Showing posts with label the colorado Chronicles. Show all posts

So, yes, that means if you haven’t read parts one and two, you should scroll down and do so, pronto.

About a week after the disaster at the “White House”, The Spouse and I were reading the newspaper, scoping out the homes for rent. I spotted a promising ad, dialed the number and talked to a very nice woman about her rental. I asked if she had a fence because of our dog (not Sugar, the sweet, beautiful hypo-allergenic dog, but Pal, the smartest, best dog who ever lived, part german shepherd part border collie, who needed to stay outside away from allergic moi). It was important to ask about the fence because in places other than California, there are actual homes without actual fences. Naturally, being a dog-lover (Colorado resident, an’ all) she expressed shock and dismay that I would even consider keeping my dog outside, especially since it was nearly October and the cold was coming (little did I know how cold). I attempted to defend myself. She merely hung up but not without first muttering “I feel sorry for your dog, lady”, reminiscent of the time our head moving guy muttered, “You need a bigger house, lady”, or was it, “You have too much stuff, lady”?

I placed a large red X over that ad and continued.

That was when we found it, the ad for the two bedroom home in the desired location and school district. We talked to the nice man (everyone is nice in Colorado. I really mean that. Except for the mean man who beat his dog. Unto death, I believe—see House Hunting is Like Ghost Hunting, Only Scarier) and convinced him to allow us to look at the house even though they had just (as in days ago) bought the place and it was not ready for viewing.

“Then, er, why did you place an ad in the paper to rent it out?” I dared to ask.

There was a bit of a silence. “That was a mistake. It wasn’t supposed to go in this soon.”

What he meant was that he didn’t expect to get a bite so soon. He hadn’t reckoned on me and The Spouse. We were a force to be reckoned with. For sure.

We went to the house, conveniently located right next door to the nice couple who had just bought it. We liked the house, we liked the couple, we liked the couple’s children and we liked the three foot high chain link fence that would keep our dog contained within the extremely large yard. We also liked the huge front yard complete with a driveway long enough for three cars deep. (I had no concept of what that might mean for me and a shovel.) What we did not like was the 70’s gold shag carpet. When I lifted up one corner of it (every corner, side and seam was extremely liftable) I saw that a gorgeous honey-gold wood floor lay beneath.

Since I have always wanted a wood floor I was very excited and immediately suggested permanently removing the carpet. The owner was a bit hesitant. He wanted to try cleaning the carpet first and see what happened. We agreed and signed the rental agreement, me smug in the sure knowledge that this carpet was unredeemable. I had no doubt Mr. Nice Landlord would soon come round to my way of thinking.

Moving day was about a week away and the phone calls between myself and Mr. NL were not promising. I got a lot of this and that, a lot of hemming and hawing, a lot of ifs and buts. I had no idea what we would find when we got the key; a wood floor, a nice, clean carpet or something that crawled out of the Black Lagoon.

We got the latter. (I bet you guessed right, huh? Leave me a comment at the end of this post if you did. That way we can celebrate. In cyber space.)

It was day one with the key, the rent meter was ticking, the moving van was coming in two days, and the once gold, ratty, old, smelly carpet was now a toxic hazard. It had been “cleaned” the day before (not professionally, I might add) and was still wetter than a correctly cleaned carpet had any right to be. It had, quite literally, been soaked, revealing nearly-bare spots, disintegrated padding and a smell akin to what the Creature (of said Black Lagoon) might use as after shave. (That is, if he dated. Was there a female creature of the Black Lagoon? A fan would know.) (Or Reed.)

I was panic-stricken! How could Mr. NL have done this himself rather than hire a professional? How could he have not called me when he saw that the situation was (clearly!) hopeless? Why wasn’t he answering his door, the one I was pounding on in my panic? (His car was there—he said later that he was out back feeding the dog—sure.) Didn’t he know that the BFF was counting the seconds until we were entirely and permanently gone from her abode?

I crawled back to my BFF and explained the situation. It was obvious Mr. NL wasn’t going to admit defeat. This meant no wood floors for me. Meanwhile, even if the current carpet was livable, it would never be dry in time, not before the moving van came, not even before winter set in and certainly not before my BFF started climbing the walls while her head rotated on her shoulders. So, she put me directly into her car and drove me to the nearest carpet establishment.

I guess we looked kind of grim, sorta determined, even mildly obsessed because the nice lady who waited on us asked, “Is this some kind of emergency?” The BFF and I looked at each other and broke into gales of nervous laughter. You know, the kind that sounds like weeping is soon to follow.

We (meaning myself and The Spouse) paid for beautiful new carpet for the entire house and arranged to have it installed the very next day. The guys who took out the old one were aghast at it’s state and almost didn’t want to be around it long enough to carry it outside. They said they would have to take it to a special dumping place since it was technically toxic waste, due to all the mold in hues of green, black and other indeterminate shades of ick. As for myself and my family, we at least got new carpet which we were privileged enough to use for the next 13.5 months.

