The high price of crack

Miguel is, by far, the best person I've had working for me. He just rode up on his bicycle one day, while I was yanking the enormous weeds from the front yard with both hands, and asked if he could help. He was wearing one of those orange, reflective vests, even though it was the middle of the afternoon. "I can help you with los weed-ays," he said, tearing one from the ground with one bare hand. "I strong. I fast. I can help you!" He pointed to me emphatically, then to the wagon he had tied to the back of his bicycle, which was full of rakes, shovels, picks, and other tools stuffed into a plastic trash can and tied down with rope.

Miguel wasn't the first person to stop by looking for work. The meth addicts and the crackheads (my neighbors) have all wanted a piece of the action since the beginning. But Miguel, I could tell, was different. He didn't gasp for air or struggle to look me in the eye. His eyes weren't bloodshot, nor did they bug out of his head like fried oysters, wet and crusty. He looked clean, and had all of his teeth, except for one, which had been replaced by a square of gold. He was off of his bike, pulling weed-ays from the ground like a machine, whipping them out by the roots. "I can do los weed-ays?" he asked. "Very good work for you!" I told him that I was sure he was a good worker, but that I couldn't afford to pay someone to weed my yard; I could do that myself. (I confess, however, that I've learned I'm much more inclined to pay someone to do something I don't particularly care to do. When it comes to fixing up the house, I'm into outsourcing. If I had the cash, this place would be done. Sure, I claim to be a do-it-yourselfer. But, really, I much prefer to be a pay-you-to-do-it-er. So much easier that way! It's like running a little corporation.)

I told Miguel I wouldn't pay him for the weeds, but that he could put up the wooden fence I'd bought months ago. Could he do that? Miguel did the fence and the weed-ays, cleaned my hideous backyard (littered with a decade's worth of dog shit, plastic action figures, crushed beer cans, and soggy cigarettes), and has been continually happy throughout. "Look, look!" he tells me, waving me over to show off his work. He takes the plastic level from his pocket, which is probably no longer than a foot, and holds it to the fence at every angle. "Look! It's level! I do good work for you! I work very, very fast." And it's true. I tell Miguel, in my broken Spanish (he, in turn, speaks to me in broken English), that he did a buen trabajo, muy rapido, y tienes mucho cuidado. "Siiiiiii," he groans, nodding his head. "Very good. Very careful. Good work for you!" I tell him that I am muy feliz, por que no puedo see the crackheads across the street any longer, now that the fence is up. "They used to stare at me whenever I washed the dishes," I told him. "They could see right through the kitchen window." I give Miguel the thumbs up, and a muchas gracias for his buen trabajo. "No more drogas," I tell him, and he winks. I've already pointed out most of my neighborhood drug dealers to Miguel, just so he's privy. They're always asking me for work, and, after hiring one of them months ago (when I'd first bought the house and didn't have any wits), I know their game. I don't even want them looking at my house, never mind welcome them onto my property and give them work. Miguel understands. "Ay, siii! I see them, ah, smoking the pipe! Pipe over there on the ground." He points to the neighbors driveway. "Si," I say. "Como se dice, ah, how do you say, smoking crack?" Miguel opens his mouth in shock. "Smoke-ah the crack?" He shakes his head. "Noooo." He clucks his tongue, tsk, tsk, and says, "Ah, that is horr-eeb-lay!" I agree, and Miguel goes back to busting the hideous concrete wall around my front yard.

Miguel noticed three Elm trees on the side of my house, where I've been keeping Pip, the ever-pooping puppy, that need to be cut down -- stat. They'd already grown into the roof when I bought the house, shoving their way through the gutter and to the sky, and the inspector told me that I should have them cut immediately. Likewise, Miguel warned that the roots would grow beneath my house, strangling pipes and bursting them with wrestling-strength grip. I agreed to pay Miguel extra to cut down the trees to prevent total disaster (they're growing right outside of my bathroom), and he proceeded to look for help to do it. It's a serious job, as the trees are big, and growing over my and my neighbor's houses. Disaster, although not imminent, isn't easily avoided: shattered windows, broken fences, dinged stucco, dead dogs... If one branch makes one false move, it could all be over.

Miguel interviewed a few people for the job, including the ice cream man who pushes his cart up and down the block, ringing a bell and screaming, "heladoooooooos!" at the top of his lungs. Everyone was asking too much ($600 to $3,000, to all of which Miguel said, "riduculo!"), except for the crackhead junkie who agreed to do it for $200. He and his woman knocked on my door the day prior, asking me if I wanted to buy paint that they'd clearly stolen from somewhere else. I told them I had plenty, before slamming the door. These are not neighbors you want to befriend. Actually, they're homeless, but their primary dealer lives in the house behind me (with his fucking mother, who walks to church every Sunday and offers a dainty wave as she strolls by, arm-in-arm with her elderly boyfriend). Miguel didn't ask me before he hooked up the deal, and although I was upset that he'd selected a strung-out crackhead and his whore (seriously) for help, I figured things would be cool. Miguel is a good guy and, as I understood it, they'd be helping him -- not doing the work themselves.

When I left that night for dinner with a friend, Miguel rushed over to the car with a last-minute thought: "No pay them," he said, pointing to me. "No give them money, you. I give them money. Okay?" I told him I wouldn't, that I understood their arrangement. After a lovely dinner, I returned home in darkness to find four crackheads in my yard: the two guys manning a chainsaw and spotlight, while their bitches smoked joints in my front yard. The dog wasn't even barking. What the fuck was going on?!

