I'll let you in on a secret: I'm a hero.

A few weeks ago I was walking my dog. It was a nice warm day and my neighbors were all outside doing yard work. Another young man was walking down the street. I waved to him, and kept walking.

All of a sudden, there are fifty cop cars screaming around my neighborhood. One pulls up to me:

'Where did he go?'

I turn to point at the young man — I figured that's who they were talking about — and he's disappeared. The cops speed off looking for him, and my neighbors begin to gather and gossip.

After a little chit chat, my neighbor Bob returns to his house to find the front door locked and the young man running around inside.

'He's in my house! He's in my house!'

So I hand my dog's leash to another neighbor and run to Bob's front door. Before I make it, the young man runs out of the house, and I run after him.

What was I thinking? (That was the first thought that streaked through my head.) I'm not a cop. I don't know police holds. I can't 'take him down.'

So instead of tackling him, I start talking to the guy while running after him.

'The police are everywhere. You're not going to make it. Just stop and deal with it.'

I repeat my line, jump over a fence after him, then repeat it again. We dive through some bushes, and he begins to slow down. We cross a few front yards, and he slows more.

'Just don't touch me,' he says before he stops. It's over. The police come, handcuff him, and get my name. I continue my dog walk. I guess the young guy was a burglar — obviously not a very good one.

But it reminded me about home safety. Granted, if a burglar broke into my home, all they could steal would be drooling my cat and my puppy who eats dirty gym socks. Since most of you don't have a hero of my caliber patrolling your neighborhood, I figured I'd share a few tips to prevent burglaries from the List:

* Think like a burglar. Start outside and identify the best locations for a break in.

* Don’t close all your drapes. Closed drapes are a sure sign to potential burglars that you're not home.

* Lock your garage and shed. They typically contain tools and ladders that can be used to break into your home.

* Every time you leave, secure all entryways. Make sure all doors, windows, and pet entrances are locked.

* Always lock up valuables. Transfer them to a safe deposit box.

Check out more home security tips here. Here's one more tip from this blogger: DO NOT chase a burglar. Let the police deal with it.

The area I live in is what most would call 'borderline' — it's safe, but has a definite element of sketchiness. I would characterize my neighbors in much the same way.

For example, when we bought new furniture, Neighbor Tom knew, even though we didn't tell him. He asked us if our paver patio was put in, even though supplies for it were well out of view and in our backyard.

His knowledge of the goings-on at our house is a little creepy, but on the other hand, it's kind of reassuring. At least I know someone's on the lookout for the sketchy element, and he'd be the first one to let us know if there was trouble brewing.

If Neighbor Tom were weirder than he is, I might worry that he was a crazed stalker. But, as it is, he's just an overly observant and chatty neighbor.

And he can be a time-consuming distraction. He comes out of nowhere while I'm doing yard work and stands there with his beagle dog, just waiting to strike up a conversation. That conversation will last a minimum of 30 minutes, and I'll learn all about my other neighbors and what they're doing. Then I'll be thrown off my house-chore groove and wrap things up prematurely.

Or, if I see him coming, I'll sometimes run into the house just to avoid the 30-minute gossip session. Still, it's an interruption to the mission.

Mostly, I don't mind. He's harmless and means well — I think.

Earlier this summer, I wrote about preparing to move from one great, beautiful home to a house that's, well, soon to be great. Last week my wife and I took possession of our new house. We have our work cut out for us with the long list of to-do's (or rather 'never-gonna-do's') the previous owners left.

First up was refinishing the wood floors. They didn't look horrible (I kind of dug the unfinished-cabin-in-the-woods look — it went well with the jungle in our backyard), but we figured it would be a lot easier to refinish them now than if we decided to do so after we moved everything into the house. My wife was more gung-ho about this project than I was, so I admit she took the lead and did a tremendous job. I'm thinking about asking her if she'd consider a career change — the List could always use more excellent floor repair professionals!

Next up was cleaning and painting. Luckily, my wife isn't the only person in my family who's good at home improvement. My parents graciously volunteered to help us paint the master bedroom and clean the filthy fridge and kitchen. My dad did some great work on the former task, and my mom did an excellent job on the latter, though I'm not sure it will ever be possible to remove the refrigerator's dark mildew stains — just one of the many traces of evidence showing that the previous occupants were averse to cleanliness.

