ick

Word to the wise: if you really want to know how much of a slob you are, get your carpets cleaned. Oh. My. God.

global crossing...

...just sent us a bill for a whopping 2 cents. Yes, that's zero dollars and 2 cents. This is for hobbitt's work line long distance. The paper for the envelope is probably just a smidge under two cents, and the mailing costs - well, we know what the mailing costs are. Is this just another example of how f*cked their accounting procedures are? I'm just asking.

get around round round I get around

I stole it from Mike. Not my Mike.

bold the states you've been to, underline the states you've lived in and italicize the state you're in now...

Alabama / Alaska / Arizona / Arkansas / California / Colorado / Connecticut / Delaware / Florida / Georgia / Hawaii / Idaho / Illinois / Indiana / Iowa / Kansas / Kentucky / Louisiana / Maine / Maryland / Massachusetts / Michigan / Minnesota / Mississippi / Missouri / Montana / Nebraska / Nevada / New Hampshire / New Jersey / New Mexico / New York / North Carolina / North Dakota / Ohio / Oklahoma / Oregon / Pennsylvania / Rhode Island / South Carolina / South Dakota / Tennessee / Texas / Utah / Vermont / Virginia / Washington / West Virginia / Wisconsin / Wyoming / Washington D.C /

Go HERE to have a form generate the HTML for you.

pisces

So of course I had to call LinDuh today to sing that silly song: Happy happy birthday to you! to the tune of the 1812 Overture (thank you Tchaikovsky!) but LinDuh wasn't home - which was a very good thing. But I wasn't finished. I had to call Carlene and sing the same damned song - and she made me sing the whole freaking thing - since I seem to collect mostly Pisces friends as those closest to my heart. It figures. Who could love the indecisive, amorphous collective we other than we?

Carlene had a joke to tell, since she just recently met another Pisces who shares her actual birthday (though this other person is 15 years her junior, as Carlene is 12 years mine, and I am seven years junior to LinDuh). It involves the Piscean memory function (poorly developed). She and her dance student, upon realizing they shared a birthday, and laughing and commenting on it, also realized they might have had this conversation before, to whit the joke: "How many Pisces does it take to screw in a light bulb?" "What light bulb?" (My answer was "What? It's dark in here?")

Ten years ago, when I was working for IBM/Advantis, I called Carlene on 2/26 to wish her a happy birthday. I was absolutely certain we shared the day: the year before on her 25th birthday, she'd thrown herself a lovely and spiritual party (at which I smoked a cigar in her honor) on my birthday, the 26th. I commented that we shared a birthday and she assumed I knew her birthday was the following day. Okay, that's the premise. Following so far? No? Well, re-read and hang in there because something approaching slapstick ensues.

I was sitting at my desk in the cubicle farm on the 10th (executive) floor of the Advantis building, and I called Carlene to wish her a happy birthday. She answered, and upon hearing my greeting, said simply "Today's not my birthday." I don't know how else to explain the abrupt and earth-shattering confusion that followed except to say that we were both thrown into some alternate reality where time stood still. I wasn't sure where I was anymore, since I had been certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that today was indeed my birthday and that it was also hers. She was in the same state about what she felt she knew, with utter certainty, about the following day. Ever since that year she's had to think about whether her birthday is the 26th or 27th.

To say that it was an uncomfortable and awkward conversation is to immensely understate. But today we laughed a lot. I do believe my side hurts. And though she's worrying about her 15-year-old son who is in Costa Rica with his Waldorf School classmates, his first trip away from home and white-water rafting to boot, for a moment she was able to relax and reminisce and laugh.

In three days I'll call Barb to sing that same damned song.

forty-eight

Yup. That's how many I am. Not enough fingers, sorry. If I had enough, you can rest assured they'd all be official New Jersey salute fingers.

Yesterday my (only local) friend Jill treated me to a massage at her home - by her massage therapist - and then dinner in Princeton at a wonderful Chinese restaurant. Now don't get me wrong, hobbitt treats me like the empress I am every waking minute of every day but it's been a really long time since anyone else has treated me this royally. I'm not complaining - my friends are always very good to me - but this was above and beyond any expectations. I have the great honor of usually being on the giving end of such extravagances. And I sure did like receiving.

