i think we're gonna need a bigger fence

Isn’t that a line from a movie or something? Anyway, we are quickly learning that Vegas is growing up fast. We used to think she was quiet and mild-mannered. Now, we know that was just an act. I watched her run insanely fast circles around the yard in the deep snow tonight. With every leap, she sunk down to her stomach, yet she kept going and going. She also lost her interpersonal inhibitions and made friends with everyone that walked by. But what worries me most is that she has already tried to dig under and jump over the fence. I’m starting to wonder how long it will be before she breaks free. Maybe that microchip thing for dogs isn’t such a bad idea after all. Gotta go. She’s chewing on the keyboard—and I’m serious.

the not-so-spare bedroom

How fair is it that Matt and I share a room yet Vegas gets a room all to herself? She has officially taken over what used to be my exercise room—not to mention the entire backyard. Her kennel rests on my favorite navy rug. She sleeps on my old sleeping bag. Her food bowls and toys have left no room for my dumbbells or exercise ball. Hmph. And to think some people have two dogs…

viva las vegas

It seems the natural course of things for new homeowners. You experiment with paint color. You buy some furniture. You get a puppy. After years of renting, when pets are forbidden, it is the most freeing act to bring home a barking, peeing, pile of fur that you are finally able to own. We could not resist such a temptation, and thankfully, Matt's parents couldn’t resist either. On Christmas Eve, we were surprised with a cute little retriever complete with a big red bow. I hate to fall into such a cliché word trap, but it truly was the best Christmas present ever. We named her Vegas.

merry christmas

catching some zzz's

Yeah, so I admit that I've been a bit of a slacker. I haven't had a lot to say about the house this week because talking about sleep isn't exciting. With the Christmas insanity upon us, all I want to do is hit the pillow. After our yearly Christmas dinner last night, Matt suggested going to King Kong, but I lobbied for bed...and won. It was 9:15.

this end up

Now that we have a house, I feel like I should start making more grownup things for dinner. I think of myself as a fairly good cook, but I fear meat that looks even a smidgen like the animal it came from. I can’t even eat meat that tastes too much like meat. You’ll often hear me say during meals, “I can’t eat this hamburger. It tastes like cow.” My issues mean that we eat plain and boring meat—like boneless, skinless chicken. This week when I was ordering my groceries online (still lazy and loving it), I browsed the category of whole chickens. I picked one that came without the mysterious bag of innards, and today, I am fearlessly roasting it.

I only cringed a little when I rinsed it and patted it dry. I seasoned it with butter, lemon, salt, and pepper, and stuck it in the oven breast side up because that’s what Betty (Crocker) said to do. I thought all was well. I took it out, let it rest, hacked some meat off but was a bit puzzled. I couldn’t find much white meat on what I thought were the breasts. I flipped the sucker over. That was more like it. I guess even though I have a set of my own, I couldn’t figure out which side of the bird had the breasts. Pretty sad.

being irresponsible

This is what irresponsible people do when they should be de-damming their house. We unfortunately have a little ice dam situation happening over our front door. It’s all because of one simple little thing—leaves in the gutter. Back in the fall, we noticed leaves piling up, but we did that lazy procrastinating thing. We didn’t want to do it, so we waited so long that we couldn’t do it anymore. Now, the leaves are frozen in a few inches of solid ice, and the melting snow on the roof has nowhere to go; thus, it freezes on the roof and creates—you guessed it, an ice dam. My dad pointed out that hacking at our roof with an axe was a bad idea (Oh, really?), so he suggested a little rock salt. I didn’t think that sounded like a whole lot of fun either, so we went cross country skiing instead.

On the subject of skiing, could someone explain to Matt that you are lost if you don’t know how to get where you want to go? We took a wrong turn on the trail, crossed under a highway, went by a few lakes, and he still maintained that we were not lost because he knew exactly where we were. For someone that knew where we were, he sure couldn’t find the chalet…

growing up is hard to do

Nothing, and I mean nothing, makes you feel older than receiving a porcelain Christmas set from Santa. Last year, Matt and I were down to our final present. It was heavy, fairly large, and had a nondescript shape. It could’ve been any number of things that we wanted. But it wasn’t. Instead, it was a gleaming white porcelain set of figurines—a Santa, a couple of kids, a fireplace—you get the picture. Matt and I looked at each other. We certainly weren’t old enough to receive such a present. Porcelain figurines were for our parents—or better yet, our parents’ parents—not a few young city kids. Were we really that old? I looked up, and “Santa” (Matt’s mom) was beaming and perhaps sniffling a bit.

