$155

That’s what I paid the HVAC guy to come out and service the air conditioner, because I thought that was the source of the smell in my house.

Turns out, it was 12 tins of $1.99 Altoids-like chocolate mint candies--called Hint Mint--that were the source of the mulchy odor in my house. Go figure.

Ah, well. Glad I got that little mystery solved before turning guests, friends, and family out of the house. At the very least, there are no worries about Legionnaire’s Disease. Although, can you get that in a house? Well, regardless, the tins of candy have been locked in an air-tight container and should smell no more.

Case closed!

Splish Splash

It's raining tonight and I am pleased to report that my new gutters are holding. Now I just have to figure out what that musty smell is in the office. Hopefully it won't cost hundreds of dollars to find out.

Here's a difference between California and the D.C. Metro area. By law in California, when you sell your home, you have to disclose everything that happened in or to the home. For example, if your house flooded in the El Nino winter of 1996, you have to disclose any damage that occurred as a result. Or, if your father died in his sleep in the living room, you have to disclose that a death occurred on the property. Stuff like that. That way, the next person who buys the house has a history and knows how to address issues as they arise.

In the D.C. Metro area, there is no disclosure when you buy property. As a result, your house could have been occupied previously by a drug dealer who cooked crystal meth in his kitchen, thus contaminating the house, and your realtor can't tell you that (they may not even know it themselves.) Or, if the house had bad gutters that resulted in leaking window frames and floor damage, you won't know that either until it rains like Noah's business and you discover it only as you watch water drip from the casing.

The latter would be my experience. Fortunately, the gutters have been fixed, so there's no more dripping window when it rains. But now I have to locate the source of mustiness and address it so it doesn't overtake the rest of the house. Ah, older homes. What a joy!

Still.... I can't complain too loudy. It's nice and dry in here, while it's wet and nasty out there. Which is how it should be!

Day 18 (Part 2): Housecleaning Becomes Enjoyable

Received this via email the other day.



Can you imagine the product development conversations at Mattel? What I want to know is, were women involved in the development of this toy?

Day 13: Pictures

My brother lent me his camera the other day as mine is on the fritz and I took what I think is a decent picture of yesterday evening's sunset.


I also took pictures of my Christmas decorating, which was the whole point of the camera loaner. Regardless, I'm a sucker for a good sunset and this was one of those moments.

Day 28: FOUND

Lost: One Motorola Razr3 Cell Phone

Last Seen: Tuesday on my person at the Wheaton Public Library

Necessary Evil: Yes

Necessarily Missed: No

Yes, I misplaced my cell phone earlier this week. I even called my carrier to see if, perhaps, through the wonders of modern technology, their high tech equipment could talk to my high tech gadget and maybe pinpoint its general location. (I prefaced my question to the carrier by saying, "I'm about to ask stupid question number 542...." Fortunately, the folks at my carrier seem to be gracious, professional people, because my CSR said, "There are no stupid questions, blah, blah, blah...)

I didn't miss my cell phone, per se. My biggest concern was that it might be in the hands of someone to whom it did not belong. Still, I didn't miss it as a needed and dear item in my life.

I like not always being available and "in touch." I'm one of those people who tries really, really, really hard never to use my cell phone in stores, restaurants (fast food or full service), on the bus/train, or in public places in general. I also try even harder not to use my cell phone while I'm driving. (Please note that I said, I try. I didn't say I never. That would be lying. And anyone who tells you they don't use their cell phone in those places or while driving is a hypocrite. We all do it, people. Admit it.)

But even when I do use it in public, I'm aware that I'm in public and I'm hyper aware that there are others around me--total strangers--who can hear all of my side of the conversation. And while it's certainly hardly their business (except that I've made it their business by using my phone in public), they can't help overhearing, which means I've put them in a position where they're compelled to hear my every word, whether they want to or not. Knowing that, I feel like I'm being rude and I do my best to get off the phone as quickly as possible or to find a place with a bit more privacy.

And that's the thing I don't like about cell phones. We're forced to listen to or overhear the most inane conversations. Conversations that should have been had between couples before they parted ways in the morning. Conversations that might be sensitive in nature and shouldn't be in the public domain. Conversations between friends that make watching paint dry seem infinitely more intriguing. Conversations about absolutely nothing.

