Why those blog posts have dwindled

I'm great at multitasking in a virtual environment, but I'm feeling completely overwhelmed by the number of three-dimensional home and garden tasks facing us right now. Add to that a large, emotionally needy, extremely energetic foster dog ("Yes, Jenny, we love you, but please don't plow into dear old Hana in your enthusiasm to be the first one down the stairs every morning!") and some days--even though I'm not "working" in the American Capitalist sense of the word--I feel in desperate need of a vacation.

Oh, to be a librarian again . . .

Librarians Do Gaga

Provocative Question

Chalked in blue on a nearby sidewalk:

What can we do to get to the next world?

Heaven? An alternate universe, such as Lyra's in The Golden Compass? A planet in a galaxy far, far away?

Meadow Lake

I lived in three Great Lakes states (Wisconsin, Michigan and Ohio) for most of my life, but I never lived close to any body of water until we bought this house in semi-arid Colorado. Meadow Lake Park is literally right across the street, offering tennis courts, a playground, green space, and, best of all, Meadow Lake. The park is bordered by a paved trail which is perfect for dog-walking.

Michiganders would call Meadow Lake a pond, size-wise, but it supports an amazing amount of wildlife, some permanent, some transitory. There's always Mallards, a few Canadian Geese, fish, and some turtles, including a large snapping turtle that sometimes wanders onto the trail. (A small boy, rubbing the snapper's shell under the watchful eyes of his parents, confided, "He likes to have his back scratched." The turtle, whose eyes were half-closed, did indeed look blissful.)

In early spring, a half-dozen pairs of Northern Shovelers came and stayed for a couple of weeks. A Great Blue Heron has been lurking around for the last two weeks. Occasionally, exotic visitors stop in: a Hooded Merganser, American White Pelicans, and a Black-Crowned Night Heron.

Meadow Lake has become a miniature nature observatory for me, so I felt proprietary pride yesterday when I noticed that two pairs of Canadian Geese had successfully brought five goslings each into the world and launched them onto the lake for an inaugural paddle.

One last thing about Meadow Lake: If you walk to the far end of the lake, you suddenly get a stunning panorama of the mountains to the west. At sunset, you feel as though you should be paying for that view.

Meadow Lake (Click on the image for a better view!)

Our New (Foster) Dog

Jim and I had talked before about fostering dogs for the shelter where we both volunteer, but had decided not to pursue it while Hana was still alive. But when I went in last week for my regular Tuesday morning shift with the long-term dogs, one of the other volunteers told me that Genoa, a five-year-old Rottweiler/Staffordshire Terrier (aka pit bull) mix who was a great favorite among the staff and volunteers, was "on the block."

Like humans, some dogs adapt to confinement better than others. Genoa, who'd been in the shelter for months, was suffering from depression, losing weight, and exhibiting behaviors of dogs who are literally at their wit's end. We'd already lost three dogs from the long-term program in the previous weeks, including Genoa's brother. The words, "Maybe I could foster her," were out of my mouth before my brain had even processed the idea.

Genoa--we call her Jenny--came to live with us last Saturday. Even with her all ribs showing, she's a big, powerful girl. She needs some brush-up work on house-training and basic obedience skills, but like most pit bulls, she's a fast learner. Also like many pit bulls, she's very affectionate and loves cuddling.

We hope that Jenny will find a permanent home soon--she'd be a perfect "best friend" for someone. Meanwhile, she's learning to live "on the outside" again, hitting the hiking trail with us and breaking in her new dog bed.

Currently #1 on the Job Hunt Nightmare List

The e-mail below came from an enormously talented and experienced librarian friend who is also job-hunting right now. The names of the organizations involved have been omitted because we librarians are nice people who don't want to embarrass large, publicly funded institutions whose employees exhibit shamelessly bad behavior.

OK, what I'm about to tell you, I think could place number 1 in bizarre job hunting events.

On Sunday, I applied for the position of [Research Coordinator] at [an institute] that is affiliated with [a large West Coast University system]. I was really excited about this position because so much of the job description was research and they also wanted someone to set up a library. OK, so I don't have fundraising experience, but all of my research experience should have made me end up on the interview list. . . .

After I sent my cover letter and resume, almost immediately, I received the form letter from HR...thank you for your interest in [the institute]... If they are interested in interviewing me, I'll hear from them (DUH!).

So, this afternoon, get this...I received an email from the woman who I had identified as the Director of Development. You can imagine how excited I was to see that in my inbox. When I opened the email, it said: "no." That's right, Katie, it had two letters, n-o. NOTHING ELSE.

