Fapo

I didn't name this blog FAPO for nothing.

Inspired by Snapped Shot.

Well it’s official. According to my real estate broker this is the longest inspection in her career of thirty-five years.

Aren’t we the lucky ones?

We are on our fourth week of inspections and it turns out that we have radon in our well water. This isn’t really a show stopper since there are ways of fixing it. Apparently the off-the-shelf solution costs about four thousand dollars.

Radon is one of those things that are a wild card and are completely unpredictable. If the buyers canceled the sale and moved onto the next house, there is no guarantee that they won’t run into the same problem. Given the degree of inspections they were willing to do, our real estate broker thinks this is a done deal.

I’m holding my breath.

While we aren’t going to contest this, the whole thing is a crock.

Radon in water is counted in parts per million, and 5000 is considered the safe limit by two New England states, while two other states set the limit to 10000. No one knows why. New Hampshire is sort of fuzzy on the matter and doesn't offer a hard figure. The way radon in the water affects health is by getting into the breathable air via running water, such as when you are taking a shower.

According to some expert site, a 10000 parts per million creates 1 part per million in the air of a household, but 4 parts per million is the threshold for when the air in the house is considered not safe.

Does the arithmetic make sense to you? It doesn’t to me. If radon exposure from water is caused by released in the air, and 4 parts per million is the tipping point, and if each 10000 parts per million contribute to 1 part per million in the air, why is 5000 parts per million considered at risk?

Do I fucking care?

No.

My guess is that the buyers will pocket the four thousand dollars, live with the risks, and enjoy a cheap holiday in Vegas. Time to go down to the shop and adjust those stools.

I wonder if Melanie Phillips wraps fish with such dreck. This is from the London Times.

Nowhere can inequality be so devastatingly stark as in a well-resourced British hospital where a well-fed patient, preparing to have her varicose veins removed, complains to an Iraqi doctor whose medic brother was killed for treating bomb victims back home; or a Malawian nurse whose young child died of an easily preventable disease; or a Zambian whose life expectancy at home would be lower then the age of the woman in the hospital bed – where she complains to these people treating her that the food sucks or she hasn’t got enough pillows or painkillers.

No, murder is never excusable, and often impossible to understand. But resentment; even hatred; some burning anger for a fanatic to build on? Oh yes. Surely we can stretch ourselves to understand that.

Get that?

Alice Miles thinks its easy to understand why a doctor can morph into a terrorist.

Does this idiot have a clue? Let's get this straight. Because some sick, potentially dieing patient is crying out for relief from pain, we need to relate to the resentment of someone who is perfectly healthy, living in the first world, and is being well paid to take care of patients?

When was the last time you heard of a Zambian or Malawian terrorist? I didn't think so. Perchance could it be because these places are in the southern area of Africa which are dominated by Christianity?

The only thing that is being stretched are the litany of excuses of why radical Islam is not the driving force of incessant terrorism.

The Fourth is my favorite holiday of the year. I love the hot weather, the local parades, visiting with friends and family. Sometimes I stay up in New Hampshire with my girls for the Fourth, other times I go down to the Cape and spend time with B2 and her extended family. B2’s family is larger than mine and not spread out geographically, so I fell into their traditions and family outings. They have their quirks, but they are a great family.

But yesterday was different. B2 avoided asking me to come down to the Cape, and I would have declined if she had made an offer. Her depression is taking its toll in her ability to be civil. I try to stay out of her line of fire.

So yesterday was brutal. It was the first holiday where things where decidedly not normal because of the state of my relationship with B2, and I was walking around the house alone like zombie. Tenacious was off partying with his friends; Adie was off with her cronies. JayWon is in Pennsylvania. JayToo is down at the Cape. Perfecto is doing research in school.

The physical absence of my kids and B2 was palpable. Because the house is for sale, it is in pristine condition and is simply a joy to walk through. The deep tall woods that encompass the house make this one of the most serene and majestic times of the year. The absence of the noise that permeated the house for eight years was driving me crazy.

It simply punctuated the loss of what was once a rich relationship.

So much for my personal pity party. Happy birthday to my country. More than anything else in my life, it has exceeded my very high expectations

I call it the “hen house”. It is the product of estrogen “gone wild”: my former home which I left eight years ago when B1, my ex-wife, out of the blue told me that our marriage was over. Since then it has been the exclusive domain of females: my mother-in-law, B1, my two daughters, and our dog Daisy. The only two creatures remotely male are the pug, Titan, who was gilded (and as B2 has observed, is a little “light in the loafers”) and Sonny, a beautiful golden tabby.

I guess that elevates Sonny to being "the man of the house". He has a perpetual scowl on his face and annihilates birds and rodents, often filleting chipmunks alive to die a horrible death baking under the summer sun.

Let’s just say Sonny and I relate.

