Archive | Adventures RSS feed for this section

So this happened…

30 Aug

My house is 110 years old, so I expected to deal with some “things” when I took it on. Crooked walls and windows, fragile plaster, a dirt crawlspace, uneven floors, and rag-tag electrical that needed to be brought up to code. I had what I’d like to think were reasonable expectations.

One thing I had NOT baked in my equation: squirrels.

Yeah, I know, squirrels are everywhere. And when you have an enormous willow oak over your backyard, you’ll probably see a lot of them. Totally fair. But let me tell you where I wasn’t expecting to see one: IN MY LIVING ROOM.

That’s right. Tuesday I was upstairs working and I heard a noise downstairs. At first I thought that one of my Command Strips (velcro for hanging artwork without nails/holes) had broken loose and dropped a picture on the floor. But as I started down the stairs to investigate, I heard more noise. For an instant, I thought someone was trying to break into my house, and because I lean toward the “fight” instinct ready than the “flight” instinct, I went charging down the stairs at full tilt – only to arrive in my living room and see a terrified squirrel scrambling around the top half of my living room window, dashing itself against the glass in a bid to escape.

As soon as it saw me, it fell down the window and scrambled up into my fireplace, making it clear where it had arrived from. I took stock of the situation and decided that the best approach was to try to help it escape, so I opened the window it had been trying to use and removed the screen. (This was the most stressful part of the operation because I had two large spiders living between the glass and the screen, so I needed to relocate them without ending up with spiders in my house. I managed it, and then left the window open for the squirrel.

Instead of taking the invitation, however, the squirrel started scrambling around inside my fireplace. I assumed he had remembered how to climb and was reversing his way up the chimney, leaving from that direction. After a few minutes of upward-sound motion, it got quiet, so I assumed he escaped. To be sure, I decided to close off the fireplace. I broke down a cardboard box, taped it across the opening, then propped my cast iron fireplace tools against it for reinforcement.

I then took on the nasty task of cleaning up squirrel scat. Because that squirrel, in its panic to escape from my house, had absolutely shit its brains out. And then stomped in it. And tracked poopy paw prints from the fireplace to the window, across the windowsill, up both sides of the window frame and even on the glass. It was a literal shit-show.

I’m pretty picky about cleanliness, so it took a good hour to wash everything down and then disinfect it with Lysol. As soon as I was done, I called a chimney company and scheduled them to come out on Saturday to check all my chimneys and cap them to ensure this never happened again.

Except it did.

The very next day.

It was 4pm Wednesday and I was upstairs in my office on a video call with a client. Halfway through the call, I heard a noise downstairs. I tried to remain focused on my client, but I couldn’t help but wonder: was the squirrel back?

I tried to reassure myself that what I was hearing was simply the tape releasing on the box as it had time to relax. But then I heard a little bit more. “Do you mind if I put you on a hold for a second?” I asked my client. “I have a situation I need to investigate.”

I ran downstairs, and sure enough, the squirrel had punched the box loose and was halfway up my window again. Apparently it did NOT climb its way out the night before, but had instead been lurking in my fireplace, waiting for another escape attempt!

As soon as it saw me, it ran back up into the fireplace, just as it had the day before. I replaced the box, flipped my coffee table on its side and pushed it against the box to ensure that the squirrel wouldn’t break loose again while I was on my call, and then I went back upstairs to finish my coaching session.

“Oh sorry about that,” I explained. “As feared, I have a squirrel in my living room.”

To her credit, my client took that in stride. Though it also makes me wonder if this seems like the type of person I am – the type who just regularly has a squirrel in her house?

As soon as the call ended, I called ASAP Critter Removal to see if they could send someone, and then headed back downstairs to try to remedy the situation myself. I decided to double-down on the idea of giving it an escape route, so I opened the window and lined up my coffee table (still on its side), a large box and a few other items to help “corral” the squirrel toward its preferred exit path. I then loosened the tape on the box covering the fireplace, and waited.

It felt like the squirrel and I were in a standoff, so I decided to recreate the prior conditions and go upstairs so it would have its space to come out, unthreatened. It was so hard sitting upstairs, listening for sounds of a squirrel. But finally, I heard what sounded like the scramble of a rodent. And then I definitely heard the sound of a squirrel trying desperately to get itself up the window.