Jill and I are very different but share, among other things, an abiding affection for one another. She's daring and entrepreneurial and enthusiastic. I'm reticent and lazy and reserved. In a lot of ways we're both lost souls here on the edges of the Pines. So it was wonderful to be able to share a long period of time alone together to talk openly and without her young son Dylan taking all our attention (because he's a sweet loving 21-month-old, not because he's demanding). We weren't entirely alone, of course, because Dakota - at minus-ten weeks - was turning and kicking, but I don't think she was listening all that closely. Jill is enamored of Robert Downey Jr. and Johnny Depp. She's too young to know Yul Brynner.

She was born in 1971, my second year of high school. I guess technically I'm old enough to be her mother, but I cannot help but think of her as a peer, albeit a smidge younger. Perhaps it's time for me to get a grip, huh? Anyway, I know that she loves long hair on men, the Dead, and treating everyone fairly. I know she hates bees and is afraid of the spirits she sees and hears all the time in her house (and I've seen them too, so don't go thinking that her Deadhead ways have rotted her brain). She's a great cook but hates cooking. She has more ideas and interests than she'll ever be able to pursue. She's a fun-loving and gentle mother and her son's demeanor speaks volumes about his nurturing. She seems as tall as I am but is actually five full inches shorter. Like hobbitt, she takes up a lot of space but doesn't understand the power of her presence.

I'm honored that she considers me her friend. And the General's Chicken was pretty darned good, too.

hookey

I'm officially playing hookey from my master gardening class right now. There was a field trip to the local recycling center to build a compost pile, and then a stop at the county park where the greenhouse and prop shop are.

Early this afternoon I meet with the realtor to get the house on the market, and if it doesn't snow, we'll be going out to dinner with Aunt Grace tonight to celebrate my birthday. There are several large boxes to go to the thrift shop, and several large bags of clothing to go to the drop box. The closets and master bath are in disarray. It's a busy day and something had to give.

If I'm smart, I'll make the best use of this time, and not just sit here geeking. I'll report back later to let you know how smart I was.

we don't have to wait

"To be hopeful in bad times is not just foolishly romantic. It is based on the fact that human history is a history not only of cruelty, but also of compassion, sacrifice, courage, kindness... And if we do act, in however small a way, we don't have to wait for some grand utopian future. The future is an infinite succession of presents, and to live now as we think human beings should live, in defiance of all that is bad around us, is itself a marvelous victory."

-- Howard Zinn, historian, in You Can't Be Neutral on a Moving Train

schizophrenia

All in all I'm coping pretty well, but I realize I've failed in my #1 priority: staying present. No big deal, though my body feels as tense as it ever has. Luckily, there's not a whole lot of emotional lading to go along with that, and tomorrow night, if I'm lucky, I'll get that massage that Jill owes me.

What's causing me to be of two minds is this: on March 7th, we're buying a house that we'll then fly 3000 miles away from the following day. I have to find someone to take care of the grounds until we can move in. I have to figure out where all pertinent information will be mailed until we move in. I have to open a bank account, as well as water and electric and propane service. My sister & husband will be "vacationing" in our new home the weekend before Easter, and will oversee the installation of the refrigerator and washer and dryer while she's there, if we can get it together to find what we want and order it. We'll be taking her air mattress, coffee maker and other sundries as checked baggage when we go to sign the papers. I'm finding myself kicking in to hostess mode even though I won't have lived in the house for even five minutes before she's there.

Our home isn't yet ready for market. I want it to be so by the end of the month. Which is next week. Four major things have to happen: 1) the sump drain situation has to be addressed. 2) the converted garage room has to be made to look like civilized people live here. 3) the family room carpet needs to be professionally cleaned. 4) the kitchen countertops need to be decrappified and polished.

There is a lot on my plate right now, involving finances, logistics, scheduling, you name it. I can't keep any of it straight. I'm excited and happy. I want to be done here. I want to be there. Nobody knows better than I do how crazy it is to wish time away, but I can't help it right now.

dream

This morning I had a somewhat disturbing dream.

In the dream, I was at a "gathering" with an old lover, Bobby. (As for Bobby - it was hot, and it ended very badly.) For some reason we went to a club, and there was a drag show in what appeared to be a clothing store. One of the other guests at this club was my friend K. He looked at me quite disapprovingly. In the dream I didn't know exactly what it was he expected of me.

