It's beginning to look a lot like...home
Dec 09, 2008
My new home has a fireplace. It's a gas fireplace, not a wood-burning fireplace, so in my mind it's not a 100% "real" fireplace. Still...fire. And some warmth. This particular model has blower vents so that the air heated by the gas flame can be blown back into the room; but for whatever reason - probably contractors cutting corners - the fan doesn't actually work. So most of that pretty, pretty heat goes outdoors, out the vent at the back of the fireplace-thingie. (The outdoors is cold in December - but I'm not going to pay to heat it.) The pilot light is visible, but only if you're standing right in front of the fireplace looking down at the "tops" of the logs. The logs look incredibly realistic. There are even glowing embers that look like the remains of burned newspaper - often used by my Dad to get a fire going. So yeah, it's a "not 100% real" fireplace. But it's damned good quality.
The cats love the warmth. They don't care about the pretty lights of the fire - which I love. They just like the warmth. Especially Ursa, whom I suspect of having cold-weather joint pain. (Though with a cat, how can you tell? He still moves around fine; he just shows a greater affinity for warmth than the other two cats.) I turn the fire on for about 30 minutes every evening and sit and read; and Ursa runs right over and sprawls out in front of the fire, just on the edge of the rug. He disdains the cat bed that I put on the edge of the hearth specifically for his basking and curling-up pleasure. He prefers to soak up maximum heat by lying belly toward the fire, head and tail stretched out straight, eyes closed as he blisses merrily away. Monkey and Fog think he's insane. Fog prefers to skulk on top of the cat tower, watching everything and sizing up bits of carpet lint as potential predators which must be taken down to preserve the safety of the home. Monkey prefers to sit right by me, if not on me. Apparently, in her tiny walnut brain, proximity to the giver-of-food is a sign of increased favor. It definitely puts her closer to any potential dispensations of treats.
They divide their time between their chosen prime basking spots and Animal Kingdom (the home game). My second day here, I hung a birdfeeder off the back fence and filled it with sunflower seeds. One large bird - I have no idea what kind, and of course my camera was hiding - did come down and investigate. It hasn't been back, which makes me think that sunflower seeds are not its preferred provender. However, the most frequent guests have been the local squirrel population. The cats are utterly fascinated. Fog goes into stealth mode; Monkey crouches down and watches with occasional twitches of the tailtip; and Ursa looks and listens so hard I'm surprised that the muscles at the base of his ears don't go into spasm.
It's been nearly two weeks, and I've got them fairly well convinced that the windows on the east and south sides of the house offer the best viewing entertainment. Since I have no neighbors to the east or south, only a) a large patch of green, the fence, and a mini-greenbelt; and b) my back fence and the junk house; the three of them are not likely to gather in the western windows at the same time. All the better to avoid the neighbors' notice. (I don't want to be "no-no"'ed again. If that happened, I think I might resort to chalking rude things on Miss Officious' walkways or pulling faces in her house's general direction.)
The Twelve Days of Moving In
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Yard improvements, planned and not-quite-so-very
Dec 08, 2008
My house is a cottage. This means it has the requisite white trim, picket fence...and flower boxes. When I moved in, mine (like most others in this half of the complex) were empty.
I have never, ever been very good with plants. I've managed to kill a pot of English Ivy, for crying out loud. I have two black thumbs. Yet I wanted to try doing something with those flower boxes. The suggestion was made that I try cyclamen: colorful flowering plants that are native to Alaska and therefore very, very fond of cold weather. They're also fairly inexpensive and pretty low-maintenance, both of which appealed to me. If I'm going to run the (pretty high, near-certain) risk of ending up with two hanging boxes full of dead plants, I don't care to lay out serious sums of money. The cyclamen were available in white, red, and fuschia. I got red: white would have looked too bland, and fuschia is just...well...no. No, no, no, no, no. (Besides, these almost match the cottage north-northeast of me, which is painted a strong rich red. All the other cottages - mine included - are some pastel-candy-color.) A few days in, and those cyclamen have rooted and are REALLY happy with the cooler weather. There's an arctic cold front moving down this weekend, so they should be absolutely ecstatic.