"Oh, hiii," the ladies said, as if we were old friends, as if I was about to invite them in for a frikkin' nightcap. The guy beckoned me over to the side yard to show me the trees. "See? No damage! No damage!" he practically screamed, pointing to the trees (which weren't completely cut down -- not even close). In the darkness, I heard another man beside me. It was my drug dealer neighbor, with a chainsaw in his hand. Suddenly, I was sandwiched between two crackhead, in the dark, and one of them was holding a chainsaw. This is not a situation I hoped to be in, ever, and especially after leaving NYC. It was like a wetta sandwich, on two slickes of crackhead. (Sounds delicious.) I couldn't see shit in the dark, so whether or not there was any damage, I couldn't tell. It was already after nine, and I told them they'd have to leave by nine thirty. "It'll only take five minutes," they said. "No problem."

My brother, who's been staying with me (thank god), told me that Roger was helping so he could get a deal that night -- the crackheads would get paid for the job, pay Roger, and get their fix. And to all, a good night. Crackheads, happily ever after. I recalled Miguel's warning not to pay them (which I had no intention of doing -- they're not working for me, but Miguel) and approached the two ladies who had made themselves at home on my front lawn. They were chain-smoking joints and cigarettes (who knows what else) and wearing heavy make-up, despite the summer heat. "I uh, I just want to make sure...I didn't want to interrupt the guys while they'r working, so I thought I'd tell you..." They stared at me, smiling too hard, as I tried to get the words out. They were pretty short, but I bet they were nasty fighters. "I want to make it clear that Miguel is going to pay you, not me. That was the deal, as I understand it." They nodded. "Oh, yeah. Of course," they said. "Sure." My brother had said they'd wanted me to call Miguel -- but he doesn't have a phone. I told them so. "He'll pay you tomorrow," I said. "That's the deal."

I left home for the movies, after I'd tossed them out of the yard at nine thirty, a little shaken up, but thinking they'd return in the morning, as promised. My brother called, not twenty minutes after I'd left, to report that they were back, begging for money, screeching for pity on my front porch. I asked him if I should call the cops, but he said he had it under control. Rex was being a big pussy, meanwhile. My brother called again later in the night (twice, I think?), saying they were back, begging, looking for me. He said I should stay away for the night. I was FUMING! The third time, I called the cops, who sent three squad cars (according to bro), and, if nothing else, the homeless, beggar crackheads noticed and left us alone for the night -- until this morning. They literally just showed up again, and I gave them a sweet piece of hell for disturbing our peace all night. "But we just wanna get paid for the work we did," they whined. I told them it wasn't finished -- not even close -- and that they're working for Miguel, not for me, and to take it up with him.

Seriously, this shit is going to make me want to start smoking crack. I don't want to escape reality, just the clutches of being a wetta in the ghetto. I'm renting/selling stat. I'm always asking myself if this endeavor is worth it's price. Sometimes, it feels too high.

More photos, more progress (bank acct extra-dry, like a martini)!

Progress!: New Photos

Since my last post, when I was dreaming of hacking off my hair and swinging from jungle vines like some Amazonian Jane, I've switched to fantasizing about moving back East. I've been thinking about this prospect for a few months, but hesitated to divulge b/c I don't want all y'all to get too excited, or make promises I can't keep. I've had a not-so-secret plan all along, though, which is to buy my NYC apt. with the money I make from the sale of my house. So, now the secret is out! Start spreadin' it.

I'm also realizing that I may be more of a renter than an owner. In an apt., I don't have to remember trash day or install a new water heater. I call the super (and, sometimes, the slum lord) and insist he get his reefer-smoking heine to my door, stat. It's simple. Owning a home has all kinds of caveats I'm unaccustomed to -- and that I dislike! Hell, I don't even like to clean. There was some writer...I forget who it was...who said that her house is always messy, and that's what she sacrifices to get her writing done. Amen, sister. I can't even see my desk, for all the dust and debris! I'm so disinclined to clean, in fact, that I actually leave the house to do my writing. (Which, lately, hasn't been working out, due to several unattractive coffee shop stalkers. See? In NYC, everyone minds their own blessed business! Unfriendliness isn't always bad.)

My brother is in town for a few weeks, so I'm trying to milk him for slave labor. He's reluctant, and likes to sleep 'til noon, but I'm persistent about putting the paintbrush in his capable hand. I want to get this place done this summer so that I can get closer to selling, even if that's a year (or more) away. More importantly, I'm intent on fixing it up to decrease the stress of it!

Tomorrow marks the start of summer vacation, but I'm already having nightmares about teaching next year. (Crazy? You fucking betcha. AK, I know, I know. I give you full permission to sock me across the noggin, right where it hurts. Knock some sense into me!) But the line-up sounds kinda fun: I'll be teaching TV production (about which I know absolutely nothing), speech and debate/mock trial, and newspaper/journalism. I'll still have duties as an evil administrator (split part-time w/ part-time teaching...which probably equals overtime), which I'm dreading. How did I get from the dark side to the even darker? (Wool! Over my eyes!)

In the meantime, before the madness begins, I'm making a concerted effort to enjoy my two months of sweet summa-time. I can't wait to drink beer and bbq veg-style in the backyard, once I've cordoned it off from the crackheads! When I do, you're all invited to the party. (And, yes, I must post pics!)

Life with the Yetis

I’m entertaining fantasies of chopping off my hair and living in a yurt, somewhere in the forest. No credit cards, no mortgage, no checkbook, no paper work, no driving, no crackhead neighbors. Just me and the dogs and the trees.

I hate my fucking job.

Damnit.

New Pics: Poplar Trim!

C'mon, you know you missed me.

It’s four o’clock in the morning and my mind is restless, but all my body wants to do is curl into the sheets and go back to sleep. Rex is hogging most of the bed. Pip is snoring. Just thought of going down the street to the all-night diner for some green chile-smothered eggs; sitting with the sketch-balls who frequent the place, which looks like it’s straight out of a smoke-filled 1960’s flick starring blonde waitresses donning bouffant hair-dos, long cigarettes dripping from their mouths into the food.