“You can pass it on to your kids. You know?”

“Yeah…”

On the drive home, I nicknamed our gift “The White Supremacist Christmas” because it was just so white. This year, we gave it a more appropriate name, “The White Imperialist Christmas,” as there are no skinheads in the set.

This entire year, that gift has left me in a state of shock. I am suddenly a grownup, a person old enough to receive Christmas figurines as gifts. This was horrible. It took an entire year to warm up to that gift, but now I have, and it looks great in our bay window. I still haven’t come to terms with that age issue though. Santa, this year, please, please buy me some wild and irresponsible gifts.

drumroll please

It's three weeks later, and our Christmas lights are finally all up. Last night, Matt took the staple gun to the arch lights; I really don't think they're coming down anytime soon.

keeping up with the joneses

Our neighbors are constantly making us look bad. They’re retired, so when we’re at work, they’re getting a step ahead of us on outdoor projects. They mowed first. They raked first. And now they shovel first. When I got home today, our sidewalks were a disaster. Kids had tromped home from the bus stop down our sidewalk, creating a nice, stamped down layer of snow. What I wanted to do was ignore the snow and take a nap, but then I saw the line. Our neighbors had obviously shoveled hours earlier, and their front sidewalk was immaculate. There was a definite line marking our properties, and it made me burn with guilt (thank you Catholic upbringing). I headed out with my jacket half-buttoned and my head bare. I was going to be tough and get this done quickly. And it wasn’t all that bad. However, when I was out making my first pass at the fresh six inches, my neighbor came out to touch up his shoveling job. And so the neighborly competition continues…

P.S. The beauty of shoveling before Matt gets home is that I get to pick exactly what I do—so I left him the driveway. He’ll love me.

o christmas tree

Well, we finally got our ornaments up. The tree looks pretty nice until you look beneath it. Then, it becomes pretty obvious that this is the "We-just-bought-a-house-and-have-no-money-for-presents" tree.

why i need a dishwasher

Matt is our official dishwasher. We made a deal a few years ago that I would make dinner and he would do dishes. As you can see, that bargain is shaky at best. I am obviously cooking, but Matt has grown a little weary of the constant dish washing. When we first moved into the house, we operated with military precision. We ate dinner at 7, and Matt did dishes at 8. It was a harmonious time. But now that the initial pride and excitement of homeownership has worn off, our routine is more like dinner at 7 and dishes 4 days later. Matt knows it’s time to break down and do them when I start serving cereal for supper.

our beloved furnace man

There is nothing more comforting than pulling up to the house and seeing the chimney puffing away. Yes, good old Robbie did the trick. Our furnace has worked perfectly for two days now. We can actually use the thermostat to turn it up and down without it freaking out and quitting on us. We can get up in the morning without swearing at the cold floor. Heck, we can even watch TV at night without our Columbias on. It's great. We probably should have called him sooner.

our first repairman

Well, we finally gave in and sought professional furnace help today. For the past month, our furnace has continued to turn on only when it feels like it (and never ever at 6:00 a.m. when I'm trying to drag my ass out of bed). We called our gas company and out came Robbie. Robbie was as all Robbie's should be--slightly overweight with twinkly eyes and cheeks you want to reach out and pinch. He cleaned our flame sensor and ordered us a new one. Granted, he isn't 100% sure that will do the trick, but at least he got our heat on tonight. I'll probably feel my toes again by midnight.

we've lost that Christmas feeling

Christmas has spewed all over our house. I thought we were being very ambitious. We dragged out the old Christmas tote and even put the tree up before December rolled around. The problem is we lack follow-through. The tree is lit but without ornaments; the presents are in various states of dress; and the arch lights are stuck together with painter's tape and piled up in a corner. I now understand why my mom set aside a single night to decorate the entire house. The five of us kids hated that. We were her mules, carrying the year-round decorations upstairs for storage and bringing the Christmas decorations down. Though we protested that night of Christmas hell, the house was always completed in just a few hours. Matt and I could really learn something from her technique. Yes, mom, now you can say, "I told you so."