Today I spent some time helping B1 with her computer. I often go over to the hen house to drop off a check, visit with the girls, or catch up with B1’s latest grand scheme. She is always coming up with contorted ways of borrowing from Peter to pay Paul. Today was a little different in that she wanted me to help her with email.

Now when I say “help her with email”, this does not mean fixing some arcane software settings that have somehow become corrupted. Nor does this mean fixing network proxies, or rebooting the router. This means teaching her the basic concepts of how to use a personal computer: complicated things such as using a mouse, setting focus, and browsing on the Internet. You read that correctly, learning how to browse the Internet.

When you visit the hen house, it’s advisable to set back your watch a little bit, say about twenty years.

It’s not that B1 is not bright. She is extremely intelligent, witty, and fun. It’s just she has her priorities and they have trouble aligning themselves with some minor things in life: such as reality.

B1 loves to play dumb, and is the closest living being to the persona that Marilyn Monroe characterized on the silver screen back in many movies during the 1950s. I first met her around 1979 through a mutual friend of ours in Brookline, Massachusetts. She was a tall, drop-dead gorgeous Lithuanian blond, six years older than me.

She was over-the-top glamorous. She had spent many years hobnobbing in Boston amongst the elite, going to parties with Russ Frances and various other high profile professional athletes. Red Sox ace Luis Tiant was particular fond of her and for a while they were friends who partied together. According to Arthur Fiedler, B1 had the best legs he’d ever seen.

One time after we were married I took her to the Boston Symphony where a world famous flautist was performing. B1 was a big fan of his and we got front row seats right below his feet. During the performance, I started to get uneasy when I noticed that while twiddling on his instrument he was making flirting glances towards my wife. About half way through the concert, B1 piped up.

“Am I imagining this, or is he mentally undressing me?”

I didn’t want to know. The concert ended and the flautist took several bows, finishing with a dramatic one unambiguously directed to my wife. A thousand heads turned towards us trying to figure out who we were and why B1 was the focus of his attention.

B1 turned pure crimson. “Get me the hell out of here.”

Horny little French bastard. It still pisses me off.

Back to the hen house:

About two or three years ago after listening to my advice since we divorced B1 bought her first computer. For a day or two it stayed in a box, and then disappeared into a closet. This is not surprising.

Her beauty aides never are out of reach twenty-four hours a day. Take away her right eyebrow anti-wrinkle cream and she will have a meltdown. Take away her computer, and it can wait a while, say half a decade.

Today, when I went over to the house I saw that it had been dragged from the closet.

B1: “Would you mind setting that thing up for me?”

Me: “You mean the computer?”

B1: “Yes. I need it to type up my resume.”

Me: “Sure, where do you want it to go?”

B1: “Probably on the desk. Do we really need both of these things?” She points to the computer tower and the monitor. When it comes to technological jargon, the word "thing" seems to serve her like a Swiss army knife.

Me: “It would help. Where’s the mouse?”

B1: “I’m not sure. I think it is in another closet somewhere. Let me go look.”

I was sorely tempted to ask how the mouse and keyboard got separated from the monitor and keyboard, especially since the stuff had never really been used. But I bit my tongue.
Too often these kinds of exchanges start sounding like first drafts of a Burns and Allen comedy sketch. Frankly I was simply glad she didn’t ask me what a mouse was.

I sat her down in front of the computer after hooking everything up.

Me: “Okay. Now push that big button.”

B1: “This one?”

Me: “Yup”.

The machine powered up and she was almost rigid, intensely focused as if the machine were about to lift off to a trajectory towards Mars. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be around someone who is computer illiterate. The whole experience was somewhat anthropological, like being the first white person young kids see in some remote tribe in Zambia.

Unfortunately Adie had played with the computer the day B1 first got it, and loaded it up with AOL Instant Messenger and lots of other interactive stuff. So as the machine was booting B1 was constantly be confronted with pop-ups.

Every time some new window would appear out of nowhere she would squeal, like Betty Boop getting goosed on a late Saturday night.

Then she would laugh and say, “What do I do now?”

Me: “Just close it.”

B1: “What does that mean?”

Me: “See that little red box with an X in the corner. Move the mouse over it and click.”

The box disappeared. B1 almost jumped out of her seat.

B1: “Oooh! Where did it go?”

She stumped me there. She does have this uncanny knack for asking obvious questions that are impossible to answer.

Me: ”It’s dead. You just killed it.”

B1 was having trouble disambiguating the context of all of the pop-ups. For her each window was simply another annoying thing from The Computer.

B1: “The computer is asking me for a password”.

Me: “That’s just Adie’s AOL Instant Messenger.”

B1: “What’s that?”

Me: “Another thing you want to kill.”

B1: She laughed. “Oh okay.” She positioned the mouse with the concentration of a Army sniper and clicked the button. “Oooh!” There was another slight jump, but not so high as the last. We were making progress.

After about an hour of this, she got to the point where she could turn on the machine, find the Internet Explorer icon, get to Hotmail, and send an email to her daughters. I made her do it twice, saving me another trip in one day. Then I got the hell out of there. The place was becoming toxic.