I also spent a lot of time cleaning. While clearing the garage and basement of dust and detritus, I found bank receipts dating back to the 1950's, a handwritten note from 1969 mentioning something about 'the million dollars' (I hope I find it in our house!), old brown bottles of chemicals with mysterious contents, and lots of moldy wood — both construction-quality pieces and tree limbs.

Speaking of tree limbs, our back yard is filled with both the dead and live kind. Some are weighing down our power line, many are rotting in massive piles, and yet others are being suffocated by poison ivy. I can't wait to start clearing our jungle! If only I could find my machete...

Seriously, though, I'm getting a kick out of this whole moving/cleaning/clearing process. Though it can be frustrating at times, I'm doing my best to look at this experience from a 'glass half full' viewpoint: what seems to be a big mess is, in a way, a clean slate, even if there is a thick veneer of grime obscuring it.

As my apartment-dwelling colleagues Mike and Matthew well know, our house-dwelling co-workers sometimes seem to have the upper hand in many respects. My biggest apartment complaints usually have to do with my neighbors.

1. To the girl across the hall: Who stays up all night until 8 AM on a Sunday morning listening to music and having loud conversations? You do! Thanks for the wake-up, but my alarm clock works just fine. And I get the feeling it's more than Diet Coke or strong coffee keeping you up.

2. To the girl across the hall on the other side: Lady, I know for a fact your friend hit my car! The neighbors in the basement apartment saw him do it. One of them used to be a police officer. They took his license plate number. Although your steroid-enhanced friend (Dude, really, how big do your pecs need to be? Do all your shirts need to be let out in the bust line?) strongly disavowed any knowledge of the incident, and I still have a $750 collision repair estimate for a new front bumper, I do appreciate you coming to my door and putting me in touch with said steroid-enhanced friend, despite his lack of personal responsibility.

3. To neighbors in general/friends of neighbors: There are only 12 parking spaces for 30 tenants — which means parking permits are a necessity. When your six friends come over, each in their own vehicle, maybe you could suggest they park in one of the many streetside spaces? I'm more and more tempted to call the tow truck each time I see this happen.

4. To Mr. Meticulous-Car Driver: Despite #3, you don't have to stare intensely at me every time I pull into the parking lot. I know, I know, your 1996 Toyota Camry is your pride and joy, but I don't park anywhere near it, so trust me, I won't hit it. However, I do enjoy watching you take 20 minutes to pull into the same space you always occupy and watching you visually inspect your car's surface, tires and undercarriage EVERY time you park. However, your compulsion for checking the door handle to be sure it's locked over and over again (sometimes up to 12 times, I've counted) is a little unsettling.

5. To passersby with dogs/neighbors with dogs: See that black plastic dog bone hanging off the leash when I take my two dogs out? You do? Good. That's full of bags I use to pick up my pets' eliminations. You say to yourself, 'Why does he pick up their poop?' Because I don't want anyone to have to smell it or step in it! I swear, if I have to clean up any more dog doo off my shoe, I'm going to chuck that feces-encrusted footwear at the first irresponsible dog owner I see. And yes, I can be more careful and look where I'm stepping, but I shouldn't have to, and I get tired of staring at the ground.

Rant complete. Josh out.

I want to learn to dance — not shake my booty, but really dance, as in fox trot, cha-cha, even tango.

This desire stems from several years ago when I covered the Van Cliburn International Piano Competition. One of the events involved a formal dinner and dance. The social elite in attendance moved with elegant precision to the sounds of Glenn Miller. My fellow journalists and I shrank into a corner and ordered more drinks.

Next time, I want to bust out some serious moves.

I've been searching the List for dance studios. Here are my choices:

Tippy Toes Dance Studio. Member review: 'I highly recommend this school of dance for preschoolers.'

Dance Expressions. Member review: 'My 4-year-old daughter takes ballet and tap dance lessons there.'

At this point in my search, I start to feel a little creepy.

I scroll down to Stage I Dance Academy. Member review: 'Beverly strongly discourages cliques and gossiping among the girls and their parents.'

Sigh.