Curious to know what was happening, but not wanting to scare the thing back up into the fireplace, I gingerly made my way down two stairs, where I could sit and observe without interfering. What I saw confirmed that squirrels are not very smart. The squirrel was, in fact, trying to go out the window. But instead of running out the open part at the bottom, it had again scaled the entire window and was throwing itself madly at the top half of the glass.

Channeling all the patience of a fisherman, who knows that waiting is the game, I stayed on the stairs, watching. Finally, my patience paid off. The squirrel lost its grip and with a cartoonishly squeaky sound, slid down the pane, landing on the windowsill, where it finally noticed it could escape. It sat there for a beat too long, apparently trying to decide if it could make the jump, so that’s when I lost my patience and came charging down the stairs, scaring it through the window and out onto the sidewalk.

And wouldn’t you know, that squirrel sat there chirping and scolding me for at least minute, as if I had some how wronged it, not saved it? The nerve.

I quickly closed the window, initiated my cleaning protocols for the second day in a row (this squirrel might not have eaten for 24 hours, but it still had plenty of excrement to handle), and then – just to be safe – re-barricaded the fireplace, this time with a large, tight-fitting screen and a table.

About this time, I got a text back from ASAP Critter Removal, telling me they could have someone out to me in 45 minutes.

“I think I just handled it,” I wrote back.

“Do you want us to come out and check your chimneys for you? We could do Friday at 5pm?”

I explained that I already had a chimney company coming out on Saturday, and that I was hosting a dinner on Friday night.

Their sign-off/advice, “Cool. Sounds fun. Go nuts!”

That cracked me up, but it’s likely I’m just slap-happy since this is the third time in two weeks I’ve had an animal hanging in my window, crapping itself. Good times. Or as they apparently say in Richmond, “Go nuts!”

Tags: , , ,

Summer Shovin’ – Happened So Fast…

8 Aug
SUMMER SHOVIN’ – The Pink Slay-dies vs. The T-Birds, July 29, 2023

The last few weeks were super hot in Richmond – we had temperatures in the high 90s and the humidity easily bumped us up into the hundreds. I’m obsessive about hitting 10k steps per day, so this meant I was usually out at 6am trying to log my miles, water my plants and do any other outside activities before the mercury started to climb.

The heat still hadn’t broken by Saturday when Alan came over, so I knew I wouldn’t be able to sell him on any outdoor events (I had my eye on the free production of “Something Rotten” at the Dogwood Dell amphitheater). We rarely hit any crowded indoor events (apparently I’m the last living human who believes covid still carries any risk?) but I decided to see what was on offer that might involve A/C…

Which is how we came to be seated rink-side at Richmond’s Convention Center for – drumroll please – ROLLER DERBY. As you’ve probably intuited, the Convention Center does NOT actually house a skate rink (or velodrome, for that matter). Rather, they create a rink by taping the lines whenever there’s a match. We had no idea what to expect, other than women on rollerskates and presumably some pushing, and we were not disappointed.

We did, however, quickly realize that we knew NOTHING ELSE about the sport. After each team’s introduction, which consisted of them taking laps huddled together in a crouch with each woman popping up to clown when her name [Beast! Sigmund Feud! Baddy Long Legs!] was called, they quickly got down to business.

Each round starts with the two teams creating human barriers, trying to lock the other team’s “jammer” in place so she can’t skate away from the pack. We surmised that scoring occurred when the jammer made it out of the pack and was able to lap it. This means that each time they come around and approach the pack, they have to try different tactics to get through. Sometimes their teammates would be able to help create an opening for them, but more often they had their hands full trying to stop the other team’s jammer from getting through.

It sounds simple, but I’m not exaggerating when I say we watched the scoreboard quickly climb to a 68 point tie and couldn’t figure out what either team was doing to wrack them up. We resorted to googling “roller derby rules” at the first intermission. (Roller derby has two 30 minute periods with a 15 minute intermission. At this match there was a band set up that played and kept the crowd pumped while the athletes rested.) And in case you’re curious, they get a point for every member of the opposing team that they pass.