There's the other rub with cell phones. We're so connected and in touch that we expend all of our deeper, quieter thoughts and insights in moments of vomitous talking. Must. Talk. All. The. Time.

I miss the quiet that once was the cellular-less world. I miss seeing couples walking down the street hand-in-hand, talking to each other. Now, they both have a phone to their ear and they barely notice each other. I miss going to places that were traditionally sacrosanct, like restaurants and parks and the beach, and enjoying the quietness and intimacy that were characteristic of such get-aways.

I've enjoyed the tranquility of the last few days without my cell phone.

Unfortunately, I found the damn thing yesterday, when I started to do my laundry. There it was. Lying on the floor in the closet with the washer and dryer. Its battery exhausted. Its flashy screen dead. I plugged it into a charger and it came back to life. And last night, it rang again in all its robustness.

I promptly turned it off.

Day 26: Smelly Cat, Meet Your Cousins, the Crappy Cats

Feral, unneutered, countless cats roam my neighborhood. Some cats are all black with a patch of white. Some cats are white with a patch of black. Some cats are gray. All of these cats are inbred and continually breeding. And I'm about to call the ASPCA. Because I have had enough. And why have I had enough, you may ask?

Because these cats come into my yard and CRAP.

And I'm sick and tired of cat crap in my yard.

Earlier this past summer, I bought powdered coyote piss and sprinkled that on the lawn.It was sort of effective. It burned up my lawn. Being almost straight urea, it would. Still, I could see the crap more clearly, as there was hardly any lawn growth to hide it under. Having recovered my lawn after some watering and a few generous late summer/early fall rain storms, I'm still at a loss for how to get these cats to stop crapping in my yard.

I'm open to solutions.

All solutions are welcome, with the exception of:
a) buying a big, slobbery dog
b) buying and using a firearm
c) poisoning them.

(The last is absolutely off the table, so don't even think about suggesting it. I'm looking for humane ways to keep these cats off my property. Barring something humane, I'll call the ASPCA. Although, maybe I'll borrow my parents' small, slobbery dachshund and let him piddle all over the yard. Maybe that'll work...)

Day 20: We Interrupt This Program...

I got up this morning, inspired to write about the lost art of letter writing. Turned on my computer, flexed my fingers, put on my contemplative face, dug down for my deepest thoughts, took a long, soulful breath, and then... I looked out the window.

Fall is in its middle age. The brisk winds that precede winter, like honor guards precede high school bands in home town parades, have long blown through and stripped the trees of their fiery, vibrant foliage. Outside, the line between sunrise and gray sky paints a leading edge that is harsh, then melts as the morning sun tips over the horizon.

And on the limbs of the tree outside my office window are two squirrels. Getting it on.

At this stage, I could go in so many directions. I could take the Marty Stouffer's Wild America approach (except that this is Urban America.)

"In the waning days of fall, the North American Grey Squirrel can be seen frolicking in its urban habitat in search of nuts and delectable bits of food that will store well over the long, cold winter. Before hibernating in their residential tree condo, they will prepare for next year's offspring by mating...."

Or, we could go National Geographic here.

"The grey squirrel, a descendant of Australchipamunkeus, has evolved over millions of years to develop the means to breed while clinging to tree limbs from heights of more than 50 feet. Unlike their early ancestors, who crept erect out of the primordial goo, today's modern squirrel is a rodent equipped to deal with the harshest conditions while remaining a beloved, comical sprite...."

Or, we could do Reader's Digest.

"The squirrel: its grayness blending into the onset of winter's gray is the ideal friend to urban and suburban dwellers alike. As winter creeps into shades of gray and brown and muck, the squirrel scampers about as a beacon that spring will again arrive with renewal and hope." (Condensed from The Squirrel: Its Grayness and Ours, by Ross Geller, Ph.D.)...

Seriously, though, folks. I know some people are totally wigged out by squirrels and think of them as nothing more than "urban rats" or "rodents with bushy tails." But I find them adorable.

Watching these two get frisky is more fun that you'd think.

