I see Elisheva's point. This house is a dump.
Ted has no idea how awful this house is, day in, day out. Was I happier in the apartment? Probably. It was easier to air condition and less likely to break or flood unexpectedly like this house seems to - constantly.
(and there was someone to call - a landlord! - if something did break or flood)
When Ted refuses to put in air conditioners because it's not going to be hot for very long, that is so obviusly the perspective of someone who spends the day somewhere ELSE - anywhere ELSE. Driving around in an air-conditioned car, mostly from one air-conditioned building to another.
I hate this house, and there's no hope of ever getting out.
I spend half the year in it so cold that my fingers are numb and the other half sniffly and miserable because I'm allergic to the heat and damp here. And sweating. Ugh; coated in sticky sweat.
Even ten minutes of cool air would make the struggle to install the a/c worthwhile. I would do it myself if I was strong enough; instead, I will throttle Naomi because she's refusing to nap and I am hot and sick and frustrated and, okay, yes, this progesterone IUD (Mirena) gives me cramps something like 21 days a month, and no, that doesn't help, though I guess it's not the house's fault, as such.
I told my mother I'd quit complaining about the house. She feels guilty because they found the house and helped convince us to move. (also put up a great deal of money)
But I can't stop. This house feels as close to a hellhole as a building can get without being condemned. I can tidy the playroom all I want; all the crap has to go somewhere and there are just not enough somewheres in this miserable stinky house.
And there is too much to do today and nobody else to do it but ME.