Boom

Lilac Report

it's about time

I started working on this back in early April, got annoyed, got busy and just got back to it today. You can click that photo on the left side of the page to find a photo album about the house.

mystery comment

Sweetie: [Female Contractor] thinks the blue kitchen paint will make it look French.
There was a long silence on both our parts.
Me, quietly: Is that a good thing?
Him: I have no idea.

She entertains us and puzzles us in approximately equal parts. She's also come up with a cool, weird way of placing the wood grain in the counter. I suspect it's the sort of thing that other contractors/woodworkers will be all impressed with, and nobody else will ever notice. Perhaps it will contribute to the room's mysteriously French style.

house news

Female Contractor: So, did you see the water damage in [a corner nobody ever goes in/looks at]? I shut the water off, but I'm going to have to rip into the floor and see what's going on; looks like a pretty massive leak in the radiant floor system.

Sweetie: [panic, more panic, getting as frantic as he ever gets]

Female Contractor, in best sing-song voice: April fool!

the good, the bad, the ouchy

On Monday, I got to overhear my favorite 'hood conversation yet. It was late, like 11pm, on the train from downtown. A guy named Ro-ro got on and started talking to his friend (I didn't catch his name, but apparently friend's baby mama was stepping out with a guy named T-Man.) They complained about their baby's mamas (with apostrophe, Seattle style) from University stop 'til at least Columbia City. Much of it I didn't retain, but I give you this:
Ro-ro: I mean, we ain't even got a parenting plan! 'Cause she so stanky.
You're welcome.

Yesterday involved about an hour in the garden, most of it in the front yard. Within that hour, I chatted with four neighbors, helped one by lending my driveway to unload lumber in, introduced two other people, ran into an old acquaintance who lives a couple doors down, and said hello to two small business owners I know. It's a small town, minus the hicks.

Then I came inside to discover the Bad Cat had pooped in the middle of the bed, on my mostly-antique-and-finished-by-me-goddamn-beloved-heirloom-even-though-I-will-not-have-kids quilt. While I was changing linen/cursing/de-stinkifying the room, I smashed my hand in a heavy cedar trunk lid. It still hurts a lot, and is moderately swollen. The cat is fine, and no longer pissed off about whatever it was that pissed him off in the first place. And the quilt is fine. The hand is not. And, the sheets weren't even in the damned trunk like I thought they were. At times like these, it's best that I am the only human in the house, because then I just deal with it rather than having a temper tantrum while dealing. Sweetie fetched me a second ice pack, but it was just a ridiculous story by the time he got home.

I haven't written about the house in a long time, and still have never posted photos; I'll just have to do a big-ass flickr album for it. The kitchen cabinets go in next week; we have a sink, faucet, dishwasher and countertops all piled around in various places on the porch. The floors are 90% done, once the kitchen's all the way finished, one last coat will go on, it's all water-based so we don't have to move out. Kitchen and the new giant l-shaped room need painting, the l-room needs lighting (also in boxes) and Sweetie will be doing the doorway trim again, like he did for the basement. We also have a bit more electrical work (minor stuff), and a new marmoleum floor to go in the kitchen. Then we get our stuff out of storage and move in for the very last time. At some point, Sweetie and I build a little booth for our eating nook in the kitchen. But everything else--seriously, everything--that needs doing is outside, and not a big deal. The solar panel is insane, and you should be jealous. The heating system is awesome, too.

It's been 33 days since I've had a kitchen, but the trees (legal and illegal) are doing well, the bamboo and blackberries are disappeared, the raspberries are coming along, the lettuces are sprouting, the hummingbirds are loud and aggressive, and about 70% of the bulbs survived the tromping they got by the movers. Moss and ferns are thriving in the former glass shard garden on the north side of the house. Two kinds of worms are at work in what was hard-packed clay when we moved in. That is satisfying.

On a less-good note--in fact, shameful, considering my job--the guys at the RV Taco Bell now know us. Tonight we got free dessert empanadas, which involve two 1/4" apple cubes and some sort of glucose syrup wrapped in deep-fried white flour. Did I mention I miss my kitchen?  I could make a much tastier diabetes origin point.

you're beautiful, but ain't it time we said goodbye-ay-yiii.

The house is around the corner from one end of a street that is a collection of small restaurants. Neighborhood business types have labeled this 'Restaurant Row', which is more fitting than it is thrilling. Another one just opened, and a Thai place is coming in November, and since we moved in five months ago, ice cream and espresso places have opened, approximately in the same stretch. In the middle of this section is a bar called Angie's. I haven't been in.

I like a genuine dive bar, and in some cases (5 Point, Baranoff) have been known to defend everything from the jukebox to the quality of the food to, yes, the pee smell and the topless mermaid in the men's room. I haven't been into Angie's. I am divided as to whether this is a sign of my increasing timidity or simply a sign that I haven't been in the market to buy crack.

Exhibit A: Mike Seely, in the Seattle Weekly last March. Apparently the only people who don't love it are the lame-ass gentrifiers such as myself.

Exhibit B: Jonah Spangenthal-Lee's crime blog, which says Tom Carr is trying to shut Angie's down. It goes on to list the eight times the po-po has visited this year.

Exhibit C: The SeattlePI.com goes into more specific detail of the po-po visits, where we learn, among other things, that $18 is the price for both an unspecified sexual 'favor' and a rock of crack. (Isn't $20 easier, I mean, who carries all those singles around?)