I’ve been on hiatus for too long. But I’ve got serious excuses. Before I get to those, I’ll tell you what happened last night.

I was on my way out, getting into my car, when one of the most prominent drug dealers in the neighborhood (the one who’s always wearing a track suit that looks like my grandma’s pajamas) approached.
“Hey, girl,” he said, crossing the street towards me with a beer. “Whatchoo doin? Where you goin’ this late?”
Shit.
“Nowhere,” I said. “Just to pick something up, then I’m coming right back.” Translation: not enough time for you to break into my house.
“Whatchoo doin’ with that there window?” he pointed to the nine-foot slider I have propped against the fence. I shrugged.
“Not sure yet,” I told him.
“What kinda music you listen to?” I knew then that this exchange was headed in a very bad direction.
“Um, a little bit of everything, I guess.” It’s best to be non-specific, I think, when you want to show disinterest.
“Damn right!” he said, taking a swig of his beer. “I walked by yo’ house one day and you was listenin’ to rap! Damn, girl, I was trippin’!”
I told him I was from Brooklyn…which is sort of true. Kind of.
“Is that guy you who comes ‘round here, is he yo’ man?” He meant the contractor, who I banished from the house about a month ago (story to follow).
“What guy?” I asked.
“That dude. With that big black dog? He always gettin’ dropped off by some fat chick?”
“No,” I said. “He’s not.”
“So you ever dated a black man before?”
“Several,” I said.
“You like it?” As in, do you like big, black cock, little white girl?
“They were nice men,” I said, getting the shivers. The truth is, they weren’t very nice men; their character wasn’t as firm as their members. Here, the drug dealer proceeded to drape his six-foot-four body, reeking of Tecate, over mine, and whisper,
“You’s a very fine female, you know.”
Um, thanks? “You’s gots a man?” I almost told him I was a lesbian, but I didn’t want to cause undue excitement. So, I lied and said, yes, I do. And he has a gun and a dog and has killed a man with his bare hands in my honor. So, pretty please, go back to your boys and your beer. Don’t get your ‘do rag in a twist.

So, what’s happened? Where have I been? Why did I banish the contractor? I’ll try to make this saga short.

I’d been feeling frustrated by the contractor for a long time. I felt as though he wasn’t doing shit around my house – at least, no more than making idle messes and leaving them for me to pick up. He’d start something, but never finish it. There were semi-demolished structures throughout the house, which I worried jeopardized the building’s integrity and put me at risk for a citation by the health dept. I worried the house would be condemned if the wrong person were to find out I was living in it. I felt like I was being taken advantage of, and that my concerns, which I voiced very reasonably (time after time), were falling on deaf (and possibly retarded…definitely very stoned) ears. When I’d raise a concern, he’d condescend to me like I was a stupid girl-child who didn’t know shit about construction. And maybe I don’t, but I do have common sense. The guy was a serious stoner, which I didn’t have a major issue with, except for the fact that we live a mere block away from an elementary school. It’s not the kind of neighborhood where anyone’s likely to get busted for pot, but it was still a liability. Moreover, he was clumsy and disrespectful, and constantly complaining. Totatlly irresponsible (i.e. setting off the alarm and sending the cops to my house; losing his keys on a daily basis; leaving his enormous, aggressive dog alone in his room w/o food or water for days at a time; asking me to baby sit his nieces when he’d already agreed to do it; dumping refuse from another job in my yard; breaking shit all the time…)

Worse, he had my future planned for the next ten to twenty years: we were going to go into business together, fix up houses, and get rich. Now, that idea’s all well and good, except for a few key points: 1) He has nothing to bring to the business (his work is sloppy, he’s unmotivated, and totally broke), and 2) I didn’t move here to become a real estate mogul or strike it rich. I came here to write and live simply. To be happy. That’s all. His incessant jive about “when we do our next house,” and on and on, set my jaw off-kilter and stirred panic in my chest. He made me feel claustrophobic.

During what may have been one of the hardest weeks of my life (esp. work-wise), and while I was sick (suffering bronchitis, which morphed into pneumonia), the contractor’s dog nearly killed Rex. He’d left the dog in his bedroom (sans sustenance, of course) for about three days. I’d been taking care of it, as always: I fed the dog (with MY dog food, because he never bought any and would just use mine when and if he did feed the dog), let it outside, and gave it water and affection. The dog had been really aggressive with Rex in the past, and had attacked him on several occasions. I’d told the contractor that this couldn’t happen any more – that the next time, something awful could happen. And it did.

My neighbors, three Mexican men and the nice guy from next door, had to beat the dog off of Rex with a shovel. Trying to break up a dog fight – two snarling, biting, growling beasts trying to kill one another with their gleaming teeth and hundred-pound bodies – is a terrifying thing. Before the guys came running (and thank GOD they did), I was screaming like a wretch and trying to kick the dogs apart with my foot (as I’d seen the contractor do previously, after he’d encouraged the dogs to fight by giving all of his attention to Rex…the idiot). His dog didn’t suffer a scratch. Rex, however, could barely walk. The contractor came home for no more than a minute to pick something up (and steal some of my tools) and told me I was making a big deal out of nothing (meanwhile, Rex unable to move, bleeding profusely from multiple puncture wounds, clearly in very, very bad shape…and me, with a painful puncture wound on my ankle, from where his dog had bitten me…I was in bad pain from just one bite, and couldn’t imagine how much pain Rex was feeling). The fucking asshole took off and disappeared for three days. I tried calling him, but to no avail.