buy your loved one a cool shovel

Sometimes it's smart to give your husband the Visa card and tell him to go shopping. A few weeks ago, Matt went out to buy a shovel. Now, that sounds simple, but it conjured up memories of us shopping for a garage broom. That entailed a twenty-minute examination of each variety and a discussion of price, handle stability, and bristle quality. This time, I sent him out alone for a shovel, and believe me, it was a good decision. He got home and informed me that he bought a cool shovel, a "Super Snow Pusher." He is so proud of that thing that he shovels all the time.

it's time for an atomic clock

I have no clue what time it actually is. This morning I woke up to my alarm screaming 7:00. I shuffled to the kitchen, made coffee, and the clock said 7:10. I picked up my cell phone—7:05. Come on. I have a hard enough time getting to work at 8:00 without having to guess what time it is. I’m starting to wonder if one of our houseguests played a little trick on us.

my falling arches

Nothing is ever easy. I thought that arch lights would look great in our windows. I bought 13 boxes and 2 packs of hooks, and I swear I was careful and followed directions. I had only put up 6 sets before they started crashing down. As you might be able to tell from this picture, I've already tried using tape for reinforcement, but nothing keeps these suckers up. Any advice? I'm about to pull out the stapler.

our cutesy side revealed

Today we decided to wrap our front door like a present. I know it's probably overdone, but it looks quite festive. Our little bout of decorating is due to a trip to Menards this afternoon. Yes, we skipped the likely depressing Packer game in favor of debating blue lights vs. clear and plain lights vs. arched. We were a bit too enchanted by the Menards "Enchanted Forest." We bought a $6 bow for crying out loud--we couldn't help it--it was the perfect bow. Don't you agree?

who needs a ladder when you have a really long pole?

the yoo-hoo blues

Why do my neighbors keep talking to me? Geez. I can hardly leave the house without a “Yoo-hoo! Are you our new neighbor?” Last night, I was out shoveling when I got accosted by a woman from across the street.
“Hello? Hello there! Say, I’m ______ (insert correct name here. I have no clue what she said). You just moved in, eh? Your first house? Yes, well, we hated to see what’s their name go. They had such cute little ones, you know? Do you have little ones? Have you met the neighbors? That there is Dee and Virgil, then there’s, oh geez, I forget, and then there’s that divorced couple, and next to them are two young men and a girl. They live with a girl and they’re pretty nice guys and…” I’m convinced she could’ve gone on forever.

racing the garbage truck

I have this fear that someone will steal our garbage can. I actually read the refuse newsletter thing that the city sent me when we moved in, and that damn thing made me fret about the safety of my can. This little paranoia causes great problems every Wednesday morning. We’re not used to being in charge of our trash, so when the alarm goes off on Wednesdays, Matt makes a mad dash to get the garbage out of the garage. If I could just come to terms with my issues, we could leave it outside all the time, but then raccoons could get at it. See how paranoid I am? It’s a wonder I can get out of bed. Well, this morning, Matt went to work early and forgot about the garbage, so as I was calmly making my egg, it dawned on me. You know that commercial when the guy runs out to the curb with his garbage can only to see the truck pulling away? That was almost me. I threw on a pair of shoes and ran outside jacket-free with my wet hair bouncing wildly behind me and the yippy neighbor dog going berserk. I snuck a glimpse into my neighbors can—it was still full. We were safe yet again.

come on baby rake my yard

What kind of raker are you? I bet you didn’t know there are two types. I discovered the distinction on Saturday when we finally broke down and raked our lawn. It was ridiculous. I have never seen so many leaves. We were swimming in at least three inches everywhere on our lawn. Raked up, that equals enough piles to make a school bus of kids happy. Anyway, we’re slacker rakers. We get the majority of the leaves but don’t stress over a few left here or there. As soon as we finished and went inside, our neighbors, Dee and Virgil (the noisy boingers), went out, grabbed their rake, and started meticulously grooming their lawn. They didn’t rake— they preened; they styled; they coaxed every last leaf out of their grass. Matt and I watched from our kitchen window with shame. I looked at our grass. It was still sprinkled with soppy leaves and looked nothing like the perfect, spotless yard next door. And our shame did not end there. We still hadn’t bought leaf bags, and Matt refused to use up all of our kitchen garbage bags. Rather than run out to the store right then, we let them sit in piles overnight. Sunday afternoon, Virgil popped over to offer Matt a few leaf bags. Next year I vow to buy a yard vacuum.