They're dancing, engaging in gentle, but outspoken fisticuffs. He, saying, "I want you, mon chere. I will have you. You will be the mother of my babies. Come to me, mi amor..." She, saying, "You horny bastard! Stand back. You'll get yours when I feel good and ready. Watch it, or I might get a headache..."

They circle and dive around the limbs. He, trying to catch her. She, trying to outrun him. He's in hot pursuit, she's in a cold run.

This scene has been playing out over and over again for the last thirty minutes...

Eventually, he grabs her and, since this is a family-friendly website, we'll now queue the pretty music and you can use your vivid, starved imaginations for a few minutes.

Oh, wait. Yep. I think he's scored. She's leaving in a huff with occasional stops to groom herself. He's... wait... yep, he just leaned back in the crook of the limb and lit a cigarette.

Day 18: Dessert

Tomorrow, I'm having friends over for dinner.My grad school advisor, Don Compier, is in town for the American Academy of Religion conference. He's bringing a couple of his friends and I've invited a few friends. All told, there will be nine of us (possibly 10), but I digress.... I'm making beef stroganoff (seemed like a good thing to make on a cold, fall afternoon.) The conundrum, however, is dessert.

I have a Cheesecake Factory Original cheesecake in my fridge. I was going to make a raspberry-pinot noir reduction to go over it. My friend Rio Grande Valley Girl once said of my reduction, "This is better than sex." That's option 1.

Then I started thinking perhaps I'd make oatmeal cake instead. It's a recipe my mother made when I was a kid (and still makes) that is so incredibly yummy.

It involves oatmeal, coconut, walnuts and a topping made with lots of butter, brown sugar, more coconut and more walnuts. (I'm salivating just thinking about it.) When I make it, I usually "go European" and serve it with a dollop of fresh whipped cream on the side. That's option 2.

Decisions, decisions....

I can't decide....

Maybe I'll just make two desserts and give people options....

Day 6: Third Most Popular Outgoing Link

Today, my entry on why IKEA sucks is the third most popular outgoing link on DC Blogs (http://www.dcblogs.com.)

Thank you! Thank you, very much! (And thanks for giving me my Day 5 material.)

Day 3: Why IKEA Sucks

Everyone who knows me, knows that IKEA drives me insane.

The house I live in was a flipper. Meaning, the guy who owned it before I bought it, bought it from a nice family that had owned the place for more than 50 years. Thus, when he bought it, it was long ago paid for, so he got it for a scream. It was also old and in need of some love. He gave it that love and totally renovated. The result: a basement garage became a family room with a 3/4 bath and a laundry space, the main floor became one large room instead of three tiny rooms, and the upstairs got a brand new bathroom complete with a bathtub in a closet.

In renovating the kitchen, Tom decided to go with IKEA cabinetry. All fine and dandy. Their stuff looks nice on the outside and is practical. Sure, it's not custom cabinetry, but then if I was flipping a house, I wouldn't go custom either. Having said that, though, Tom didn't give a ton of thought to functional usage. As a result, I have two cabinets that are 15" wide and 24" deep. What this means is, you can't see where stuff is and when you dig it out, you don't want to put it back because it involves pulling everything out and restocking the cabinet. Not fun.

So, yesterday, I ventured to IKEA to purchase the sliding shelf systems they have for just such cupboards. And that's where my insanity begins.

Having been to IKEA before, I was hoping to thwart the usual system of labyrinths, mazes, and circular disarray by finding what I needed in their catalog. So, I went to Returns & Exchanges, which is where the catalogs reside. I'm thumbing through, trying to find my part, when an IKEA associate comes up and in her Maryland drawl says, "May I help you?" I explain the part I need (because I know what I need) and she tells me I'll have to go upstairs to the Kitchen Department. This is exactly what I DON'T want to do.

When it becomes apparent that there is no other way, though, I stalk off to the Kitchen Department. This being IKEA, I can't just look down a long aisle, find the one marked "Kitchen" and walk right to it. That would make sense. Oh no, no, no. This is IKEA; the Mecca of Consumerism for Yuppies and Students (and cheap bastards who flip houses and don't want to spend a lot.)

