Why I Should Have Listened to My Father

During these fine Colorado summer months, Gary and I enjoy spending our evenings out on the back deck. I like calling it a deck instead of a porch because it makes me feel a little more refined and a little less like a peddler. (Read: Porches are for peddlers.) We have a pretty nice set-up back there: 2 white rocking chairs that we paid way too much for at Walmart (I didn't even know Walmart carried anything worth more than 75 dollars), and a stool my dad made about a good fifteen years ago that has one lonely coat of white primer on it, which - like an alarming number of other things in our home - we've just never quite gotten around to finishing. Sometimes we eat meals out there and dream of the day we'll be able to afford real patio furniture. Tonight was no exception. (Okay except it sort of was an exception since we weren't eating dinner; we were just sitting out there watching our dog run around. But I'm trying to build a story here, so back off.)

So we're sitting, rocking in our outrageously overpriced chairs, and I notice some birds flying up around our trees. Sometimes I like to tell Brutus to "go catch me a bird" and he likes to pretend like he doesn't understand what I'm saying and continue about his business, meticulously stripping every branch he can get his mouth around of all its bark. (Insert joke about stripping Brutus of all his bark. Hah.) So I yell at Brutus to "go catch me one o' them birds, boy!" to which Gary replies, "Those are bats."

Excuse me, (and I'll need you to pronounce this next word exactly as it is written in order to get the full effect) HWAHHT????

And upon further inspection, it turned out he was right. From that moment all I could see were little flying Halloween cookies. (Speaking of which, whoever designs those cookie cutters deserves a raise. Spot on.) Needless to say, I was both terrified and immediately overcome with a righteous anger. Shame on Colorado for hushing this up for so long!

Time to pull out the grungy hippie voice: "Yeah, come to Colorado, it's so awesome, we have mountains and lakes here, we won't care that you haven't touched up your highlights in a year because we're all dirty too, and you won't feel like you wanna drop dead from heat exhaustion every time you step outside your house, and you'll actually be able to wear on a semi-regular basis those Chacos you bought three years ago so you could fit in with all the rich, blonde deep-southerners at camp, and which, after that one month, you threw into the back of your closet for fear of being laughed out of Dallas society, and you'll start to feel like you might really love the outdoors...oh, and hey...we have bats here."

I'll always remember my first trip to Colorado. It was the summer after 5th grade. We drove up in our Ford Aerostar (Seen one on the road lately? That's because there are none left that still run.) and camped in Durango for a few nights. I remember driving through some winding mountain pass and being shocked and appalled at the lack of guardrails - I mean, can we call that an oversight? Maybe like the biggest one of all time? Maybe like one the size of a MOUNTAIN? - and feeling quite certain that at any moment we were all going to plummet to our deaths. Imagine me dying at age 12 and never having met Pudge Rodriguez in person. Talk about a close call.

I also remember that it stormed one of the nights we were camping, and I had just seen whichever of the Jurassic Park movies it is that has the giant T-Rex eyeball in the flap of the tent, so I'm pretty sure I wet my sleeping bag that night, although I don't so much remember that part.

The thing I remember most about that trip is a conversation I had with my dad about why everyone didn't live in Colorado. I think it went a little something like this:

"Dad?"

"Yes dear?"

"Why doesn't everyone move to Colorado?"

"Because there are no jobs in Colorado. Unless you want to work in a tourist trap."

"Ohhhh."

This conversation is, I believe, in large part responsible for my mental image of Colorado for the next ten years: a wide, sprawling expanse of nothing but mountains and forests, dotted with little tee-pees in which you could purchase various colorful rocks and feathers.

I'm not sure when I started to consider the fact that either a) my dad was joking, or b) that conversation was just something I made up during the compulsive lying phase I went through around that time that somehow made its way into my long-term memory as an actual event.

Either way, I eventually ended up here anyway, despite my dad's warnings. Now, had his warnings included, alluded to, or even hinted at the word "bats", I might still be back in Dallas, enjoying some air conditioning and a full head of silky blonde hair. Instead, I'm sitting in my house in the Springs with my hair just about grown out (I can't bear to cut off the inch or so of blonde left at the bottom...it just feels like a part of me would be dying) and all the windows and doors boarded up. Brutus is never to be allowed outdoors again, because although I'll admit bats are small, I get the feeling that if a whole bunch of them got together, they could probably carry my dog off somewhere and eat him for dinner if they wanted to - and I just won't stand for that. The only creature (nocturnal or no) on this planet who has the right to threaten to cook and eat my dog for dinner if he pees on the carpet one more time is me.

House Huntin'

Please forgive me for including a picture of me with a gun. Maybe I laughed out loud when I considered the pun...maybe I just think it's the best picture ever taken of my backside.

It's no secret that I love the house we live in. It is clean and cute and kinda reminds me of a gingerbread house. Our only remaining neighbors (since we defeated the crackheads) untangle Brutus's line when he gets caught up in the bushes while we're at work, and they also have really awesome Spanish accents. (And we're not talking south-of-the-border Spanish. We're talking Spain Spanish. We're talking about the good stuff here.) It takes me approximately 200 steps to get to my sister's house, and it is exactly five and one-half blocks from my office.

The only problem with the house is, essentially, Obama. JUST KIDDING!*** But seriously. Gary received a job offer from Noble Drilling...and then three days later the moratorium was announced...meaning that if we were smart, we'd move into a cheaper place. Fortunately for me, we're both lazier than we are smart, so there's a good chance we'll get to stay where we are.