From time to time in the dream, Bobby turned into Alois, another old love. (As for Alois - it was awful and damaging for years. Come to think of it, neither Bobby nor Alois had a whole lot of respect for women. Hmmm. Oh well.) For some reason I took off my clothes, put on something from the racks, and went outdoors for a while. When I returned, the show was over and my clothes had been stolen. All the drag queens seemed to find this exceptionally amusing. There was a cruel streak in them that probably shouldn't have, but did, surprise me.

I don't particularly like this dream, or what it represents to me. It makes me sad. But now that I find myself out from under the kind of weight that can crush a person's soul, I don't want to spend the kind of energy it would take to explore its meaning. Perhaps the universe will forgive me, perhaps not. In any case there's nothing I can do about it now. So I think I'll just turn the page and move on.

motivation

I got word today that my oldest nephew M., the tattoo artist, who works in a shop owned by a member of a motorcycle gang (surprise!), now has a tattoo on his face.

Now I can't think of many reasons a person would get a tattoo on the face in this day and age, on this continent, in this so-called society. Is this a gang mark? Does this ensure this newly-initiated individual doesn't have any out - since the mark will forever separate him from the rest of the world? This particular gang is pretty involved in the distribution of meth in this state. Should I take the next step and wonder how involved he is in this kind of activity?

Quite frankly I don't expect to have any contact with this fellow after we move to Washington. And while I have a pretty fierce feelings regarding family, there's nothing I can do for this guy - no way I can help him, no example I can set, no love I can give him that will help.

When he was flunking out of high school, I had offered to take him into our home in Illinois. But I knew he'd be trouble, so I wanted legal guardianship, in order to be able to intervene at school, get him medical care, etc. His father (my sister's ex) refused this, so M. continued to live in a household (with the father) where the first kid home got the dinner money, and the second kid went hungry. A home where all family members (the father and two sons) were stealing from one another, so the father put padlocks on their respective doors. A home where, when the father had a date, the sons were out on the streets. This kind of father, who unsurprisingly and naturally blames everything on the mother.

Anyway. Out of sight, out of mind. I hope.

progress

I hesitate to say it, but I think the shredding is complete.

Last night we built a large fire and between the two of us, we knocked out nine accordian files of old bills, checks, and paystubs via fire and shredder over the course of about six hours. Being the consummate pyromaniac, I flitted from the one to the other (the shredder, once warmed, only runs a few minutes before needing to cool off again). The fire was burning very hot with all that paper, and I wanted the fire extinguisher to be close by. hobbitt didn't understand my concern. Then, in a moment of inattentiveness, I picked up the poker by the (glowing) hot end. Even in the face of searing pain, I managed to keep the poker on the hearth, and not drop it on the rug or the cat. Even better? No lasting damage. Just very small minor burns on my right-hand ring and center fingers. Not even a blister.

Of course the shredding litter is still all over the floor in the corner by the cd rack. And there are a half-dozen boxes stacked in the kitchen with thrift-shop donations. But the master bathroom is painted and cleaned up and looks quite nice, thankyouverymuch. (Actually I have to thank hobbitt for that. He even mopped the tile floor and vacuumed the carpeting.)

Next I want to begin packing up the table and bed linens that we'll be taking with us. Oh, and interviewing moving companies. And planning our trip to Port Townsend for the close, which is March 7.

this week's winner

The referral winner for this week was my profile on Radio Paradise.

Followed by Aalln. And then NWG.

In the process of getting the news out about our move, I've noticed a couple of non-replies. I'm not perhaps the most attentive of friends, especially when I'm under a cloud of stress. Maybe I've stuck my foot deeply into my oral cavity and not realized it.

I dreamed last night that hobbitt and I finally moved into our new home. Except it wasn't the house we just bought - it was another, older, in-town house. I realized the moment we shut the door behind us that we'd made a terrible mistake. In the dream, I had always had misgivings, but let hobbitt drive the way, and I was almost panicky in my regret about that.

