The Crap House

I live in what is grimly referred to as ‘The Crap House.’ That may not sound very interesting, but say it with a young silly accent like my French housemate does and suddenly it becomes something artistic and fascinating. Actually anything said in a young silly French accent is more appealing. Say ‘the fish in the sea’ in a young silly French accent and try to tell me it does not sound really cool. (Phonetically it goes something like this: ‘zee feesh in zee see’ now say it over and over again until I am right)

It is a former 1950’s hospital administrative house complete with wheelchair access and a ghost who steals people’s frozen dinners. There is no insulation, no phone, central heating or soundproofing. If someone sneezes in the room down the hall, it can be heard anywhere in the house and in fact can be heard down the street. In the winter it is often warmer outside and the frost build up occurs inside the house. The locks have not been changed since the 50’s either. The front door has a temperamental deadbolt contraption that does not always wish to let you in. The backdoor requires the use of a skeleton key and cannot be locked or opened from the outside. The wooden floors, underneath the thinnest of carpet, provide wonderful acoustics especially when one is stumbling to the toilet at 3am. The house is also a playground for spiders, bumble bees, ladybugs, flies and any other insect looking for a good time. I am on constant spider watch. If I see a spider, no matter what time of the day or night, it must die. My preferred weapon of choice is the vacuum cleaner. I want them all to know I am prepared to use the most cruel methods of destruction should they choose to invade my space. Nothing says ‘STAY AWAY’ like the head of a bumble bee impaled on a stick.

I am somewhat lucky enough to have my own self-contained unit within The Crap House. I have my own crap bathroom complete with a crap shower that has very little water pressure and even less hot water. My own crap kitchen, with a crap mini fridge, crap hot plates but minus a crap stove. For that I have to venture into the communal part of The Crap House and use the crap oven. Don’t get me wrong, I am extremely grateful for having my own crap space because it means my privacy and desperate need to separate myself from other people on occasion is in tact. Also, I am not party to the immature behavior displayed by the other people in the crap house who cannot get along with one another. Crap house, crap attitudes I guess. I can’t really blame them, for they have it far worse than I do. I am guilty though, of enjoying hearing about all the little tricks they engage in, in order to piss each other off and of offering a few simple suggestions on how to annoy. Does that mean I am going to hell? Maybe I have already gone to hell and I doomed to living in a crap house for all eternity. Crap.

The crap house is in a little crap town with around 750 crap residents. I say crap residents because they are incredibly unfriendly and borderline rude. I once lived in a smaller town, village actually, with fewer than 300 people and that community was warm, caring and welcoming. Both places are a tourist magnet, which means people invade the area for one maybe two nights, spread their money around then leave without a second thought about the people who live there. The difference is, the smaller place accepts this and embraces the fact that without those tourists they would have no jobs. The crap town thinks it is better than it really is and this attitude is reflected in everyone from the crap wait staff in restaurants, the crap cashiers at the retails shops, to the crap shop owners. I have lived here for a year now and still can’t get a smile from the crap ladies who work at the crap grocery store. Even a ‘Hello, how you going?’ only gets me an apathetic grimace. I don’t have the right accent and I have not lived here for over 10 years; two things that automatically qualify me for their absolutely ridiculous and uncalled for snobby attitudes. I understand the workings of small towns, but this crap town is so far up its own butt that it has lost sight of the warmth and friendliness small towns are known for.

It truly is a strange place. It is a beautiful area surrounded by lush green forests and perfectly carved out mountains that look fake against the pulsating sunsets in summer and the icy crisp blue skies in winter. A natural thermal reserve (which is the main attraction here) bubbles up from the ground providing a source of pure therapy for tired bodies. The area is all about relaxation and feeling and looking good with it’s many massage and beauty businesses offering a range of services including seaweed body wraps, all day facials and deep tissue punishment. It is a haven for visitors, but not if you want exceptional customer service and wish to leave with a good impression of it’s residents. It contradicts itself.
I came here thinking it would be as laid back and outgoing as the last small town I lived in, so I suppose the only person I can blame for my disappointment is me and my child like desire to play nicely with others while sharing the same piece of earth. It use to really bother me, to the point of complete frustration, but now I see it for what it is and make fun of it any chance I get. There is nothing better than realizing the potential for humor a situation holds, especially when once upon a time it use to reduce you to tears