Only marginally related: when I started to reflect on rollerskates, I felt like there was a well-known joke in the corner of my brain that I couldn’t quite pull. So I googled, and found that there IS, in fact, a rollerskate joke that (pun intended) seems to do the rounds. Maybe you can think of it?

If not, in closing, here it is (sorry, not sorry):

Three men at the pearly gates….

Three men have died and arrive together in the pearly gates.

St. Peter asks the first man “Have you ever cheated on your wife?”

The man proudly answers “Not once in 40 years of marriage.”

“You are a good man” St Peter tells him. “Here are the keys to your brand new Porsche. ” He Revs the engine and drives off.

St. Peter asks the second person “Did you ever cheat on your wife?”

The man shrugs his shoulders sheepishly “Uh, yes sir. But only once at a party when I was drunk!”

St. Peter hmms… “Well we have all erred in our life. Here are the keys to your Buick.” And the man, grateful he’s not being sent to hell, hops in the car puts it in gear and drives off.

The third man is sweating bullets. Before even hearing the question he falls down on his knees and begs forgiveness. “I’m sorry St. Peter. I cheated on my wife many times. I was a traveling salesman, I had a woman in every city, on every business trip, at every airport and field office in the lower 48 and most of Europe. Please, Please forgive me…“

St Peter looks in the book and reflects. “Alright. The good news is you can come in. The bad news is here’s your Bicycle. You have reaped what you have sown.”

The man sighs, and starts peddling, weaving back and forth a bit. He comes to the first guy in his Porsche, on the side of the road crying.

“What the hell do you have to be crying about?,” he asks. “I’m tooling around heaven on a rusty bicycle, and you’ve got a sports car. What gives?”

The first man blows his nose and looks up. “My wife just went by on one roller skate.”

AND SCENE.

Tags: ,

Pickle– WHAT?

21 May
Photo by Joan Azeka on Unsplash

Since moving to Richmond last summer I’ve been excited to get into pickleball. Alan and I were first exposed to it a few years ago when we visited my former boss in Tennessee and she and her husband took us to a court. If you’re not familiar, it’s played on a court that looks a lot like a tennis court but is quite a bit smaller; it uses paddles similar to table tennis but a bit larger/heavier; and the ball is approximately the size of a tennis ball but made out of open plastic like a wiffle ball. Think of it as the Frankenstein of racquet sports.

But here’s the thing: it’s fun, easy, and social, which is why I thought it would be a great way to meet people and stay active. The challenge is that the scoring is complicated and the rules are not at all like tennis, so it’s kind of confusing for a newbie.

All of which is to explain why I was standing on a court with eight strangers in oddly hot (90 degree) temperatures the first week of April. Richmond hasn’t provided the overall cost savings you might think – housing is much less expensive here than DC, but most other things are about the same – but the one place where I’ve found a deal: the Parks & Recreation offerings. I signed up for beginner tennis lessons: $25 – for SIX lessons, which is insane by DC standards; and pickleball lessons – FREE for what was originally supposed to be six hours of instruction but actually ended up being eight! I’m something of a bargain hunter, so don’t be surprised if I join a soccer league or some equally random shit in an attempt to make my tax dollars work for me here.

The best part about pickleball lessons? The instructor, Diana, who told us on the first night that she’s 75 years old. Good thing she disclosed her age, because I would’ve guessed her to be much younger. She’s spry, sassy, and delivers a mean serve. She reminds me of my mom: short white hair and a bit of a tough-love/smart-ass vibe to her coaching that has big “gym teacher energy” to it.

On the first night, she asked each of us to share what previous racquet sport experience we had. Some people had none, others had played tennis or pingpong in years past. I was last to go. “I just started taking tennis lessons two weeks ago,” I shared, thinking this might accidentally brand me as an over-achiever.

“Oh Lord,” she responded. “Good luck.”

As it turns out, while both tennis and pickleball use a ball and racquet/paddle, the strategies are very different, the scoring is very different, and the rules are very different. Among other things, I was cautioned that I’d probably miss the ball a lot because the racquet is much smaller. Good news? Not a problem on that front. Turns out, I’m still pretty coordinated. Bad news? The rules and scoring are as tricky as advertised – at least to a new person who has just learned about deuces and add-in/add-out.

