So I’ve been having trouble bonding with my house. We didn’t choose one another. It used to belong to my former husband and now it belongs to me. We’ve been cordial, the house and I, but really, we’re missing that spark. So I’m going to create one. A spark, that is.
I’m building a wood burning fireplace. Well, I’M not building it. I’m paying out the nose to have it built for me. It’s not finished. Right now, it looks like this:
I’m putting a lot of pressure on this fireplace. I’m convinced this fire place will bridge the gap between the house and I, make me want to come home to it, make it okay to sit quietly and read. Or write. Neither of which I’m doing enough of. In other words, I’m banking on this fireplace to make me fall in love with my house, and by association, my life.
I could be setting myself up for rejection and/or major disappointment. What if the fire place does nothing more than make my house smell like smoke?
That’s already happened, by the way. I lit a fire last week (after talking with the contractor, mind you, and getting his go-ahead) and everything went really well. Until it didn’t. I forgot about the tarp over the chimney.
The good news is, all the smoke detectors in my house work.
Did you know that you can yank the battery out of a smoke detector and it will CONTINUE to screech? True fact. Here’s another: it takes a day to air out a house that has been smoked. And it was a LITTLE fire. Teeny tiny. Like, it could hardly even melt a hunk of brie on a stick. Not that I tried that.
But things will be different tonight. Tonight, they’re calling for snow, and I’d REALLY like to fire up this sucker, move the couch back where it belongs, pour a brandy, sit down and pretend to read a book while smoke goes UP AND OUT of the chimney. That would make me really happy. That would make me love my house. That would make me love my life.
And if it doesn’t, then I’ll get a pony and name it Sparky. THEN I'll be happy.