thermostat woes

I’m happy to report that our furnace seems to be working at the moment. I really shouldn’t say anything and jinx it, but I’ll take my chances. So, the furnace works, but now the thermostat doesn’t. It’s great. We had Luke over last night, and I was freezing. I had my hat on and a blanket over my shoulders, yet I kept shivering. I walked to the thermostat to investigate, and it said 72°. Ha! 72° is tropical compared to our house at that moment. The guys were even cold after three hours of whiskey waters, so I consulted a second source. I pulled out this awful clock I had brought home from work, and it said 64°. That’s more like it. Granted, it’s not a good thing that the thermostat doesn’t work, but I’ll take that over the furnace any day. I have decided that I’m going to keep my hat on permanently to avoid the hassle of combing my hair.

super yups

We have officially crossed the line. We’ve had pizza delivered before. Subs, books, shampoo even—never cheese and English muffins. Yes, we succumbed to the irresistible temptation of Simon Delivers. A few days ago, I went online, clicked here and there, pressed enter, and wham. Without leaving the house, dealing with carts or fellow shoppers, we had bought groceries. This afternoon between 2 and 4, “Simon” (as we liked to call him), was to ring and doorbell and deposit our bags of meat, produce, and dairy. We sat waiting patiently, and at 3:30, a huge yellow truck pulled up. “Simon” came to the door and joked that a tote or two had “taken a tumble” and “heh, heh, you didn’t buy eggs did ya?” Yes, we did buy eggs, and two were broken. I found myself not caring. Our cupboards were magically full, and I was aware that I had slipped into a lazy and frightening yuppie trap. Next we’ll be buying an SUV.

when not to do it yourself

If you recognize this picture of Mario sleeping, you’ll know that Matt spent his Friday night beating Super Mario 2. After our exciting trip to Target, he felt the need to accomplish something, so he threw vegetables and dodged bubbles until ruled the victor. My hero. I’m just glad he didn’t try to convince me to run diagnostic tests on the furnace with him again. Yesterday, we thought our heating ordeal was over, but we woke up to a cold house. Last night, Matt was determined to fix it once and for all, so he picked up the manual and became one of those people. I say those people meaning the kind of people that buy a book on home wiring expecting to be able to wire their house. It’s just not smart. Our furnace manual screams out the following advice: “WARNING: If the information in this manual is not followed exactly, a fire or explosion may result…” Hmm. Let’s think about this. Anytime the words “warning,” “fire,” and “explosion” come within that close of proximity to one another, I say it’s a damn good excuse not to poke around in the furnace. The sad thing is that Matt wasn’t deterred. He was acting the part of all-macho amateur furnace repairman all right. I finally got him to just sit and watch TV when I pointed out that he didn’t have a voltmeter. The only downside? I have to wear my hat in the house again. I guess that’s a small price to pay for not exploding.

no heat? no sleep.

The pleasure cruise is over ladies and gentlemen. We were sailing through this home ownership thing maintenance-free until the furnace decided to rear its ugly head and say “Screw you” yesterday. Our alarm went off around 6, and I knew something was wrong. I could practically see my breath. My head felt numb with cold. The heat obviously hadn’t been on all night. I braved the cold and got up, my feet freezing as I raced to the thermostat. I cranked it up to 71 and waited. Nothing. It was 59 degrees inside, and our furnace was playing hard to get. Matt flicked the reset switch, and it kicked in for a minute or two before quitting. Great. So, last night, I got home from work, kept my winter hat on, and called my dad for some long-distance help. I found myself crouching on the cold basement floor and staring at a red blinking light—the furnace’s way of telling me something wasn’t working. Ever try to stare at a red blinking light and try to determine how many long flashes and short flashes there are? You should really try it sometime. After a while, they all look the same and you feel like you’re going mad. I finally counted correctly (thank you first grade math), scanned the code list, and determined we were experiencing ignition lockout. My dad helped me get it working for a bit, but then it quit again. When Matt got home, he announced, “We’re not going to bed until it’s working.” Now, I don’t know about you, but “Furnace Repairwoman” isn’t something I put on my resume. After dinner, we trooped downstairs with the manual to reset the entire furnace. It sounded somewhat dangerous. Turn off the power, smell for gas, yadda yadda. For someone who doesn’t like gas or flames, it was definitely cause for panic. Matt followed the directions, and when I turned the thermostat up, the heat miraculously started. It was cause for celebration. We kicked it up to 70, and I finally took off my winter hat.

why neighbors suck (part one of many)