City Views: Capitol Hill, 4.25.10

Ixelles, our Brussels commune, was known for its wide variety of splendid architecture. The American suburbs don't offer that, obviously.

We've begun exploring the city of Denver, though, particularly since Patrick and Rachel moved into the Capitol Hill neighborhood downtown. Denver, unlike Detroit, values its architectural heritage, from the Craftsman bungalows (which often list at $500,000 and up) to the mansions of those who made their fortunes on Colorado's natural resources.

I've started taking my camera along when I'm in Denver. From time to time, I'll post images from a city that, in its own way, provides visual pleasures similar to those Hana and I had on our daily walks through Ixelles.

The building below is across the street from Pat and Rachel's apartment. The decorative carvings and statuary are eclectic (to put it mildly), ranging from an American eagle flanked by Chinese-style lions at the roof line to medieval gargoyle heads and dragons reminiscent of Copenhagen bordering the windows.

Plumbing: $1,800. Decorating advice: Free.

The plumber charged us $1,800 for three jobs, including resetting the tub in the basement bathroom, which the house flipper completely bungled.

But the big guy (his co-worker looked like a Viking) offered decorating commentary gratis. As he passed through our bedroom to fix the master bath toilet, he commented, "Yeah, we had this paint color in our living room when we first moved in. It always reminded me of makeup color."

"You mean foundation?"

"Yeah, yeah, that's it."

I had planned on painting the bedroom anyhow, but imagining greasy foundation oozing down the walls while we sleep just bumped that project up to the top of the list.

It's Baaack!

Snow, that is.

April in Colorado can be erratic. Today it's snowing huge, wet flakes that are threatening to bury my just-planted violas.

But last Sunday was sunny and in the 60s, a perfect day for the Denver Botanic Gardens. Bordered on one side by a neighborhood of old, European-style homes, the Gardens are hosting "the first major open-air Henry Moore exhibition in the Western United States." The contrast between the massive statues and the fragile spring flowers and budding trees was delicious.

And looking at the pictures again almost makes me believe that spring is here. Or was here.

A former private residence near the Gardens,
now an administrative building.

The Gardens' Japanese Tea House,
where tea is served during the summer.

"Justices Reject Ban on Videos of Animal Cruelty"

When I saw yesterday's New York Times headline, above, my heart sank. I understand--intellectually--the legal basis for the ruling, particularly after Patrick Gillette, JD and dog lover, explained it to me. But emotionally, I can't seem to get past the message it sends to people who promote dog fighting. These scum aren't concerned with the First Amendment nuances of the ruling and probably view it as a judicial blessing to keep throwing dogs into a pit to tear each other apart while they film the carnage.

Over the nearly two years that I've volunteered at the animal shelter, I've handled a lot of pit bulls and pit bull mixes. (Much of the time, they represent the majority of the dog population at our shelter, since many shelters in the area won't accept pit bulls or, if they do, they euthanize them immediately.) Some of them have been my favorite dogs to come through the shelter; one of the most battered, whose snout was criss-crossed by scars from dog fights, had a disposition as sweet as that of Buzz, our little Papillon. The idea that the Supreme Court would do something that, for practical purposes, may add to the maiming and killing of these dogs sickens me.

Who would ever think that I could agree with Justice Alito?

Below: Jenkins, one of my favorite pit bull mixes from the shelter, and me at an animal adoption event last fall where I handled him for the afternoon. The big guy was adopted two months later; his new owner reported that Jenkins is "like a big puppy" who "loves to snuggle." But I already knew that . . .

Corporate Theater of the Absurd

Letter received yesterday from Allstate, which provided landlord's insurance on our Northville house during its years as a rental. (That would be the house we sold six months ago, incidentally.)

Dear Former Customer:

We're writing because, due to a processing error, we did not send you a policyholder disclosure document entitled "Notice of Terrorism Insurance Coverage" (AP3337-2) while your Landlord's Package Policy was active. The endorsement contains important details regarding Terrorism Coverage.

We apologize for this error. To correct this, we have enclosed the endorsement document in this mailing for your reference. Also, this issue did not affect your insurance premium at any time your policy was in force.

Thank God, now I'll be able to sleep at night.

---

At least once a week, sometimes twice, for the past couple of months, Comerica Bank (home to my late father-in-law's trust fund) calls the house during the day, when everyone except unemployed losers (e.g., me) is at work. The conversation is always the same:

CB: "I'm calling from Comerica Bank. May I speak to James Gillette?"

