Two weeks ago I was standing in my living room, minding my own business, when my house tried to kill me.
I don’t know what prompted this sudden onslaught of malice—I’ve always thought my house and I had a loving and caring relationship. The House kept me warm and dry and held all my stuff for me. In return, I keep it clean, adorn its walls with pretty things, and repair its parts when they grow old or breakdown.
Didn’t I replace its old furnace before it stopped heating? The roof before it starting leaking? Sure, I waited until the water heater flooded the basement before replacing that, but overall I’ve done my best.
I thought my house loved me.
But then it tried to kill me.
So, as I said, I was standing in my living room. My living room has a large patio door that leads out onto the back deck. Instead of drapes or blinds, I have heavy wood bifold doors on the inside. I open them up in the morning to let the light in, and close them up in the evening.
It all happened in an instant. I was standing with my back to the door when my spidey senses started tingling. I’m not sure if I heard a creak or felt a disturbance in the air, but I started to move away just as the door broke loose from the wall and came crashing towards me.
If I hadn’t move at all, the door would’ve fallen on my head or my back, and who knows what would’ve happened.
As it was, the top of the door caught me just behind the knee, and proceeded to slide down my calf. I went flying and hit the floor.
Basically, the door shoestring tackled me like the Steelers’ Big Ben Roethlisberger tackled Nick Harper in 2005 and kept their Super Bowl winning season alive.
The door was equally maimed in its assassination attempt. It hit me right at its corner, and as a result the top piece of supporting wood broke apart and all the slats fell out of the door and went flying.
Broken pieces of wood were everywhere. My leg was red with what looked like road rash—the bruises wouldn’t show up in earnest until the next morning.
I examined the door and discovered the culprit—a few days earlier, I’d had new carpeting installed (see, taking care of my house, and this is the thanks I get!) and it was taller and thicker than its predecessor. The carpet had pushed the pin holding the door in place up and out, so the door was just teetering in place, waiting to fall.
Why it waited until I was standing in the living room to fall is an unanswered question.
As it was late and I’d been planning on going to bed, I left the mess for the morning.
I woke up with a bruised and swollen leg, but I had the last laugh.
I took those doors down, dragged them out to the curb and watched as the trashman crushed them to bits in his truck while I laughed manically.
Then I hung drapes.
Let’s hope the house has learned its lesson.
When you come for the Queen, you best not miss.