I trudge half a football field to the escalators that only go one way: UP. Upon disembarking, I find myself standing right in front of EXACTLY what I need. I'm so excited, I whisper a little prayer, "Please IKEA God, let there be a catalog number with this thing that is EXACTLY what I need and let this be painless. Amen." But no. There is no identifying tag or number or even part name that I can write down and then ask an IKEA associate to look up nor is it a part I can simply pick up from the self-service warehouse. And, at this stage, there isn't an IKEA associate any where. Following the arrows, I go to the Kitchen Department and am finally helped by a Kitchen Specialist.

I get the parts ordered that I need and pay for them right there, thus saving me time standing in line at the registers. I'm thinking, "Okay, this is positive. I'll be able to walk through the store," (which alone takes 10 minutes or more because they send you everywhere and nowhere to get to your final destination) "and my stuff will be ready to pick up when I get downstairs" You'd think, right?

Wrong.

I spend 15 minutes navigating the unholy labyrinth of IKEA and arrive at pick-up expecting to see my number--757--on the electronic board indicating my measly order is ready. Alas, it is not.

In the end, I had to wait another 20 minutes for them to bring me my stuff. Like I have 20 minutes to wait?! And even if I did, I don't want to spend those 20 minutes in an IKEA.

And that, ladies and gents, is why IKEA sucks.

Knock on My Door, You Little Hooligans!

It's 7:15 Everyone Else's Time (EET)/8:15 My Time (MT) and so far, I've only had three trick-or-treaters. Count 'em. Three. 1, 2, 3...

Where are all the kids, dammit! They're a dime a dozen around here any other day of the week, but on the one night of the year, when I have crappy candy to hand out, they're no where to be seen.

Come out, come out, wherever you are.

Being of the unemployed, I am loath (did I get that right, JaneAnne?) to be stuck with bad candy that I can't pawn off on my co-workers tomorrow morning. Please, children of the neighborhood, come and knock on my door. Puhleeeeeease....


UPDATE: 7:30 EET/8:30 MT: Just had the cutest little princess knock at the door. She was adorable. Couldn't have been more than two. Come on, kids. If the two-year-olds can do it, so can you.

P.S. It's a balmy 64 degrees out. (Unlike the 25 degrees in Sister Mary Lisa's home state of Montana.)


UPDATE: 8:40 EET/9:40 MT: Okay, it's picked up a little. Still, the volume's been a little low and the kids are cleaning up here. I'm handing out HANDFULS of goodies.

In the meantime, I'm listening to old radio shows (Jack Benny right now) and working on a new format for my resume.


UPDATE: 9:20 EET/10:20 MT: It's been 40 minutes since that last group of TOT'ers. At 10:00 EET, the citywide curfew for kids under 16 kicks in and it's a school night. I have a feeling that's it for the night. I still have half a bag of crappy candy. As Charlie Brown would say, "Oh, drat!"


SOME OBSERVATIONS ON HALLOWEEN IN D.C.

Having grown up in Utah where Halloween is, ironically, a BIG deal, I find Halloween a bit blah around here. Perhaps if I lived out in the suburbs of Fairfax or Montgomery Counties it would be different. In fact, I think if I even lived over the border in Tacoma Park or Silver Spring, MD, it would be different. But I don't. I live in the District.

Still, I keep wondering, where are all the kids?!

Then I have to remind myself that my expectations are colored by the geographical and religious demographic of my upbringing and what you end up with is a state where the neighborhoods are very familiar and close knit and the families are, on average, large (four kids or more each.) The result: hoards and hoards of kids out trick-or-treating from approximately 5:00 until around 9:00. (I seem to recall that the Duckwitz's were some of the first kids out on Halloween. I think that was because their parents were much stricter about bedtime than the rest of us. We had strict bedtimes, too, but Halloween was one of the few nights a year where we were allowed to be up past our normal hour of repose.)

I suppose I should just be grateful that I'm living in a city and a neighborhood where parents feel safe enough bringing their kids out for an evening of trick-or-treating.

Happy Halloween, everyone!

Skype, Vonage, FiOS

So, I'm thinking of getting Skype.

My friend, Dr. Lala, at an unamed agency, claims it is the way to go and if I got Skype, I could talk to her and my friends, Swizzies, for free.

I'm usually a little behind the times when it comes to embracing technology (who needs all the bells and whistles on a new cell phone, when the old one still works just fine, thank you very much?), but I'm told this is the way to go.