ME: "James Gillette was my father-in-law. He passed away in 2009."

CB: "Okay then, may I speak to Jack-quezz Gillette?" (Jim is a trustee on the account.)

ME: "JACQUES is not here at the moment. May I take a message?"

CB: "No, no message."

Is it just me, or is it a little odd that not a single Comerica rep has apparently ever reported to a manager that James Gillette is deceased? Or that word of his death, for which Jim provided documentation to the bank, hasn't filtered down from above?

Not to mention that none of the reps responded to the news of Jim, Sr.'s death with even the automatic "I'm sorry" that good manners suggest when one individual tells another--even a stranger--that a family member has died. Apparently it's more important to stick to the script in corporate America . . .

What about Hana?

Dogs possess an indomitable spirit for life
that teaches right up to their last day.
from Dogs & Devotion, the Monks of New Skete

After I posted pictures of Buzz and his pal, Jack, Sheila sent me an e-mail asking about Hana. So, as Oprah would say, here is what I know for sure:

Four months after her lung cancer diagnosis, Hana, who is approaching 14, is still with us. We came scarily close to putting her down in late December, after two days in which she didn't eat and barely moved, apparently from arthritis pain. In fact, the vet had already inserted the catheter to inject the euthanasia drugs. I was sitting on the floor next to Hana, sobbing, when she suddenly turned and licked my face: this from a dog who was never a kisser. At that point, I told the vet to remove the catheter because I just wasn't ready to let go.

The vet suggested trying yet another of the new canine arthritis drugs. Although the previous arthritis medication had caused nasty side effects, including cognitive problems, the new drug not only got our girl up and moving, it improved her diminishing appetite. After years of being a picky eater, she has become a chow hound.

Like most elderly dogs, Hana sleeps most of the time. She is quite deaf, although she hasn't yet lost her sight. She coughs more often, and we wonder whether the lung tumor is expanding. On the other hand, although her days as a trail dog are over, she still enjoys twice-daily walks, now usually a slow stroll around the pond in the park across the street. Sitting out in the sun while I'm working in the yard, she still lifts her nose appreciatively to catch the scent of who knows what (coyote? mule deer? mountain lion?) blowing down from the mountains.

About the presence of Buzz in her life, Hana seems bemused. I like to think that, after having lived with other dogs for the majority of her life, she is pleased to have another of her own species in the house, even if Buzz does sometimes act like a herding dog to get her moving from one spot to another. I also like to think that Hana has taught Buzz all she knows about being a Gillette dog, lessons that she learned from Merlin, my beloved first Bouvier.

We don't really know how much time Hana has left. Jim doesn't think she'll see another Christmas, but as long as she can still move and breathe without too much pain, enjoy sitting in the sun, and get a blissful look on her face when she gets peanut butter to cut the taste of her meds, we will keep her close.

Four-Eyed Once More

I started wearing glasses in the third grade. In college, when I thought that I might be walking down the aisle with John C., I got contact lenses. No way would I be a four-eyed bride.

Obviously, I didn't marry John, but I've been wearing contacts for the 35 years since that romance went bust. As I got older, I needed reading glasses on top of the contacts. Since I constantly misplace my reading glasses, I now own 10 pairs, ranging in style from Costco three-packs (a frugal fashion statement recommended by Mike M. and Steve K.) to Kate Spade.

Colorado's dry climate is tough on contact lens wearers, though; by the middle of many afternoons, my eyes are burning. So, while I'm keeping my contacts for the purposes of vanity, as of today, I am the somewhat ambivalent owner of my first pair of bifocals, er, progressive lenses.

At least in my current four-eyed incarnation, I'm sporting Vera Wang frames, a big improvement over the cat-eye glasses of my childhood.

1965: My glasses are awful, but note that
I am wearing a fashionable Madras shirt.

Dog Days

Buzz and his visiting friend, Jack, after a long walk,
followed by a half hour of chasing each other around the dining room table.

A scrap of history

We recently discovered a little piece of historical Paris in Denver's Cherry Creek neighborhood.

During World War I, the Union Française Comité de Prevoyance et d'Economies held a poster design competition for French schoolchildren. The posters' message was to encourage citizens to conserve resources. Each winning poster, which was then printed for distribution, focused on a specific resource, such as sugar, tobacco, or, quelle surprise, wine. Somehow, one of the printed posters turned up at Gallerie Rouge, a small Denver shop that specializes in vintage European posters. Appearing no heavier than a piece of tissue paper, it was in pristine condition on a linen backing.