Of course, I claim I’m coordinated and a semi-decent athlete, but it’s now been a month since my lessons ended and I might need to walk that back a bit. I’ve been playing regularly with two women from my class and if nothing else, my ego is certainly getting a workout: the last two times I’ve played, my *70 year old* opponent has absolutely mopped the floor with me.

I actually just signed up for the beginner’s tennis league, not because I’m itching to play more tennis (it’s exhausting!), but mainly so I’ll have a viable excuse in case I continue to get trounced on the pickleball court. As I tell my clients: it’s all about controlling the narrative. I mean, maybe the real miss here is that I haven’t yet found a ping pong class to join.

And with that, let me go consult the Parks & Rec catalog…

Tags: ,

In which my house almost became a landmark…

15 Mar
Photo by Deon Black: https://www.pexels.com/photo/blue-denim-jeans-on-the-table-6376544/ Banana hanging out of the fly of a pair of jeans as if it is a penis

One thing that attracted me to Richmond: its arts scene. VCU is just down the street from me and it’s ranked among the top 5 fine arts schools in the United States. One way this spills out into the community is through murals. I’m not sure what the official count is, but the downtown development district alone boasts at least 150.

So imagine my excitement when, after only a few weeks in my house, someone slid an envelope through my mail-slot, asking if I’d have any interest in letting an artist put a mural on the side of my row house. (I’m on the end of the block and have a good-sized two-story brick surface.) The artist organizing this project was actually not looking to do the work himself, but is trying to create something of an exchange program with foreign artists – bringing them here to diversify our arts scene, and in turn creating opportunities for Richmond artists to leave their mark abroad. Cool, right?

I was really impressed by the thought the organizer has given the project. In the initial letter he presented three different options for supporting the project: 1) Offering up your wall as a venue; 2) Offering your wall + $2k to cover the cost of materials and a lift; 3) Sponsoring the artist with $10k so they would be compensated for their efforts. I responded by letting him know that I’d be open to having a mural on the side of my house and I’d be willing to cover costs, but I was not at a full sponsorship level of patronage because I’m, uh, a bit broke after buying a house. He was cool with that and excited that I was up for a mural.

I’m a planner, so I asked, “What’s the process for reviewing/approving the design? Would I get to suggest themes or choose from artists, or how does this work?” He explained that you only get those privileges at the $10k sponsorship level (fair enough – he’s found a meaningful incentive for full sponsorship).

I followed up by asking if I would at least get to see/approve the image before it goes on my house. In my mind, I was imagining someone having free rein and painting an enormous penis on my house, but I didn’t tell him that because I didn’t want to seed any ideas. PERHAPS, he offered. It would depend on the artist. The artist might be someone who is inspired by the act of painting itself and changes designs on the fly, so I couldn’t necessarily count on it.

That prompted me to pause and consider: as a big-time control freak, might it be sort of a bucket-list item to cede control over something this big? To just give someone carte blanche to paint on the side of my house – as long as I generally liked their portfolio? When I shared this with Alan, his answer was immediate. “Absolutely not.” He looked at me like I was crazy. “It’s your HOUSE. You’re not going to let someone just paint whatever they want on your HOUSE. You won’t even let someone other than you caulk your bathtub. Are you serious?”

Fair point. But I was enjoying the idea of being Alison 2.0 who supported the arts and let someone indulge their muse… until the organizer emailed me with good news. “I’ve got an artist coming to town and we think your house would be perfect for him. He’s in NYC now, but will be here within a week. Are you still interested?”

Gulp. I was excited and nervous. Who was the artist? What did he want to paint? Any chance it would be something related to a cause I’m passionate about – like reproductive rights, BLM, the environment, banned books? The organizer wasn’t sure, but he provided me with a link to the artist’s previous work in Europe so I could get a sense of his style and prior projects. I checked him out and was intrigued. His style was interesting. The subject matter didn’t necessarily resonate for me (oversized people doing different things) but it was still cool. There were one or two abstract images that could possibly be interpreted as being a wee bit phallic, however, so I decided that I wouldn’t feel comfortable moving forward without seeing a sketch.

