“Hey, speaking of, you know what would be a cool song? If William Shakespeare came out with a new version of the Baja Boys’ ‘Who Let the Dogs Out?’ He’d call it ‘Who Hath Released the Hounds?’” I begin to sing.
“Who hath released the hounds? (woofwoofwoofwoof)
“Who hath released the hounds? (woofwoofwoofwoof)”
Fletch looks thoughtful for a moment. “You know, I’d probably rather look at apartments than hear that song ever again. So it’s decided. We’re going to honor our appointment. Grab your purse, we’ve got to go.”
We’re standing in front of a nondescript single-family house with a FOR SALE sign in its tiny front yard. “Um, you know we’re looking for a rental, right?” I ask.
“Yes, yes, don’t worry,” Tina, our newest broker, replies. “They’ve got the house listed because it’s been on the rental market so long. No one wants it and if they don’t rent it right now, they’re going to have to sell it.”
“Ooh, Loser House! Encouraging! I love it already!” I snark.
“Honestly, I wasn’t even going to bring you guys, but we were going right by it and the keys have been in my ashtray for a while. Tell you what, we’ll take a quick peek and then I promise to take you somewhere better, okay?” the broker pleads. Apparently our reputation precedes us.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Loser House awaits.” Tina works the double locks and opens the elaborate Victorian front door into a hallway. The first thing we see is a set of stairs listing distinctly to the right.
“Ha!” I bark. “Loser House is on a slant. Niiice.”
But as we get past the front hallway, I notice the place has gorgeous new walnut hardwood floors. They’re a deep, rich brown, almost chocolate, with a light sheen. And then we walk through the living room with fully restored millwork and crown molding at least six inches wide. The smooth plaster walls are covered with what has to be a designer paint job. “Hey, this is—this is not so bad,” I say slowly.
“Yes, according to my notes, the past owner was an interior designer. I guess she gutted the house and restored everything she could, and replicated those bits she couldn’t. That’s why the stairs slant—they’re original—and so is the hand-tooled banister.”
Hmm.
We pass the first bathroom, about the size of a small coat closet. Everything has been made to scale and the counter is a four-inch-wide strip of mossy green and sparkly gray granite with a teeny metal soup bowl sink tucked in the corner. “Okay, this is kind of cute,” I admit.
We pass into the kitchen, which is no less than eighteen by fifteen feet, wainscoted with cream-colored bead board, and filled with GE Profile appliances, adjustable lighting, and forty-seven cabinets.
Forty. Seven.
Wow.
I wonder how many wineglasses I can store in here?
We go down to the basement, which runs the length of Loser House. There are glass block windows, a full-sized washer and dryer, and an entire workbench with built-in shelves, drawers, and cabinets, which would allow the man of the house to store his tools in style. Plus, there’s a little nook at the front of it where someone could have a place to set up the stupid old futon he refuses to get rid of and hang his horrible seventies lighted Schlitz sign and enough space in the back that whoever lived here could finally give up the family’s storage unit.
We leave the basement, cross through the gourmet kitchen, and climb the slanted stairs. They list to the right, but they’re sturdy, and up close I see the detail of the original lathed woodwork in the newel posts. The master bedroom is big enough for a king-sized bed and there’s a small dressing room to the side. All the brand-new, double-paned, flip-out windows are covered with expensive wooden blinds and they’re already adorned with expensive decorative iron rods, so the only window treatment needed would be curtains. The walls appear to be covered with caramel-colored suede, but when we touch it we see that it’s layers of paper, almost like torn grocery bags, giving it three-dimensional detail.
There’s a tiled bath off this bedroom with dual showerheads. I try the water pressure and it’s powerful enough to knock the polish off my nails. Down the hall is a second bedroom, done in shades of mint and yellow with the most perfect little mint-yellow bath off of it, housing an entire wall of the same cabinets found downstairs. I pretty much want to lick the whole room.
Fletch and I look at each other. This is way nicer than we expected, at a price we can afford, in a neighborhood that’s walking distance to Target. “So, like, did anyone die here?” I ask. At this point, death is not a deal breaker, I’m just curious.
“I find it interesting that’s your first question. But, no, no one died here,” Tina replies.
“Then what’s wrong with it?” Fletch wants to know.
“Nothing. It’s just not a good roommate house,” she explains. “Most of our clients are friends looking to share a place. We don’t get a lot of couples wanting to rent upscale apartments,9 so that’s why it’s been empty. I think this place just needs the right people.”
“And this is just a house—there’s no condo or block association we’d have to deal with?” I ask. “No one’s going to pass capricious rules about my dogs not whizzing in the yard?”
“Not a chance.”
“Oh, wait,” Fletch says. “Yard—is there a yard?” The blinds were drawn in the kitchen and we didn’t even look out back.
We walk down the stairs and through the glorious kitchen. But when we open the door, we don’t go directly into a yard. First, we have to pass through a charming little den with a brick wall, vaulted ceilings, and built-in shelves.
And there it is.
