Ownership is not for wimps

My sister Jennifer was 21 when she got her first house, a tan two-bedroom with a tidy little yard just off William Street. The Other Half's brother even beat that -- a homeowner at 20. He and his new wife refurbished an old place in Bertrand.

What made those two jump in so confidently at such an early age? It haunted me as I moved from apartment to apartment -- nine in the last 10 years.

Now, having signed the papers on a house of my very own, I know the feeling that overcame those eager youths: Complete, blissful ignorance.

At 34, I should know better. I had a good thing going. Sink draining slow? Call the super. Air conditioning not cool? Call the super. Wasps in the chimney? Call the super.

I'd already been warned about the risks of owning. "As a homeowner, when you see water dripping from the ceiling, you'll look up proudly and think, 'I own that leak,'" my friend Joe cracked.

"I asked my Realtor if the closing could be held in a mental institution, because I figured that's where I'd be by the time it rolled around," my friend Angel revealed.

But The Other Half and I plunged ahead, listening instead to the friends who talked about things like equity and pride of ownership. We closed last week. I almost immediately spent $500 on home improvement in two days: fiberglass roof sealant, yard tools, towel racks, yada yada yada.

At first, I felt a little self-conscious in Home Depot. My bad hair was hidden under a baseball cap and I was wearing my oldest sneakers. Then I noticed that everyone in Home Depot looks exactly the same way -- except the efficient employees in orange aprons, confidently zipping up and down aisles. The rest of us were walking around like the home-owning zombies we are, clutching lists with screw lengths and window measurements, reaching out to grab passing employees as though we wanted to consume their brains -- or at least find out where they keep the damn caulk.

By my most recent visit to Home Depot, there was a generous amount of yellow paint in my hair, sweat stains on my T-shirt and a big rip in my shorts. My face was broken out from stress and my eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. Nobody even gave me a second glance.

I saw a cockroach in my new house yesterday and thought, "I own that cockroach," but it wasn't a moment that filled me with pride. Nor was accidentally eating several ants before I noticed them on Chicken-in-a-Biscuit crackers left on the counter. Remembering my father-in-law's advice that there was no need for a bug contact -- just spray some Malathion around -- I called Prevail Pest Control. Hopefully, we will prevail.

Back in the old days, weekends were about swimming and visiting friends and listening to bands. Now they're going to be about planting mums and trimming hedges. My hand is permanently frozen into the shape of a paint roller and we're nowhere near finished.

It reminds me of that great old joke: A man picks up a lady of the evening. She says, "I'll do anything you want for $20 if you can say it in three words." So he says, "Paint ... my ... house."

I wish I could find that lady now.

Next week: The connection between baseboards and divorce.

Heidi Hall is a former managing editor of the Southeast Missourian who lives in St. Petersburg, Fla.