Waking set that all straight for me. hobbitt did drive the way to our buying this house, unlike the purchases of our first two homes, which I chose, I negotiated, I pushed for. This time it was all in his lap, and I stood back. And I did have some reservations about this house. But in the face of understanding what a complete life-change this is, all those reservations melted away. I'm excited about having less of everything and I wonder how far-reaching this will be. It's almost as though I can feel weight lifting off my shoulders.

ceryle alcyon

Late yesterday afternoon I took the pup to the Forest Research Education Center just up the road. We haven't been there in many months - perhaps a year or more - for a walk. Inti gets plenty of outdoor time here at druid labs, according to me, anyway. Though I'm sure she enjoys our ballgames, there is a particular joy that shows in her gait and her happy sounds when she's off-property and if lucky enough, off-lead. She gets that chance for part of the walk at FREC.

We parked, as usual, about 100 yards from where the road crosses the Toms River, and walked along the nursery path, past the duck pond and picnic area, and into the woods on the swamp trail. She had her nose down and ran full-tilt the whole way. I'm never sure if she remembers the path or if her nose gives her clues, but in any case, she rarely strays off the walkway. For the entire way through the swamp she was making that wonderful piggy snorting sound - it comes not from her nose, but from her throat or lungs. She takes in the scents with short, sharp gulps continually. Her tail gyrates like a flapping wing. If we stayed in one spot the whole day she couldn't get enough of this place. She sailed past the first few small creeks as if she hadn't seen them (and perhaps she hadn't), but as we approached the Toms River, I could see it was higher than we'd ever encountered, so I called her back to put her on-lead.

The river at this point is perhaps twenty feet across, about 5 feet deep in the middle, and strewn with fallen trees and limbs. Where there are large trees down, the bank is cut from the eddies created by the swiftly moving water. There is one spot, just as we arrive at the river, where Inti loves to swim. It was hard to judge how fast the current was, since the water was so much higher than we're accustomed to.

She didn't think she would get to swim, and barrelled on along the path. I turned her around and encouraged her to jump in. She flung herself in with her usual enthusiasm, even swimming beyond the "beach" before turning around to fight the current back to the landing spot. She was in heaven. I could see that the water was running clear when she shook herself off on the pristine snow. It was the color of weak coffee, or a very strong boiled black tea. There's lots of iron in this water, and though dark, on bright days it's quite easy to see the bottom of the river bed, even in the deep areas.

But it wasn't bright yesterday by the time we got there. When I parked the car the sun was just behind the trees on the hill to the west. Though not yet dusk, it was fast approaching. We continued our walk up river on the path, and ahead I could here the call of some sort of bird. I wasn't familiar with the call, and it sounded just a little alarmed - or maybe just pissed off. As we moved forward it stayed ahead of us, moving frequently. When I finally spotted it, we stopped to take a look. It was large and blue-gray, with a big head and long beak, white collar. A kingfisher? I'd never seen one here before. A few more steps forward and the bird flew down river towards us and past in a flash. Big wings with bars and a scratchy call! Definitely a belted kingfisher. (Why did I know this when I'd never seen one before? Perhaps some things do sink in when I obsessively read bird books, plant books, dictionaries and the like. Go ahead and call me a geek. I deserve it.) This bird was hauling ass down river past us, and I couldn't help but get the impression that we were being warned, as aggressive as its flight was.

We continued our walk along the road and into the woods on the other side. Inti doesn't care much about the birds, or the color of the river. She's just happy to be out there, sniffing something new and exciting, and marking the trail from start to finish. And except for the marking part, that's pretty true for me, too.

tameme

As memes go, this one is somewhat tame. But I have nothing else interesting to say today.

1. What time did you get up this morning? 8 a.m.-- it's starting to feel natural.

2. Diamonds or pearls? Why? Well, if I had to choose, pearls.

3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema? Oh, jeez. Something at the Tivoli, pre-2002.

4. What is your favorite TV show? The Daily Show.

5. What did you have for breakfast? Coffee. Black, no sugar.

6. What is your middle name? Marie. You shut up.

7. Favorite cuisine? Indian.

8. What foods do you dislike? Fish and seafood.

9. What is your favorite potato chip flavor? Vanilla.

10. What is your favorite CD at the moment? Too busy listening to Radio Paradise, sorry.

11. What kind of car do you drive? Titanium Volvo V70AWD.

12. Favorite sandwich? Tuna melt. And there's no conflict with #8.

13. What characteristic do you despise? Thoughtlessness.

14. Favorite item of clothing? My purple BlueFish jumper.

15. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation where would you go? Alaska.