Have any of you used Skype or Vonage or FiOS? Which would you recommend and why?

The technologically challenged want to know....

Spring Forward, Fall Back

This is an official announcement to all you folk out there who are about to set your clocks back an hour tonight in the semi-annual ritual known as "Daylight Saving Time."

This year, I am not going to participate. I will not be setting my clocks back. Not now. Not at 2:00 a.m. Not tomorrow morning. My clocks are staying right at the time they're on, right now. And you can't convince me that DST saves energy. And we're no longer an agrarian society, so we don't need that supposed "extra" hour of daylight. And even though we're at war, we don't need it for the war effort either.

So, I'm not complying. Just wanted to warn you. When you call me and say, "Let's get together for lunch; meet me at noon," I'll be there, but it will be 1:00 my time.

I'm joining Hawaii, Arizona, and Indiana this year in officially renouncing DST.

There. Now that that's done, I'm going go change the batteries in all my smoke detectors. (I may be eccentric, but I'm not stupid.)

Snarky in My Old Age

I'm gettin' snarky in my old age.

As further evidence that I've moved from a truly urban, downtown setting to a semi-urban, outskirts-of-the-District setting, I'm listening to neighbors near and far on my street and the surrounding streets blow off fireworks. (Please note: it's 11:15 PM as I write this.)

Now don't get me wrong. I love fireworks. My mother is a recovering pyrotech who would, when she would go home to Green River, stop at the firework stores that dot the I-80 corridor in the Equality State and stock up on all kinds of gizmos and light shows that were loud and colorful. I look forward to the fireworks on the National Mall on July 4th every year. And I'm known to enjoy the occasional sparkler or two.

But fireworks in urban settings are unsettling. And, I hate to be the party pooper, but they ought to be outlawed. In a city that has a past history of rampant, violent crime involving guns and in a portion of the city that borders Prince Georges County, where gun-related crimes are on the rise, the sound of fireworks make me feel like I'm living in downtown Baghdad.

And speaking of Baghdad, how about the men and women of our armed forces who are recuperating mere blocks away at Walter Reed Army Hospital? No doubt a lot of those kids are breaking into cold sweats at the sound of the "rocket's red glare."

Snarky. I'm gettin' snarky.

Continuing in the vein of snarkiness--yesterday, I had a talk yet again with the neighbor kids who continue to think my side yard is their personal thoroughfare and who continually traverse between the alley and the street via my property. I'm afraid I'm going to have to buy a fence. Whatever happened to respect and keeping off other people's property unless you're invited onto it?

Ah, urban dwelling.

But wait... there's more... I realize the difference between where I dwell urbanely now vs. where I dwelt urbanely previously. Now, I live in a neighborhood with stable, long-residing families. Before, I lived in a neighborhood with transient, short-term dwellers. Mostly young, unfettered folk.

I still like where I live and have no regrets about buying up here, but I'm definitely beginning to see the differences between urban vs. semi-urban vs. suburban vs. rural.

Snarky.... Snark, snark, snark....

Gutters, Part III (Or, I Believe Al Gore)

In defense of my Dad and the fact that he took time out of his Saturday to come and fix my gutters, let me say that even if Dad had gold-leafed my gutters, I don't think they would have held back the rain last night.

The volume was so heavy, I think gutters everywhere were overwhelmed and mine were no exception. (I feel sorry for the house at the end of the alley; I'm sure it's basement was flooded. At one point, I think we could have gone white water kayaking down my alley, that's how deep and swift the water was running.)

Water poured over repeatedly and heavily as the storm moved through in wave after wave of assaults that rarely saw a lull.

The battery of rain--can you even call it rain? Rain is gentle, soothing. This was unlike anything I've ever experienced and rain seems too benign a word--finally ended at 4:00 a.m., having begun more than seven hours earlier.

According to forecasters, we're going to continue to have storms like this through the remainder of the week.

Meanwhile, in the midwest, a drought is setting in and in California and other parts of the west, dry conditions are sparking wildfires earlier and hotter than normal.

...

