TP, or not TP

Transcript of a phone conversation between Joe and I:

Him: “How’s it going?”
Me: “Okay. Oh, you know what I had this morning?”
Him: “What?”
Me: “Not toilet paper!”
Him: [hysterical laughing]

If I were a slightly more evil person, I would have taken every scrap of paper product out of the house with me this morning. I certainly considered it.

But I’m reasonable. Instead, I informed him, once his hysteria died down, that I am finally ordering a toilet paper roll holder.

My turn to laugh.

summer days, drifting away

I haven’t posted much lately because there’s nothing to post. The day I never thought would come is approaching: Phase I is winding down.

Except for the requisite weeding, the yard is pretty much done for this year. Much to the relief of our garbage men, I’m sure.

I’m still longing for my closet, but because we have zero storage space (even the shed is full now), we need to get all the sanding and staining done at one shot, and that means a few days of sunny weather and no plans.

I can’t convince Joe to buy anything right now, and don’t want to spend my energy trying. It appears I’m going to need it later; the other day he offhandedly remarked that he couldn’t see us buying any new furniture until Phase II.

The rest is just more unpacking and organizing minutia. So I guess I could relax and enjoy the rest of the summer.

But I won’t, not quite.

Because every time I try vacuum in the living room and remember we have only one working outlet there, or haul buckets out front to water the plants because we don’t have a hose bib there, or see kitty litter all over the kitchen floor because we can’t keep the box in the garage until we punch a door in the adjacent living room wall, I think: I can’t wait for Phase II.

And then I shudder.

lavendar & larkspur

I know nothing about gardening. Joe knows even less (the other night he complained that our Roses of Sharon bushes, above, were dying; I had to inform him that the blooms curl up at night).

But this lovely lady knows more than enough for us both, writes fantastically, and finally started her own blog. Check it out: Lavendar & Larkspur.

I love my freaking neighbors

I was pulling the recycling can in this morning when my neighbor, Helen, called me over. My first thought was, Oh, no, here it comes.

She has been a wonderful sport so far about all the sanding, hammering, and paint fumes, but since we planted grass seed, we’ve had the sprinkler going nonstop on the side of the house adjacent to hers,and I figured she was sick of us soaking her fence.

So I was totally unprepared when she handed me this:

It’s a homemade (!) ice-cream cake. A welcome-to-the-neighborhood cake. She said that she’s been meaning to give it to us for a while now, but of course we didn’t move in for over a year after we officially became neighbors.

I love it. This is totally something my own grandmother would have done, right down to the card with angels all over it. And old ladies can bake–the cake, which is vanilla and almond and some kind of orangey marmalade, is amazing.

Helen, your lawn will never need mowing and your driveway will never need shoveling. Not as long as we’re next door. Thanks, neighbor!

trash talk

Proof that I was not exaggerating about our yard waste: We actually got a citation from our trash collectors. I didn’t know that was even possible.

Now, I can understand about the branches. We had already filled all five cans so Joe just laid them on top, not cut up. We’ve done that before with no problem, but this time he put out the equivalent of an entire yew. So fine, Mr. Trashman.

What I can’t believe is the assertion that one of our trash cans weighs 200 pounds. I highly doubt it weighs that much, and if they picked it up to get it on a scale, why not just go the distance and empty it into the truck? For that matter, it couldn’t be much harder to lift the pile of branches into the truck than it was to pick them up and lay them back on our grass. And then write this citation.

But I guess if they didn’t, we’d never learn our lesson and go right on wantonly flaunting the rules of curbside collection.

it’s a jungle out here

No fun pictures or stories this weekend. All I can say is I can’t freakin’ believe how much yard work it’s possible to have. Seriously, we only have three-quarters of an acre and I fill four34-gallon trash cans with yard waste every single week. Our garbage men have got to think we import the stuff.

And unlike the mulch, what we accomplished is barely visible to the naked eye. We planted grass seed. (Joe and I have a $100 bet on whether it will grow, and I have a side bet that he welches like grape juice and doesn’t pay up when I win). And we trimmed trees. Mostly, it looks the same.

Spending the entirety of a gorgeous weekend that way makes me think more seriously of my brother’s plan when we were growing up and he, the oldest, was charged with mowing the grass. He wanted to pave the entire yard.

But I guess we’ll hold off on that this year.

mulch ado, part 2

The weather held out, so we decided to tackle the back yard. We ordered too much mulch, and Joe was set on using it to cover the bed of ivy we spent most of this spring ripping out. Thanks to the rain, it all grew back—and then some. Luckily, common sense prevailed and Joe rented a rototiller. I have only two words for this machine: Worth it. Joe also had two words: Whoo hoo.