My cottage's "yard" is mostly rocked over, and has little else in the way of yard maintenance, so I've got it easy. The folks next door have their "yard" covered with concrete, ensuring that they'll never never ever have to weed anything. I don't know that I care to get that drastic. However, since these cottages do require that the owners care for their own yards, I will end up leaving the rocks down for a while unless I get a wild idea that maybe, just maybe, I will suddenly be enthralled by the idea of gardening and yardwork.
I might fence in my yard - at least one side. Some young twentysomethings were visiting the neighbor-boy the other weekend. One of them apparently wasn't feeling too well, since when I first saw him he was bent over and vomiting rather enthusiastically into my side yard. (I considered asking Mrs. West if Chuck was alright. When she said, "Chuck?" I'd say, "I thought that might be his name - since that's what he was doing when I met him." That, however, is one of those ideas that will never ever actually be enacted. What's funny in my head would probably have some not-so-funny repercussions. I don't love Mrs. West with all my heart and soul, but I don't really see any percentage in embarrassing her or taking potshots.) When Chuck stood up he looked...bad. Really bad. Take a strung-out crackhead, clean him up just a tiny bit, and then give him the flu. That's how Chuck looked. He was so pale he makes Englishmen look lightly bronzed. I did later ask Mrs. West if her son's friend was alright, and mentioned that said friend had been throwing up in my side yard and I was a little concerned. She told me that the kid had walking pneumonia. I don't know if that was true, or if he was just strung out and Mrs. West was trying to save a little bit of face. At any rate, I got my point across: her boy's friend had hurled in my yard, I was aware of it, and now she's aware that I'm aware. I think that Young Mr. West probably got a talking-to. (And his friend probably got a dime bag. Or was forcibly readmitted to the hospital and pumped full of antibiotics. Whatever.)
The Twelve Days of Moving In
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...stupid headache...
Dec 08, 2008
I was planning on writing something interesting today. I was planning on writing a post for the portal, some content for the staff manual, and a tip sheet for my Secret Santa.
Instead, thousands of tiny dwarves, all wearing cleats, are having a polka contest on my hippocampus. I can’t walk straight, I can’t see straight, and I’m having the damndest time typing this out. I had to go down the stairs seated, dropping down one at a time. The cats were highly amused until they realized that this would delay the Dispensing of the Morning Kibble. (Suddenly, it went from “amusing monkey antics” to “cosmic tragedy”. Accompanied by yowling. Which didn’t exactly help.)
So I’m off to sleep after taking a few Tylenol. I don’t suffer from migraines…but this is pretty bad. If anyone knows of any good headache cures, leave comments. I’ll read them when I can see again.
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Meeting the current resident, and a few of the neighbors.
Dec 07, 2008
There seems to be a minor infestation in the new house. When I went to bed that first night, dodging around wardrobe boxes and stepping over office boxes (and piles of laundry), I saw a ladybug in the corner of the room. It was just sitting up on the wall, minding its own business. Ladybugs being good luck, I left her (him? it?) to its perusal of the new room arrangement and got under the covers.
Later that night I was awakened by an arythmic thumping. Fog, the brave hunter of the group, had apparently spotted the ladybug and was determined that, since it was not part of the family unit, it was either a toy, prey, or one-then-the-other. Monkey was watching avidly, playing deputy auxiliary backup goalie. That's right: just in case that wily ladybug should elude Fog, Monkey was right there to catch it and stare at it dumbly. (While Fog was an outdoor cat and Monkey was born in the wild, Monkey had been domesticated awfully young...and quite some time ago. Anything she may have ever learned about successfully stalking things has long since been lost. Or turned into ear wax.) I took pity on the ladybug, got it down off the wall - which now had a few extra gouges in the texture, courtesy of Fog's enthusiastic pursuit - and walked downstairs to set the ladybug on the little fake Christmas tree I'd been gifted with. This place holds in heat well, which means that the ladybug wouldn't be able to get outside without my help. However, it was oh-cold-thirty. There was no way I was opening the door just to let out a ladybug (and, in the process, a good chunk of heat.) The fake tree had been put up on the top of the washer, far out of the reach of any of my cats. Ladybug would be safe there until morning.