I know there are folks out there who think global warming and green house gas emissions are hooey. Many of these same folks think signing the Kyoto Agreement will hurt American business. And I know there are a lot of folks who think Al Gore is scarier than George W. Bush.

But I believe Al Gore. And I believe him when he says that scientists predict, if we don't do something about how we treat and care for the earth in the next 10 years, there will be no turning back.

...

The Day After Tomorrow may seem like a campy, fantastical film with a campy, fantastical doom's day scenario that seems as if it couldn't possibly happen, but I'm starting to wonder.


Graphic courtesy of The Weather Channel.

Gutters, Part II and W&G

'Twas a dark and stormy morning...

It rained a wee yesterday morning and to my horror, the gutter didn't do it's job. Seems the guys leaned the ladder against the gutter on Friday when they were repairing the traps and popped the seam holding the two pieces of gutter together. The result: water flowing out of the seam and not out of the down spout.

So, having thrown $170 down the drain, as it were, I decided to call Dad.

Dad came with ladder and tools and polyurethane caulk.

It rained this morning in semi-biblical proportions and I'm pleased to report, the seam seems to be holding and the down spout is carrying away almost all of the water. Dad's skills worked. Niagara Falls, Jr. has been slowed significantly.

I have no water in my office. (So far...)

I have no water in my kitchen. (So far...)

I have water in the downspout, where the water belongs. (Mostly...)

Thanks, Dad! (It's vastly better than it was. Note to Dad: 161.25"...)

...

Went to my sister's yesterday evening for some "Sista Tiiiime." We went to Borders. Whilst we were there, it started to rain in beyond-Biblical proportions.

Dashing through the rain
in my four-wheeled Honda truck,
o'er the hills we drove,
trying hard to not be ducks....

We picked up Chinese food and went back to her place to watch DVDs.

I'd lent her Wallace & Gromit: Curse of the Were-Rabbit months ago, but she had yet to watch it. So, I popped it in the DVD player and off we went on a veg-stealing, cheese-eating, mind-o-matic-melding, hare-raising adventure.

If you haven't seen this film, you must. It's hilarious! Five stars. Ralph Fiennes is great as the creepy guy. (He does creepy so well and you still come away loving him and thinking he's adorable and dashing.) Helena Bonham Carter is typical as the English dowager aristocrat. But the stars of the show are Gromit, the wonder dog, and Hutch, the bunny who ends up with Wallace's brain after one of Wallace's harebrained experiments goes awry.

My sister laugh her little bunny cottontail off, which was a relief, because at the outset she confessed that, despite being a serious Anglophile, she didn't "get Wallace and Gromit." I think she's been converted and she "gets it."

Pass the smoked gouda, please...


Photos courtesy of Aardman Animation.

Can of Worms

Be forewarned: I think I'm opening a can of worms here.

I'm going to try to tread as delicately as possible and will hope that you, dear reader, will give me the benefit of the doubt here.

Here's the deal: I just bought a house in the District in a neighbor that was described by the seller as "quiet." I visited the home and neighborhood four times before putting in an offer and a lot of what I based my decision on was the fact that the neighborhood was, by all appearances, quiet.

I'd been living down in the U Street Corridor previously and I was very excited about moving into a more "residential" type neighborhood. I knew I'd be in the minority when I moved to the city, in general, and my current neighborhood, in particular, and I'm fine with that. I've lived in a variety of places in my short life, including the heart of metropolitan Vienna, Austria, more than 15 years ago. As recently as four years ago, I lived in the suburbs of the Bay Area, went to school in Berkeley, and worked in San Francisco proper. I say this to point out that it's not like I've moved to the city from the country.

Here's what I'm trying to understand: why are so many African-Americans so LOUD?

Whether it's 10:30 on a Wednesday night (not that Wednesday is any more or less unique than any other day of the week. What I'm about to describe goes on on most nights of the week) or 11:30 on a Saturday morning, I've just had to close my windows yet again because my supposedly quiet neighborhood is anything but. Last night, I spent 20 minutes listening to a small child wailing at the top of his/her lungs while his/her mother yelled at him/her to shut up. Why wasn't this child in bed already? On top of that, the same woman was carrying on a 'conversation' with her neighbor, who was also yelling.

Across the street, there is one house where a battalion of kids come in and out, shouting at each other and playing their music while they bump and grind until well after midnight.