Although the poster cost more than we have ever paid for a piece of art, we were completely smitten by the image and its back story. Our poster exhorts French citizens to save the gas used in early 20th century lamps. The young artist's name was Jeanne Fapaurnou.

I discovered a website that has images and descriptions of other posters in the series. I'm particularly taken with the poster below, and told the Gallerie Rouge owner that if she can find it for me, I'll buy it, too. ("I am a brave chicken of war. I eat little and produce much.")


Final note: The wine poster in the series is available in a modern reproduction.

Good Friday

I was at a standing room only funeral for a Catholic priest the day Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger was elected to the Papacy. The deceased had been the pastor at my father's parish. Eight months before Father W.'s death from a sudden heart attack, he sat with us one late September afternoon at St. Mary's Hospital while my father lay dying from a stroke he had suffered just that morning. Father W. stayed with us until Dad died, a great kindness.

I never saw him again after Dad's funeral, but attending Father W.'s own funeral was a way of bearing witness to his gift of himself to our family that September afternoon. Just before the final blessing, a priest slipped a note to the bishop who was presiding at the Mass; Detroit's cardinal, of course, was in Rome for the papal election. The bishop broke into a big smile and announced, "Habemus Papam, we have a Pope! But we don't know who it is yet!" The congregation clapped and cheered, an odd occurrence at a funeral, but one that Father W. would have enjoyed.

Five years later, the arrogant behavior of the man who was elected Pope that day and the institution he leads has restarted the nightmares I suffered for many years. I have personally experienced the flabbergasting hostility and arctic chill of the Church closing ranks against children who were abused while in its care, particularly when those children return as adults to finally tell their stories. (In my case, two decades later.)

No wonder I feel that Christ's assertion, "Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings, and not one of them is forgotten before God?" doesn't apply to me.

Spring Blizzard

The view from my desk

Home Decor?

When we were first married, we sometimes bought furniture at farm auctions in the countryside around Ann Arbor. As the years went on and we had more disposable income, we just went to furniture stores when we needed something for the house.

When we moved to Belgium, though, the exchange rate was too high for us to purchase new furniture anywhere other than Ikea, so we turned to secondhand stores--Les Petits Riens or the ubiquitous Troc--and brocantes.

To furnish our new Arvada house, I've visited furniture stores and consignment shops. I've also become addicted to perusing the furniture section of craigslist. In addition to furniture and accessories that I'd actually buy (e.g., the bars stools now sitting in our kitchen) recent offerings included the following hard-to-pass-up items:

Eiffel Tower Lamp Base

Driftwood Coffee Table

Elk Antler Lamps

Diorama Coffee Table
"Taxidermied Raccoon and 3 Blue Wing Teal ducks
in naturalized setting.
Lights at night for an elegant look."

As my friend Georgia commented, "Just think of the countless hours of entertainment it would provide your four-footed family members."

Real Estate Talk Therapy

Proponents of psychotherapy claim that talking about one's bad experiences can help to alleviate some of the pain associated with them. Perhaps blogging about the experience we had purchasing our "new" house will disperse some of the black cloud hanging over it. Or, as I said to our Irish Catholic realtor, maybe we'll just hire a priest to do an exorcism.

---

In the 32-plus years we've been married, we've purchased four houses. The first three--one in Ohio and two in Michigan--were "For Sale by Owner." In each case, the process was cordial and smooth from purchase offer to closing. Similarly, obtaining a mortgage was painless the first three times around.

The purchase of our fourth house, which is on Zinnia Street, has been a very different and very ugly story.

THE SELLER
We made an offer, and then upped it after feedback from the seller's agent that another offer was coming in at the same time. The offer was accepted after 5 p.m. on January 27. A few hours later, we got a call from our realtor: The sellers had received a higher offer after they accepted our offer, and, since no earnest money had yet changed hands (the earnest money was to go directly to the title company, which was closed by the time of the acceptance), they were taking the higher offer.

At this point, I wanted to walk away from the deal. The sellers' questionable behavior was sending off alarms in my mind, which operated on a "Trust no one" basis long before "The X-Files." I worried that if the sellers were behaving badly early on, they could pose additional problems down the road. Jim, however, wanted to offer a slightly higher bid, with the provision that we would not continue bidding if the other prospective buyers upped their offer again.

