Friday, August 17, 2007
Master of my own domain
Welcome to yesablog.com! If you found your way here that means I did something right.
I've moved the blog to its own domain because, well, just 'cuz I can. There's a few kinks that I hope I can work out. Like the blogger nav bar up there. That's not supposed to be there. I'm hoping it will go away with this post. So...
Stay tuned!
...and tuned....
It appears that I've succeeded in removing the Blogger nav bar. So...
Hi, ya'll! After a bit of an unplanned absence I'm back. I'm in the process of launching a fun (I hope) new project and may just be tapping on a couple of friendly shoulders out there to come join the festivities.
Stay tuned... again!
I've moved the blog to its own domain because, well, just 'cuz I can. There's a few kinks that I hope I can work out. Like the blogger nav bar up there. That's not supposed to be there. I'm hoping it will go away with this post. So...
Stay tuned!
...and tuned....
It appears that I've succeeded in removing the Blogger nav bar. So...
Hi, ya'll! After a bit of an unplanned absence I'm back. I'm in the process of launching a fun (I hope) new project and may just be tapping on a couple of friendly shoulders out there to come join the festivities.
Stay tuned... again!
Labels: blogs, home building, suburbia
Posted at 1:57 PM | |
Friday, July 27, 2007
I diddent mean to do it
I don't know when it happened. I only know it had to have been when I was distracted, or in the dark of night. Any other time, I'm certain I would have seen the peril and avoided its guesome consequences. It was an accident, I swear.
I'm guilty of birdiecide.
I discovered the horror when I left for work this morning. I was cursing my municipality for not picking up all of my trash bags on Thursday. One bag topped the container, not allowing it to close all the way. I'd committed a mortal trash sin which will give you seven days of pennance with the rotting garbage in your garage. That's the aroma I thought was overwhelming my nostrils this morning.
It wasn't. Out of the corner my eye, as I was shuffling trash bags, I spied the source of death's perfume. The little carcas was flat as a pancake right where my garage door meets the floor of the garage. Smashed birdie.
I stood there for a moment, at a loss as to what to do. Then I saw movement... I will spare you the details.
I got in my car, backed out of the driveway and hit the button on the garage door opener in the side pocket of the car door. A routine so automatic, I sometimes do a u-turn before leaving the neighborhood to be sure I've, indeed, closed the garage door.
In the street, as I shifted into drive, I realized what I'd just done. Birdie carcascide.
When I returned home this evening, I washed away the evidence. Oh, I know, even a pale imitation of Gil Grissom would have no difficulty in gathering enough DNA, microscopic feathers and fat maggots to incriminate me. But all that pales in light of what I faced when I stepped inside and looked out my kitchen window.
He stood there, staring at me with condemning eyes that said, "I know it was you. How could you? How? How could you?" Oh, horror, horror!
I'm guilty of birdiecide.
I discovered the horror when I left for work this morning. I was cursing my municipality for not picking up all of my trash bags on Thursday. One bag topped the container, not allowing it to close all the way. I'd committed a mortal trash sin which will give you seven days of pennance with the rotting garbage in your garage. That's the aroma I thought was overwhelming my nostrils this morning.
It wasn't. Out of the corner my eye, as I was shuffling trash bags, I spied the source of death's perfume. The little carcas was flat as a pancake right where my garage door meets the floor of the garage. Smashed birdie.
I stood there for a moment, at a loss as to what to do. Then I saw movement... I will spare you the details.
I got in my car, backed out of the driveway and hit the button on the garage door opener in the side pocket of the car door. A routine so automatic, I sometimes do a u-turn before leaving the neighborhood to be sure I've, indeed, closed the garage door.
In the street, as I shifted into drive, I realized what I'd just done. Birdie carcascide.
When I returned home this evening, I washed away the evidence. Oh, I know, even a pale imitation of Gil Grissom would have no difficulty in gathering enough DNA, microscopic feathers and fat maggots to incriminate me. But all that pales in light of what I faced when I stepped inside and looked out my kitchen window.
He stood there, staring at me with condemning eyes that said, "I know it was you. How could you? How? How could you?" Oh, horror, horror!
Labels: Life, suburbia, tragedy
Posted at 5:45 PM | |
Monday, May 7, 2007
Suburban Swing
Nine years ago if you'd told me that in a year's time, I'd be living in suburbia, let alone building a house to live in suburbia, I would've asked you what kind of drugs you were on. No way, no how could I picture myself in 'burbs. My vision was a vintage bungalow in the city core, with a front porch and full of character.