Through the wraparound windows we see a yard, a glorious, magnificent, don’t ever have to walk the dogs again in inclement weather yard. We spill out the door and onto its beautifully cemented flagstone patio. Empty flower beds are bricked off and the whole thing’s surrounded by a new wooden fence that’s six feet tall. There’s a section at the end already covered in pea gravel, which would make an ideal potty spot. The only access to the street is through the private garage, so I could allow the dogs to stay out there as long as they wanted and never worry about their safety. I look back at the doorway, imagining myself on a cold winter morning, holding coffee, watching through broad panes of glass as two joyous dogs kick up snow in their wake. They’ll think they died and went to doggie heaven.
In unison, Fletch and I blurt, “We’ll take it!”
We go back to Tina’s office, sign the lease, write a check, and are instantly given our new set of keys to (Definitely Not) Loser House.
Well, that was easy.
For the past few weeks, we’ve done nothing but box up smaller items and run them over to our new place. Prior to that, between temping, tramping through every open apartment in this city, dealing with condo complex foolishness, and trying to soothe the dogs, who know something’s up and lose their minds every time we step out the door, I haven’t had a minute of free time in the past month.
Our movers are coming this afternoon and everything I need to do here is done. The next few hours are the only ones I’ll have to relax for a couple of weeks, as we’ll be busy unpacking and cleaning. I plan on enjoying every minute of them by lounging around in front of Fox News while sipping Costco’s spectacularly good Ethiopian-blend coffee.10
I get up and kiss the dog, whose head is resting gently on my pillow. As soon as I vacate my spot, the other climbs onto the bed. Both are exhausted from their two-week-long freak-out and aren’t yet ready to get up. They have no idea they’re about to go on their last walk before discovering the joy of their new yard.
Fletch is still asleep, too, so I head down the stairs for opening duty. We brought the cats to the new place yesterday and they’re thrilled at all the big patches of sunlight that flood the new house. This place has a northern exposure, and in the two years we’ve been here the cats haven’t been able to bask in a single sunbeam, which always made me feel guilty.
I open the curtains and our living room brightens with the indirect light. Naturally, Winky is there standing on the broken remains of my birdhouse. Somehow he managed to catapult himself up the brick wall and chew through its ropes. He’s out there feasting on his spoils and I just know he’s smirking at me. I have had it with this evil creature and throw open the door, swinging the first thing I can get my hands on—a tube of wrapping paper embossed with the phrase “Peace on Earth” and a bunch of penguins holding hands.11
Swearing, spitting, and swinging, I chase him to the edge of the complex while shouting, “Die, motherfucker, die!” and he dashes up a telephone pole. (You know what? Animal rights don’t apply to those who break my birdhouses.12)
Victorious, I strut back into the house with my paper battle-ax, but not before waving at one of the fat girls who glowers at me while getting into her car. Frown all you want, missy. For I? Am Audi 5000.
I flip on Fox News and walk over to my Cuisinart Automatic Grind & Brew. I pour in filtered water and carefully measure the smoky, nutty beans into the little basket. Never have I earned a cup of coffee more in my life. It’s a tad cool today and my extremities are chilly from having been outside chasing squirrels through fresh dew. I long for the feeling of cold fingers wrapped around a warm ceramic mug. I flip the switch, expecting to hear the blades spring to life, but instead I hear a loud pop, followed quickly by the hum of all my household electronics dying in unison.
Wait, what?
No.
Noooo!
Not again! I swear we’re not deadbeats anymore! I’m (almost) sure we paid our electric bill! I frantically search through the stack of packed boxes, looking for the one with financial information. I finally locate my register and see the check was written, so I grab the phone, ready to tell ComEd, “Bitches, my bill is paid.” But when I pick up my phone, it’s not working because it’s cordless. I know we’ve got an analog model that would work, but it’s buried in one of the bottom boxes and I can’t get to it.
At this point I notice all my contemptible neighbors are gathered outside, and for once I’m thrilled to see them because it means it’s a neighborhood thing and not a Jen didn’t pay the bill thing. I head out for information and learn we’re in the middle of a brown-out, meaning there’s a slight electrical feed running. Unfortunately, it’s not enough to run my coffeemaker, but it is enough to power my wireless router.
I settle in with my laptop and a bowl of vanilla yogurt and granola. I may not be watching TV, but that’s okay. I can still enjoy this precious downtime. As I scan the headlines on FoxNews.com, I get a physical longing for coffee. I yearn for a frothy concoction of milk and espresso and maybe a quick sprinkle of cinnamon. I practically ache for the delicate layers of spice and sweet fruit and the subtlest hint of caramel as the caffeinated goodness jump-starts my nervous system. Coffee is so essential to my morning that failure is simply not an option. I give the Cuisinart another whirl, but it sits there mute. Ever resourceful, I grab my keys and decide to treat myself with Starbucks.
I back out of my space, pull up to the gate, and hit the remote to open it…and nothing happens. Damn it! Electric gate! I punch the button again and again, but no luck. I get out of the car to inspect the gate’s mechanics, looking for the fail-safe. I scrutinize every inch of it, getting grease all over my hands, but find no key, switch, or button that allows me to open it manually. Then I walk over to the mouth of the gate and give it a Herculean tug, but I can’t budge it an inch.