Counseled by their agent to take our offer because we were in a better financial position than the competing buyers, the sellers accepted. In hindsight, we should have told the sellers to stuff it.

The Zinnia house, it seemed, had been a foreclosure that was purchased by a small group hoping to flip it: a recent Colorado School of Mines graduate who acted as a general contractor on renovations and a married couple who provided the financing. The husband (we'll call him RJ) in the couple is a lawyer whose practice areas, according to his firm's website, include commercial litigation and real estate.

As our president likes to say, let me be perfectly clear: I have no innate animosity against attorneys. I'm surrounded by them at family funerals and weddings. Uncle Mike is a lawyer; my brother is a lawyer; two of my first cousins are lawyers; Patrick just took the Colorado bar exam. My college roommate, Judy, who qualifies as family, is a lawyer. Our Northville neighbor, Pete, is a lawyer, as is our Arvada neighbor, Jeff.

But the behavior of the attorney behind the Zinnia house blew that line from Shakespeare's Henry VI right into my head: First thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers. RJ wasn't content to let his listing agent communicate with our agent; he frequently called and sent e-mails directly to our agent. His tone was bullying, sometimes threatening, usually couched in legalese. For example, after literally signing off on a $5,000 seller's concession to cover repairs, he declared that he hadn't understood that the $5,000 did not include the $1,500 amount put in the initial offer to cover a new furnace if the existing furnace couldn't be certified. An e-mail from our realtor summarized that conversation:

RJ . . . called me today and was adamant they were not going to pay the $1500 . . . I informed him this is a contractual obligation and there is no room for negotiation. He threatened not to show up for closing. I asked him to put that in writing and he refused.

Another example: Our realtor asked RJ for a written warranty on the new roof that the house received after last summer's storm. RJ's e-mail response, which the realtor forwarded to us:

The contract only states that we need to provide "proof" of transferable warranty. Our proof is that we confirmed with our contractor that the warranty for their workmanship is transferred to the buyers for one year from the date of installation of the roof.

An attorney asking us to take his word (which hasn't been too reliable to date) that he had confirmed the roof warranty?

And so on . . .

THE BANK

We've been customers of Chase ever since it acquired Banc One (formerly National Bank of Detroit). We've had a home loan, car loans, checking and savings accounts, and a credit card with Chase. We were pre-approved for a loan that was two and a half times what we ended up requesting. We were told that it could take as little as 10 days for official approval.

Instead, the process of nailing down that money took nearly four weeks, due to an inattentive loan officer and a loan processor, who, we found out later, was having personal problems, leading her to miss work and lose/misplace documents when she was at her desk. (For example, she asked us three times for one particular document because she misplaced it the first two times we sent it to her.)

Less than 48 hours before the scheduled closing date, I got a call from another loan processor at Chase (we'll call her Carole) who was picking up "our" loan processor's work. She said nicely, "We're trying to get you ready to close in March, and I see that we're still missing [the document we'd already sent twice before]."

"Actually," I said, "if you read the purchase agreement, we're supposed to close on or before February 24, which is in two days."

"Really? Oh, I see that now . . ."

Thanks to Carole running interference for us, we did close on the 24th. However, we showed up at the title company for closing at 1 p.m. without having seen the settlement statement, ergo not knowing exactly how much cash to bring to the table. When the settlement statement did come through on the title company's fax, it was wrong: The final sale price did not reflect the $5,000 seller's concession that had gotten RJ's panties in a twist.

As a result, the settlement statement went back to underwriting at Chase, while we sat around for two hours waiting for them to get their numbers right. Every time estimate the loan officer gave us for fixing the problem his people had caused was wrong. In addition, he promised to be available by phone that afternoon, but all our calls went to his voice mail, which he rarely returned. We probably shouldn't have been surprised, since the loan officer's performance during the entire loan process was a maddening combination of a good ol' boy "Hey, I'm here for you, buddy" demeanor when you spoke with him and, for all practical purposes, apparently doing a brain wipe of anything related to our loan the moment he hung up the phone.

By the time all the drama was over, I wasn't even sure that I wanted the house anymore. I'm trying to get excited about it, but the best I can do is a mild happiness that we're getting away from the toxic black mold in the rental.

Rooms with a View

Our new house didn't rate a "Mtn. View" in its real estate listing. So, while they're not the breathtaking views of some foothills homes, we're still thrilled to be able to look out the west-facing second story windows and see a small slice of the Rockies.

Think your living room is a mess?