None of these links really address why I haven't been into Angie's. I don't actually know what the inside of the place is like. Outside the place, starting around twilight pretty much every night, there are 1-4 dealers hanging around out front of the bar, and in the small parking lot next to the bar. Sometimes there are also just guys out having a smoke, the difference is apparent because the smokers all say hey, how you doin' baby and are casual/friendly. The other guys lurk, popping out into traffic for a drive-by client now and again; they also tag-team with partners in the park/illegal office on our corner and they are all hyper-alert, like nervous prey animals. It's routinely the same guys.

We end up with a fair amount of crack-n-sex litter on the street; we've traded the needles of our old 'hood for wee rock baggies and used condoms (and the one, exciting morning with ziploc bags of bullets!). The po-po is doing a lot of checks on the park/office since August, and they're obviously at Angie's a lot, too. If they were selling weed, I wouldn't care. Crack is weird. I don't entirely understand it (which is a good thing).

I am not a fan of the po-po, but I also am not a fan of seeing people so whacked out from their addictions that they're negotiating $18 worth of sex or, as happened regularly on the hill, nodding out on the sidewalk. Calling 911 for nodders was not seen as gentrification. I haven't called the cops for crack yet, but in part this is because calling 911 for a passed-out junkie gets her emergency medical attention. Calling 911 for a crack ho gets her jail time.

I probably won't go to Angie's soon. I doubt closing it would benefit the neighborhood. It does seem like the bigger issue--close or no close--is directly related to the current owner's failure to comply with the 'good neighbor agreement' he signed. Which strikes me as not so much a major social issue relating to race and finances, but more along the lines of a restaurant being closed by the health department if it doesn't follow the rules.

off key

Our roofers were remarkably melodic. Our plumber (who only sings when Sweetie is not home) has a lovely voice. Our leprechaun electrician never sang. Our sheetrockers sing sometimes; I wish they wouldn't. Until they showed up, here I was thinking that the secret talent of all contractors was singing.
Plus, one of the sheetrockers has this freaky artificial laugh, sort of like a tenor cartoon rooster, bawk-bawking from a distance. Amigo,  tu risa es jodido. Si no detenerlo.

And the funniest--to me--moment of having contractors around the house for months on end:
Two people are standing next to a very big pickup truck with a lot of exterior accessories. One of the people is a fairly dull white guy schmuck. The other is a very blond, tan, ripped-n-stacked barbie-esque male-to-female trans.
Schmuck: So...where'd you get your rack?
I was astonished until I FIGURED OUT HE WAS ASKING ABOUT THE TRUCK.

lil' piggies

As a group, I don't like cops. Some reasons relate to my la-di-da views on authority, some because I have not generally had positive interactions with specific cops because I am not especially law-abiding except when I happen to actually agree with the law (litterbugs suck! no spitting!) and some because plenty of cops seem to go out of their way to prove themselves as jackasses, whether it's line-of-duty idiocy a la WTO 'riot' or just dumb-guy-who-hasn't-been-taught-to-keep-shut idiocy. (Grammar note: No idea if "keep shut" is a specific Tidewater hick-ism or more widespread hick-ism, but it's one I like.)

Not knowing what to is the proper disposal method for baggies of ammo, Sweetie called the local precinct on Saturday morning. The woman he spoke with thought it was funny (a bag of BULLETS? Weeeelllll, haven't heard THAT one before, honey!), and said somebody'd be out to pick them up later. A few hours later a car pulls up, cops get out and immediately fuss at another driver, and then comes to the door. I was on the phone, and cops make me agitated, so I excused myself from the room.

Sweetie's story is that the cop was clearly annoyed at having to fill out a report, and grumbled about "she said we'd come get them?" and such. He didn't actually say we should've just thrown them away, but there was this exchange:
Popo: Do any of these fit your weapon, sir?
Sweetie: Ah-ha-ha-ha! A gun? I don't have a gun.
Popo: What, and you live in this neighborhood? [Imagine if he'd said that to Sweetie while we were on Cap Hill, the gayest neighborhood of this big gay city. Which is not anywhere near as gay as my midwestern college town, but I digress.]
Sweetie (for the win): Well, aside from the prostitution and drug dealing on that corner, it's really quiet.
[fade to black]

Sweetie also requested that I post this photo.

good morning

This should really go over in "nuevo en mi casa" but it's too entertaining. Sweetie was out this morning checking his new downspouts now that it's actually raining, and came in the house saying, "I have a new 'first' for things we've found in the house!"

Two ziplock baggies, each containing a sizable number of bullets. My best guesses (a couple have distinctive flattened tips), it's about half .45s with a couple 9mm and the rest .38s.

Did they fall out of someone's pocket? Is bullet collecting the new stamp collecting? Is a ziplock bag really the most efficient way of carrying ammo? Ever heard a glock go 'click' like a camera?

ceci

ceci n'est pas un rat morte.
ceci n'est pas une mauvaise odeur.
ceci n'est pas l'equalite.
ceci n'est pas bon Francais.

This is also not art. This is the removal of dead rat #2. This one did not require a shovel. Instead, I used an implement that I will describe as a bent pitchfork.
It's weird and interesting--and also gross, please don't forget gross, utterly gross--to deal with an animal in this dead-but-not-for-eating context. I was surprised at how soft its fur looked, and had to have a quick, stern chat with the 'eww gross, but also compelling, poke it!' part of my brain. I was not surprised at how absolutely sickening the smell is--I'd been smelling it since last night.

I would also say that from a purely cosmetic standpoint, death is kinder to small mammals than it is to humans. I expect that it's the fur that helps more than anything. Note to self: arrange for genetic modification to add copious soft fur to body before dying.
Additional note to self: also arrange to die under the porch of someone I don't especially like, preferably while they're gone on a month's vacation.