The new year started off with our house being robbed on the 2nd. I keep telling myself it could have been worse. Thieves broke in through the back door, which might have been unlocked since we’ve always felt rather safe in our neighborhood and weren’t always vigilant about that, so “broke in” may not be totally accurate. It appears they used an old street sign we had in the carport to keep the dog at bay, and given her recent behavior, it’s probable they smacked her with it and scared her silly, something that’s not that hard to do. For that alone I’d stick a fork in their eye.
I found the street sign on my bed. Which, you know, seemed just a little WRONG.
Once we realized the house had been robbed, we discovered they had stolen all the gold jewelry we had, the entire jug of change we’d been collecting, and some medication. It was obvious to see after finding those things missing that the thieves had riffled through a few drawers in each of the rooms. What confused me was they left all of the electronics that were lying out in plain sight, which is why it took me a little while to realize the house had actually been robbed. I mean I don’t check my jewelry boxes each time I come home to make sure the gold is still there and the house hadn’t been ransacked. And we’re not exactly Martha Stewart organized so clutter is everywhere.
We called the police. They showed up quickly and explained that our community has had a dramatic increase of home invasions and ours fits the pattern. The scumsucker thieves choose back doors or obscured entries after knocking on doors to see if anyone is home. They grab jewelry that’s easily convertible into cash, any money they can find, gift cards and any narcotics. Electronics take too long to liquidate and too many have GPS tracking in them nowadays. They are in and out within fifteen minutes. They try to target houses that have high fences and lots of trees so visibility is limited. The police believe that there is usually someone in a car around a corner, or down the street, waiting to pick up and drive away. Another robbery in town noted that the bastards had used a box from the basement to keep their dog contained, so having a dog isn’t the deterrent it used to be against thievery.
I’ve been trying to maintain that Could Have Been Worse state of mind since it happened, but it’s hard to hold onto. Yeah, we only lost a couple of thousand in jewelry that had belonged to my deceased mother so there’s that pang, a couple of hundred in loose change, medication that my husband needed and which I hope some asshole thief overdoses on now. So yes, it could have been worse, but the after effects continue to ripple through the house in ways large and small.
The dog’s more clingy and skittish then she used to be.
My daughter no longer feels safe at home by herself. That fucking sucks. She was home alone for a few hours the other night and the longer she was alone, the more anxious she felt. By the time we got home, she had worked herself into a tangle of nerves.
I’m concerned that the bastards now know what’s in our house and that they might make a return trip for the stuff they didn’t take the first time.
My son had a switchblade knife that had been his Grandfather’s. Not something used every day, but an item that holds special meaning to my son. He just discovered it was gone last night. It is irreplaceable and he’s very upset at its loss and the futility of the theft. I am too, for him, as I know he treasured that piece and its connection to his Grandfather.
I imagine we’re going to find little things missing that went unnoticed immediately after for a few months. And doesn’t that just suck hairy moose balls?
My husband is rethinking our policy on firearms in the house.
The sense of security one should feel in one’s own home has now been shredded beyond repair. For someone who was relatively cavalier about locking the back door, now I check it several times a day. We’ve thought about a security system. Replacing the back door. We lock every window. We bought a new dead bolt for the back door. We bought a hefty ass safe for important stuff. Maybe two would be better?
I’m contemplating motion activated lights and motion activated video cameras with remote viewing capabilities. This one I would so put on the house tomorrow.
I’m also thinking that a fortified electrical barrier I can control from a remote location is not a complete overreaction.
We’re probably going to get another dog. Okay, so this idea isn’t so bad actually.
Showing posts with label house. Show all posts
Showing posts with label house. Show all posts
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Friday, November 4, 2011
if a tree falls in the forest...
Time I would have spent blogging the past two months has been absorbed by cleaning up the debris of twelve 75 – 80 feet high black locust trees that were, in no particular order, shattered by lightning, toppled by freak winds, taken down for fear of them falling on my house, or the neighbor’s, because suddenly they were leaning precariously as the ground was so wet the roots weren’t holding anymore, blown over by Hurricane Irene, or toppled by the drunken moron my neighbor hired to clear their similarly affected trees and he forgot where one yard merged into another and pushed them over with a backhoe. It’s moments like that that I wish I had the conscious of a sociopath so I could run him over with his own backhoe and not feel any remorse. Alas, I am not a sociopath and would feel bad. But he would deserve it. Just sayin’.