Above: My life, reduced to TROUT boxes.
Below: The biggest of the holes in the living room ceiling,
home to a large (and growing) population of toxic black mold.

Packing. Again.

December 2006: Pack for move from Michigan to Belgium.
March 2008: Pack for move from Belgium to Colorado.
February 2010: Pack for move from 66th Place to Zinnia Street.

Lessons learned:

1. No matter how much you think you've given away, thrown away, or sold prior to each move, Madonna's hit "Material Girl" keeps playing in your head as you pack. Box. After box. After box.
   
   
2. Preparing to move 2.1 miles is nearly as exhausting as preparing to move across the Atlantic Ocean.
   

A what?

Spotted on craiglist under "Furniture for Sale": Micro Swede Spinning Chair.

What comes to mind is a recumbent version of the bikes used in the rec center's spinning classes, designed for a vertically challenged Scandinavian . . .

We knew that

I don't usually read self-help books or even books about self-help books, which is, in part, what The Happiness Project is. The author, Gretchen Rubin, is a little too self-congratulatory for my Irish genes, which stress not making a big fuss over one's accomplishments.

That said, the book's summary of research on marriage and intimacy perfectly captures the essence of a number of conversations I've had over the years with my women friends:

Perhaps because men have this low standard for what qualifies as intimacy, both men and women find relationships with women to be more intimate and enjoyable than those with men. Women have more feelings of empathy for other people than men do (though women and men have about the same degree of empathy for animals, whatever that means). In fact, for both men and women--and this finding struck me as highly significant--the most reliable predictor of not being lonely is the amount of contact with women. Time spent with men doesn't make a difference.

Or, as a female character in Emily Chenoweth's novel, Hello Goodbye, put it:

"People think you need husbands to grow old with, but that's not true--what you really need is that one perfect friend. You can get fat and ornery and grow bunions together."

Molds R Us

According to the "Fungal Assessment Report" we just received from the environmental testing company, the investigations performed 10 days ago "indicate the presence of abundant Stachybotrys and Myxomycetes spores." Stachybotrys, we read elsewhere, "is the type of mold often referred to as Toxic Black Mold," making me feel like a candidate for a National Enquirer story.

The final approval on the loan for the house we're buying can't come fast enough.

Squirrel Patrol

Notre petit chien nouveau

NAME: Buzz, known to his former owners as Maverick (A name with bad associations for the liberal Democrats in this household, hence the change)
BREED: Papillon
DOB: 9/5/2008
JOINED OUR HOUSEHOLD: 1/27/10
WEIGHT: 5 lbs., 2 oz.

Oh, puh-lease . . .

Tomorrow begins the tenth week of our leaky roof problems. Nothing has been fixed (nor do we have a timetable for the remediation and repair work), which made us howl with laughter yesterday when one of our neighbors, who is in contact with our landlord, forwarded this e-mail from Gracey:

Other than that, please let Jim and Kate know that we continue to plug on with the roof. Frank has been in constant contact with property manager and insurance company and we are all determined to have it done right. The timing of this all during the holidays did not help, but as slow as it may be going, and inconvenient to all, I really want this situation to be taken care of properly.

Gosh, I wonder how bad things would be if Frank wasn't on top of the problem.

Competitive Spirits

We went to two competitions this past weekend and had a wonderful time at each, even though the competitors in one had heavenly voices, and the competitors in the other were sometimes scrambling on their bellies in the dirt.

On Saturday, we attended the Rocky Mountain Regional Finals of The Metropolitan Opera National Council Auditions, or, as Jim's brother-in-law referred to it, "American Idol Goes to the Opera." For two hours, we sat in the third row of Denver's exquisite opera house and listened to eight young classically trained singers vie for a chance to go to New York to "compete for $15,000 cash prizes and the chance to perform in the Grand Finals Concert on the nation's most prestigious opera stage . . . Over 1,500 singers between the ages of 20 and 30 will participate in the National Council Auditions, the oldest and most wide-ranging singing competition in the country."

Much as I love our new home state, Culture-With-a-Capitol-C sometimes feels lacking here. Saturday's performances filled a little of the artistic vacuum I've experienced since leaving Europe.

