October 23rd, 2008

Weaving Home

Poor Charlotte. She probably never saw this coming. She probably thought things were going just fine, then, out of the blue, the house gets turned upside-down.

Charlotte is the fourth resident of our house, and the last one who moved in, doing so about a month after Steph, Lilly, and I. She’s an ideal housemate: Quiet. Always tidies up her messes. Likes just hanging out. And I don’t think Steph would mind me telling you, she has a great set of legs.

This, incidentally, is Charlotte.

Some may not abide a creature such as this on their back porch, but, considering the volume of mosquitoes in our yard, I’m ok with it. I wasn’t even bothered when she produced a gigantic, slimy egg pouch (this is how we determined her to be a girl, by the way) which is still suspended on a strand of her old web, like the world’s most disgusting golf ball, frozen mid-flight.

So I did not want to make Charlotte feel unwelcome by any means, but something had to be done about that back storm door. We inherited a back storm door that could not close properly. The top hinge — which, like the rest of the door and frame, is made out of the cheapest aluminum — had shattered into pieces. (I now realize that this door had been “conveniently” propped open every single time we walked through the house before buying it, including when we did the home inspection. Nicely done, previous owners.) The “V-shape” created by the braced door and the exterior wall of our house was where Charlotte chose to stay when she took up residence with us. But this open space was also the reason the door would bang, one second against the concrete block we used as a stop and the next against the corner where the brick wall ended, each time there was a strong wind. It was beating itself to hell and making all kinds of racket, and I had struck out when trying to find a replacement hinge that would work, and even when trying to remove the broken pieces of hinge from the rivets that held them so something new could go on there.

I ended up unscrewing the aluminum frame from the wooden frame behind it and putting the entire thing in the shed, but before I did that I thought I’d help Charlotte relocate. This was a tedious process. As I said, I’m ok with Charlotte, but that doesn’t mean I want her scurrying up my hand and across whatever other parts of my body she sees necessary at top-speed. Having selected a stick that seemed sturdy, maneuverable, and several feet long, I attempted to gently slide it under her. I was going to place her a few feet higher, on top of the downspout from our gutter. You always see cobwebs in those types of spots right? And, I don’t know who assembled this particular downspout but they were the Michelangelo of downspouts. The angles are all “45!” “Schloop: 45!” “Pwow: 90!” You could calibrate your protractor with it. A web-builder could do a lot with that! It’s like scoring the corner office! At least that’s what I was saying to Charlotte, out loud, at my normal speaking volume, as she reared back further with every approach from the stick, and flashed her spider-fangs, which, like the rest of her, were substantial in size. Growing impatient, I finally just swept through the web, which was going to be destroyed anyway. (I’ve always heard they build a new one every day. I hope that’s true.) I came up from under her and the momentum had her clinging to the stick as it quickly made its way up to her new room. Then, sure enough, she started down the stick, towards my tender flesh, those black, needly front feet digging at the branch in front of her at a breakneck pace. But before she reached the halfway point , or “shriek, drop the whole shebang, and run inside territory,” she tied a silken thread on to the side of the stick and rappelled straight down, off the side of the porch, at twice the speed she’d been running at. I was Tommy Lee Jones to her Harrison Ford, watching her take this death-defying plunge, knowing she’d somehow survive and, that once she got to the bottom, she’d vanish like a ghost. Sure enough, I immediately descended the steps and searched the ground and the plants and side of the porch, and I have no idea where she went.

Charlotte,

If you’re reading this on the web (puns!) I can see why you’d be upset, but I hope this helps explain why we had to dismantle your nesting spot. I don’t know what spiders do when it gets cold, but we’re having a Halloween party next weekend, and your creepy form hanging off the side of the house would be quite an addition to the decor! And your eggs are still bundled on the side of the house! Won’t you think of your hatchlings!?! Who will raise/eat them!?! I truly hope you’ll see fit to return.

Sincerely,

Tommy Lee

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July 31st, 2008

Gimme Shelter

Steph and I have bought a house!

I don’t know how I’ve resisted the temptation to write even one entry about this for the past two-and-a-half months, as we applied for loans and negotiated prices and had inspections. Every little step seemed like it could have been a novel (or at least a novella) in and of itself. I suppose I was fearful that posting about it would take the process, which went quite smoothly considering this was a for-sale-by-owner/for-purchase-by-two-confused-indecisive-wrecks situation, and place a dreaded “jinx” (one of the official real-estate terms I now know) on it.