***I know I have some friends who are democrats. Please don't be offended. Personally I don't put a lot of stock in politics. I think it was those 5 years my grandma lived with us that did it. She was convinced that the government was tracking her every move because she was such an integral player during the Reagan administration. She also had a habit of doing the dishes at 11:30 pm so she could see what kind of trash we were watching on tv and then shuffling back to her room to email all her old church friends about how all her grandchildren were going to hell. May she rest in peace.

ANYWAY, we're not talking about the white house. We're talking about the house we went to look at last week. I came across an ad on Craigslist (which is a miracle in itself, since Craigslist generally makes me want to jump out a window) that said something about a nice house with an easy going landlord who's willing to reimburse tenants for any work done on the house. What they failed to mention was that without "any work done on the house", the place was practically unlivable, and that by "easygoing landlord", they actually meant "dirty hippie."

I knew the moment we stepped onto the sidewalk that we'd made a huge mistake. Something about the way the porch seemed to sag under the weight of that rocking chair just gave me a bad feeling. However, I figured the chances of escaping without being noticed were slim, so we knocked on the door.

I really can't even bring myself to relive the awkwardness that was this walk-through, so I'll just give you the highlights.

"Hardwood floors" that I can only assume double as an indoor ice hockey rink on the weekends.

No dishwasher. "But I've never had a problem with that." We have a big problem with that. It's called laziness. (Did I mention that already? Gosh. Hope no one's getting the wrong idea about us. In case I haven't made myself perfectly clear, WE ARE VERY, VERY LAZY.)

A "finished basement" whose carpet has been half ripped out because "something bubbled up through the floor, and we still haven't quite figured out where it's coming from..."

So you can see why we immediately rushed to the ATM to withdraw the money for the security deposit.

I started typing a bit of a screaming rant, but my primary goal in life is to avoid being fired from the nonprofit organization by which I am employed, so I'll save those curse words for the next time I arrive home to discover that Brutus has gotten out of his kennel, the 4 pin cushions my mom made me by hand have mysteriously disappeared (along with the pins), and there seem to be a few more floor boards visible than there were when I left the house.

I'll leave you with my three main points.

1) I hate looking for houses.

2)Just the thought of having to move all our possessions across town makes me feel like I need a nap.

3) There are times in my life during which I would relish the freedom to shake certain potential landlords to the point of severe brain damage. In this case, she didn't have far to go.

Breakin' the Law, Breakin' the Law

Yesterday was the day of our scheduled lease renewal inspection. We’ve been pretty well behaved tenants for the past 2 years. We're nice. We don't smoke or play loud music. We put down grass seed in the wasteland they had the nerve to call a backyard. Basically just a couple of squirrels trying to get a nut...and hide the fact that we have a husky from our landlords. Is that so wrong?

We’re not crooks, ok. We’d love to have an extra $250 lying around to give to “the man” so we could have our dog and still remain “within the boundaries of our lease agreement.” We’d also love it if we had a decent dishwasher and a roof that didn’t look like it was about to cave in, so you’ll forgive us if we’re feeling a tad rebellious.

Wednesday was the day it all went down. I swept, mopped, vacuumed, and scrubbed the unidentifiable brown muck off the wall behind Brutus’s kennel while Gary rid the house of any canine paraphernalia and artfully covered up the holes in the carpet with a tarp and a half painted chest.

Then it came time for the backyard. Gary hadn’t considered when he was building the mammoth sized dog house that we might one day have to move it in order to avoid being evicted...so naturally it took four fully grown Texans to get it into the back of his truck. (Where it stayed. All day. Much to the amusement of Gary’s coworkers and regular customers at John Deere Landscapes.)

We’d done all we could do; now it was time to wait. We dropped Brutus off at my sister’s house and headed off to work in a nervous sweat. I chewed off all but my lucky fingernail worrying about the inspection. I couldn’t shake the mental image of a team of FBI agents scouring our home, donning facemasks and using tweezers to place individual dog hairs in plastic bags to be sent to the lab for examination.

When I finally arrived home at 4, I wanted to check to make sure the coast was clear before picking Brutus up and bringing him home. I searched the whole house for the sheet of paper telling us we had to be out by tomorrow or else, but found nothing...until I entered the kitchen and spotted it on the counter. I stopped to try to slow my breathing. This could be it. This could be the letter that changes everything. A week from now we could be out on the street with Brutus as our only means of drying off after showering in the public fountain in Acacia Park.

I walked slowly across the kitchen, took one last, steadying breath, and picked up the piece of paper.

“Please remember that lawn care is the tenants’ responsibility. Please be sure that the lawn is mowed ASAP.”

Here’s the moral of my story: If you’re trying to hide something, maybe try messing up something less important but more conspicuous. It might just save you $250.

***It just came to my attention that this is the second time I've used this title. I guess we've come full circle.

Facebook Statuses That Would Be Inappropriate to Post Considering I’m Friends with Half My Coworkers:

Emily Gray hasn’t had a shower in 4 days.

Emily Gray just reached level 39 on Bubble Spinner. It only took 6 hours!!!

Emily Gray frequently takes naps under her desk.

Emily Gray just burped in a donor’s ear.

Emily Gray wears flip flops to work.

Emily Gray sometimes just hangs up on donors for fun.

Emily Gray gets paid more than the president thanks to a little agreement she worked out with Payroll.

Emily Gray sometimes uses the word “agreement” when she really means “blackmail.”

Emily Gray likes to slip the f word into her phone conversations to see if staff people notice. They usually don’t.

Emily Gray loves crack cocaine.



Ok, ok. Calm down. Obviously one of these isn’t true.