Sunday's competition, on the other hand, was pure Colorado: the final sheep herding trials of the 2010 National Western Stock Show. Last year, we saw the novice dogs compete, which involved a lot of automatic DQs for biting sheep that refused to be herded. (One young dog actually slunk out of the ring with a mouthful of fleece.) This year's dogs were more experienced, but some of them still nipped their charges or crawled on their bellies when they were supposed to be motionless or couldn't accomplish all the required tasks under the five-minute time limit. The winner, Lad, belonged to an elderly gentleman who worked in perfect harmony with his dog, communicating only with whistles. (Shades of "Babe") Laddie put those sheep through their paces in a mere 2 minutes, 10 seconds. Bravo!

Adventures in Real Estate

Although we contacted the owner of our rental property about the possibility of buying the house, we haven't received a response. The holes and water stains on the ceiling and walls remain unfixed, although two more contractors paraded through in the past six days and took pictures. Jim and I are exploding with frustration and have kicked our house-hunting into high gear.

I've always enjoyed looking for houses. In part, it's the fascination of peering into other people's architectural and interior design choices: Why is that dining room decorated to look like a cave? Why did someone add a tacky, lean-to sun room with 70s-style green indoor/outdoor carpeting onto a large, otherwise attractive home? Why are so many fireplaces stuck in a corner of the family room, rather than centered on the wall? Why does the master bathroom, rather than the master bedroom, have the best view of the lake? When you've spent tens of thousands to update a kitchen and put in hardwood floors in your home, why do all the bedroom closets sport metal folding doors circa the 1960s? Or how about that 14-year-old house in an upscale area in which none of the floors on the western side of the house are level? (I jokingly told our realtor that I'd had only one glass of wine the night before, so I knew that it wasn't a hangover causing everything to tilt.)

There's also something psychologically intriguing about house-hunting. Why, especially in a buyer's market, do some sellers meticulously stage the house and yard, while others seem to care less about how their property (their PRODUCT, from a marketing standpoint) looks? For example, I went through a fairly expensive house the very first day it went on the market. Although it had a spacious back yard--at least by Denver metro area standards--the yard was full of dog poop. Why didn't the owners clean it up before putting the house on the market? What were they thinking?

Stress Points

Yet another contractor--this one representing the owner's insurance company--walked through our rental house today, taking pictures of the water damage and expressing shock that nothing substantive has been done to take care of the problem. "They didn't drill holes in the walls and blow hot air in?" Nope. "They didn't remove the wet insulation?" No on that, too.

You could probably fill two fat photo albums with the pictures that have been taken in the last two months by various contractors, insurance adjusters, and staff from the property management company. Very little has actually been done to ameliorate the problems, although the living room ceiling and walls now sport five large holes. Those holes, ranging in size from 4x6 inches to 18x72 inches, are covered in clear plastic stapled to the surface, lending the house the ambiance of a lean-to.

Although we've approached the owner about buying this house (lunacy, I know, but we adore our neighbors), we've also kicked our search for a property to buy into high gear. We drove by over 40 houses in the past week, walked through six of them, and have showings scheduled tomorrow for another eight or nine. Of the houses we've toured, only one is even a possibility, mainly because it has a kitchen that looks like something out of a home decorating magazine. (The rest of the house needs updating, unfortunately.)

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I had an interview last week for a part-time reference job at a local public library. It was one of the most bizarre interviews I've ever had, in part because the three librarians in the group interview gave no indication that they had ever seen my resume or cover letter. (All the applications went through the city's HR department.) They had a three or four page list of questions that they trudged through as though their lives depended on sticking to the script.

As I told my friend Sheila, who's also a librarian, some of the questions made me think that I was interviewing for the presidency of the American Library Association. "What kinds of Web 2.0 technologies could you use to attract teens to the library?" "How can reference librarians prove that they're still necessary when 85 percent of people say that they just go to Google to get their questions answered?" "From the following list of technologies (which included everything from PowerPoint presentations to wikis and RSS feeds), please tell us which you have worked with and describe how you have worked with them."

By the time they got to questions about traditional library services ("What books would you book-talk for young patrons? Please provide titles for both children and young adults."), my brain was fried. Sheila said that she probably would have walked out mid-interview, and, in retrospect, I probably should have done just that. At least then I wouldn't feel so astounded that they didn't even have the courtesy to send me an e-mail, much less snail mail, thanking me for my time, but notifying me that they wouldn't hire me if I were the last librarian in the solar system.

Why I Don't Cook

E-mail today from my darling daughter:

Will you be offended if I say this is how I imagine you in the kitchen?

Which she follows up with a link to a recent New Yorker article titled "The Cursing Mommy Cooks Italian" . . .

Favorite Books, 2009 Edition

She was not a writer herself, but she was a very good reader, passionate and eclectic in her tastes . . .