16. What color is your bathroom? Which one? Freshly-painted white, merlot, or sage.

17. Favorite brand of clothing? Land's End.

18. Where would you retire to? PNW.

19. Favorite time of the day? Dusk in summertime, on the deck, with a cocktail.

20. What was your most memorable birthday? 30th. We used me as an excuse to lure my father to his retirement party, which my mother threw for him. It was stunning to see how my father was regarded by his co-workers. People were begging my mother for invitations, offering to pay their own way. Plus, it was a hoot to see my little sister Nancy out on the dance floor with all these geezers dancing to YMCA!

21. Where were you born? Neptune. New Jersey.

23. Who do you least expect to send this back to you? Well, I stole it from Triskele. And I won't send it on.

24. Person you expect to send it back first? see above

25. What fabric detergent do you use? Tide HE.

27. Are you a morning person or a night person? Mid-day.

28. What is your shoe size? 9.5.

29. Do you have any pets? One jerk dog, one pissy cat.

30. Any new and exciting news you'd like to share with friends and family? We're moving.

31. What did you want to be when you were little? Paul McCartney's wife. Thank god that didn't pan out.

feed the bear

Some years ago I stayed at a retreat center in Three Rivers, MI. It's a lovely place, with several comfortable cabins placed around an open field, or Laura. People go there to be in silence, walk in nature, and practice mindfulness. I was there as part of a pilgrimage required by my shamanic training. It was winter. I was forbidden to read. It never stopped snowing. After three days I was ready to tear off my own skin to get the hell away from myself. Perhaps I should give such a practice another try, huh?

I still get the newsletter from the center, and it often has beautiful poetry written by guests. This poem stopped me in my tracks. I didn't see a copyright, but let's assume there is one, and give credit where credit is due.

Neighborly
by Elizabeth Kerlikowske

When the bear is ravenous she helps herself.
She smells your chocolates miles away.
It's not that far - New Jersey.
She knows how to move.

You left the candy unattended in your living room.
She does not practice delayed gratification.

Within minutes she is at your house
She rips out the air-conditioning unit
and leaves a tutu of hair.

You come home and find the bear
seated on your couch chewing chocolates.

Your husband swears he's been dialing 911.
Her fur's everywhere
but the valentine is almost empty.
She really doesn't seem to care.

When the bear hungers
she holds one thought
feed the bear
feed the bear

what gets shredded

In our house are several bankers boxes of paperwork from Mom's house. Some of it I took years ago when I had power-of-attorney, though mostly it was to get the reams of banking information out of her house. It was driving her crazy. She wasn't a collector or pack rat, but by that time, it was beyond her ability to sort through the volumes of information to determine whether it was worth keeping. I just took it (back to Illinois with me) rather than undertake the daunting task of sorting through it myself. And so it got moved back here. But it's not going to Washington, so I am shredding and burning and sorting.

In her home, in the dining room buffet drawers, she had a few fat interoffice envelopes filled with such things as pay stubs, tax returns, medical bills and "sentimental receipts." The other night, in front of the fire, I came across the hospital bills from when each of us children was born, and mailed them off to the respective beneficiaries. Fitkin Hospital (now Jersey Shore University Medical Center) charged $11 a day for a semi-private room in 1955. By 1957, that sum was $15 per day. The entire cost of delivery, supplies, room and phone for my birth was $157, for six days (including $5 a day for "baby"). There is no detail for the twins' birth, and not even a full bill, in 1959.

Right now I'm going through a large box that has lots of Medicare and other insurance bills and some bank information. I came across the ID card for when Dad was in Memorial Sloan-Kettering in 1991, and the bills, attached to the reports, from the hospital in New Smyrna Beach, FL, where my parents were wintering when Dad became ill. So I just found out that he had bilateral emphysema, in an otherwise unremarkable geriatric chest. He didn't smoke after the age of 22 or so, and other than mild asbestosis, I didn't know he had any lung issues at all. Of course it's a moot point, since he died of lymphoma, which was in his chest, neck and groin. It was a bad one, although I distinctly remember a doctor at Sloan telling Dad that what he had was very treatable and controllable. Evidently that was before the second biopsy results were in.