I am so not ready to own a house. It probably would have been smart for me to recall how easily I get scared before I signed the paperwork. Yeah, I did power through the drive-by. I only ducked while walking by windows for a few days—I just got over it. So, all was well in the Breitzmann household until last night, when I realized I am just not ready to leave my safe apartment life behind.
Picture this. It’s about 11:15, we’re in bed, and all of a sudden, I hear this weird reverberating boing sound. Hmm. Boings are not normal house sounds. So, we just laid there silent and motionless, too chicken to look out the window. It sounded like we had a huge springy door stopper on the side of our house and someone was slamming a huge door into it over and over again. Then the boinging stopped, and some voices and footsteps started up. Pretty soon, my light was on and I was wide awake. Seriously, what the hell? I had three guesses as to what was happening:

1. My nosy neighbor Dee was out in the rain and snow to make sure no one was letting their dog shit on her lawn.

2. Our bus-stop lurker was back to egg our house because I said he was “wigging out.”

3. A giant man really was slamming a giant door into a giant door stopper on the side of our house.

Trying to determine if I should go hide in the closet or not, I started listening more closely to the footsteps—they were quick, shuffling, and clearly belonged to someone old. My thoughts were confirmed as I heard Dee start yelling at her hard-of-hearing husband. I still don’t know what they were doing out after 11:00 in the crappy weather. I hope they were raking my lawn.

friends in the house

Phew. We survived our first weekend with friends over. I was much more nervous for friends to stay with us than for our parents. Parents are different. They often look past the strange quirks and negatives because their eyes are on the big prize—grandkids. I know that my mother-in-law would have loved any house we chose as long as it had a second bedroom for her “grandbaby!!” Anyway, we had four friends stay over this weekend, so that means a few different house tours. After a while, they all started to sound the same.

1st stop: Kitchen. Me: “Yes, it’s small, but it works. Yes, we hate the tile countertop. No, we don’t have a real table.”

2nd stop: Living Room. Guest: “Where’s your TV?” Matt: “This is our ‘conversation’ room.

3rd stop: Our Bedroom. Me: “Please ignore the bed. We didn’t order our bedding yet.” (said while rushing over to flip Matt’s bloody nose pillow over)

4th stop: Bathroom. Me: “Check out the mismatched tile!”

5th stop: 2nd floor, Office. Guest: “Brr.”

Final stop: Basement. Guest: “Nice loveseat.”

matt's new yankee workshop

Okay, I’ll admit that I doubted Matt. I never thought he could turn our couch into a useable loveseat. I figured that by cutting it up he would just make it easier to throw away, but I was wrong. Last night, with company soon approaching, he went for it. He brought out his one and only power tool, a shiny new drill, and started making screechy revving noises while I was trying to peacefully watch er five feet away. I retreated upstairs and let him have his cave all to himself. I checked on him once in a while to ensure that he hadn’t tried to cut up any other furniture. He was actually making progress but did have a few stumbles along the way:

1. He broke multiple drill bits.

2. After ten minutes, he thought that he had broken his drill already and was monkeying around with it about two-inches from his eye (this is why I don’t want him to get a power saw).

3. He got one drill bit stuck in the wood and had to pry it out with pliers.

4. He discovered that his initial cut was uneven, so there was a gap between the left arm and the couch. The solution? He rolled up some extra padding, wrapped it in duct tape, stapled some extra fabric around it, and shoved it in the hole.

All in all, I’d say it was a success. Granted, if you sit on the left side, you sink almost to the floor, but he did do what he set out to do. He gave us a basement loveseat for the bargain price of $25. You go Matt.

my mailbox of inspiration

I’m discovering that I loved the woman who lived here before me. I guess I should clarify—I love her taste. She was an avid catalog shopper, and every day, I get at least four catalogs from companies I often haven’t heard of. Half of them are typically from places I can’t really afford (Pottery Barn, Crate and Barrel), but the other half is insanely cute kids catalogs. They are so over the top. For example, a catalog called Hearth Song has these brightly colored silks that “inspiration positively flows from.” Each one is $11, unless you spring for the rainbow one, which is $40. Good parents, I suppose, will pay the $40 to ensure their kids can fully exercise their imaginations. If they opt for the cheap one and their kid desn't turn out, they might possibly look back and think, “Damn. If only I’d doled out the extra cash.”
Back when I was a kid (here we go again), if I wanted to swing around a sheet of fabric to inspire myself, it would have been a pillowcase or old sheet. No silk. No vibrant colors. Just pilly, off-white cotton. No wonder why these catalogs often leave me with an empty feeling. When I was flipping through tonight, I found a mini gumball crane machine. I never had one of those either. Maybe I should send my mom these catalogs. I can practically hear our conversation.
“So, you want this for Christmas? This little plastic crane machine, huh?”
“Yes, and I would also like the rainbow silky sheet thing on page 63 in the other catalog. I feel the need to be inspired.”