Rex’s vet bill cost over $600. My medical care was expensive, too, and both of us were on serious drugs for a few weeks. That weekend, I got pneumonia. I lost my voice. Fever of 102. Neither one of us could walk. At the hospital, I had to report the bite. At the vet, I had to report the attack. The dog, I’m sure, doesn’t have its rabies vacc, nor is it neutered or licensed (all against the law). For the contractor, this spells deep doggie doo-doo.

The contractor remained MIA. I didn’t see or hear from him for five days.

I deliberated: was this situation working out? No. Was it more trouble than it was worth? Absolutely. On the unanimous advice of numerous friends, I threw the bastard out. I put all of his shit in the yard and called his mom, because I knew where she worked, and she was the only one I could get a hold of. The contractor stole expensive tools from me. I cursed him out on the phone, letting loose my inner banshee. I don’t remember the last time I screamed like that. Maybe since I was a girl.

The guy is seriously delusional. He lives in a world where everything’s all right, all the time. He’s the kind of guy who gets a bill and shrugs, throws it in the fire and sparks up a joint. (In retrospect, I wonder now if he was schizo. Seriously.) I don’t know who was more dangerous, the guy or his dog.

More drama: While I was bed-ridden with pneumonia, there were constant visits to the house by gruff police officers, looking for the contractor and his dog. One of them threatened me, and accused me of covering for the guy. I told him, as politely as possible with my squeaky pneumonia voice, that if he didn’t rescind his threat and apologize, that he could get the fuck off of my porch. The next police officer was ever the gentleman. He took a picture of the puncture wound on my obscenely hairy leg, and despite the fact that I looked like a white trash wretch out of COPS, called several times to check up on me – and asked me out. I was so caught off guard, I actually agreed. Me? And a COP? Suffice it to say, my intuition, as ever, was dead-on: like most of the police officers I’ve ever met (and, mind you, I’m always on the straight-and-narrow), he was a total, absolute jackass. Skeeve. Major, major skeeve. Now, he’s stalking me. I’ve seen him drive by my house a bunch of times, despite his telling me, over drinks, that he’s “never in the neighborhood” I live in. He tried to impress me with his megabucks, which he makes investing in real estate. “I’m not just a dogcatcher, baby,” he said. And he actually fucking winked. I had to stifle the urge to run. No, I should have said. But you ARE a TOTAL dickhead.

I found a new contractor right away, who I’m paying hourly (more than twice the money I make) and who doesn’t live in my house (amen!). He loves to bitch and moan, and he’s definitely an odd duck, but he does good work, and I kinda like the guy for his quirks. Most people, I’m guessing, wouldn’t put up with his oddities, but his work is so meticulous – and I really don’t mind. He’s always complaining about shit that the old contractor did sloppily. So, it wasn’t just my ignorant suspicion: the guy was a hack. He made more work, and cost me more money, than hiring someone would have. At least, if I had, things would have gotten done.

Finally, my house is REALLY coming together. The new front door and all of the windows are installed. Most are trimmed in that beautiful poplar. My cabinets arrived just a few hours ago: 37 different pieces for me to assemble. I have all new kitchen appliances; just using the ‘fridge for now. More drywall up, and hired another stoner (ugh, so many out here) to fix the stucco on the outside of the house. I promise to post pictures very soon. The house is actually beginning to look pretty cute. I’ve got flowers in the front yard, a Chinese lantern on the porch, and bushes with purple blossoms flowering like mad. Lilacs, I think, and the scent wafts into the house with the breeze.

Still don’t know what I’m going to do with this place, or what I’m going to do once the summer’s up. Trying not to get too far ahead of myself with plans, but my intention over the summer is to finish the book, for chrissake, and test my full-time freelancing career, which I hope to kick-off SOON. Like, as in, next school year. This is me: http://therenegadewriter.com/?p=273 Also, scored another assignment for the women’s glossy (hooray!), as my editor was pleased with my last assignment. More of my stuff for the local rag I love so much at www.alibi.com.

The drama has a happy ending: I got a great reason to kick the contractor to the curb, which I’d been lusting to do, and Rex and I are both breathing and walking and sturdy again. At last, the house is shaping up. It’s also made me ask a big question of myself: is it worth it? As for this house, I don’t know yet. It’s all a great, big gamble.

photo extravaganzaaaaaaaah!

addendum to scoring crack...photos

Scoring Crack in Iraq

Just as I began to twitch with worry, my application for a fixed, super-low rate home equity loan was approved. I celebrated with a swig of cheap, Mexican beer and fell promptly asleep. All that’s left to do is sign on the dotted line. The bank didn’t even do an appraisal! I’m psyched. Now I can stop fretting and, finally, buy a new ‘fridge. The old one is freezing my veggies, and that’s where I draw the line. I love me some veggies, damnit.

I was hesitant to follow through with the loan application, because I’m frightened by the prospect of paying so much interest – almost as much money as I’m borrowing. But, the truth is, I won’t need twenty years to pay it off (and I made certain there’s no penalty for early payment). If I make a decent profit on this place, it won’t be an issue. I consulted my dad, a money mastermind, for advice, and he said that homeowner’s debt is “good” debt, and that I should go ahead. Getting approval from the man who wouldn’t let us order drinks with our dinners out (tap water for everyone, waiter!) because it was “too expensive” is very assuring.

Neighborhood activity has been stirring with the warmth of spring. In winter, the crackheads hibernate like grizzly bears. Or like vampires, hiding from the light. On warmer nights, they’re out in packs, pulling up to dealers’ houses, blaring horns and Spanish pop music, and, sometimes, dancing in their front yards.

My favorite crackhead, L., who is also the tiniest, most toothless woman I’ve ever known, gave me news that she’s leaving the ‘hood for “something better”: Iraq.

