Holy crap, in just a few more days it’ll be one year since we closed on our house. It would be another 17 days before we moved in, an interminable stretch that involved many late nights painting, moving boxes and furniture, and unpacking, but on February 22, we officially became proud owners of eight-tenths of an acre of Wisconsin.
I remember the giddiness well. Hell, hardly a day goes by where I don’t stare out the window at our backyard and marvel over the chain of events that brought us here. I feel like the luckiest fella alive.
Justin the Realtor hadn’t set foot in our house since closing day, and we hadn’t seen him since last summer, so Friday night we invited him and his wife Kelly over. He was interested in seeing what changes we’d made to the place, and we all wanted to catch up. Tara spent three or four evenings cleaning every square inch of the house, as Tara does, to prepare for their visit. Mark spent three or four evenings kicking back in his recliner watching Dateline, as Mark does, when Tara goes on a mad cleaning spree.
(For the record, I offered to help. But Tara and I have an understanding. I’m not allowed anywhere near Pine Sol, brooms, and cleaning rags.)
JTR and KTRW (Justin the Realtor and Kelly the Realtor’s Wife) arrived a few minutes before 7:00 and we gave ’em the grand tour. The place looked immaculate and smelled like a Pottery Barn, so I’m pretty sure we made a good impression. Especially since the last time JTR was here, dangling strips of ancient wallpaper adorned the entryway and the bedrooms were a hodgepodge of mismatched carpeting. After showing ’em around, we listened to a Kings of Leon record and chatted about chickens and Dick – and at one point, chickens’ dicks. Apparently they’re very hard to sex, so a lot of people end up with surprise roosters when they think they’re getting hens. I wonder if this makes some roosters feel inadequate? I can imagine them embarrassedly explaining to the ladies, I’m a grower, not a crower!
This post has taken a weird turn.
Before you cry fowl and accuse us of being poultry perverts, Tara and I have long discussed the possibility of getting chickens, and Justin and Kelly (my god, it’s like Season 1 of American Idol all over again!) have raised them for years, so don’t go getting your feathers all ruffled.
Afterward, we headed into town for supper at Brock’s Riverfront Tavern. I’ve always thought JTR and I have a lot in common, and judging by the fact that we both ordered the fish fry and Old Fashioneds, that seems to be the case. Anyways, we had a great time talking about music, literature, and the Madison food scene. A DJ was setting up, and once he started his set, we relocated to the bar. But by then the hour was growing late and it was next to impossible to hear each other over the thumping bass beats, so we called it a night and parted ways.
Fun evening, and I can’t help but marvel over the weird twists and turns life throws your way. Who’da thunk we’d ever befriend the brother of a blogging buddy who lived five states away?
Remember how we were directly in the path of a tornado recently? The scariest part was hearing the warning sirens. After a few minutes they stopped, and believing this meant the danger had passed, Tara went about making dinner.
BLTs, by the way. Delicious.
“If they start up again, we’ll head for the basement,” she said. This sounded like a solid plan, and we were able to breathe a little easier. But it turns out we’d let our guard down too early, because I later learned the sirens never would have gone off again. Jefferson County tornado sirens sound a steady tone for three minutes to alert the public, and that’s it. No more, nada, zilch, zip, even if the twister is still on track to turn your house into kindling.
Geez Louise, this is what we get for being tornado newbies. I know ignorance is bliss, but good hell. The bacon could have waited another half-hour!
The policy is the same in Dane County (Madison), but now there’s a movement to change it so the sirens sound every 10 minutes for the duration of a tornado warning. Newbies or not, we weren’t the only ones with a false sense of security.
This is good to know, because apparently, during years when El Niño transitions to La Niña in the springtime – the very scenario they’re predicting for 2024 – there is an increased risk of tornadoes in the upper Midwest. Our eight-tenths of a Wisconsin acre are in one of the highest risk areas.
Ain’t that grand?
On a lighter note, we were out shopping yesterday. Our first stop was Target, where we happened upon monogrammed coffee mugs in the household section. The moment I saw them, it was game on. I couldn’t resist spelling out a little greeting for my fellow shoppers.
Humor quotient of a 12 y/o? Check. All I can say is, it’s a good thing Xavier isn’t a common name. Had there been an X to arrange, shoppers would have stumbled upon one SEXY MF in their quest for kitchenware.
This, my friends, is why you can’t take me anywhere.
Mark My Words 
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