Can grown men not learn to dance? Am I condemned to a life of two left feet?

Please, somebody. Help me.

I turn next to the Russian Ballet Academy of Indiana.

Sounds serious and adult. Instructor Alyona Yakovleva certainly is an adult. Wow. She's gorgeous. Alas, Ms. Yakovleva is not only stunningly beautiful but also a serious ballerina and way overqualified for a paunchy middle-aged dude wanting to shuffle to 'Moonlight Serenade'.

Finally, I get to Riolo Dance Studio. Member review: 'My fiance and I are getting married in two days ...' Aha! Adults learning to dance. Sweet. I just might have found the right place.

With the push of his nose or the slap of his paw, my 8-month-old Rottweiler Moto can open the sliding glass door. He thinks it’s a new trick; I think he’s a bad boy. There are evenings when he lets himself out (very helpful) but lets mosquitoes in. If only he learned to shut the door behind him, I’d be thrilled with his self-sufficiency.

He often opens the door just to get some fresh air. He doesn’t want to go out; he just enjoys peeking his head in and out and in and out — looking for squirrels, I guess. He’s even kind enough that he’ll let his 9-year-old brother Bud inside when they’re done playing outside.

Bud is twice Moto’s size, but he’s never opened the sliding glass door himself. I like to think Bud’s just a good boy who knows he’ll get in trouble.

I now lock us all outside or inside just so Moto can’t play  the 'open the door' game. Every evening I look him in the eyes and say, “I’m not playing the game.” If he could laugh in my face, he would.

We thought about getting a doggie door for our kitchen, but I’m sure Moto would play the in and out game nonstop. Plus, our dogs are so large, a robber could squeeze through the doggie door.

Moto doesn’t go back to dog training school until winter, so it’s up to me to train him not to touch the door. Nothing seems to work, so if you have suggestions, please pass them along. And, if you’re a highly rated dog trainer willing to work for free in my home, Moto will gladly open the door for you.

I'm not the biggest fan of using service companies. That might sound weird coming from an Angie’s List employee, but I prefer to do things myself.

I’d rather be covered in motor oil or paint or bruises than hire someone to do the work for me. Of course, that doesn’t mean I’ll do it well. My fixes might be farces, but at least they’re my farces.

My desire to do things myself can be attributed to a few reasons. First, my dad taught me at an early age the value of self-sufficiency. He never hired contractors. Second, I’m really cheap. So cheap, in fact, that I refused to visit a doctor for two weeks after my finger swelled from a fierce lizard bite (true story). Lastly, I’m always looking for reasons to use personal pronouns — like, “Yes, I changed my oil” and “Yeah, that’s my handiwork.”

I’m kidding about that last one. I’m serious, though, about my aversion — you might call it an allergy — to having others do work for me, particularly ones from my apartment complex. But I know they’re necessary, especially now. The last semester of my undergraduate degree begins today, and the months ahead look packed. I might not have the time — or the will — to change my truck’s oil or to perform my own dental examinations.

So, it looks like I might have to — gulp — hire someone. But at least I can hire the right ones. One of my greatest tools isn’t in my toolbox — it’s being a member of Angie’s List.

When my wife and I moved to Indiana four years ago, Rusty was one of our first visitors. We so thoroughly enjoyed his company that we welcomed him into our home permanently.

The three of us were nearly inseparable that first summer, sitting on the patio enjoying dinner, drinks and each other’s company. Rusty grew up to be a sturdy, handsome fellow with strong, thin legs and a rock-solid upper body.

Rusty wasn’t a feral cat, a pet rock or a guinea pig given to us as an ill-conceived gift; he was the first grill my wife and I owned together. Unfortunately, a series of debilitating injuries recently befell him, forcing us to part ways with our longtime charcoal-burning chum.

Although the years began to take their toll on him, four-year-old Rusty seemed as strong as ever on a warm afternoon earlier this summer. While enjoying the day in the backyard with my wife and dogs, I decided to fire Rusty up and let him have some fun too.

As I took the last steak from Rusty, one of his front legs gave way, causing him to lose balance, tip forward and nearly knock the medium-rare slab of beef from the plate in my hand. I hurriedly set the plate on the table and rushed to his aid.