Fighting with the insurance company to fix the custom built bench that one of the trees crushed, pay for the removal of trees that were hit by lightning, a point on which we disagree, though how they look at tree trunks that have clearly been blasted into pieces, have visible scorched marks and say it was wind damage I will never know, cover the cost of the half pallet of now crushed landscaping pavers in our yard that were to be used in a yard beautification project before the blasted tree parts landed on them, pay for the awning that was ripped off the back of the house by the same freak winds that toppled five trees, and cover the cost of the fence section that another tree landed on.
Building pallets of firewood that can be sold to recoup some of the costs of this chaos, such as the tree service guy who charged a small fortune to take down one tree because he’s a scumsucker before we found an honest tree guy not looking to rape people in an emergency, and the cost of tools needed to cut all the damn wood into firewood. There are 23 pallets and at least 10 more based on the piles of logs waiting to be chopped. Our son is getting quite the workout chopping all that firewood. The teenage girls I catch gawking at his well-muscled arms and chest can thank me later.
My husband broke my finger. Well, not on purpose and he felt REALLY bad about it when my finger got crushed between the piece of wood I was settling on a pallet and the piece he tossed onto the pallet. My dominant hand index finger. It’s really hard to type with an index finger with many stitches in a splint. It bled. A lot. When people ask what happened I tell them my husband broke it. It’s fun. It would have been funnier had it been my middle finger. Now I just have a weird scar running between knuckles.
My daughter broke her finger three weeks later when she got kicked in the hand by some kid in Gym while playing dodge ball. Who the hell kicks the ball in dodge ball? Seriously.
Swimming is taking over my free time and I never dip a toe in a pool. There was a swim meet a couple weeks ago and the parents (me) had to volunteer BOTH days. After two six-hour days on my feet I almost think it’s worth letting them keep the work bond check. Almost.
In between appointments with the hand doctor, who looks at my husband suspiciously, the kid's swim practice and karate, this stuff seems to multiple when I'm not looking:
Fighting with the insurance company to fix the custom built bench that one of the trees crushed, pay for the removal of trees that were hit by lightning, a point on which we disagree, though how they look at tree trunks that have clearly been blasted into pieces, have visible scorched marks and say it was wind damage I will never know, cover the cost of the half pallet of now crushed landscaping pavers in our yard that were to be used in a yard beautification project before the blasted tree parts landed on them, pay for the awning that was ripped off the back of the house by the same freak winds that toppled five trees, and cover the cost of the fence section that another tree landed on.
Building pallets of firewood that can be sold to recoup some of the costs of this chaos, such as the tree service guy who charged a small fortune to take down one tree because he’s a scumsucker before we found an honest tree guy not looking to rape people in an emergency, and the cost of tools needed to cut all the damn wood into firewood. There are 23 pallets and at least 10 more based on the piles of logs waiting to be chopped. Our son is getting quite the workout chopping all that firewood. The teenage girls I catch gawking at his well-muscled arms and chest can thank me later.
My husband broke my finger. Well, not on purpose and he felt REALLY bad about it when my finger got crushed between the piece of wood I was settling on a pallet and the piece he tossed onto the pallet. My dominant hand index finger. It’s really hard to type with an index finger with many stitches in a splint. It bled. A lot. When people ask what happened I tell them my husband broke it. It’s fun. It would have been funnier had it been my middle finger. Now I just have a weird scar running between knuckles.
My daughter broke her finger three weeks later when she got kicked in the hand by some kid in Gym while playing dodge ball. Who the hell kicks the ball in dodge ball? Seriously.
Swimming is taking over my free time and I never dip a toe in a pool. There was a swim meet a couple weeks ago and the parents (me) had to volunteer BOTH days. After two six-hour days on my feet I almost think it’s worth letting them keep the work bond check. Almost.
In between appointments with the hand doctor, who looks at my husband suspiciously, the kid's swim practice and karate, this stuff seems to multiple when I'm not looking:
Just one of many log piles.
 |
| We say lightning, insurance company says wind. |
Friday, March 4, 2011
the red brick farmhouse
Everyday, twice a day, I drive past a modestly sized red brick house on my way to work. Set back from the road, partially obscured by a variety of old trees, the faded brick farmhouse sits on a little rise, the second floor jutting out in back from the hill it's built into, presiding over a small creek that runs beyond the house and meanders through untended farmland. It's a charming house, square and sturdy, sedately observing the passage of time.
There's an abundance of trees around the house, almost obscuring it from the road, that offer plenty of shade to tempt a lazy weekend nap in a hammock that could be tucked into the long front porch. I can imagine after dinner strolls along the wooded property as dogs dance around my feet or laugh as they streak across the field chasing the occasional wildlife. Some mornings as I drive by, if the weather is just right, mist clouds hovers over the fields, adding an air of mystery that could be viewed from a kitchen window while sipping a morning cup of tea.