“I mean, it’s not as permanent as a tattoo, but it’s also a lot more expensive than a haircut, so if I don’t like it, I won’t have to live with it forever, but it will be up there long enough that my house could become a landmark known as ‘The Big Dick’ or something,” I explained to a friend.

“You’re being ridiculous,” she laughed.

I waited on pins and needles for a few days, hoping the artist would be able to provide a sketch. Finally, Sunday evening, he came through. I’d like to post a copy of the image, but I don’t want to violate his copyright, so I’ll do my best to describe it:

Imagine a cartoon man with his back to you, arms and legs out as if mid-jumping jack. He is up against what appears to be an open window. His face is turned to the side, mouth open as if – just speculating here – orgasmic. Oh, and he is completely naked, with a small but very obvious penis pointing down between his legs right in the middle of the frame. I mean, there was nothing ABSTRACT about it. The penis even had a SHADOW.

TLDR: It would like two-story naked cartoon man humping my house.

I imagined my neighbors’ reactions as they watched it going up. I haven’t even had a chance to meet all of them yet, and I’m pretty sure this would NOT be a friend-maker. More like a slow-motion smile turning to horror as they realized I’ve conscripted our entire block to a terrible nickname. “What’s next?” I imagined them asking, “Is she going to add a ‘Tiny Dick Alley’ street sign to the side of her carport?”

I forwarded the image to Alan, whose response was, “Seriously? Are they roasting you? This can’t be real, right?” (To his credit, he didn’t use this as an “I told you so moment.”)

I responded to the project coordinator and said, “Thanks, but I’m going to pass. Hope you find a home for this guy in the Fan because I think it would be fun to have a ‘humping man’ somewhere in Richmond.”

To which he corrected me. “He’s not humping. More like skydiving on an empty picture frame.”

TomAto, ToMahto. There would still be a very visible, embarrassingly small cartoon penis on my house. I’m excited to be part of this neighborhood, but I don’t need my house to become an unfortunate landmark.

“Well look on the bright side,” my friend offered, still trying to get me to make a very bad decision, “It would be easy to give people directions to your house – they wouldn’t even need to know your house number!”

Tags: , , ,

City Mouse/Country Mouse

13 Mar

I’ll spare you the details of how we made the decision, but the move to Richmond was something Alan and I landed on together. And in keeping with the deal we brokered 13+ years ago, the vision wasn’t for us to buy a place and live together down here. We had very different ideas of what would make us happy…

For me: a place “in the city” that was walkable/bike-able for my daily errands, where I could leave my car for a weeks at a time without needing it, and where I could get to know my neighbors.

For Alan: a place in the country with enough land to hunt, grow fruit and vegetables, and stick a bee hive. And where his closest neighbors would be far enough away that he could walk around naked if he chose.

And so now we’re here – me in a row house in The Fan and Alan in a TinyHouse™ on some acres about 45 minutes outside the city. We explain it to people by referencing Country Mouse/City Mouse, which is a Disney book from my childhood.

Alan might be rethinking this reference after the last week, when he texted me with some alarm:

“I had a packet of emergency rations in my emergency kit in the truck. Went out there for batteries this afternoon, and something has gnawed it open and eaten about a quarter of the pack. Could I have a f*cking mouse in my truck?”

Reader, the answer – as you likely suspected – was apparently yes, based on the text I received from Alan the next morning:

My response? “Aww. Poor little guy, just wanted some peanut butter…” Which I could say with full sympathy for the mouse because he was NOT EATING MY FOOD AND POOPING IN MY CAR.

It seems Alan was NOT sympathetic to the mouse, because he responded, “…and probably some seat cushion and electrical wiring and a perfectly good pack of survival rations…”

“He was an Adventure Mouse,” I texted. “Chasing the dream of a Ranger.”

Crickets.

The lesson here: It is ok to BE the Country Mouse, but not ok to HAVE a Country Mouse. Which makes me wonder if maybe we need to rename our situation after something that isn’t inspired by rodents?

Just a thought.

—

PS: I was going to propose Green Acres, but then I watched the show opener and – I did NOT remember the possessive yank and declaration of “my wife” that ripped Eva Gabor out of her happy habitat and into the muck of farm-living. I am glad to be living in the year 2023 and not treated as some man’s chattel in 1965.

Tags: , ,

← Older Entries