A major sewer repair is like having brain surgery. It’s really something you’d rather not have.

A couple days ago, I was facing the headache of an expensive sewer repair the pre-inspection of the house had gloriously revealed. The second bid I got this week was gentler than the first one was but still enough to inflict severe pain on my budget. The 3rd one today was for the hilarious amount of $31,000. (I thought they were kidding, but, silly me!)

To add to my consternation, consider the aesthetic value of such a repair. No prospective buyer is going to stand in front of the house drooling with excitement in feverish anticipation of owning a house adorned with a more-or-less pristinely renovated sewer – no matter how fervently the real estate agent gamely raves on about its splendor. There’s a reason sewers are underground — nobody will ever gaze on one of them with sincere affection.

The expense of selling a house is starting to seem similar to coping with multiple brain tumors. They don’t go away, just because they’re not welcome. I was trying to convince myself to quit crabbing though, because at least that was the only major problem the inspection report laid on me. But that was before I got the phone call from Tyler, the contractor, readying my house for selling.

TYLER: ”Pat, were you having a problem with the refrigerator? It’s lights are on, but it’s not cooling anything and its freezer isn’t working, either.”

ME: “It was working perfectly before we emptied it of the 2-week-old leftovers and scrubbed it out for the new owners. It’s only 7 years old. Maybe it’s in shock from seeing its sparkling new insides. Can’t you just plug it in again or kick it or something?”

Well, to sum up, he couldn’t. And as all homeowners are sensitively aware, it’s no use calling an appliance “repairman” because there are no modern appliances in existence which they know how to repair. Their job is merely to write-up a “diagnostic fee” indicating the need for a new part which will cost more than the price of a brand new appliance which, to your very good fortune – if you’re lucky – can be applied to the selling price of the new replacement refrigerator they also won’t know how to fix.

According to the realtor, no prospective buyer is going to accept my carefully preserved styrofoam coolers from Omaha Meats as a substitute for a working refrigerator. I can either fork out the ransom for a new one, or I can give the buyer a $2,000 credit because of the gaping hole there’ll be in the kitchen where there used to be a refrigerator.

As often happens, as I was sitting there pondering whether my future life wouldn’t be better spent in a maintenance-free yurt, a log cabin in the woods, or a tent under a bridge, my guardian angel stepped in to lift me from my despair. A message arrived in son Matthew’s email box, which I immediately read. (I regularly invade his privacy – entirely, of course, for philanthropic and therapeutic purposes. After all, what’s a mother for?)

My guardian angel didn’t actually send Matt the message, but I know full well he had something to do with it. It was actually sent as a group message to all the members of Matt’s alumni from Seattle Prep, but it gave me an improved perspective on Life and How There Are Some Things More Important Than Mere Money.

Here’s the meat of the message:

A father passing by his son’s bedroom was astonished to see that his bed was nicely made and everything was picked up. Then he saw THE ENVELOPE, propped up prominently on the pillow that was addressed to ‘Dad.’ With the worst premonition, he opened the envelope with trembling hands and read the letter.

Dear Dad:
It is with great regret and sorrow that I’m writing you. I had to elope with my new girlfriend because I wanted to avoid a scene with Mom and you.

I have been finding real passion with Stacy and she is so nice. But I knew you would not approve of her because of all her piercing, tattoos, tight motorcycle clothes and the fact that she is much older than I am. But it’ s not only the passion………Dad, she’s pregnant.

Stacy said that we will be very happy. She owns a trailer in the woods and has a stack of firewood for the whole winter. We share a dream of having many more children.

Stacy has opened my eyes to the fact that marijuana doesn’t really hurt anyone. We’ll be growing it for ourselves and trading it with the other people that live nearby for cocaine and ecstasy. In the meantime we will pray that science will find a cure for AIDS so Stacy can get better. She deserves it.

Don’t worry Dad. I’m 15 and I know how to take care of myself. Someday I’m sure that we will be back to visit so that you can get to know your grandchildren.

Love,Your Son, John

P.S. Dad, none of the above is true. I’m over at Tommy’s house.

I just wanted to remind you that there are worse things in life than a Report Card that’s in my center desk drawer.

I love you. Call me when it’s safe to come home.

After reading the foregoing, I felt a lot better getting my priorities in place. And I don’t think I would have liked living in a yurt, anyway, and besides, where would I put all my stuff?