In recent years the house has fallen into some disrepair, looking sad and neglected. The well used chicken coop and low ancient barn sprawled along the property seem tired and rickety and it's a testament to the perseverance of farm buildings that they managed to survive the whipping wind storms we've had recently.
The simple landscaping in the front has become overgrown and bedraggled. The lawns are scraggly and unkempt. Bare windows show no movement, day or night, further emphasizing the sense of aloneness and abandonment.
It clear that this house was a home and the land well tended in the past.
But now, the For Sale by Owner sign planted in the front yard for the past eight months or so corroborates the sense that this house, once a home, offers no one shelter now.
Something about this house has captured my imagination for the past thirteen years and often I've wondered if it would ever be available for sale at a time we might be in a position to purchase it. The house pulls at me and I never fail to look at it as I pass by, acknowledging it's presence in some small way.
Because the for sale sign has been up for awhile and I've not seen any sign of life in the house for some time, on impulse I pulled into the rutted overgrown drive, noting the rusted crooked gate and buckled fencing. There behind the house is a dilapidated blue truck full up with I don't know what. The outbuildings, on a closer look, appear to be holding together by sheer force of will and stubborn pride.
I slipped through a gap in the fence and walked up the concrete front stairs to peer in the windows. Windows that recently saw a coat of paint to cover the peeling weather-exposed trim. There's been some efforts to make the house more marketable, giving it a half hearted face lift, some shine to enhance the inherent personality of the property.
I felt a little sad as I walked around the back and found that the snow melt had left a small pond overflowing with dirty water that made the yard look wrecked and severely worn. An old bathtub, stained with rust and dirt, sat tucked under a tree behind the frosted glass enclosed porch. Ironwork stairs crackled with rust as I stepped up onto a small deck, the floor of which was the scratched and old roofing tiles of the enclosed porch. Despite the relatively new screen doors, painted windows and fresh walls I saw when I peeked in the windows, the house is in a state of disrepair that is a little daunting. Not to mention the condition of the yard with random piles of unidentifiable debris scattered amid the weeds and decrepit buildings.
Despite these things I could envision sitting out on that porch with my husband on a warm summer evening, holding hands and quietly discussing our day, as we watch evening settle over the land, softly and comforting. Going on impulse again, I dialed one of the numbers on the for sale sign, and when a very nice woman answered the phone, asked about the house.
It had been her mother-in-laws. Built in the early sixties, the woman raised chickens, sold eggs, boarded horses and tended a small crop of vegetables. She had loved her home and tended it well. The house has about double the square footage of our house, which isn't saying much, and probably tops out near 1900 sq. feet, has three bedrooms, two baths, a partially finished basement and stands on seven acres of land. The eager woman on the phone said there has been extensive work on the inside, new floors, paint and carpeting, but given that we just gutted three bedrooms last year I know what that type of work looks like and there is still much work to be done in and around the red brick farmhouse.
I then inquired of the asking price. And almost crashed my car as I pulled out of the driveway when she cheerily answered my question.
Eight hundred fifty thousand dollars.
I quickly explained that that was way beyond my consideration and thanked her for her time. I don't exactly know what I was expecting but that certainly wasn't it. Half that maybe. Certainly a little closer to attainable, even if attainable is just a fanciful thought of the possibilities.
We're not house hunting, we're not even considering house hunting. We just refinanced our house and we certainly don't have a reserve of funds that can be tapped into to appease my fanciful wondering. But even if we did, the modest red brick farmhouse on seven acres is way out of my price range. That price is so far beyond anything I can imagine paying for a house that even the faintest glimmer of a fantasy curled up whimpering into a deep dark recess of my mind.
It's going to cost a small fortune to complete the remaining upgrades on that house as it stands, not to mention removing or rehabbing the existing farm buildings. It's a fact that I almost never fantasize about moving from the house we live in because financially it's not in the cards. Now, if we won the lottery tomorrow, or I sold the two books I'm pecking away at for mountains of cash, well then, that might be a different reality. But today's reality says that the intriguing faded red brick farmhouse will belong to someone else and when it does I'll watch with interest what is done to bring it back to life as I pass by.
There's an abundance of trees around the house, almost obscuring it from the road, that offer plenty of shade to tempt a lazy weekend nap in a hammock that could be tucked into the long front porch. I can imagine after dinner strolls along the wooded property as dogs dance around my feet or laugh as they streak across the field chasing the occasional wildlife. Some mornings as I drive by, if the weather is just right, mist clouds hovers over the fields, adding an air of mystery that could be viewed from a kitchen window while sipping a morning cup of tea.