Something better? I kept my thoughts to myself, gave her a hug, and wished her well. She said she’d send postcards. This woman is, like, fifty-something years old – and a bipolar crackhead. She just got out of the psych ward after being picked up at home in an ambulance and locked up in a rubber room. And our country’s sending her to WAR?! WTF?! Wrong on so many levels. Later, I wondered, ‘How’s she going to score crack in Iraq?’ I wonder if she’s worried, too. (Scary: she was EXCITED; can’t wait to go.)

Here’s an old post that I started writing, but never published:

I woke this morning (late, after a debaucherous evening of sledging, beer, and some herbal remedies) to discover that the contractor had demolished that horrible wall between the kitchen and the laundry/back entry room. It looks SO much better – no longer like it’s home to hobbits who use 4-foot high doorways and have the shoulder span of Ooompa Loompas. Now, it’s big and open and modern (but with those old-school charms intact). Also, got my windows delivered for a deal price (they look sweet, but still have to install ‘em). More drywall up in the kitchen. Finally bought a shop-vac to suck up the dust. So much better!

I went to town wielding the contractor’s nail gun…and I’m starting to dig firearms! In this neighborhood, I figure it won’t hurt if people think I’m armed.

Photos (descriptions in no particular order):

Late-night construction, w/ beer in-hand. (Perfect combo: booze and power tools. When else do I get to drink on the job?)

A newspaper clipping (photo of bride) we found behind some old trim. In kitchen, discovered 1961 Beatles trading card…which we later discovered is absolutely worthless.

In kitchen/dining rooms: See the walls we knocked out? And the old exterior wood? Yeah, my house had a wood exterior, back in the day. Screw the stucco! (I hate stucco!)

A few photos of me w/ the sledgehammer…and the nail gun. I confess: power tools make me feel, well, powerful! (Idea: maybe I could make a calendar of these photos, “Powertool Princess 2008?” And make some bank to pay off the loan?! But, I am NOT wearing a bikini.)

Also, the saving grace: our shop vac!

Two seconds later...

...I found an apprentice to work with my contractor. Kickass!

Bitch Sesh

I admit to feeling anxiety over all of this remodeling. Living in a construction zone is really starting to get under my skin -- but ony because we have an agreed-upon deadline, and because the contractor is ever-optimistic about finishing, but doesn't actually finish. (A classic contractor tale, no?) I know it will get done eventually, but what's really driving me nuts is that I don't have a kitchen. Everything's still hooked up, but I'm truly sick of preparing my food amidst such squalor. And meeting that March first deadline? Show me a miracle. I guess I'm also frustrated b/c there's so little of this stuff that I can do on my own. It's not that I wouldn't -- I can't. It's physically impossible, or I don't know how. I know I have to either let go my frustration or hire someone to help (I'm looking). Moreover, I hate feeling so whiny. The good news is that my house is worth almost $160K now. Schweeeet!

Photos:

Bullet holes through the stop sign on the corner, at sunset (see the loft in the background! making progress); dark view into my very messy office/desk; nearby church; Rex at park w/ a crazy look in his eye; painting the lv. room...which is STILL not finished, for f's sake.

Simply photos...for now

Just photos for now. Too exhausted to update! Will write soon.

Sweet smell of summer (success)? And: God bless A-Mexica!

Since the weather's turned warm, I've been more focused on fixing up the house -- and, possibly, others. I think I'm afflicted with that Seasonal Affective Disorder...or, maybe I just don't get enough vitamin D. All I know is this: since it's been seventy degrees, I've been a million times more motivated, productive, and blonde-chick-chipper.

The contractor and I are talking about going into business, which I think, prospectively, has serious potential. There aren't many people who can live like this (in total construction squalor, financial uncertainty, and detachment), but, like him, I live for this kind of life. I love it more than any 9-5 day job, or any kind of stability I can imagine. It's not boring, I'm my own boss, and I'm doing stuff I like: cruising ReStore for cool, cheap salvage materials (bought a Pella 3-panel wooden, sliding French door today for $150 -- imagine! It probably cost well over $1K, retail. And it's fucking gorgeous -- and HUGE. Nearly 8ft wide, I think), making executive decisions, playing with numbers, figuring stuff out, and making ugly crap appealing; generally, creating. I revel in having so few material goods, so little in the way of roots, so little to bog me down. It's liberating. And, I hope, a sustainable, profitable lifestyle.

I realized today that all of this has been a long time coming: I have a consistent history of making something out of nothing, as far as salvaging and refurbishing goes. In Brooklyn, I was always bringing junk up from the basement garbage pile to refinish or reuse. And, for years, I've been scoping out real estate, namely in NYC and NM, and have wanted to prettify some ramshackle hovel; make it habitable -- and make a pretty penny, too. Now, I've got one hell of an ugly house -- and things are really starting to come together. I've hired a friend of the contractor's to help us out, which will make things move quickly. They're building the kitchen cabinets (I'm paying the friend in cheap beer!), and this wknd, will install the front door (gorgeous! retailed for almost $7K...I got it for a fraction of that, new, b/c it was a display). We're planning major demolition in the kitchen for Friday - Sunday: ripping out all of the walls (which are totally, permanently destroyed from paneling and painted wallpaper) and replacing them with insulation and fresh drywall. We may have time to paint, too, if the drywall mud dries and sets in time. I hope, too, that we can tackle the living room (and maybe the dining room) soon, as the walls are pretty much finished. It's the little stuff (electrical outlets, random holes, etc.) that slows us down. I'm psyched to start making things PRETTY. And to start working outside in this outrageous weather.

The contractor and I talked about maybe doing this from city to city...chasing the "hot" real estate zones, turning a shack into a chateau (w/ a "green" bent), and making bank -- continually. I'm down, if this place works out. And I have faith it will. I think this might be the perfect solution to my job-hopping, nomadic, self-steering nature: writing, traveling, and remodeling. If I make enough bank off of this place, I can hire some Mexicans to help, next time 'round. God bless aMexica!