homeland security

Last night was the first time I was alone in our house late at night. I have always been a big wimp about being home alone. Every little noise freaks me out, but nothing is worse than an uncovered window. It really bothers me when people can see in, but I can't see out. Our kitchen door is half-window, so every time I walk by at night, I run. I can't just walk up from the basement and casually walk through the kitchen-I bolt, really. I've been this way since I was a kid and refused to sleep if I didn't have a blanket over myself no matter how hot it was. As long as no one could see me, I felt safe. I am a pretty paranoid person, aren't I? I guess I don't care if it makes me a wuss, but I just can't handle naked windows. I refused to let Matt leave last night before the kitchen door was covered, so I grabbed a bath towel and roll of painter's tape and went to town.

when i was a kid

It’s funny that owning a house has made me instantly older. I used to be pretty laid back and carefree. I used to laugh at my dad when he complained about the neighbor’s wood burning or annoying dog. Now, that’s me. I have caught myself saying out loud “When I was a kid…” several times in the past month. I am only 25! I am practically a kid. Geez. My crankiness started a few days after moving in. I was walking to the closet and looked out the small window on our front door only to see someone staring back at me. I thought I was just being paranoid, but I looked again, and yes, there was a teenage kid standing at my front door. We happen to live on the bus stop corner, and this kid had taken the liberty of using my stoop as an umbrella. Nice. The next day, he was right back there, standing proudly as if he owned the place. When I was a kid (bear with me), we were forbidden from stepping one inch onto the lawn at my bus stop. This horrible old woman lived there, and the rumor was if you let the tiniest part of your foot creep onto her grass, she’d sic her little dog on you.
Matt and I differed on what to do about our lurker. Granted, he wasn’t doing any harm, but it was creepy, and damn it, this was finally my house and I had the right to kick people off the step. I wanted to send him to the curb with the rest of the kids, but Matt feared retaliation: “It’s hard to scrape egg off a house, Maureen.” The kid was a little scary. He was, as we used to call it in junior high, wigging out. His pants were hovering magically below his ass, and he was wearing this huge puffy jacket. Not in the style of L.L. Bean, mind you; it was more in the style of Puff Daddy. Matt won. We let the kid takeover our stoop, and to prevent him from peeping, I taped a Home Depot ad over the window. Now that’s classy.

does anyone want to steal a dog?

I swear it's cute-in a mutty, found-it-at-the-pound sort of way. I guess it's not mine to offer, but if it's not gone soon, I'm afraid I might resort to more drastic measures. It's my neighbors dog, and it's the yipper from hell. I stand in my kitchen window-it barks. I walk to my garage-it barks. The little thing is driving me crazy. The owner must be deaf because she simply stands there and sighs at it like you would sigh at a small child. "Oh, gee. You're barking again. You're so silly." Aaah! I'll post a picture of it, so in case anyone has any crime family connections, feel free to pass it on.

halloween scrooges

It’s our first Halloween in the house—our first ever chance to hand out candy to trick-or-treaters…and we’re hiding out in the basement with the lights off. Yeah, we could have bought candy and played the friendly neighbors, but I got our mortgage bill in the mail today. Now that’s incentive enough not to run out to Target to buy Snickers.

super mario has stolen my husband

Okay. So, I humored Matt. I let him cut up a perfectly good couch because he promised it would be, as he said, "awesome." I helped him lug it to the garage, made him dinner, and even provided a little encouragement. A lot of good that did. It's now a week later, and half of the couch is in the garage while the amputated arm sits in the basement awaiting a reunion. Unfortunately, Matt is far too busy to complete his couch project. Why you ask? He has rediscovered Super Nintendo. After buying a few parts from ebay, his SNES is again functional, and he is determined to regain his Mario prowess. It's a little sad.

dry towel anyone?