In recent years the house has fallen into some disrepair, looking sad and neglected. The well used chicken coop and low ancient barn sprawled along the property seem tired and rickety and it's a testament to the perseverance of farm buildings that they managed to survive the whipping wind storms we've had recently.
The simple landscaping in the front has become overgrown and bedraggled. The lawns are scraggly and unkempt. Bare windows show no movement, day or night, further emphasizing the sense of aloneness and abandonment.
It clear that this house was a home and the land well tended in the past.
But now, the For Sale by Owner sign planted in the front yard for the past eight months or so corroborates the sense that this house, once a home, offers no one shelter now.
Something about this house has captured my imagination for the past thirteen years and often I've wondered if it would ever be available for sale at a time we might be in a position to purchase it. The house pulls at me and I never fail to look at it as I pass by, acknowledging it's presence in some small way.
Because the for sale sign has been up for awhile and I've not seen any sign of life in the house for some time, on impulse I pulled into the rutted overgrown drive, noting the rusted crooked gate and buckled fencing. There behind the house is a dilapidated blue truck full up with I don't know what. The outbuildings, on a closer look, appear to be holding together by sheer force of will and stubborn pride.
I slipped through a gap in the fence and walked up the concrete front stairs to peer in the windows. Windows that recently saw a coat of paint to cover the peeling weather-exposed trim. There's been some efforts to make the house more marketable, giving it a half hearted face lift, some shine to enhance the inherent personality of the property.
I felt a little sad as I walked around the back and found that the snow melt had left a small pond overflowing with dirty water that made the yard look wrecked and severely worn. An old bathtub, stained with rust and dirt, sat tucked under a tree behind the frosted glass enclosed porch. Ironwork stairs crackled with rust as I stepped up onto a small deck, the floor of which was the scratched and old roofing tiles of the enclosed porch. Despite the relatively new screen doors, painted windows and fresh walls I saw when I peeked in the windows, the house is in a state of disrepair that is a little daunting. Not to mention the condition of the yard with random piles of unidentifiable debris scattered amid the weeds and decrepit buildings.
Despite these things I could envision sitting out on that porch with my husband on a warm summer evening, holding hands and quietly discussing our day, as we watch evening settle over the land, softly and comforting. Going on impulse again, I dialed one of the numbers on the for sale sign, and when a very nice woman answered the phone, asked about the house.
It had been her mother-in-laws. Built in the early sixties, the woman raised chickens, sold eggs, boarded horses and tended a small crop of vegetables. She had loved her home and tended it well. The house has about double the square footage of our house, which isn't saying much, and probably tops out near 1900 sq. feet, has three bedrooms, two baths, a partially finished basement and stands on seven acres of land. The eager woman on the phone said there has been extensive work on the inside, new floors, paint and carpeting, but given that we just gutted three bedrooms last year I know what that type of work looks like and there is still much work to be done in and around the red brick farmhouse.
I then inquired of the asking price. And almost crashed my car as I pulled out of the driveway when she cheerily answered my question.
Eight hundred fifty thousand dollars.
I quickly explained that that was way beyond my consideration and thanked her for her time. I don't exactly know what I was expecting but that certainly wasn't it. Half that maybe. Certainly a little closer to attainable, even if attainable is just a fanciful thought of the possibilities.
We're not house hunting, we're not even considering house hunting. We just refinanced our house and we certainly don't have a reserve of funds that can be tapped into to appease my fanciful wondering. But even if we did, the modest red brick farmhouse on seven acres is way out of my price range. That price is so far beyond anything I can imagine paying for a house that even the faintest glimmer of a fantasy curled up whimpering into a deep dark recess of my mind.
It's going to cost a small fortune to complete the remaining upgrades on that house as it stands, not to mention removing or rehabbing the existing farm buildings. It's a fact that I almost never fantasize about moving from the house we live in because financially it's not in the cards. Now, if we won the lottery tomorrow, or I sold the two books I'm pecking away at for mountains of cash, well then, that might be a different reality. But today's reality says that the intriguing faded red brick farmhouse will belong to someone else and when it does I'll watch with interest what is done to bring it back to life as I pass by.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
what up there?
Wanna know what’s on the top of my house?
A new roof! All sparkly and pristine to replace the ragged and deteriorating shingles that have probably been up there for a good twenty years. Of course now the faded blue paint and yellow trim that we slapped on the house back in 2001 look old and worn, but I can ignore that for a while because painting the house just sucks and we are toocheap frugal to pay someone to do it for us.
