9 posts tagged “house”
Is there something more ironic than ALL of the smoke alarms in your house suddenly going off at once while you’re on the phone with your insurance company?
Tonight, as the Guv talked over our auto insurance policy with our home insurer, all hell broke loose. The dryer was running, I was cooking… but there was no smoke, no fire: just every last alarm in the house squawking, loudly, out of nowhere.
To the Guv, that didn’t matter; the alarms sounded a call to action. He threw the phone at me, said, “Talk to this guy. Put him on hold…” (I know: WTF?) as he ran around the house like a chicken with its head cut off, opening cabinets for God knows what reason.
“M’am?” the agent asked.
“Yes?” I replied.
“Is everything okay?” he asked.
“Yes, all is well,” I replied.
“Is that a smoke detector?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered, “Actually, it’s all of them. They’re all going off. But no worries – nothing’s on fire.”
“Don’t you think that you should leave the house until you’re, umm, sure?” he pressed.
“Thanks for your concern. Seriously, nothing’s on fire. Our alarms are just short-circuiting or something,” I calmly replied. “I think my husband will be back on the phone with you in just a second. He just has to find the switch to flip, or whatever it is, to shut the thing off.” (A couple of minutes pass.)
“M’am, I think you should exit the premises,” he suggested. I could hear him sweating on the phone. “Just to be safe.”
I paused. I didn’t want to get into a fight with our home insurance agent over the safety of our home. But there was really no reason to leave, save the deafening beeping all over the house.
“M’am, are you there?” he pressed. “M’am, GET OUT OF THE HOUSE.”
“Alright, alright,” I acquiesced. “Is there a number where we can call you back?” I think I heard a thud as his head hit the desk. Clearly, he thought he had a total idiot on the phone.
“M’am, just call the same number. I’ll save the file. Now go,” he whispered.
“You have a good night,” I spoke into dead air.
No sooner had I disconnected than the Guv ran up to me, hands and arms waving in the air. “Get the kids out of the house!” he cried. “And where are the fire extinguishers? I think I smell smoke!”
Ahh, that’s what he’d been looking for: fire extinguishers. Then it hit me: WHY THE HELL IS HE LOOKING FOR FIRE EXTINGUISHERS???
He read my mind. “CALL 911!” And then he started running all over the house again, sweating, to the attic, to the crawl space, to the garage. I stopped him long enough to ask him if he thought something’s on fire. “I don’t know!” was his response. So, I dialed.
“What is the address of the emergency?” the dispatcher asked. I responded with the address. “What’s the emergency?” she asked.
“The fire alarms are going off,” I told her. “All of them.”
“Is there a fire?” she asked. “Smoke?”
“Not that we can tell,” I answered, suppressing the urge to add “but my husband’s freaking out.” Instead, I offered, “We just moved into the house a couple of months ago, so we’re not sure how the fire alarms work. There’s no central system, but they all must be connected, but we can’t figure out how to shut them off.”
“Okay, I can send some guys out,” she offered. And I braced myself for the sirens and the lights. I rang the neighbor’s doorbell to warn them. They didn’t answer, and they were very clearly home. (Note to those elderly neighbors: You’re old, and YOU may need ME some time. So ANSWER YOUR FREAKIN’ DOOR when I knock on it. Especially when you hear an alarm going off. I’ll be following up with them tomorrow with that explicit suggestion.) Since my neighbors didn’t give a crap, I sat in the car with the kids to wait. Fortunately, the truck pulled up with no lights, no sirens. Three guys ambled out. They read the situation right away.
“Is there a central panel for the alarm?” the guy asked.
“No,” we replied.
“No panel? Nothing with buttons, an off switch?”
“Seriously, dude, we don’t know how to shut this thing off,” I offered. “That’s why we called you. Actually, that’s part of the reason. I’m also freaked out a little because our dryer vents to the attic, and the vent fan’s been getting louder and louder, and I just want to make sure that there is no real fire,” I added. “So, you know, we want the alarm off, but we also want to make sure that there’s no reason it’s going off.” I felt like I should follow that up with, “Duh.”
They were very, very nice, these firemen. They didn’t laugh at us at all. They took our situation seriously, and they checked out the whole place – attic, crawlspace, furnace closet… And they showed us that if we disable three linked smoke detectors, the alarm stops. We need to replace all of the batteries in all of them every six months to make sure that a “weak link” doesn’t cause this chain reaction again – because that’s all that it was, a chain reaction from one dead battery. Thank God.
The kids took it all in stride, except for one minor freak-out from Petunia about the guinea pigs being left inside to burn despite my constant reassurances that there was no fire… But that was quickly forgotten when she realized that she has quite a story to tell her class tomorrow.
Me, I have bigger problems.
The Guv has disappeared. I’m fairly sure that he’s at Home Depot buying fire extinguishers.
And after my long hunt for Dash’s Bob the Builder costume, after he wouldn’t change his mind for over a month and refused to be anything else, after finally caving in and buying Bob on-line for nearly fifty bucks, guess what he wants to be for Halloween?