The next day I got up, dug around and found my bug-zapper plug in wall thingies, put those in place (one on each floor) and went to go let the ladybug out. I couldn't find it on top of the fake tree. I couldn't find it in the kitchen, downstairs bathroom, or laundry area. Well, hey, if the ladybug is going to go offer itself for cat-toy duty again, there's only so much I'll do to stop it. I left the ladybug to the cats' devices, figuring that I'd hear it if / when Fog found the ladybug again.
I began setting up the home office: tightening the screws on the desk, setting up the computer, emptying the boxes and putting the contents in the file cabinet. I noticed that the office windowsill had no fewer than four dead ladybugs in the window track. At least, I'm guessing they were dead. The shells were pale white-pink rather than red, and they didn't react at all when I tried pushing them with a pen or picking them up with a piece of paper. For some reason, these half-dozen ladybugs had gotten into this all-but-hermetically sealed house (which had been unoccupied for at least the past six months), made their way to the upstairs office window, and died.
I know that in many cultures, ladybugs are considered to be good luck - especially if you find one in your house during the winter. Somehow, though, I don't think that ladybug corpses are good luck. (It certainly wasn't good luck for those ladybugs.)
I've already met a few of the neighbors. Mrs. West and her husband live to the side of me. Their yard is fenced in, their cottage is almost the same color as mine currently is, and Mrs. West is a font of all knowledge. Fortunately, that knowledge includes the history of my house and of the complex. Unfortunately, anything she finds out about me will become common knowledge at the next homeowners' association meeting. Good thing I lead such an utterly boring life. (Though I wonder if I should invite over my actor-friends, and tell them to be as outrageous as possible..?)
The Young Urban Grungefolk live in the brightly-colored cottage in front of me. Well, more like "in front of and off to one side a bit." I haven't spoken with them, but I've seen them. Her hair is dyed black and worn in a Bettie Page bob; his hair is dyed yellow (not blond; yellow - trust me on this). Both of them wear kilts and plaid shirts. The outside of their place is neat - though that could be due to the HOA as much as anything else. I've seen them entering and exiting their place a few times, on their way to or from work (presumably. It could be school. Or shopping. Or some other destination entirely.) Other than that...no contact with them whatsoever.
While moving in, I generated a lot of garbage (of course.) I bagged stuff up, spent a few minutes reading the labels atop the recycle bins to see what went where, put things where I believed they should go, and went on my merry. Some of the items left included the outsized boxes my blinds had been shipped in. I left them to the side of the recycle bins, since they were too tall to fit in the bins themselves. About three hours later, a flyer shows up at my door. It went on to chide people for leaving unbroken-down cardboard in the recycle area, and actually said, "THAT IS A NO-NO!" In all capital letters, bold face. (I already just lurve this person so.) Whomsoever had put those unbroken-down boxes out there was instructed to go out and break down their cardboard, this minute! (I think the letter could have only been sorrier if they had used Comic Sans font.) I went out, and someone else had put larger cardboard boxes right on top of the recycle bins - so maybe this person's flyer wasn't addressing me at all. But at any rate, I already know of one neighbor who apparently has no problem addressing grown adults like puppies who aren't fully housebroken. I know where this person's cottage is, too. The next day they left a plastic bag on every porch, with energy-efficient lights, a low-water-use shower head, and a sink aerator. And a copy of the latest water bill. Seems it's kind of high...and based on my water bills from my previous place where I paid between $20 and $30 a month, this places' water bill is a wee bit high - though not double what I was paying previously for a single apartment. (The water/sewer/garbage is handled by the homeowners' association. So this person, who apparently devotes their life to being The Enforcer around these-here parts, wanted to let us all know how much suffering we're generating.) Oh, la, joy.
I briefly met the couple in the cottage in front of me, and off to the other side. They're both teachers. They both have the same first name - or, at least, the same shortened form of the first name. (Precious. Very.) They teach teenagers, which either indicates that they're extremely well adjusted or that they get all their yelling and screaming done at work rather than bringing any of it home.
I have yet to meet any of my other neighbors. Since I tend to keep pretty much to myself, I don't know for sure that I ever will. Then again, there are some decent walking paths not too far from here. I may resume my daily walking regimen...in which case, I'd see my neighbors as they're leaving for work in the mornings.
...but I'll probably wait until spring. It's too cold and dark to go walking at 7 ack emma unless I've got to take a dog for a walk. I'll just stay in bed, snuggled under the comforter and surrounded by cats.