The roofers were blessedly efficient and good at what they do and got 92% of the job finished in one day. Their presence on that one day pushed the dog a little closer to the edge of a nervous breakdown though. With every thump and bump from the faceless nameless demons prowling above her head, threatening to demolish her very universe, she quaked and whimpered and tried to fit all 70 lbs of her shivering body onto my husband’s head. There were a couple of really loud moments when the roofers were replacing a few damaged sheathing boards, she tried to crawl up my body because, to the dog I’m sure, it sounded like the very gates of hell were opening above her and she was about to be sucked into the maw of the salivating vengeful giant gopher bound on retribution for her slaughter of the species throughout the years. Or maybe that’s just what her claws digging for purchase into my stomach felt like. Note to self – trim dog’s nails before contractors arrive.
Oddly enough, while the ominous sounds from above sent her into a spiral of neurotic crazy, the sight of a any of the guys walking past the window or door would transform her instantaneously into SUPER GUARDIAN DOG and she would lunge at them with deep ferocious barks and guttural growls emanating from her snarling mouth, teeth bared and ready to sink into whoever dared get close to HER territory.
And then another thump on the roof would send her scuttling back to cower under the desk.
To her credit, the snarly side of her personality totally freaked the roof guys so much that they nervously asked us to please keep the vicious dog away from them. Score one for bat shit crazy dog.
It was a fun day.
Replacing a roof is dirty nasty work, I discovered. Especially in 27 degree weather three days after 8 inches of snow fall, where it just becomes a cold wet slippery job. My husband must have made 30 cups of coffee to keep those guys warm from the inside out. Me? I tried to stay out of everyone’s way and escaped by offering to run all the necessary Saturday errands. I picked up the pizza. It’s safer and less annoying. I’m sure the roofers didn’t need some anxiety ridden nutball homeowner hovering outside reminding them to be careful and watch the snow and DON’T SLIP FOR GOD’S SAKE! Because people standing up on a dry roof (Why is the plural of hoof hooves, but the plural of roof is roofs?) make me nervous, when it’s all wet and slippery, they could you know slide right off and then there could be broken legs or arms and ambulances and that shit is such a hassle, and I so don’t want my roof responsible for breaking people.
Hmmm. Guess the dog is not the only neurotic one in the house.
A new roof! All sparkly and pristine to replace the ragged and deteriorating shingles that have probably been up there for a good twenty years. Of course now the faded blue paint and yellow trim that we slapped on the house back in 2001 look old and worn, but I can ignore that for a while because painting the house just sucks and we are too
The roofers were blessedly efficient and good at what they do and got 92% of the job finished in one day. Their presence on that one day pushed the dog a little closer to the edge of a nervous breakdown though. With every thump and bump from the faceless nameless demons prowling above her head, threatening to demolish her very universe, she quaked and whimpered and tried to fit all 70 lbs of her shivering body onto my husband’s head. There were a couple of really loud moments when the roofers were replacing a few damaged sheathing boards, she tried to crawl up my body because, to the dog I’m sure, it sounded like the very gates of hell were opening above her and she was about to be sucked into the maw of the salivating vengeful giant gopher bound on retribution for her slaughter of the species throughout the years. Or maybe that’s just what her claws digging for purchase into my stomach felt like. Note to self – trim dog’s nails before contractors arrive.
Oddly enough, while the ominous sounds from above sent her into a spiral of neurotic crazy, the sight of a any of the guys walking past the window or door would transform her instantaneously into SUPER GUARDIAN DOG and she would lunge at them with deep ferocious barks and guttural growls emanating from her snarling mouth, teeth bared and ready to sink into whoever dared get close to HER territory.
And then another thump on the roof would send her scuttling back to cower under the desk.
To her credit, the snarly side of her personality totally freaked the roof guys so much that they nervously asked us to please keep the vicious dog away from them. Score one for bat shit crazy dog.
It was a fun day.
Replacing a roof is dirty nasty work, I discovered. Especially in 27 degree weather three days after 8 inches of snow fall, where it just becomes a cold wet slippery job. My husband must have made 30 cups of coffee to keep those guys warm from the inside out. Me? I tried to stay out of everyone’s way and escaped by offering to run all the necessary Saturday errands. I picked up the pizza. It’s safer and less annoying. I’m sure the roofers didn’t need some anxiety ridden nutball homeowner hovering outside reminding them to be careful and watch the snow and DON’T SLIP FOR GOD’S SAKE! Because people standing up on a dry roof (Why is the plural of hoof hooves, but the plural of roof is roofs?) make me nervous, when it’s all wet and slippery, they could you know slide right off and then there could be broken legs or arms and ambulances and that shit is such a hassle, and I so don’t want my roof responsible for breaking people.
Hmmm. Guess the dog is not the only neurotic one in the house.
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