Today is our second anniversary of living here. I have a list of 54 items to be done to the house, and 14 have been crossed off so far (including the ones I crossed off after deciding not to do them). Per year, that's an average of ...oh never mind, that's too depressing to think about. Depressing like my conversation yesterday with the renter previewing the property next door. My old, recently broken fence stood between us as I watered my peppers and she said to no one in particular "of course, this fence needs to be fixed," and I said ashamedly, "That's my fence." Why mention the confluence of events: strong wind storms last week and careless renters bashing into the boards, and it being my first day off since November-I wanted to relax, not do fence repair! Despite words, the fence looks like it's been broken for years! Bad Kathryn! No wonder you get crap neighbors!
At that moment, since she was the first renter I've seen on that property in a month, who looked like a responsible person, I wanted to apologize for my peeling paint and the in-progress deck. I told her how long we'd lived here and it seemed her face got tight. Perhaps she isn't rehab-neighborhood material. Or maybe, now on my second day of vacation, I need to go outside right now and fix that fence if I want anyone good moving next door.
Sometimes it's easy to feel down about living in a rehab neighborhood, and I'm kind of a Debbie Downer to begin with. However, my sister is interested in the available house on the other side of us so last week we went tiptoeing around it. Literally tiptoeing, because the weeds and grass are so tall they obscure the "for sale by owner" sign that's been up a year and a half. We stood on their rotting back deck next to a weedy 2-foot hole in the ground, piles of rotting trash and falling-down roof overhang and my house looked darn good, like hot stuff! It could be much worse!
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