I don't want to be revisiting this stuff right now. I already feel like the weight of the world is on my shoulders, with this monstrous wreck of a house in need of packing and sorting. But I suppose there's something fitting about wallowing a bit in family history, as I prepare to leave the part of the country where it all happened. It's a time of great grief for me, remembering and imagining. I imagine how awful it was for Mom to have to deal with a raft of medical bills after Dad died. I imagine how frightening it must have been for her to see her one and only love become weaker and weaker. I imagine how terrible it must have been for her to see him at the point of no return, convulsing with the uncontrollable fever, that night she asked me to find out how to increase the morphine drip and let him die.

It all makes sense to me, of course. It's time, finally, for me to unburden my heart of all the tears that I've bottled up. Like these papers, I don't want to be bringing that to Washington.

And I should have gotten a better shredder, for both jobs.

to die for mushrooms

Actually, it's a recipe. And it's marked 4 deaths confirmed. It's an approximation of a yummy dish from Philander's Restaurant in Oak Park, Illinois. These are unbelievably delicious, but the preparation requires attention. Serve these on toast points or plain crackers.

1/2 cup olive oil
1/4 cup chopped onions
1/4 cup chopped pepper
1 tsp fresh ground black pepper
2 Tbs. fresh minced garlic
4 cups mushrooms, your choice or perhaps a blend of 1 cup each: shiitake, portabello, grashe and tree-frog mushrooms, sliced as necessary
1 cup white wine (last night's leftover champagne is preferred, though unlikely in this house)
1/4 tsp. each marjoram, ground bay leaf, oregano, rosemary
2/3 cup coursely chopped sun-dried tomatoes, drained
1/2 cup of heavy creme
2/3 cup crumbled bleu cheese

Slowly sauté onions and green pepper in olive oil. Add pepper, dash of salt, and garlic. When onions begin to caramelize, add mushrooms and continue to stir. Mushrooms will absorb some of the oil - pour off about half of the oil that remains in pan after mushrooms have softened.

Add 1 cup white wine and stir continuously for about 5 minutes of low heat. Add spices gradually during this time.

Add sun-dried tomatoes and blend until bits of tomato are well incorporated. At this point you may cool the result and refrigerate for up to 48 hours. When restarting the recipe, gradually bring this mixture to the boil and then turn heat down.

Add cream and stir continuously for three to five minutes. Just before serving, add bleu cheese and stir, but do not blend, leaving small melting chunks.

Serve in a small chafing dish to keep warm, and serve with toast points or crackers.

I got this recipe from an old boss who served them at all his parties and they are well worth the effort. He attempted to get the actual recipe from the chef at Philanders but was unsuccessful, probably because the chef understood that B. was a power-hungry megalomaniac and consummate manipulator of his adoring minions. Powerful and dangerous. I had the privilege of working for him for about three years, after which I quit the work force entirely, such was his benificent effect on me. But I digress. The mushrooms are wonderful indeed. I post this recipe now because in an effort to get my office packed up, I'm jettisoning paper, and this page, with that man's "just a small gift, ever, B." signature makes my skin crawl.

hmmm

Well now.

Do I need three sets of nesting mixing bowls? Do I need eight bread pans of varying sizes? Do I need the seven various unmatched casserole dishes, or the six Pyrex baking dishes?

Why am I even thinking about this? I'm nowhere near to getting to the kitchen. Perhaps I should just concentrate on my office first. Okay. Time to pack up the decorative items: the star ruby/carved antler wand, the native Canadian soapstone carved walrus, the ironstone horse fetish, the carved wooden rhino. Sixteen leatherbound journals. The tiny horseshoe crab shell (completely intact, including all the legs) that my nephews gave me. Beach glass. Forget-me-not seeds that were given to Mom at a dear friend's funeral.

I'm beginning to like the phrase "for fucking crying out loud." I believe it's my new mantra.

uh oh

It's ours. Well, ours and the bank's. But them just for a short time. Soon.

crêpe hog day

So, I'm sitting here alone at druid labs east, waiting to hear about our offer. Fly in the ointment = 11th hour buyer, with an escalation clause. Which is to say: they'll raise their offer to x dollars over ours up to y dollars. hobbitt made the call on this one. I didn't think he had it in him. He must really, really like this house. Of course, he's out playing volleyball tonight.