I pull back into my assigned spot. I look down at my legs and realize God must have given them to me for a purpose other than simply having an excuse to get pedicures. I decide to hoof it the six blocks to the coffee shop. I march over to the gate and enter my code, fingers flying across the keypad, expectantly waiting for the lock-releasing buzz that opens the steel cage standing between me and my ultimate prize.
But the buzz does not come.
I’m trapped. Trapped! And with no possibility of garnering the sweet elixir of life, my raison d’être, the source from which all that is holy and righteous flows! I’m on my knees crying, “It’s not fair! It’s not fair!” when a gentleman in a ComEd vest catches sight of me. From the other side of the fence, in reassuring tones, he gently says, “Ma’am, he didn’t feel a thing.”
Huh?
“The squirrel,” he said, holding up a hideously blackened yet distinctly still reddish-brown-furred carcass, “when he chewed through the wire, his death was instantaneous.”
“Yes, the squirrel. I’m, um, devastated. Of course,” I say.
“Yeah, anyway,” he replies, “your power’s back on.”
And suddenly there’s naught but a vapor trail between the man holding a barbecued Winky and my coffeemaker.
As I sit here with my third cup and reflect on this morning’s happenings, I realize in fact that I’m a big ass.
Because I’m really glad that pesky squirrel is dead.
“They’re going to go bananas!” I exclaim. Everything I hold most precious is in this car—my husband, my dogs, my Cuisinart. Fletch is driving us to the new house before doubling back to meet the movers. He could have caught a ride with them and had me drive over myself, but he wants to be there when the dogs see their yard for the first time.
“I bet Loki spins in circles and Maisy rocket-dogs back and forth like she used to when we’d take her to the beach,” Fletch predicts.
“How great is it going to be for them to go outside every time they want?” Upon hearing “outside,” the dogs, who are already bouncing all over the backseat, begin to yip and howl.
We get to the house and park out front. We figure the dogs should go in through the front door the first time, kind of like being carried over a threshold as a newlywed.13 We open the door and find all the cats lying Jonestown-like in giant pools of sunlight. Bones, the spokesman for the cats’ union, looks at the dogs and then us, as if to say, “Oh, you brought them here, did you? Fine. But so you know, this means we’re going to have to keep wrecking the couch.”
We let the dogs off the leash and they tear off, dashing up and down the stairs for a good ten minutes. We stand in the living room, watching streaks of black and tan fur fly by, building the anticipation until the moment when they finally see their yard. We call them to the den, and when they settle down enough to come, they sit and wait for us to put on their leashes. “Not today, guys,” I tell them. I open the back door and the dogs explode out into the yard. Loki runs around in laps, inspecting every nook and cranny of the property. He woofs and prances in between peeing on every single vertical surface. Then he notices the gravel area and squats to do his business, and I swear he’s smiling.
Maisy, on the other hand, takes a few tentative steps on the flagstone before running back up the deck’s stairs. “What’s wrong with her?” Fletch asks.
“I don’t know—maybe she’s just nervous?” I try to coax her out into the yard, squeezing her favorite toy—a squeaky pink rhinoceros—which normally pushes her into overdrive. I throw it in the direction of the gravel and she makes no attempt to go get it. “Maisy? Baby dog? What’s the matter?” I fetch her rhino and toss it again, getting the same reaction, while Loki practically tap-dances with joy. “Maybe she needs a drink?” I grab their bowl, fill it with water, and place it on the patio. She doesn’t go near it. We spend the next half hour trying to get the dog enthused about her new yard, but she just sits on the landing, shoved up against the door, looking at me with big, soft, black-rimmed eyes and pouting her bottom lip. Fletch has to get back to the old house, so he leaves, and I bring Maisy inside with me, as Loki refuses to leave the yard.
When I bring my box of toiletries up to what will be my bathroom, I notice Maisy’s already gone to the bathroom in the guest room. Poor thing’s probably just nervous, I think. I take her outside again to do her business and she simply stands on the stairs and looks at me again.
When I go into the bedroom to unload a wardrobe box, I catch her
midstream, and I drag her outside, where she refuses to finish. Again I chalk it up to nerves. At some point, she has to come around, right? As soon as she calms down, I know she’ll love her new yard. After all, having spent most of the summer trying to find the perfect place for us and the dogs, there’s no way our efforts will have been made in vain. I mean, really, what kind of dog doesn’t love her own backyard?
Apparently, my kind of dog doesn’t love her own backyard.
After almost three months, we’re finally to the point where she’ll dash out, pee on the patio, and return the second she finishes. She patently refuses to loiter outdoors, even if we’re in the yard with her. And she’ll occasionally consent to make a big potty outside rather than on my pink plaid rug14 in the guest room. I consider this progress.
It snows for the first time today. I’m sitting on the love seat in the den drinking coffee as fat flakes drift slowly down from gray skies. Maisy spends her requisite eight seconds outdoors and comes immediately back inside. She curls herself into a small bean next to me, tail thumping, head resting on my lap as we watch Loki snap at snowflakes.
Bright Lights, Big Ass Page 22