I was then living in a tiny house by the rail-road tracks, a rental barely 900 square feet - if. My landlord had offered to sell me the property which got me thinking about buying. I passed on that property, but took the plunge with the help of a realtor friend and bid on a sweet little 1920s home a couple of blocks away.
I didn't get that home and was devasted. I cried for three days. I toured a few more homes in the next few weeks while researching online. I discovered in my research that I could probably build a home for about the same cost as buying a "used" one. I began to explore the possibility when I got a few offers I couldn't refuse - everything fell into place.
First, my parents said they would finance it with a very low mortgage rate, then an acquaintance who's husband is a developer told me about a lot in one of his developments they'd had difficulty selling and offered it to me at a steal, then another acquaintance who is an architect offered to design it for a reduced design fee and I found a builder through a third acquaintance who was just striking out on his own as a builder and came in right on budget with his bid.
Suddenly, I was on my way to movin' on up to the eastside and to the 'burbs. Who knew that right about this time eight years ago, or more precisely, on May 4th, 1999, the day after the infamous F5 tornado tore through not 10 miles from here, I'd have to leave the ruins of a friend's house to come consult with the cabinet installers as to hardware and stain for the house in the suburbs that I was, indeed, building.
Bizarre with a capital B.
I knew several people who lived in this development or who knew people who lived here. I began to get the scoop on neighbors. My north neighbor was very diligent in informing me how negligent the construction crew was with my house. My south neighbors have a pet iguana. They neighbor on the corner is the mother of the neighbor across the street. People were very friendly before I moved in. After - not so much. I never got a welcoming committee at my door with an apple pie and welcome basket.
But I had learned some good gossip about my south neighbors. It was rumored they were swingers. My imagination was spurred with the idea of that - I began to wonder about the neighborhood on the whole. What really was going on behind closed doors?
All this is the long way to telling you about a discovery I came upon after returning from three days in Tulsa last week. I don't have to wonder about this neighborhood any longer.
You've heard about speed dating, no doubt. Well, allow me to present the newest trend in suburban kink:
I was then living in a tiny house by the rail-road tracks, a rental barely 900 square feet - if. My landlord had offered to sell me the property which got me thinking about buying. I passed on that property, but took the plunge with the help of a realtor friend and bid on a sweet little 1920s home a couple of blocks away.
I didn't get that home and was devasted. I cried for three days. I toured a few more homes in the next few weeks while researching online. I discovered in my research that I could probably build a home for about the same cost as buying a "used" one. I began to explore the possibility when I got a few offers I couldn't refuse - everything fell into place.
First, my parents said they would finance it with a very low mortgage rate, then an acquaintance who's husband is a developer told me about a lot in one of his developments they'd had difficulty selling and offered it to me at a steal, then another acquaintance who is an architect offered to design it for a reduced design fee and I found a builder through a third acquaintance who was just striking out on his own as a builder and came in right on budget with his bid.
Suddenly, I was on my way to movin' on up to the eastside and to the 'burbs. Who knew that right about this time eight years ago, or more precisely, on May 4th, 1999, the day after the infamous F5 tornado tore through not 10 miles from here, I'd have to leave the ruins of a friend's house to come consult with the cabinet installers as to hardware and stain for the house in the suburbs that I was, indeed, building.
Bizarre with a capital B.
I knew several people who lived in this development or who knew people who lived here. I began to get the scoop on neighbors. My north neighbor was very diligent in informing me how negligent the construction crew was with my house. My south neighbors have a pet iguana. They neighbor on the corner is the mother of the neighbor across the street. People were very friendly before I moved in. After - not so much. I never got a welcoming committee at my door with an apple pie and welcome basket.
But I had learned some good gossip about my south neighbors. It was rumored they were swingers. My imagination was spurred with the idea of that - I began to wonder about the neighborhood on the whole. What really was going on behind closed doors?
All this is the long way to telling you about a discovery I came upon after returning from three days in Tulsa last week. I don't have to wonder about this neighborhood any longer.
You've heard about speed dating, no doubt. Well, allow me to present the newest trend in suburban kink:
Need I say another word more?
Labels: home building, kinky neighbors, suburbia, swinging
Posted at 5:51 PM | |
