Home is where you hang your hat

Or in the case of the heathens, home is where you grab the scissors and cut up your hat to make a pair of gloves or a mask. I wish they'd find my damned scissors.

In a burst over cuteness I suggested that we name our tin home to make it feel more "homey" and to create some sort of family unity. I suggested The Burrow because I'm a huge Harry Potter fan and everything The Burrow was is what I want going on in my house - including the meals that cook on their own. I kind of sort wanted to drive home the idea that even though it's a trailer, it's still home and we should be happy with what we have. However, Tuba Girl thought it was extremely cheesy and wasn't going to put up with it. The Heathens Two and Three wanted to name it John Cena.

Until that moment, I didn't even know who in the hell John Cena was as I don't watch wrasslin. (Apparently they were watching it at their friend's house.) I know that it's spelled wrestling, but anyone who watches wrestling calls it wrasslin. My granny called it wrasslin and she watched it back in the day when people wore those weird gimp masks and little ballet tights or whatever those things were.

My granny was awesome. Except that time when I was eleven and she showed me her heart surgery scar and I saw her boobies. I've never quite gotten over it and that's how I know I have my granny's boobies instead of my grandma's. I never brought up that incident up with my therapist.

Anyway, the point is that I did not create any family unity, more like division and argument because the idea of naming my house after a wrassler - some guy who fake-whacks other people and talks a lot of homoerotic, testosterone driven bullshit - was not the symbolism I had in mind. It seems I have a hard time trying to get three children to ever come together and do that neat family thing I have pictured in my mind. I do it best when I piss them all off. Then they have a common purpose.

So they call the house John Cena and I secretly call it The Burrow. I know it's cheesy, but I have lots of cheesy ideas. Mostly, I just try to hide the cheese, but it comes barreling out from time to time.

Welcome to a series of posts about trying to keep 15-year-old man-you-fack-turd home in decent repair. My intentions are to borrow my sister's camera and take pictures of repairs as they go along. If I don't get to that point, you'll just have to deal with my blow-by-blow accounts of ripping out subflooring and possibly accidentally sawing off my thumb.