My bathroom is the land of the perpetually damp towel. For some ungodly reason, there is only one small towel bar in it that will barely hold a hand towel, let alone two bath towels. I have no idea how families have lived in this house for the last 65 years without going insane. I decided to take matters into my own hands and bought a few hooks for the door. I figured it would be a smart and easy solution. I guess this is just another lesson in how house projects are never easy. I woke up today ready to go and spray painted the hooks to make them more rust resistant. Lesson one: don't spray paint outside in the fall. I should have known this, but being an optimist, I assumed that the leaves would magically blow away from the drying hooks. Wrong. I had to paint them about 4 times to try to cover up the smudges I left after digging leaf after leaf out of the wet paint. After a few hours of drying, the hooks were still gooey, but I was anxious to get the job done. I summoned Matt and his drill. He positioned the hooks, marked them off, and drilled two holes...right through our bathroom door. It turns out that the center panels on our old doors are very thin. Now, instead of having three handy hooks on the door, we have two holes that are clearly visible from either side. Nice. I guess I'll be living with damp towels for a bit longer.

bang bang shoot 'em up

I really shouldn't joke about this, but what can you do? We have lived in our house for exactly one month. We thought the neighborhood was safe and cute. There are kids on skateboards and families with baby strollers everywhere. Good thing kids tend not to be out past 9:00 because last night we got caught in a low-budget episode of NYPD Blue. We were just coming upstairs from a rowdy game of Super Mario 1, and we heard this awful sound. I was in the bathroom, and Matt was closing the curtains. I thought a plane was crashing, but I wasn't even close. Two cars were chasing each other down our quaint, quiet street, and the second car stopped on our corner and shot at the first car 4-5 times. I just kept thinking to myself: Are you kidding? One month in the house, and we already have gangsters or druggies or whoever shooting at each other on our corner? Great. I guess this is why people repeatedly asked us: "You're moving to Minneapolis? You can't be moving to Minneapolis. What suburb will be you in?" Ha. We spent the rest of the night motionless on our bed with all of the lights off. Welcome to the joys of homeownership.

the couch fiasco

I feel like I’m stuck in a bad episode of The Red Green Show. As I write this, Matt is out in the garage trying to turn our couch into a loveseat. I know how ridiculous this sounds. I spent three weeks trying to convince him to leave the poor thing alone, but he is convinced of his eventual triumph.
This fiasco started when we moved in. He was determined to create a basement den for himself, and our old couch was the focal point of his design. Unfortunately, our house was built in 1940 and features small hallways and narrow doorways. After our families finished helping us move and left for home, Matt and I tried to get the couch down the stairs and into his dream male getaway.
We spent three hours moving it a little bit this way and a little bit that way, but it would not budge. At one point, we had it wedged in the hallway next to the basement door, trapping us both in the kitchen. With our keys out of reach, we couldn’t go out the back door and walk around to the front; instead, Matt had to climb atop a small shelf and gracefully squeeze himself through a small opening to get to the other side. After this incident, I asked him a key question: “Didn’t you measure the couch and doorway first?”
“Well, yeah,” he said without looking at me.
“And how big are they?”
He kept looking at the ground. “The couch is 33”, and the door is 29”.
“Are you kidding?”
We had just spent an entire afternoon trying to force a couch into a door that is 4” too small; the thing that got me is that he knew it was too small before we even started. He finally conceded that his grand plan was not to be and moped the rest of the weekend. In fact, he moped until tonight when he drew a messy line of marker on the couch and started to slash at it with his utility knife.
"So, do you know what you’re doing?” I asked.
"I’ll figure it out. Just wait. I’ll figure it out, and it’s going to be awesome.”
I looked around our garage. He had three tools: a utility knife, wire snips, and a handsaw. This should be interesting.

painting a plain room sexy

We finally moved our furniture back into our bedroom today. Two weeks ago, we started to paint it red-a real sexy red. We thought everything was going well; we followed directions precisely and took our time. Ha! After finishing a coat of primer and two coats of paint, we pulled the tape only to find out that the tape didn't want to come off as it was supposed to. Ideally, you pull the tape and it leaves a nice clean line. Instead, when we pulled the tape, it pulled tape off the wall too, creating big, torn bubbles all over the room. It was far from sexy; it was a disaster. This didn't really encourage us, so we continued to sleep in the living room for a few weeks. I had grown used to it, and I figured we had 30 years to finish painting, so I was in no rush. Finally Matt stepped up and started to cut in again, but this time without tape. He used a tiny paintbrush that I pulled out of my watercolor set. It took him days to complete the 3 coats of touchups, but he did it. It's still not the best. There are a few blobs of red paint on our white ceiling, and the tape pulled off some ceiling paint too, revealing a layer of bright white in random patches. We're hoping that our new furniture will cover up the bad spots.

fate at work

I’m not sure if I believe in fate, but we weren’t supposed to look at our house. We had made an appointment with our real estate agent, but Matt suddenly got cold feet. The thought of spending hundreds of thousands of dollars floored him, so he called and cancelled our appointment. The catch? Our agent never got the message. She called us to confirm the day of the appointment, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her we weren’t ready. Be it a cell phone flaw or fate, we ended up looking at the house and loving it.