Today: filled out a bunch of paperwork so that I can pick up the new windows and begin installing; in ReStore, spent a few hours searching for perfect door (found it!); placed order at HD for a bajillion bucks, for pick up on Friday; discovered that Pip's cataracts have gone full-throttle...poor old guy has gone blind in one eye, looks like. Made me think about getting old and not wasting my life investing in worthless, dead-end endeavors. (At a meeting this morning, one of my bosses, w/ whom I'm pretty close, told me that the last person in her position *literally* worked himself to *death.* He was 28 yrs old, and so frantic, harried, and busy w/ work, he didn't take care of himself. He got an infection, never went to the doc, kept working, and fucking DIED. Hello. Lesson learned. Busting your ass to no end for some fat,rich fuckhead in a leather chair, or some corrupt federal system ? No way.) Yesterday: replaced most of the light bulbs in the house w/ energy-saving, economical, compact fluorescent light bulbs. Tomorrow: will order eco-friendly bamboo countertop for kitchen. Psyched!

Interesting factoids:

http://www.zillow.com/local/New%20Mexico (state)

http://www.zillow.com/local/New%20Mexico/Bernalillo (county)

Zestimation: Yuppie Central

According to Zillow.com, the most rockin' real estate site I've seen yet, my house has increased in value by over $7K in the last THIRTY days. (The "zestimated" value is almost a full third more than I paid.) Is that even possible? All I've done, for the most part, is demolition. (Which my contractor realizes is my favorite part of the renovation process. Yesterday, as I was sledging the kitchen cabinets from the wall, he said, "You sure like that sledgehammer, don'tcha, Kate?" Brings out my destructive side...) Are the property values skyrocketing THAT quickly?!? I guess this means the yuppies are moving in - fast. (Proof: on the next block over, there was a kid's stroller parked on the porch, and a hybrid in the driveway. If that's not evidence, I don't know what's more damning.) How soon will it be before the yuppies outnumber the crackheads?! Not that I'm crying about the yuppies. I am one...kinda, sorta...though I'd rather not be. But I'm continually broke, don't have a trust fund, and don't get more than five dollars from my grandma in my birthday card (and those stopped coming years ago).

I'm growing more antsy about seeing at least one room FINISHED. It hasn't happened yet, and although I feel REALLY fortunate to have found an extremely cool contractor/roommate, I'm itching with impatience, especially now that I need to get a loan to finance the rest of the reno. Throughout, he's encouraged me to get the shiniest of bling -- top of the line, go all out, crazy expensive stuff. But the fact remains: this neighborhood is still uber-ghetto, regardless of the yuppie influx. I'm not going to make more than $40K profit if I sell soon and keep spending so much on building materials. And that's a rosy estimate. So, I think I need to be more realistic about my expectations for this house...maybe not get so ambitious; get a plan (stop wavering!) and stick to it. And stop listening to my contractor. Although his help has been invaluable, I'm the one with the history of financial responsibility and savvy. He, on the other hand, is totally broke. That said, I should listen to my gut -- not his supposedly sage recommendations.

Update: I've been aggressive with the sledgehammer, demolishing the kitchen cabinets (found the nastiest roach nests I've EVER seen...they actually SMELLED bad. YUCK.); chipping away the remaining linoleum on the kitchen floor (readying it for saltillo!); tearing the wood panels from the dining room wall, including the stick-on square mirrors (1970's disco fabulous), tearing out the lowered ceiling in the dining room, and patching the stucco in the lv. and dining rooms. My windows are ready for pick-up (don't have the money to pay the other half, BUT windows man, my favorite, says that I don't have to pay for ninety days after pick-up...debating as to whether or not I should pay to have them installed, or do it myself, w/ the contractor). CAN'T WAIT until the kitchen looks decent, and to start GARDENING! It was SEVENTY degrees today, and wickedly beautiful.

Meanwhile, the bills are kicking my butt. The last heating/electric bill was nearly $250, and the latest water bill is over fifty bucks. All of my credit cards are in deep freeze...literally.

Would you like fries with that? Gotta love those Crackheads.

My neighbors are absolutely, undoubtedly, indubitably on crack. And it’s actually kind of hilarious. I told Lupe today that she looked like a beauty queen after she dyed her hair tomato red, and she pointed to her missing row of teeth. “Yeah,” she said. “A toothless one!” And then she started crying. I held her hand and stroked her ultra-red hair until she stopped sniffling. How could you not be sympathetic to a crying crackhead? Poor woman.

As I was coming home last weekend, I discovered an unpleasant surprise in my driveway: an emaciated crackhead. (Stumbling, with shopping bag, in the sand. I had to pull in really carefully, so as not to mow her over.) The contractor says that this should be the title of my next book: There’s a Crackhead in my Driveway. Has a certain ring to it, I think. Kind of a Babs E. expose, keeping in line with my other projects.

My other favorite crackhead development?: The drive-thru McCracky Meal. All day and all night, horns beep, blaring for crack. And the crackheads get roadside service. The dealer pulls up, curbside, like a McD’s drive thru, good are exchanged…and there you have it -- a McCracky Meal special. Beep, beep. Where’s my crack, bitch?

That said, I had an alarm system installed, which is pretty worthless, except it may deter a break in – along w/ my scary-looking dogs (who, by the way, terrify the crackheads…one of them practically fell off of the sidewalk after Blue started barking ferociously).

The contractor and I have a deal: The house will be in reasonable shape by March 1st, so that I can get a HELOC to pay off my Home Depot debt. The place is a total construction zone at present (sawdust, nails, tools spilled on the floor), but it’s coming together. And we’re finding cool relics of the past – newspaper clippings, photos, and ticket stubs from the 1940’s. Fucking cool!

