I am afraid of the dark. And this time of year, there’s a lot of it. My fear is perfectly rational. I’m not some scaredy cat who dreads monsters lurking in the closet. Except for one particularly poor fashion choice of 1982 that shall haunt me for the remainder of my days from a fine wooden hanger because I know what I paid for it. Too much.

I have a friend who was hooked on makeover shows. She still talks about an episode in which a hairstylist was about to cut the blond dreadlocks off a girl’s head and instead leaped backwards as though she were staring down Medusa’s snakes.

For an interesting change of pace, how about a shout out to all the great contractors out there! And, no. I’m not joking. Have you seen my house? It’s that cool because I have awesome contractors. And because I’m a bit nuts. And the guys who work with me humor me every step of the way.

 I was never one for haunted houses. Real life held enough terror. My first grade teacher wore a frightening black habit with wispy veils that floated behind her like shadowy spirits. Around her waist hung a giant rosary, a brass key ring, and full-size scissors on a long metal chain as though she might, on a whim, snip off a child’s nose. She clanked when she walked like the ghost of Marley.

My work is exciting. My kids are smart and happy. The dog sits on command. Most times. Although I can’t take credit for these things I do take a certain pride in them. But that is nothing compared to the ridiculous amount of pride I take in my house, a pride that could be justified only if I had personally chopped, milled and hammered the frame myself. While blindfolded.

When people see my nutty house and my out-there deck (in process), there are several standard responses. Laughter is probably top of the list, followed by polite noncommittal-ness. But one question almost always gets posed: How do you think of this stuff?

My kid wanted a dollhouse. She may as well have asked for a pink sparkly dress to compete in a Honey Boo Boo beauty pageant. A dollhouse? I was of the generation that equated domesticity with lobotomy. I wanted more for my daughter.

I miss plastic bags. They’re banned in Portland. I miss the way they got caught in little whirlwinds on dirty city streets to drift upward from the gutter, spiraling toward a cloudless blue sky with a great soundtrack and . . . oh, wait; that was a scene from American Beauty.

I have a friend who can fix just about anything. His wife once famously said, “He is especially good at changing filters.” I laughed for two days. I suspect he’s good for more than that, but changing filters is a really big deal.

I have used old tires in a couple places around my house. First of all, my roof tiles are from old tires. That’s cool. And then I have my old tire bumper. As in “rubber baby buggy bumper.” I like that my tire use is so diverse.