Tomorrow is move-in day, and who really knows if we're ready. I guess we'll find out very quickly.

how it all started...

It was a hot Sunday morning, and with nothing to do, my husband Matt threw me a curveball.
“Why don’t we go to some open houses?” he asked.
I knew this was a dangerous proposition. We had agreed to wait a year to buy a house, and I’m one of those buyers that gets easily attached to things. I bought a car on a whim. I bought the first wedding dress I tried on. There’s no turning back once I fall in love, and we didn’t have money sitting around in case I fell for a house.
“Oh, come on. We’re just looking for fun. We’re not going to buy anything,” he urged.
I conceded reluctantly and prepared us for the hunt. This wasn’t just our usual apartment search—this was a house hunt. And though we lacked a down payment and had a year to look, I took it very seriously. Smartly armed with a city map, a stack of newspapers, and highlighters galore, we set out.
I circled ten possibilities and laid out our agenda. We worked through the list quickly. We were picky, so I crossed off house after house for different reasons: the driveway was too small, the street was too busy, the neighbors were too messy. After our list was fully rejected, the search became a free-for-all.
We drove through neighborhoods in Minneapolis and St. Paul, our eyes peeled for For Sale signs. It was a sort of scavenger hunt with Matt driving, and me shouting, “There’s one on the right. Turn! It’s not sold yet!”
Then, we’d stop at the house and play the price game.
“How much do you think it is?” he’d ask me.
“Uhh…$230?”
He’d run out, get the brochure, and usually break out laughing.
“Wrong again. It’s $280. Ouch.”
We weren’t the only ones with this idea on that beautiful summer day. It was easy to spot other house hunters. They made erratic, last minute turns and drove incredibly slow down each block pointing their fingers out the window. At one time, we had a minivan following us at a suspiciously close distance; it pulled ahead after a while, and we used its driver as our scout. We tailed it around the neighborhood and would wait in our car when she got out to check for a brochure. If there wasn’t one, we stayed in our comfy air conditioning and drove on.
By the end of the afternoon, we had a messy stack of brochures abandoned at my feet and still hadn’t been to an open house. Finally, on a quiet street in our Highland Park neighborhood, we saw an open house sign in front of a quaint Cape Cod-style bungalow. Gambling that it was in our price range, we walked up to the front door.
“Do we ring the doorbell?” I asked. Matt had no idea. Erring on the side of being polite, I did, and instead felt like an idiot. A surprised voice called to us to come in, and we made our first step into a house that could one day be our own.
We went timidly to the dining room table and took a brochure. Acting cool, we flipped it over and saw a $380,000 price tag. We stifled our desire to laugh and run away; instead, we listened to the realtor boast about the house. Nodding intently at her selling points, I stood up a little straighter and smoothed my messy ponytail, trying to look older and much wealthier.
“It has a kitchen on each floor,” she beamed.
We smiled and turned away. “Isn’t cleaning one kitchen enough?” I asked as we walked upstairs. The place was interesting to say the least. The bathroom had a sloped ceiling, so you’d have to crouch in the shower to avoid knocking your head. The bedroom closet was in the hallway and set precariously over the stairs. The three kitchens were simply strange. After seeing what $380,000 would buy us, we threw in the towel and went home to eat frozen pizza.
We walked into the apartment we had loved that morning, and the love was no longer there. Once tempted with the promise of our very own house, our charming, 800-square-foot apartment had turned into a pit. We ate our pizza silently, and as soon as we were finished, Matt asked if I wanted to search online for a while. I didn’t fight him that time.
And so, on that sunny Sunday evening, we sat at the computer talking about basements and bathroom size. I knew we couldn’t wait a whole year. It was midnight when we turned off the computer and retired to our too-small bedroom in our too-small apartment.

This piece was also published in the Minneapolis Star Tribune on October 26, 2005.
http://www.startribune.com/stories/417/5686790.html