And Mr. Nice Landlord? Come Christmas, he brought us a nice basket of oranges. He was just soooooooo nice. So nice he just couldn’t bring himself to tell me I wasn’t getting my wood floor. Or that the current carpet was ruined and he didn’t know what to do about it. Or that the rent was considered late on the 3rd, not the 4th until we were moving out and got dinged late fees. And way too nice to tell us he never intended to give us back a dime of our hefty deposit.

May there never be another landlord in my future. Amen.

“Honey, what are some semi-tragic things that have happened to us that I could turn into a funny post?” I asked The Spouse.

“Colorado. Colorado, Colorado, Colorado,” The Spouse intoned. With each “Colorado,” a submerged memory jetted out of my subconscious like a flying fish. With fangs. “Oh, yeah . . . .” I mused, wondering how I could possibly have forgotten those 15 months of tragic circumstances. “There is a ton of fodder from those months, isn’t there?” Because, one must admit, hard times plus passing time equals hard laughs (or so says Marie Osmond except she says it differently. Or it it better?)

It isn’t that we hated Colorado. Let me rephrase that. It isn’t that I hated Colorado. The problem was that The Spouse hated it because from the moment we crossed the border from California into the wide open territory of the midwest, The Spouse never had a solid night’s sleep. Not one. For 15 months. Of course, that was mostly due to all the Tragic Circumstances that had him up nights worrying over each T C like a dog with a festering bone.

Truly, there was much to worry about in Colorado. One of the main anxiety inducing factors in the beginning was finding a place to live. At first we lived in the basement of good friends who were kind enough to allow us and our baggage (mostly the emotional kind) to turn their house upside down for a few months. It was a few months too long. By the time The Spouse was gainfully employed and able to pay rent somewhere, we smelled like wet towels left in the washing machine for wayyyy too long. With a couple of fish thrown in.

In short, we had to get out and get out fast. We started looking around. The problem was, other than the basement we were currently occupying (in cramped squalor, might I add) we were accustomed to lots of room. A year or so prior, we sold our largish San Diego condo with no yard in favor of a house with a spacious front and back yard. After all the Big Guy, though only 8 or 9, was getting bigger every day and tended to run outside in a manic fit of temper, sans clothing, on a fairly regular basis. A yard of his own to run around in was pretty high on our list. Nevertheless, in spite of the difference between costs in California and Colorado it turns out that these differences were Not Much. Or, that is, Not Enough, since Pay For Time Spent Working was also Less. Much Less.

One thing that we had in our favor; our credit was squeaky clean. From the time I graduated from high school to right before the Big Guy was born (about seven years) I worked as a home mortgage loan processor. I had read too many credit reports and pursuant explanation letters as to Why We Had to File For Bankruptcy and Never Will Again Should Mercy, God and the Weather Be Willing. I knew how important it was to pay your bills on time, come sickness or high water.

The Spouse, meanwhile, worked as an executive for a credit reporting company. He was in charge of making sure their clients paid their bills so that he could write checks to the employees. He also knew how important it was to meet obligations. As a result, we were nerdy bill-paying geeks.

This bit of virtue came back to bite us in the behind when a very nice couple whose home we toured for potential renting decided that since my husband had worked for a credit reporting company, he must have expunged our record of any information that would make us look bad. I guess absolutely pure credit is a pretty rare thing (and might I add, our credit is no longer as white as the driven snow. High water happens). Of course, nothing could be lamer, er, further from the truth. Credit reporting companies are founded on the assumption that their information is true and accurate which is exactly why they are very careful to hire people who wouldn’t dream of doing anything so untrustworthy and dishonest.

Nevertheless, nothing we said could convince this couple that we were as credit-pure as we appeared. However, I tend to think the main reason we were denied that particular house had something to do with one of the two following reasons . . .

First, the wife was a dog lover so announcing my intention to keep our dog outside all winter won me no points. (In my defense, I am allergic to dogs and had no practical knowledge of snow except that when you play in it for a few hours, it gets cold. Also, dogs, unlike moi, have lots of fur to keep them warm. Right? As if.) Honestly, I thought the homeowner would be happy to learn the dog would be outside rather than scratching up her beautiful wood floor but I hadn’t been in the state long enough to know that Coloradoans worship animals almost as fervently as Californians worship the sun. In fact, she informed me the reason they were moving from that house (and subsequently renting it out) was because she was so upset from witnessing her neighbor beat his dog. That tells you something, but sadly, it told me too late.

On the other hand, walking out of the house to catch the Middle Child, who was, at the time, the Potty Training Baby, squat and pee right through her underwear onto the emerald green lawn might have had a lot to do with why we were turned down. You would think the fact we didn’t beat the child for her transgression might have won us a few points, but no. Rather, I suspect my not roundly scolding the child and properly punishing her right that instant was the main reason we were denied access to their lovely house. Apparently, in Colorado, dogs should be treated with kindness whereas children should not be spared the rod. Who knew living in California for thirty years could make one so ignorant? (Please don’t answer that, Nation-at-Large.)

Okay, so not so scary. However, this is merely the first in a series of events that grow scarier and scarier, sort of like a horror movie that starts out rather ordinary and then builds and builds to a horrific bloodfest. Only, no blood was split. At least, I don't think so . . . .most of the memories are still buried a bit deep . . . .