And now, someone, somewhere in the immediate vicinity is playing their hip-hop / reggae / rap music loud enough for all of us to enjoy it--whether we want to or not.

The irony is, I moved from a high-traffic area to a "residential" neighborhood and it's louder up here than it was downtown. Go figure.

Why is this?

My neighbor a few doors down says it's "bad parenting" in the case of the folks across the street and I guess there's some credence to that. But night after night after night I fight the urge to stick my head out the window and yell, "Could you shut the f*** up! It's after 10:00 and people are trying to relax/sleep/enjoy the temperate weather/whatever over here." I'm afraid to, though, because I'm the new kid on the block and I don't want to piss off folks who have been living here for decades.

I love my new house and the vast majority of my new neighbors, who have been nothing but warm and welcoming, but I'm starting to wonder what I was thinking... If I wanted this kind of noise, I would have moved to Manhattan or L.A.

What are the rules for decency and common, neighborly courtesy in the African-American community? If you can help me understand why shouting down one another is an acceptable form of behavior and communication for hours on end in the evening or why playing music loudly for all the world to hear while the rest of us--black, white, hispanic--are trying to enjoy quietness in our homes and neighborhoods, I'll make more of an effort to suck it up.

Until then, either 311 could end up being my new best friend or I'm breaking out my CD of Mozart's Requiem Mass for the Dead. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

On Gutters and Grocery Stores

Owning a home comes with all kinds of treats. Some good and others, not so good. And, at some point in your home ownership, two things happen. First, you discover your house's Achille's hell (or heel, whichever you prefer.)

In the case of my humble abode, it's the fourteen feet of gutters on the back of the house. Seems they weren't properly cleaned last fall. Even worse, the gutter traps were completely missing, which means stuff accumulates and causes the water to back up.

We've had monsoon weather the last week or so, with more in the forecast, and the result has been water backing up under the eaves, traveling down the walls, and coming out in the mouldings around the windows in the kitchen and the office. Needless to say, I am not a happy camper.

...

I seem to have a history of living in places with water problems, though.

In my apartment in Walnut Creek, California, years ago, I had a ceiling that leaked so badly, I eventually had to construct a water catch and basin to capture the water and keep it off my desk and computer. I also had to enlist a lawyer to finally get the management company and the property manager off their sorry asses and actually fix the problem before the onset of that year's El Nino winter.

At my last apartment here in D.C., there was a water problem that resulted in sopping wet carpets in my dining room. Eventually, we cut a huge hole in the wall in the dining room in an attempt to isolate the problem. Somehow, the landlady managed to finally cork the dike and all was dry. (And then there was the time her handyman forgot to drain the pipes upstairs while he was doing plumbing work and I came home to find my kitchen cupboards and counters soak in murky water. Needless to say, on that one, I came unhinged.)

And now, it's gutters and backed up water. Yeah.

I had to pay a guy $170 today to rent a 40' ladder from Home Depot, climb up on the roof, clean out the gutters, and install new gutter traps. Sounds expensive, but that was cheap compared with the guy who told me it would cost $850 to replace the gutters and flashing. I don't think so.

And this leads me to the second treat: when stuff like this happens, there's no one to call but me. Home ownership brings with it the deer-in-the-headlights, stunning realization that, oh, hey, I'm the one you call when things break or need to be fixed. There is no landlady or property manager. I am the landlady and property manager. I am the landlady and property manager.

The result: I spent the entire day occupied with all things gutter, when I could have been editing tobacco research. Economically speaking, today was bit of a wash.

...

On a brighter note: I found a new grocery store this evening!

When you live in a semi-urban setting (i.e. in the city, but just over the border from the suburbs), your available grocery store choices can be abysmal. There's a Safeway not three blocks from my house, but it's more like a Slumway. There's another Safeway about two miles from my house, but it isn't much better. Tonight, I discovered a Giant Food hidden off the beaten track at Colesville Road and East-West Highway!

And I am hoppy, hoppy, hoppy, as my late grandfather would say!

At last, no more second mortgages on the house to shop at Whole Foods. No more long treks to the Giant on Park Road. No more wistful and wishful longing for a decent grocery store. One is here and it is a Giant! I "have a Giant on my side!"