Livin' la vida buena

Imagine my glee this morning upon finding the high school parking lot EMPTY. I’d woken up at 6:30, snoozed until 7, then rushed around like a maniac trying to make it to work on time. (Inevitably, I was late. My manana attitude didn’t prevail, since my boss has insisted I get to school by 8am, which is still way later than everybody else, but super-early for me.) It was my first day back at work after a LONG vacation, and this morning proved to me precisely why I must find a way to work for myself: feeling harried and stressed from the moment my feet hit the cold floor; no time for coffee, walking the dogs (we run, like retards, around the block); reading the news. I don’t even swipe on some mascara (make-up in the morning? No way). I’m tired of eating my breakfast out of a Tupperware. Fucking Tupperware.

My gleeful discovery? School was cancelled – and is, possibly, all week. (The janitors, when I asked them if school was closed: "Don't you watch TV, lady? It's been all over the news." Me: "I don't have a TV." Foiled again!) It’s been almost a week since the last snowfall (it’s a beautiful, sun-bright, New Mexico morning), yet the city deemed the roads too dangerous for school to reopen. Outrageous! (And TOTALLY wonderful.) As in kid in coastal MA, school was on during the worst of Nor’ Easters. In Albuquerque, a few flakes and people hole up with hot chocolate and pinon fires. (When I walk the dogs at night, my hair ends up smelling like firewood, which I love.)

I think I’m happier now, as an adult, to discover that school is cancelled than I ever was as a kid. (Not that I liked school. For the most part, I didn’t – despite my dorkiness.) And now I won’t take the extra time off for granted, as I tend to when I have extended vacation time. Today: maybe a snowshoe hike w/ Rex in the Sandias (AWESOME, esp. covered in snow), finally finishing that Mother Jones piece (slacking and obsessing, alternately), maybe getting back to my ms, catch-up emails (I know, I owe you!), and some work on the house.

It’s hard to believe, but today marks a year I’ve lived in New Mexico. It feels like forever that I’ve been here, in a sense…but in a way that feels really good. My NYC life feels really far away, and it’s hard to imagine that I lived in such a different way for so long. It’s funny, too, that I never meant to stay here. For now -- at least, for the next twelve months, I can’t imagine leaving (except to travel, of course). “New Mexican” doesn’t sound quite as illustrious as “New Yorker,” nor does it have the cache. Nevertheless, it’s a pretty sweet life…VIDA BUENA!

‘Til manana,
KT
Addendum:
Another week off!:
"--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Albuquerque Public Schools News Release
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Subject : Albuquerque Public Schools Will Be Closed Thursday and Friday
Author : Joseph Escobedo
Posted Date : 2007/01/03

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Albuquerque] – Albuquerque Public Schools will be closed Thursday and Friday (Jan. 4 and 5, 2007) because road conditions have not improved and there is still a great amount of snow that must be cleared from school grounds.
“We were hit hard with record amounts of snow fall and have been working since the storm hit to get our schools ready,” said APS Superintendent Dr. Elizabeth Everitt. “Currently we have more than 200 APS maintenance personnel, about a dozen contractors, dozens of parent and community volunteers all working on removing snow at our schools.”
All after-school activities will be canceled until Monday, Jan. 8.
Albuquerque Public School bus contractors told administrators today that the road conditions are not safe for them to be out transporting students to school.
“Our main concern is getting the students to school safely and we hope that these two days will allow time for the snow to clear on the city streets,” added Everitt.
About 38,000 students are transported to school everyday by APS bus contractors.
APS administrative offices will be open as scheduled. Employees can take up to two hours to get into work, if needed, but if any employee feels that it is not safe to drive to work they may take 8 hours of personal or annual leave. Principals, teachers and other school staff do not have to report to work on Thursday and Friday.
“Custodians are being asked to help get schools ready for Monday,” Everitt said. “We thank the community for their support in this unprecedented storm for Albuquerque and the entire state.”
Every child has a right to a quality public education and APS is committed to providing that education. For more information about Albuquerque Public Schools visit www.aps.edu."

Quickie...

This will be brief, and a digression from the Sledge, but I MUST divulge:

I just got home from yoga, and I'm left not with a sense of solace and wholeness, but with snippets of the hysterical conversation I heard in the women's room.

Why do yoga people have to be so predictable?

So, I'm toweling off my hair and pulling on my jeans, inch by inch over sticky legs, when I overhear two women talking about karma, past lives, and -- I kid you not -- His Holiness, the Dalai Lama. Now, I'm not one to knock any of these things. I don't rule them out (not that I ascribe to any of them, either...but that's my religion: the mystery of it all. My prayer: who knows?), and I still love Shirley MacLaine. But the WAY they were talking...ugh! Totally esoteric and fluffy, like, "Ohhhh, you'll just LOVE it...it's soooo AMAAAAAAAAAAZING, your soul is just like, ohmygod..."

I'm sorry, but super-barf, girls.

My favorite part of the conversation? Afterward, when one of the chicks said, "My name is Marla." Pause here while she steps into her thong (probably made of breathable hemp). "But you can call me Mars." It was like an interplanetary yoga exchange btwn. Mars and her litte yogini suns. I love the yoga, but, man, get real!

Along similar lines, my contractor thinks I'm a hippie, which I find kind of hilarious, considering my black-clad past spent in swank Manhattan martini bars. People can change. Cheers, baby.