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Day one: bad elfsmovers!!
Dec 07, 2008
Moving this time around was…interesting. Even without all the househunting-and-escrow drama. I think that I could hear the moving fairies laughing at me. (And I began to feel an urge to make my own Pressed Fairy Book.)
The movers arrived on time. That was the last thing to go totally smooth. (I really hate being micromanaged when I work, so I try to stay fairly hands-off when I have others working for me. This strategy may have not been such a good idea this time around.) They started loading things, all seemed to be going well…and then they didn’t reappear for a few minutes longer than normal. They’re just arranging things, I thought. They’ll be up in a bit. I kept cleaning the old place. When next I looked up, fifteen minutes had gone by. I looked out the window to spot one guy drinking a soda and another talking on his cell. I went down and looked out the front door of the building. Neither took any notice. I went up to the truck. One guy - the guy on the cell - spoke into his phone, “Hold on a minute,” and told me that he was taking a call and that he’d wrap it up in a few minutes. Then he went back to his call. I walked back into my apartment and continued cleaning. When Mover #2 (Soda) came back in, I asked what had happened. He tried to spin me a story about needing to arrange things properly so that things would be safe in transit. (Keep in mind…this is for a crosstown move. They need to be secure, but they aren’t going to be crossing state lines. Things don’t need to be secured for a long haul.) I told him that I would be deducting thirty minutes from their total end time, and would that work since both of them had been away for over 20 minutes talking on their phones and having drinks? Soda then told of his buddy having a family member in the hospital, and another family member was there with them - so of course he had to take the call. I said, okay, that’s fine. We’ll just deduct any time spent from the end total, and he can take his calls, no worries. Soda didn’t really have a response for that. (I might have been more sympathetic had they said something when I went out there. Nothing was said. Therefore…time deducted. They’re getting $95 an hour.)
The last item to go out was my Ikea Jerker desk with the extra top shelves added on. You have to adjust the long “desk” part to clear the doors - not take it off, just set it up as “drafting table” rather than a totally horizontal surface. Well, first they farted around trying to adjust the screws while the desk was upright. That took over five minutes and some “umm” and “hmmm” with no actual progress to show. I suggested that when I’d done it before, I’d laid the desk down on its “back”. That allowed me to adjust the desk without working against gravity. So they finally did that. Then the two of them went into their Keystone Kops routine: apparently their communication was nonexistent. Cellphone unscrewed one screw, while Soda took them all out. I gently reminded them, again, that they only needed to let the desk portion fall down a bit - they didn’t need to take the entire thing apart. The whole dance took about 20 minutes until they were ready to carry this thing out the front door and load it into the truck. (I know Ikea’s not always the easiest stuff to handle…but jeebus.)
Finally everything’s loaded. I get my car and drive over in front of them - because this place isn’t actually on any maps. (Not Google Maps, not MS Streets and Trips, not Thomas Guide…nada. It’s like I’ve moved into a black hole.) The unloading begins. About 45 minutes in, I notice that it’s been about fifteen minutes since I’ve seen either of them. This is the unloading process - it should be fairly straightforward. Everything’s arranged in the truck, it shouldn’t be as complex a job to take it out of the truck. Nothing that explains a fifteen minute absence. So out I go again. Cell’s on the phone again, and Soda’s…you guessed it, drinking another soda. I totally understand the need to stay hydrated. But I’m just about done trusting these two. I ask them if there’s a difficulty. Hem, haw, pause…and Soda finally says that the desk took them a while to figure out. Now, the desk is already in the house. I watched while they put it together (and went and retightened all the screws - it had been a few years, plus the movers had carried it by the attached top sections. I kept waiting for them to break off.) So what have they been doing for the past fifteen minutes? I didn’t say a word, I just marched into the truck, grabbed a box, and started to take it inside. Oh, no, ma’am, we’ll do that, says Cellphone. I hand them the box, exit the truck, and head back inside. If they don’t start unloading prontissimo, I’ll call their home office and complain. Sure enough, though, they do start unloading. About fifteen minutes later, Dad and I are unpacking boxes downstairs when something falls in the master bedroom. The ceiling light fixture shakes. I don’t own that many heavy things, and all my boxes were the Office Depot/Staples “office boxes” with lids. What in the name of all that is holy (and much that is not) did they manage to drop? I head upstairs…and while Soda and Cell have hotfooted it back to the truck for another load, nothing looks out of place. None of the boxes that are up there have the big red “Fragile” sticker on the side. So whatever they dropped wasn’t something breakable. I head back downstairs and resume unpacking.