A firefighter. Now, how can I say “no” to that?
Allow me to explain.
From day one, this transaction did not feel right to me. The buyers of our home came in within the first week with an offer that we found offensively low early on, even in a questionable market. (In a two square mile borough, there's not a lot of housing stock, so our prices are a little more protected.) Eventually, the buyers eeked up into an acceptable range. It was clear that they really wanted the house, so I felt good about taking a offer a bit below our bare minimum. We made back every cent we put into the house, the realtor's fees, and even a little more (like enough for a nice celebratory dinner out). Taking their below-our-minimum offer, the Guv and I made clear to our realtor that the buyers could and should have an inspection to know what they were getting into, but that we weren't making any repairs. The house, for that price, was as-is.
And then the inspection happened, and there were a couple of minor issues plus a not insignificant but easy roof fascia repair. The buyers asked for $1500, and their realtor dropped that they were looking at other homes and would walk from the deal if we didn't meet their demand, even though our contractor quoted us a lower repair price. The buyers said we could handle the repair, but they wanted final sign-off. A big, huge red flag went up -- I could care less what they say about us when we're gone, but I didn't want them potentially impugning the reputation of the finest contractor with whom I'll ever work. So, the buyers got their $1500. And we said to our realtor, WTF? How did this happen when this was an as-is price? His response: "They want the 'debris pile' removed too." We never found out what the so-called "debris pile" was, though the realtor himself (probably because he effed up the inspection deal) came and removed all of our firewood himself.
There were other things... an army of contractors and subcontractors tag-teaming the inspection to measure windows, doors, walls to be moved, the kitchen, the bathrooms... to plan the near-gutting of our house. I shouldn't have been there, but Dash was home with a 104 fever, so I heard all of it. And I won't even go there. There were requests to come back into our home for more construction planning, including a suggestion that a good time to visit would be on the day of Dash's ear tube surgery. Any hope I had that I was selling to people worthy of my fantastic neighbors was dashed that day, when the expletives I uttered to my realtor are beyond even George Carlin, may he rest in peace. Suffice it to say that they did not come back into my home (even though I did, on multiple occasions, offer alternate, acceptable times) until the walk-through on the morning of the closing -- a walk-through that our realtor didn't attend or do himself before the closing, which led to us losing another $100, over, among other things, dirty toilets (mind you, cleaned the week that we moved out) in bathrooms that they're going to gut anyway. When the buyers asked for more than $100, they cited "the principle of the thing."
Oh, I'm sorry, the principle? The PRINCIPLE? In that case, I wish I'd have known that this was going to be about the PRINCIPLE, because I would have asked the Guv to take a big, huge crap in the middle of the floor before he locked up. How 'bout that for the PRINCIPLE?!
What's done is done, as Shakespeare wrote, and I can't look back -- but, if I could, I probably wouldn't have done much differently anyway. Had I not sold to these people, our house could still be on the market or could've sold for a lesser price, and then we couldn't have bought our Silicon Valley home as easily. Perhaps the good karma of our much-loved house combined with the warmth of my fantastic former neighbors will melt our buyers hearts, or at least make them a little less principled. ; )
Today, the longest day of the year, is the Guv's and my 11th wedding anniversary. (It was also the longest day of the Guv's life since he was at a -- ahem -- "club" until 2am the day we were married at 10:30 am, but, anyway...) We're celebrating from our Green Mountain home. I would be celebrating more if I could escape the smell of rotten eggs (aka sulfur) coming from our water heater, which means either cold showers forever or a call to the plumber since our attempts to remedy the situation did little. The heater needs to be bleached out and drained, and we need to remember to remove the magnesium anode before we leave next time, as magnesium provides the electrolytic conversion that makes the smell worse. Or something like that... I almost failed chemistry, which is why I'm not a doctor right now. Mmm-hmmm.
So, we're going out to dinner, to escape the smell and to marvel at all of these green, leafy trees. That, and eleven years without killing each other... And this'll be the best year yet, I'm just feelin' it. Happy anniversary, Guv -- onward and upward!
... we did get the house.
Not only did the Guv figure out how to buy us this home, he also figured out how to get Dash to eat while I was gone. I think my role in this household is becoming obsolete. Is anyone out there looking for a blogger who doesn't do windows?
Today, I have major mind clutter, largely because I am stricken with anxiety over the piles of mess everywhere in my house. My ONE goal today was to clean off my kitchen island. It didn't happen, and now it won't happen for days. I'm spending tomorrow an hour away with Grace and our friends (June Cleaver and her two boys) dining at the Rainforest Cafe and watching The Bee Movie. I'm also supposed to be figuring out what to do in Philly with Dash's godmother, who's visiting from Virginia, on Saturday. And I'm also supposed to be finishing up paperwork for Petunia for Something That Cannot Yet Be Discussed Here. I'm drowning in the work that I'm not doing, and the lyrics to Justin Timberlake's SexyBack keep playing in the background of my mind (yes, Humberto, I know I listen to crappy music, but it makes me happy). My house is a freakin' mess, but hey, I can dance.
