Dear Hurricane Ike: Fuck you.

Howling wind all afternoon from the remnants of Hurricane Ike.

Splinter. Bang. Thwump. Crash. What the fuck was that?

Oh.


Good thing that didn't hit the house - it's the diameter of a dinner plate at the splintered end. So what made the crash?

Oh.



Good thing it didn't damage the roof.

Oh.

(that's after it was patched with a piece of metal ductwork we borrowed from our new neighbors and a wooden yard sale sign - thanks again for those, Dad!)

Well, it's just the one hole, right?

Oh.

Thanks for the present, Ike. It's been a while since we've had to deal with insurance companies and roof problems. And lord knows, there's nothing I enjoy more than dealing with shingle patching that will leak right on my head in bed if it isn't done right. Thought I was done with that when we sold the house in Avon back in 2004. Guess not.

At least there aren't any other branches left on that tree to fall on our house. Now, if I can just ignore the neighbor's 15 other trees that overhang our property, I'll be fine.

Thanks to a dream that Jason had last year in which a branch from one of these trees crashed through the roof and killed both of us in our sleep, leaving Liza to starve to death alone in her room (nice), we're all sleeping in the (below ground level) guest room tonight.

And no, this was not an oversight on the part of our tree trimming company. This is the entire fucking top half of a tree that (was) entirely on our neighbor's property. And it's healthy, as far as I can tell, it was just overbalanced. Shucks, no lawsuit there, I guess.