I can only imagine JayWon’s and Adie’s reactions. “Dad, you won’t believe this. Mom actually sent me an email.”

The reason for no posting is simple: I’ve been very busy transitioning to a new life. The buyers from hell finally signed the purchase and sale agreement and deposited a big fat check. B2 and I are now officially moving on to our separate lives. They took their good sweet time coughing up the money for the agreement. We were hearing a lot of excuses about them being in Belgium and the additional delays it impose but frankly the Mayflower could have gotten the money here sooner.

The total time from offer, to inspection, to getting a signed purchase and sale was about five weeks. B2 was ready to commit herself. I was preparing a rope for myself in the basement, but stuck on what dieing message I would leave. I finally figure out what it would be:

“Welcome to your new home! While I was leaving I noticed a peculiar smell in the basement. When you have time could you have one of your kids go downstairs and check out what is wrong? I think I might have left half of a ham sandwich down there. And let me offer my congratulations. I’m sure this house will provide you with many lasting memories!”

While the time-line to get these cretins to sign kept slipping, the closing date stayed the same, which meant I had to scamper to find a new place to live.

When I divorced B1 I left all my furniture with B1 and the kids. B2 brought all her furniture with her when she moved up to New Hampshire and filled our house.

So this is what I have: a few antique chests, photo albums of Jaywon and Adie, some crappy clothes, a ridiculously elaborate set of heavy duty tools (lathes, band saws, table saws etc) and cabinet making equipment, and Lucy my eighteen month old Aussie.

I initially wanted a cheap low maintenance condo. But it would look weird with no furniture and a nuclear powered table joiner sitting in the living room. Compromise one was to bag the garden style condo and upgrade to a townhouse. Probably this would be more expensive and give me more room than I could use, but at least I could find a full basement.

My realtor took me around and found lots of great places, but nothing fit for Lucy. She needed a small patch of yard to at least go outside and sniff on her own. She and I both go nuts on a leash. I could have easily bought something nice, but my instincts were telling me that I was heading for a disaster.

Lucy is a fabulous animal. She is a beautiful tri-colored miniature Australian Shepard who has a sweet temperament. But she is still an Aussie, which means that she has herding instincts that can’t be broken. She goes berserk wherever she sees legs moving at a fast clip. Joggers, bicyclists, and baby carriages send her over the edge.

So things were starting to get difficult. I wanted a condo with a patch of yard, out of view of other people doing athletic activities. My realtor was starting to think I was nuts.

Compromise two: Look for a condex. More expensive than a townhouse, but for the additional money you get the worst of both worlds: all the headaches of homeownership coupled by hassles with condex associations.

With a condex, you own half a house, and have to maintain it but you are captive to having a working relationship with the owner of the other half of the property. This means they need to agree with you on when to repair the roof, paint the house, and mow the lawn. It also means that they have to love my dog, Lucy, a lot. This seemed like it could be a stretch.

The final compromise: I bit the bullet and suggested that I start looking for a house. Much higher cost and taxes, lots more maintenance, but we are talking about Lucy, my soul mate.

The next day I got one of those Thoreau moments of complete madness and did an MLS real estate search for something way out in the sticks. Escape has been an undercurrent of my existence for a while. Amazingly something showed up: a cute looking open concept house on a lake in Greenfield, New Hampshire. I called up my real estate broker and we drove off that evening to look at the place. Greenfield is “Deliverance” country, but I was up for an adventure, conjuring the sociological implications of conversations with folks about the benefits of sleeping with sisters.

We get to a dirt road leading to the lake, take a few turns and see the house. A crappy looking mud colored ranch sitting in an unkempt lawn that looked like former wetlands.

But there was a bigger problem: there was no lake to be seen.

For grins we decided to go inside and look around. Apparently, “open concept” means that the washer and dryer greet you as you enter the front door. To get into the full basement you needed to crawl under the dining room table and lift up a hatch.

What a great idea for an icebreaker.

“Let me get you another bottle of wine in the cellar, excuse me for a moment. My that’s a lovely pair of panties you are wearing tonight!”

My realtor now knew I was certifiable.

She had a suggestion. There was a small bungalow across from where she lived in my town not more than a mile from our current house. We drove up a high hill into countryside I had not seen before. The house is on a high hill overlooking a valley.
It had an odd shaped piece of property with a guest cottage and an outhouse (for the cottage). The property had been for sale for a year and was at a great price. I offered 10 percent less than the list, which was accepted in a day.

So in a matter of a week I morph from a metro-sexual bachelor to Green Acres redux.

Inspection reveals carpenter ants, radon in the water, a fireplace that needs relining, and a septic system that is locked up like Fort Knox. And I need a huge fence put in to prevent Lucy from becoming road-kill.

I don’t care. I brought three of the five kids up to see it and they all love the place.

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