Diary of a mad homeowner

The trials and tribulations of fixing up a house filled with character but not much else

House History

Hot tub? What hot tub?

My Tupperware drawer was the place where single Tups go. Are you missing lids? I seem to be hosting a “singles-only party” and chances are the ones you’re missing are at my house. They call it a Tupperware party for a reason.

Funny what you find when you pull out the drawers in your kitchen, something I did because I my Tup drawer clearly had more Tups living in the no-man’s land behind it. What did I find? Two halogen light bulbs, zip ties, a spatula, two work orders, one for electrical work dated 9/19/97, five grocery bags, instructions for a new dishwasher (what a piece of shit, I had it hauled away the first week I was here), half of a million-dollar bill (you know, the kind of marketing ploy to get you to pick it up and realize it ain’t money, it’s an ad for something you don’t need), a rental agreement for this place for $1,100 a month (!), and instructions on how to care for a new hot tub. Hot tub?

It must be hidden somewhere on the property ’cause I don’t see a hot tub anywhere, not even a hint of where one was installed. My best guess is that the water challenges probably made the joys of a good soak more trouble than it’s worth. I also imagine trying to keep a dozen or so dogs out of it and dog hair is probably death to a filter system. Kind of gross if you think about it.

Plus, aren’t those things around six grand? Dumb asses, they could have put up a garage for that price.

I realize that putting a hot tub at this house is a bit like wearing a suit and tie to chop wood. It’s a weird addition to a little house with lots of land and lots of “quirks.” A hot tub’s worth doesn’t hold up, especially on a night like this where there’s almost three feet of snow and the realization you’d have to get out snowshoes just to get to the tub.

I’ve heard horror stories about people turning their tub up to high and passing out from the heat and drowning Dante’s Peak-style. No, thanks.

I’m glad I don’t have one to contend with but I would have liked a garage.

The more I think on it, the more I realize the lady with the dozen German shepherds probably sold the tub for dog food.

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