But for all its virtues, the rototiller didn’t pick up the weeds and roots—Joe says there is a model that does, but it wouldn’t fit in his truck—so I did the unthinkable. I ordered Izabelle to help us. By this point, my back was killing me, and I figured her 10-year-old spine could handle some stooping and scooping.

In retrospect, I’m not sure it was worth the complaining–she told me she was “calling in sick” about every 5 minutes. But after a full day of work, our backyard looks significantly better:

Maybe now our lavender bushes will catch up to the mammoth azaela.

The former ivy and weed breeding ground. Oh, and we finally planted our magnolia there at the end. Not that we have a shortage of trees or anything.

We used most of the topsoil to even out the grade of this side of the house. Now we need to plant grass seed and we’ll have a nice path to the front between the two mulch beds.A very sweaty job, but so satisfying to see results.

mulch ado about nothing

For our July 4th holiday, Joe and I decided to indulge in that most all-American of pastimes: yard work. We just about gave up since monsoon season hit southeastern PA (or so I assumed from all the rain we got in June).

I ordered mulch for Thursday evening, but was thwarted by thunderstorms. It was rescheduled for Friday morning, but my hopes of getting an early start were already fading. I was sure they’d pull a cable guy and not show up until after 1.

So I was pleasantly surprised to hear the truck pull up at 8:30 a.m. I wasn’t dressed, so I made Joe sign for the delivery. My first mistake. This is what they dumped on our driveway:

Great—except it’s not what we ordered. It’s playground mulch, and we’d ordered dyed black (who knew mulch was so diverse?). The company was very nice, admitted their mistake and said they’d be back to clean up. Boo, meanwhile,  was ecstatic, thinking we’d just given her with the world’s largest litterbox:

We spent the next two hours shooing her away from it until guys with shovels came to scoop it all back up. By the time the real stuff got delivered, along with our topsoil, it was afternoon before we got to work—like I figured. By the end of the day we had the front bed done:

And only this much dirt left to move out of our driveway:

Piece of cake.

up

Joe doesn’t like my first choice for a ceiling light in the office:

He actually preferred my second option, which I think is more modern. Maybe my taste is finally rubbing off on him?

Now, usually, when he vetos something, I get upset, especially if it’s for my office, the room where I supposedly have free reign with the decor. But knowing I could overrule him made me more willing to see what else is out there. And that can be a good thing. Here’s what I found–vote for your favorite.

The frontrunner:

A cool industrial look:

A wildly expensive but cool modern take on a topographic map:

I like how this one has a little bit of a feminine edge:

there’s one on every block

So, remember how I was worried about alienating the neighbors? I can stop now. Yep, it turns out that we couldn’t possibly outdo the previous owners.

I can’t stress enough how much I love my neighbors. Joe and I fell in love with this neighborhood even before the house, and it still may be the bigger selling point. It’s an older, turning-over development with an equal split of retirees, who we love because they’re quiet, and young families, who we love because they have kids Izabelle’s age. People take care of their lawns, pick up after their dogs, and there’s a Rita’s water ice and a library within biking distance—what’s not to love?

Of course, I also love a good crazy-neighbor story. We had several on the block where I grew up, including a squatter who posed as a professional athlete and stole people’s water during the day, and a guy who had a shrine to Hilary Clinton in his house (discovered when he put his house on the market after his divorce).

Now I can proudly boast that our house has a progeny almost as crazy. Our lovely octogenarian neighbor spilled the beans the other day during a chat. We bought the house from the son of an elderly woman who had passed away, and he seemed nice enough (his realtor is a story for another day). But his father was apparently the neighborhood nut.

For starters, the guy used to sit on his roof during Halloween and spray trick-or-treaters with a hose. At least until they got smart and took his ladder away. He tossed logs into our neighbor’s pool, even as he posted signs on his property about being a good neighbor. He cut her telephone wires on several occasions, and spray-painted her car. Twice.

Now, Joe always says there’s two sides to every story and that’s true, but the spray-painting actually ended up in court, with multiple defendants. From the sound of it, the guy was going down the block like a teenage graffiti artist.

Hearing these stories, my eyes just kept getting wider and wider. My neighbor, somehow, holds no grudge against the guy, who she feels was mentally ill. And I guess I can thank him. Even with our power tools and exhibitionist lack of curtains, we still seem like the Brady Bunch by comparison.

What’s your best rotten neighbor story?