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.