It’s a done-deal now though, as we went to a real-life lawyer’s office this morning and closed. (Actually that last sentence is a perfect example of the other reason I didn’t write about this earlier. I think if I were granting a loan or selling a home to someone, and I were looking around online and found that they felt a need to call an attorney’s place of business a “real-life lawyer’s office” I’d start to have second thoughts…but that’s so where we were, you guys.)

As the house you’re buying is all you can talk about with anyone while you are buying a house (it’s in the sales contract) most of my readers have heard this before, but here’s the basic run-down of what we got:

• A 1000-square-foot brick ranch,
• In East Raleigh, pretty close to downtown (about three miles from where we were living),
• In an out-of-the-way neighborhood that was built in the early ’60s when there were still manufacturing jobs in that general area, and now hosts a mix of working-class inhabitants, college kids, and middle-class folk (including our dear friends Jerry and Andrea, who are now our next-door neighbors),
• On a .25-acre lot with some very nice landscaping (that I will be silently worrying about every waking hour from now on, as it is indisputibly mine and thus, I am convinced, declining into a pile of shriveled vegetation), a fenced-in backyard, and a dog-door for Lilly.

We’re going to take just over a week and do some painting on the interior before we move in. We want to cover every single room in the place. We’re confident¹ that we can get it all done before August 9th (MovingDay!™)

I’ll let you know how it goes.

–

¹ completely uncertain

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November 27th, 2007

Deck the Stall

Something I am thankful for: the shower at my apartment.

Our Thanksgiving visit to Steph’s family’s house confirmed this. I love Steph’s family very much. They are wonderful people who have never been anything but good to me. But their showers have no water pressure. They are aware of this. We discuss it on occasion.

Of course their showers probably seem unusually frail to me because the shower at Steph and I’s apartment has been permanently dialed in at “water cannon.” I’m not sure if it’s the brand of shower head we have (which I have been unable to determine, despite looking intently for it, so that I can buy one for myself and all the people that I care about) or something with the way the plumbing’s run or just that, at some point, our landlords sent our shower to massage school where it learned the secrets of loosening and relaxing one’s deep muscle tissue.

If you haven’t been prepared for this shower, it can be a bit of a shock. The first time I used it went something like this: We’d been moving in for hours, I was covered in sweat and grime, and once we called it a day, I retired to the bathroom. I pulled back the temporary plastic curtain, grabbed the knobs, and gave them a turn. It was then that I began to understand that this was no ordinary bathing vessel. My family has always fitted their sink and shower fixtures with high-pressure water-saving nozzles, meaning I’m accustomed to a higher level of (I’m going for it) “shower power” (hmm…), but something about this was different. The spray burst forth, creating a wind tunnel in the stall. I disrobed (insert sounds of women whooping and hollering), took a deep breath, and stepped in. I swear I was nearly knocked over by the force. Water poured onto my head and into my eyes. It sounded like the base of a waterfall in there. All I could hear was “KSSSSHHHHHHHH!” punctuated by the “POP….! PAP…! POP…! PAP…!” of the curtain flapping in and out. For a few seconds I had no idea where I was or what was happening to me. I rubbed my eyes and opened them, regaining composure for a few seconds. This was incredible! I was going to let out a “Yee-haw!” but when I opened my mouth it was immediately filled with liquid. Thanks to our apartment building’s very old drains, standing water quickly creeped up past my ankles. In a matter of minutes the tub would be overflowing! This was, without a doubt, the single most frantic showering experience of my life. While I’d been dead tired from lugging boxes and furniture around, by the time I did my final rinse, I was completely reinvigorated.

Steph, on the other hand, is not thankful for our shower. Or at least she’s not thankful for the fact that when I use it, I enjoy opening it up to full blast and pummeling the dirt off of my body. A great deal of moisture gets spread around the tiny bathroom during this process. In addition to the high amounts of steam produced — which causes the 50-year-old plaster walls to sag and peel and develop bulges and boils like they’ve contracted the black plague — there’s the fact that the pipe is set at about 5’9″ and is angled downward, so the head is even lower. To get my face and hair wet, I actually have to point the nozzle upwards slightly, so droplets are regularly sent cascading over the curtain rod, landing on the walls, floor, sink, mirror, etc.

It has been brought to my attention, by my wife, that this behavior generates slipping hazards, which are a threat to myself and others. She has given me an unspecified amount of time to amend my ways, but I have been assured that, if I cannot change, penalties will be instituted at some point in the near future.

And now you’re probably wondering: how Steph can be such a battle ax? (Your words, not mine. Love you, dear.) You’re wondering, why would I put up with it?

Well people, the truth is, I like my women feisty.

Like my showers.

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