Also, because this hippie hates working for the man (and must return to work tomorrow after a LONG vacation), I've been thinking: if all goes well with renovating (and, eventually, selling) this house, why not make a habit of it? I need constant change (otherwise, I'm deadly bored...and v. quickly), love projects, and know that I need to work for myself. Even with a piece-of-cake job, I'm doomed to misery if I'm doing something for which I don't give a damn. (If I sell this house even at a marginal profit, I'll make TWICE my annual salary. How's that for apples?) I'm trying to get the freelancing off the ground (running in the grass, for now, at least), but if I can make some megabucks renovating homes, why not? It might be fun. It's been good so far, however stressful on my bank account (and brain). But, knowing it will pay off (faith!) is exciting. I like the impermanence of it. Maybe I'll live here for a few years...maybe not. I can do whatever I please; name myself Saturn, move to Kentucky, and start singing back-up for a bluegrass band. For now, though, still taking a whack at this place...still sledgin'.

I'll leave you w/ some photos of my trip to the Northern/central Cal coast:
Elephant Seals on the beach
Elephant seal pup
Santa smokin' up in Big Sur

good news

According to a report by CNN:

Albuquerque Real Estate
Projected price change, 2007: up 5.9%
Rank, Regional (ALL of the west, inc. CA, pac nw, SW...): 1st (yeah, baby)
Median home price: $180K

Installed French doors in my bedroom today...which look totally AWESOME.

Happy New Year to all!
xo
KT

A very ghetto x-mas

I've been AWOL for a while now, but that doesn't mean I've been slacking on the sledge. Au contraire. In the interim, there've been at least six trips to Home Depot, and six thousand dollars (probably much more) spent on supplies and building materials. I've also acquired a live-in contractor. Maybe it started as a crazy idea, to find a live-in contractor via CraigsList (list of all lists!), but, my, my, it was BRILLIANT. Not only is the guy pretty cool, he has a sweet, scary-looking dog (Rex's latest gay lover). He's pretty easy to live with, not a sketchball, and, most importantly, he knows what he's doing. I've never been a woman to swoon over guys with powertools, but now I'm enlightened. Not that I'm swooning. (Sorry kids, not at all.) I just see the value in having someone on-hand to fix things you can't easily figure out. (I've had my bed on milk crates for the last six months b/c the frame was broken...and this dude fixed it in five minutes! What's so bad about that?)

I didn't realize how hard it is to do something as seemingly simple as selecting a faucet or lighting fixture until I found myself staring at them. THOUSANDS of them! The contractor, who has seen and remodeled hundreds of re-sells, is like a re-do guru. Forget Martha Stewart and those TLC people. I've realized, over the course of making these plans and buying this stuff, that if I can't even pick out a fixture (it's like staring at a menu with too many choices), there's no way I could've done this remodel myself. (As ever, in over my head...then, by magic, in the clear.) I feel really fortunate. And I'm psyched to see it come to fruition!

The master plan:
Get the place ready for a re-appraisal so that I can get a home equity loan (HELOC) (right now, there's so little equity, I'd be a fool to apply). This includes re-doing:
Kitchen, living and dining rooms, and two of the bedrooms. Also, install the windows, for which I paid cold, hard cash. (Ouch.)
With the HELOC, I can pay off the supplies I've charged thus far AND remodel the back bedroom, bathroom, and add ANOTHER bathroom, which will be exculsive to the back bedroom (a room to rent, w/ private entrance from garden). By the summer, I should have the front and back lawns xeriscaped. Vision: French doors from kitchen lead to back garden patio (fenced, private...many mornings of coffee and the NYT w/ dogs at my feet...heavenly), which will be very GREEN and include a sauna...and maybe a hot tub, too, if I feel really extravagant. I plan on living in the place for at least a few years before I can re-sell, so I want it to be NICE (and to include those features that rich people can't resist).

Bought poplar to trim ALL rooms and add lighted crown moulding to cieling in living (and maybe dining) room.

In the living room: built-in bookshelves on either side of the chimney (will install wood stove), refinish wood floor, bought new front door and door to hide furnace, knock out part of wall btw. liv/din. rms (add ballustrade)= gorgeous.

In kitchen: Laundry room (pretty big) becomes a part of the kitchen; door in laundry room disappears, thus making French doors (from kitch to back patio) main back entry. Hide laundry stuff w/ a closet; add pantry, new cabinets, new counters/countertops (custom butcher block mixed w/ sandy-colored slate); saltillo tile on the floor (also in dining); breakfast nook btw. dining and kitchen (requires removing a wall).

Serious undertakings! But I'm psyched. Now that we have all of the materials, it's really going to start coming together. I spent an entire day hunched over the kitchen floor, chipping away at the layers of ancient linoleum, all the way down to the concrete. It's still not entirely done, but it's close! It's going to be slow, I realize, but, well worth it, I think. Like anything else, I've got to suffer a little before I can eat my cake. (Speaking of which, I'm afraid I'm getting scurvy from eating so many xmas goodies.)

It's been nearly a year now that I've lived in NM (I drove out after Xmas last year, and arrived Jan. 3), and though I never meant to stay, it feels exactly right that I did. I can't imagine going back to NYC...not now, anyway. I couldn't take the hustle-bustle, not any more! (I don't know if I could've withstood another year...I'd be bald from too much stress, fat from all the drinking, and terminally insomniac.)

It's SO flippin' BEAUTIFUL here. We're in the midst of a major snow storm, and the entire city is blanketed in this pristine white crust. Coupled with that electric sunset? Outrageous. It never tires. Even the ghetto looks stunning, covered in snow. This was Rex's first encounter with the stuff, and he went nuts. We went for a run in the snow today, and he went loping through the woods, snarfing up the snow like a coke fiend. Totally adorable. At the park, he chased after kids on sleds, bounding in front of them as they torpedoed down the hill, then issuing drooly kisses as the kids lay face-up in the snow. Most succumbed in half-terror, half-glee. Who could resist?