About ten minutes later, Soda and Cell mention a strong smell coming from somewhere upstairs. Did I have any nail polish remover or nail polish packed in any of those boxes? Why, yes, I did. Firmly packed in, under layers of bubble wrap. Then, remembering that huge crash, I tell them to keep unloading and I’ll check things out. The box that they managed to drop so spectacularly did contain my nail polish. One of the bottles split wide open, liberally applying its contents to the neighboring bottles and perfuming the air with eau du acetone. I rescue the bottles I can, clean them off, and set the rest in the now-pearlized-inside box and set the whole thing out on the patio. When I head back up into the bedroom to make sure I hadn’t missed anything, I notice that Soda and Cell have gouged my bed frame. My less-than-one-year-old bed frame, with no other nicks or scratches in it.
The lady in the neighboring cottage comes over and introduces herself. Nice woman, a bit chatty, friendly, a wealth of information. However…that “wealth of information” can go both ways. Anything I mention to her will be common knowledge all over the complex within two days. I make a mental note to never fully open the windows facing her cottage (we’re only supposed to have two cats per unit, and I have three). On the other hand, if I mention to her that I run a web hosting business, *that* will be common knowledge all over the complex within two days. I do believe I have just found myself a viral marketing channel.
The truck is unloaded, and time to sign the paperwork so that the moovers can be on their merry. They give me their estimate (which is, of course, at the very top end of the previous estimate I had been given - which included barricades which weren’t needed at this place), I remind them to take off forty-five minutes for the various breaks they took, and pay them their money. They have the intestinal fortitude to mention, “The desk really slowed us up. That thing added about an hour to the time.” I refrain from telling them that they are monumental screw-ups only because they have their truck parked in such a way that they could sideswipe my car on their way out of the parking lot. I head up to the office to start putting that together…and see that they’ve managed to ruin the shelf unit I used to raise my computer up off the floor. (It also held my printer paper, cartridges, CD spindles, blank media, and cases of software CDs.) This wasn’t something that needed much special handling, and it certainly didn’t need to be handled with care. But they’ve put so much weight on it that the supporting pins ripped through the top, so now that unit is unusable.
I’m really glad I bought this place. I won’t have to move for quite a long, long time. And if I ever do, I’m calling Starving Students. They don’t always take such great care of my stuff; but at least I’m not paying $600 for my things to be fouled up.
With the moo-vers gone, we let the cats out of the master bedroom. They’re cautious: Ursa comes down the stairs a few times on scouting forays, while Monkey and Fog waited upstairs, sprawled on the bed, letting the boy take all the risks. (They are such divas, both of them.) We all decide to set up the library as the “staging room” while we repaint the living room and staircase - so for the next several days, that room will essentially be a gigantic closet. The cable guy shows up, but he can’t hook up my phone or internet. There’s a 25 point power drop between my cottage and the one cattywampus across from me. The main cable office is going to have to send out other technicians to possibly re-lay the lines. They’ll be here in a week. Until then, I have no phone, internet, or cable. (I even tried calling the competitors. They both claimed that the earliest they could get a technician out here was in two weeks. [!!!]) Then I find out from VMC (viral marketing channel - the chatty next-door neighbor) that Can You Hear Me Now fiber-optic company was in here a week ago, laying lines for their service. Best guess is that foofooheads cut a line needed by Communicast.
I think I need a drink…
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Not completely out of my mind. Not yet. (Give it five more minutes...)
Dec 03, 2008
I’m back online after a week and a half with no internet, no cable, and no phone. Wow, but that was grim. (I don’t care so much about ‘no phone’, and a bit less about ‘no cable’. But ‘no internet’? Now that hurt..!)
My stuff’s moved in, my cable/phone/internet is turned on, and the various home projects have begun. Now I just have to get caught up with everything that happened in the last week-plus, answer all my emails, and generally find all the rest of my stuff. (It’s in boxes around here *some*where…)
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