twin sold for $120,000. The following year (or so) an almost identical home a couple doors down (but without a garage) sold for more than $150,000. And I’m not sure, but now some of these homes are selling for $200,000. I can’t even.

Anyway, the point of this post was not to comment on the insanity of the real estate market. I wanted to tell you my definition of a “starter home.” Our home is “half a double” in town with a nice school district and in an almost completely walkable neighborhood. We have three bedrooms. We had two full baths until I asked the plumber to rip out the rotted downstairs shower in favor of a stacked washer and dryer so I don’t have to worry about falling down the basement stairs.

But now I can say I have two washing machines.

We have an enclosed (heated) sun porch, a detached garage that’s got an entire workshop, and despite some issues and small or weirdly shaped rooms, it’s a solid brick house. And when we bought it, I thought about people who called it a starter house. They implied that some day we would buy something bigger and better.

But now I think I have a different definition of starter house. It’s the house you learn on, practice maintaining, and in so many ways, the house I have both cherished and failed.

I have learned– the hard way– that the starter house teaches you about plumbing, windows, drafts, electricity, floods, patching plaster, staining floors and painting walls, all on a regular timeline to keep the house functioning. My toilets exploded a year or so ago. The toilets were probably eighty years old and my daughter sat on one too hard and cracked the tank in the middle of the night. It ran and ran and flooded the house.

Which was our second bathroom related flood in this home.

I’ve learned a lot about deferred maintenance and things I should have done and things I need to do. And the costs of owning home. Which is still way less than the cost of renting in my area. So, I use my home as a learning tool for my daughter who has taken home repair and wood shop and pays attention to every person she meets who has skills.

Because her father and I do not.

So on Wednesday, I had a job interview and a business meeting and when I got home, The Teenager had successfully patched the concrete on the garage floor. She decided to tackle replacing our faucet. Because we have an external dishwasher, it puts pressure on the faucet and they have a shorter-than-usual shelf life. We found a new one that I could review for Amazon, saving us the expense.

But we found we didn’t have the strength to remove the old one– which was regularly flooding the counters and the floor. Apparently the plumber had used a power tool to install it. The Teenager emptied the trap and removed the pipe. Unfortunately when we disconnected everything, the one piece of old pipe disintegrated.

The next day we called the plumber. Since The Teenager did most of the work already, it took the plumber minimal effort to attach everything and we really like our new faucet. Now, we just need to find another way to use the dishwasher or hand wash dishes, which I haven’t done in 20 years (20 years almost exactly as I got the dishwasher in May 2004 right before The Teenager was born).