I propped up the missing piece of his rusted-through leg with a nearby rock and closed his lid. I fought back tears as his weathered wooden handle nearly broke off in my hand. I solemnly walked away, realizing this was Rusty’s last meal.

I knew I was to blame for my pal’s demise. Years of neglect, rain and snow transformed him from trusty to Rusty. But, realizing that second-guessing wouldn’t restore him to his original condition, I chose to remember the good things — like the tender, juicy barbecued ribs we cooked together. Or those times we watched my dogs chase squirrels around the yard.

Following weeks of mourning, I decided it was time to move on. After poring through Angie’s List reports on various home-improvement stores in the area, I purchased a new grill last week. Luckily, Rusty doesn’t have ears. If he did, he’d hear me singing the praises of the unparalleled awesomeness of his replacement.

But he hasn’t gone too far. For the time being he rests peacefully behind a tree alongside my driveway. I can’t sever our ties just yet. After all, even in his current state of disrepair, Rusty’s still a better cook than my wife. And you can even tell her I said so.

I had my re-wedding this past Saturday with my husband John, and the weekend’s festivities were almost everything I had hoped for in my wedding. The only thing missing was John’s family. We had amazing photographers, though, so everything was well documented (which is a bit scary, as they were partying well into the evening with us.)

The whole evening went perfectly, though— from our short 10-minute ceremony in my parents’ backyard to the reception. My parents picked the reception's location: the car gallery in the Stutz building, which gave the evening an interesting feel. The tables and bars were interspersed with an amazing collection of old cars, from a 1929 Auburn Boattail Speedster to a 1984 Ferrari 512 Boxer. We weren’t allowed to take any for a joy ride, but that didn’t stop us from sitting in the Speedster.

We also had a live band. With my husband's 'signature' dance moves, though, it’s a wonder no one was critically injured. There was a moment when everyone in the reception hall was holding their breath, worried for my mother’s safety. But rest assured — she made it out in one piece.

Despite the fact that my wedding coordinator was lousy at communication during the entire planning process — emails and phone calls went unanswered and were rarely returned; samples of flower arrangements never arrived as promised — the reception was beautiful, and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves. I hear the food was quite tasty as well, but I was so busy trying to talk to everyone, I barely had a chance to sit down. I'm glad everyone was able to make it though, and while the night went by in a flash, I'm certainly going to hold on to the memories for the rest of my life.

So that’s it. Two weddings down, one to go. I have to say, my weddings are getting better with practice. By the time John and I make it to Ireland next year for our big Irish-Catholic celebration, we’ll be able to get married with our eyes closed — and we’ll definitely need more time to recuperate.

It seems I have a sensitive immune system, and recently got sick while cleaning my garage. It was a freaking mess. A disaster.

My roommates and I have used the garage as a staging area for the work we've performed on the rest of the house. Originally it was full of trash from the demolition, but yours truly cleared that mess out a long time ago. But over time, as we added crown molding, or painted a wall, the garage turned back into a mess.

So one bright Saturday, while most people were doing fun things like playing frisbee with their dog or swimming in the good ol' swimming hole, Conor was inside a hot garage sweeping and sweating. It sucked. The worst part, other than the massive amount of trash we created for the garbage men, was the dust I kicked up while sweeping. I paid no attention to this at the time, but the next day I was congested, coughing and sniffling. Boo.

So why bring this up? Many will prepare for the fall and winter by doing cleaning, or tackling home improvement tasks that will kick up dust and dirt. Some perform simple work like this on their home quite often. Many hire others to do the job. Regardless, if there's dust flying, face masks should be worn. Always. In addition to cleaning, there are several tips listed here for homeowners preparing for winter. There are suggestions on everything from what to do with your chimney to what to do to your lawn. If you own a home, make sure you check them out.

But whatever you do yourself, be careful and wear a face mask combined with other safety gear. I certainly will be wearing one when I tackle my next cleaning project: my shed. It's been locked and the windows are so dirty you can't even see in, so I'm clueless as to what awaits me inside. Dead racoon? Jimmy Hoffa? Regardless, I've heard from my neighbors it's where the goat lived, so it's probably not pretty. I'll let you know in a future post.