None of these projects were attended to because Dash woke up snorgelly (in our house, this means full of snot). It was Picture Day at his school, so I spent some time on the phone coordinating when to bring him in for the individual and group shots. Much to my surprise, he cooperated -- must be the stuffy head -- and found it riotously funny that the photographer asked him to say "cheeseburger!" We've been saying "cheeseburger!" and smiling at each other for much of the day -- the part of the day that didn't involve Dash screaming for either Daddy or Grammy because he's sick, and clearly they should be here to suffer with him.
So, I didn't sort through piles of paper, clean countertops, make plans, do paperwork... I made pancakes that didn't get eaten, held a sleeping boy for over two hours (and couldn't sleep myself because of mind clutter), watched the Cars movie twice and read a Tonka anthology at least three times. What puts my mind clutter back on the shelf is knowing that I don't have to cancel my plans with Petunia tomorrow because Dash is sick. Au pair Maria can and will take excellent care of him, and Petunia doesn't get screwed out of a good time. I canceled a whole lot of plans with her over the last couple of years because of Dash's sickness-after-sickness, so it's nice that at least our plans will proceed tomorrow. She is such a good girl that she deserves it, and it'll be a nice break for me, too, to not have to look at my piles of mess for a few hours. Sigh.
... the green-that-wasn't has been called "psychadelic" by my dad, "from teletubbyland" by my brother, and basically "thank goodness you didn't do that" by a host of other people.
The devil on my left shoulder mutters insults like "bromidic blockheads."
The angel on my right shoulder sings praise to you for supporting our final choice.
Ahh, Appolonian-Dionysian conflict... I should dig up my high school creative writing paper on that one and post it. It was all Gen-X'y and coming-of-age. I think the grown up me (with the angel on my shoulder) will spare you that one, especially since I don't wish to mortify my 'rents.
I maintain that the Kermit the Frog green shutters (below) would've worked, but I lost my nerve and switched to chrome green... What do you think?
When I post the "final" picture of our house over the weekend, I'll also post a picture of round one of shutter painting, which involved a color that June Cleaver aptly dubbed Kermit-the-Frog green. Sigh.
Wednesday was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. When I walked out of the house and saw the green that I had carefully, lovingly picked for the shutters and the door, I knew that it was the green-that-couldn't-be. The truth? It looked great with the yellow. It was different. I like different. But in suburban America, there are limits to difference. So, with a heavy heart, we switched to "chrome green," a normal, bright green shutter color -- one that doesn't match the color of any of my jelly bracelets left over from the 80s. It broke my heart to change it, but it was the right thing to do -- for everyone else but me.
Yes, I'm in a funk again. I never get depressed -- I get funky. I get itchy. I get "why the hell can't I live in a big city where I don't have to care what everyone else thinks"-y. (Yes, I am my mother's daughter.) Most days, I feel so small, and the world feels so big. Right now, my town feels so small, and I feel so out of place. Norman Rockwell America is special, it's safe, it's the perfect place to raise kids... but it's no panacea, especially not for a funky mom who needs a lot of different things to do to remain intellectually and intrinsically stimulated. I need to get out there and make the world a better place, but it's hard to do from the comfort of my now yellow-and-green Colonial house. It's also hard to do with a two and a half year old who still needs me a lot despite au pair Maria's excellent care. And I don't know where to go from here, or what to do.
Should I work? Should I play? Should I just be patient? Should I search for a bigger pond in which to swim? The answers are probably: eventually, yes, most definitely yes, and probably not -- I'd miss the Cleavers and many other lovely people in this too-small town. We used to move every two years, and we probably should have gone two years ago, before we made too many friends. There's a danger of change being so effortless for me, -- but that's why I should have left the shutters Kermit green. If it unnerved people, all the better. Somebody's gotta shake this place up.
When I left my house at 8:55 a.m., my house was tan with brown shutters (read: formerly owned by engineers). When I returned at 10:45 a.m., my house was basking in the glory of its rebirth as a yellow house!
My West Coast friend Humberto will cringe (happily, he won't admit) when I confess that I've always loved Coldplay's song "Yellow." (Don't worry, H, it's one of only 2 Coldplay songs on my I-pod.) "Yellow" plays on my cell phone when the Guv calls me. One line, the one that Chris Martin and I keep singing today, is: "Oh yeah your skin and bones/ Turn into something beautiful..." It has taken three and a half years, but I think I might finally love and appreciate this house -- this lovely yellow house at the top of my cul-de-sac that will soon have kelly green shutters and bright white trim. Pictures to follow when it's all done!
And yet... I still feel unsettled. I'll be cross-posting soon on the "Hope for Hopewell" blog on the topic of suffering through public education and, specifically, the frustration of dealing with a school board that flouts the interests of its constituents. Petunia is extraordinarily happy at her just over 300-member little grammar school around the corner. I am happy with the teachers but not so much with what's being taught or not taught... Anyway, more to come on that front, too.
For now, I'll go back to singing my happy "Yellow" song.
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