David Benioff, City of Thieves

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I read 120 books last year. Don't be impressed--some, such as Ann Patchett's What Now?, were so thin that they couldn't balance a wobbly table leg. One, The Graveyard Book, was nominally written for children. Plus, I had a lot of unique opportunities to read in 2009, including the time I spent on "the rack" (Rick, what's that machine really called?) during physical therapy.

When I finish reading a book, I add the title and author to an ongoing list in my journal. If I really, really liked the book, I put a star next to its title. When I went to compile my 2009 favorites, I was shocked to find that many of the titles, starred and starless, featured one or more deaths. What's that all about? It's not as though I read a lot of murder mysteries.

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[Our dog, Berry] might not realize that I am going to die, for a start. He doesn't know about death. As I lie expiring, surrounded by people who got tickets for the event in time, how do I know that as I open my mouth and prepare to utter my carefully prepared and rehearsed last words, he may not burst in and demand to be taken for a walk?

And that my last words, after all that, will turn out to be: 'Oh, for God's sake, not now, Berry!'

Miles Kington, How Shall I Tell the Dog? and Other Final Musings

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On the other hand, my favorite book of the year, Manhood for Amateurs, a collection of essays by Michael Chabon, was short on death and long on life with all its vagaries. I read Manhood toward the end of 2009, so perhaps it's a harbinger of happier reading ahead.

With that lengthy aside ("No, I am not preoccupied with death!"), here are my other 2009 favorites, listed in the chronological order in which I read them.

The Mercy Papers (Robin Romm)
Sing Them Home (Stephanie Kallos)
The Elegance of the Hedgehog (Muriel Barbery)
City of Thieves (David Benioff)
Between, Georgia (Joshilyn Jackson)
The Exact Same Moon (Jeanne Marie Laskas)
The Graveyard Book (Neil Gaiman)
Angels of Destruction (Keith Donohue)
Missing Joseph (Elizabeth George)
Losing Mum and Pup (Christopher Buckley)
The Family Man (Elinor Lipman)
Eat, Drink, and Be From Mississippi (Nanci Kincaid)
The Little Book (Selden Edwards)
The Likeness (Tana French)
Home Safe (Elizabeth Berg)
Her Fearful Symmetry (Audrey Niffenegger)
The Magicians (Lev Grossman)

Blockbuster note: I loved Angels & Demons and enjoyed The Da Vinci Code, but I got through only 35 pages of The Lost Symbol before returning it to the library from sheer boredom.

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"Are you kidding? That guy was a mystery wrapped in an enigma and crudely stapled to a ticking fucking time bomb. He was either going to hit somebody or start a blog."

Lev Grossman, The Magicians

Decisions, Decisions

For years, my overhead bin at work sported a magnet with the phrase "Leap and the net will appear." (It was supposedly a Zen saying, but I was doubtful.) After we decided to leap, er, move to Belgium, I gave the magnet to the Head Librarian, who was contemplating a little leaping herself.

We now find ourselves trying to decide whether to leap back into home ownership, which seemed desirable in our 20s and 30s, but is less so now. We hadn't planned to even consider that decision until spring, when our lease is up and Jim will have been at his new job a bit longer. However, we're facing the prospect of living for many weeks (6? 8? more?) in a Marriott Suites sort of lodging while a major portion of our rental home's interior is gutted to repair the damage from the roof fiasco. Although the property management company has hinted that it would release us from our lease, I haven't found another decent rental house, particularly one that will accept dogs, even a dog who is literally on her last legs. I haven't even been able to find much in the way of homes for sale at this time of year.

Jim feels that we should explore the option of making an offer on this house prior to the start of the remediation work. His thought is that, since the house is going to be torn up anyhow, why not have some other work done on it, work that we had discussed back in the days when the roof didn't leak and we thought we might want to own the house? New windows, for example. A remodelled kitchen. New floors in the bathrooms. After the never-ending fallout from the roof disaster, though, I am leery.

But . . . I like the neighbors, the neighborhood, and the proximity to the mountains and to downtown Denver. I like many things about the house itself--the cozy family room, the view out back to the woods, the fact that the interior, with its many windows, is très lumineux, as the rental listings in Brussels used to boast. (Of course it is much easier to be très lumineux in a part of the world with over 300 days of sunshine.)

Maybe I need that magnet back, or at least the ignorant optimism I briefly had that nets do appear to catch those who have abandoned all that was once certain in life.