Evidently my blood pressure is under control now. My head felt like it was about to explode when I was at the doctor's office today. That's usually the case. They have Fox News blaring in the waiting room and no way to turn it down. It's extremely hard to miss the way the talking heads lead some interviewees and bait others, with no attempt to hide their fair and balanced bias. Shameful, in fact, but I suppose that's just how it's done now (i.e., delivering what the target audience wants to hear rather than delivering facts), which is why I choose to read the news from various sources rather than listen to any of it.

So it's 130 over 80. My blood pressure, that is. The pressure in my head is probably due to the tension in my neck and shoulders. I do believe that a stiff martini (is there any other kind?) might loosen that up a bit, but it's only 7:30 p.m. and I might have a long night ahead of me. So I'm swigging seltzer and playing Canasta. I'll be fine.

Phil predicted a long winter. Considering how freaking long it took to get here, no wonder. A friend tells me the French eat crêpes on this day. I'll join them, but I'll roll mine around a sweet crunchy rodent, extra sauce.

bastard child (of aw crap)

We're back from our foray into the Pacific Northwest. The first day was confusing, except for the excellent breakfast at Salal Cafe, a charming establishment on Water Street - and recommended by the critics at druid labs. We saw "that house" and it is indeed lovely, but for some reason it felt small to us. That is probably because we couldn't get far enough away from one another during the course of a normal day. We saw several other homes, one of which was totally wonderfully funky and would have needed some serious help - but it was the right price for that.

After a full day of tramping through other people's homes, we trotted over to Siren's in Port Townsend for a few drinks and some adult conversation, something in which we have little experience. We were both confused, not to mention dog-tired from the time change and extremely long day of travel. We finally realized we were trying to talk ourselves into liking these homes, the lots, the areas - which were fine indeed, but not exactly what we were looking for. I felt as though I hadn't the vaguest idea what I was doing. And I was asleep by 8 p.m.

That last sentence alone should astound most people who know me.

The following morning, over breakfast (at the Fountain Cafe, which only serves breakfast on weekends but is highly recommended by the critics at druid labs), hobbitt brought up an idea that I'd been entertaining, too. Why not, he posited, downsize now? We had been hoping to reinvent ourselves, not be such house hounds, couch potatoes, and stultifyingly boring people. Why did we feel we needed 5 acres (no mule) to tend, a large house to maintain, isolation, and a lateral move regarding our mortgage?

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I believe I tore the pocket out of my jeans when ripping the phone out of my pocket to call the realty agent. We were going to start over, with an exciting, fascinating, uplifting idea. We met with the agent on Saturday afternoon to go over an itinerary both in town and in a private community just outside of town for Sunday.

Sadly, we had to cancel plans to meet some new friends who were to rendezvous with us on Bainbridge Island for brunch on Sunday morning. I couldn't hesitate about that, since it was likely that I'd be coming back alone and needed to see as many properties as possible while hobbitt was along with me. But it still saddened me quite a bit. The weekend was getting to be hard work and some downtime would have been wonderful. Alas.

Long story short: I believe we've found what we're looking for in this waterfront, private community. The house is stunning, and about 40% smaller than druid labs east. It's brand new. The lot is three-tenths of an acre. It'll be a long time before any full-naked hot tubbing will happen, that's for sure. But we can come close to retiring our mortgage. Really close. Which means there will be more money for landscaping and hot tubs and traveling and who-knows-what.

The life I see for myself involves reacquainting myself with my pup, Inti, on long walks on the trails through the heavily wooded community, down to Port Townsend Bay so she can swim, and then back up the hill so I can shed some of the baggage I'm carrying on my body. Kayaking lessons. Jefferson County master gardening classes. Exploring Olympic National Park and Forest. Forays into Seattle. Ferry rides. Whale watching.

Were we looking for a home in a gated community? Nope. Small lot? Nope. New home? Not at all. If any of you have the magic shoe-horn for us to squeeze a 5-bedroom, 14-room home into a 2-bedroom (with 1 office and 1 loft space) 6 room home, send it along right away. I'm going to need it.

Oh, and guess what? If this works out, I'll finally have my soaking tub and gas cooking.

Take a look.