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.