I knew that one day all those years of working for them would finally pay off! Woo hoo!

(It's the little things in life that make me happy, if you haven't figured that out already.)


Photo of Niagara Falls courtesy of Delargy.com. Graphic logo courtesy of Giant Food.

This 'n That

Last week's meeting of the Great Women's Dinner Group was a fabulous success. Dr. Maureen brought her 4 month old, Maggie, and she was the star of the evening. I discovered that nine people will fit comfortably around my new dining room table. Everyone loved the house and thought it was a wise purchase.

We didn't get in a lot of discussion about To Kill a Mockingbird, which was unfortunate. The food was good, though. I chose to fry chicken and discovered that my new stove doesn't get hot enough to heat the oil to a temperature that will give the chicken the proper scald it needs. I may have to look into getting a gas unit for things like frying.

Next meeting's book is The Professor and the Madman, by Simon Winchester. I think we're going to be out at Dr. Maureen's on the Eastern Shore in Maryland. Stay tuned...

...

Found out yesterday that my cousin's father-in-law died in a motorcycle accident just west of the Caldecott Tunnel (Oakland, California) last week. He was only 57. Michael's wife, Aimee, is a delightful woman. I mourn tonight for her, her four brothers, and their mother as they mourn their loss. Though I only met him two or three times, Ron Claverie was a kind, gentle man.

...

Even though I only hear in one ear--which means I don't hear in stereo--and I'm about three years behind the trend, I've discovered the beauty of Apple's iPod technology. (My thanks to my sister, Janeen, for lending me her iPod for a "test drive".) This puppy makes Sony's original Walkman seem like archaic technology, and it was merely 20 years ago that everyone had one of those.

What astonishes me most is the sound quality that comes out of those rinky-dink little ear buds. And the amount of data you can store on your 'Pod is something else. The iPod I'm borrowing has 10 GB and I've only used up 4.27 GB and counting ( = 1,139 songs, 3.7 days worth of music listening pleasure.)

...

It's an odd thing about job searches. I have days--or, more like moments--where I get really, really psyched about finding a new job. I get online and search Monster and Indeed and CraigsList. I find all kinds of work I know I'm more than qualified for.

Then I sit down to personalize the ol' resume and write a cover letter and I get stalled.

I hadn't realized what a bummer it can be to job search, particularly when you weren't in job search mode and you've been laid off under--how shall I say it?--less than just circumstances. More than that, though, I'm gun shy about working in D.C. again.

Maybe it's a sign I'm supposed to look elsewhere...

Maybe I need to hire a headhunter...

Maybe I just need to freelance for a while and totally avoid coupling work with office politics...

...

I haven't been keeping up on the news lately. That is to say, I don't watch t.v. as much as I used to. And I can't say I miss it that much. The house has cable, but I seem not to watch as frequently as I have in the past.

Could it be because it's summer and summer programming stinks? Or could it be because there's simply nothing on worth channel surfing for?

See, that's the part about t.v. that makes me avoid it. There are some good shows on, but I waste more time channel surfing and less time watching semi-worthwhile t.v. than it's really worth.

Now, I just Netflix everything.

...

So, there you have it. Some random thoughts on Sunday afternoon as I edit tobacoo research and load up my loaner iPod.

Oh, and by the way, happy birthday to my long-lost friend and former pen pal, Gillian Firth Steedman. One of these days I'll get off my sorry ass and look you up again.

Birthday Gifts ala Home Ownership

When you buy a new home, you begin to receive gifts for birthdays and Christmas specific to caring for said abode.

Yesterday, my parents gave me a Weed Eater lawn mower and mulcher for my birthday! (See picture to the left.)

You're probably saying, "A lawn mower? What kind of gift is that?!"

Actually, I'm thrilled with the gift. Even though my yard is the size of a postage stamp, it's so much nicer to care for with a mower than with a weed whacker.

I can't wait to see what I get for Christmas! Thanks, Mom and Dad! (Oh, and a special thanks to Dad for actually mowing and trimming my lawn yesterday.)

(Now if I can just find a way to make the feral cats in the neighborhood stop crapping in my grass, I'll be ecstatic.)