Liability

Schmiability. Liability is my least favorite word in the American lexicon a la moment. Between me giving the "licensed, but not really licensed" pest inspector the furry eyeball, and hiring a silent-partner consultant to give us the straight poop about which kind of ants really are pooping in our crawlspace, I'm about ready to go pestal myself. If our house falls down 10 years after we've vacated because some creature the size of my snotty nose hairs ate the foundation, it's not my problem, OK? And, today, kids, we don't even need a made-up-word-of-the-week because we have a real one to learn: FRASS. What's that you say? Ant poop? The equivalent of insect guano? No, but close. It's the cellulose fiber from the wood they kick out when they burrow in to nest. And, if your ever asked on a Millionaire TV game show, carpenter ants eat each other, moisture ants eat the fungus in wet wood, and I'm going to go eat some chocolate and chill out. My husband vented the crawlspace, and I'm venting plenty myself, thank you very much.

Next

OK, so that little house of yesterday was just a bit too weird. Not to mention, brand new house construction next door. So much for peace and serenity. Our next target, slightly above our budget...

Waterfront Beach Cottage

Damn. I need to make some money. Anybody got any connections I could tap into? I'm good. I'm funny. You knew that.

Thanks to Jennifer Lynham of Lynham Ink for the next MUWOW:
suckfully=regretfully.

I'm feeling mighty sorry for myself. Saw a sign on a local church that read, "Sin would have few takers if the consequences were immediate." That sounds like a perfect premise for a movie a la Minority Report.

And, yes, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm also feeling quite scattered. Later.

Stress Puppy

Yup, that's me. One gigantic ball of loose wires, frayed nerves, and pent up anxiety. I was offered a free 5-minute massage the other day by a certified chiropractor and I turned her down. I was afraid that if she touched me, I'd completely lose it and not be able to recover. I was embarrassed at how tense she would find me to be. Now that, my friends, is truly pathetic. This whole house sale and finding a new place to live thing has got me in fight-flight mode 24/7. The latest development is that Husby and I are thinking of going on vacation for a year. Well, OK, living in a vacation house on Vashon Island for a year, to get some time and distance from OD-ing on the modern world. Check it out, it's beautiful:
Vashon Guest House
No, it's not the least bit practical. Then why am I so thrilled at the prospect?

MUWOW: Actually, it's more of a colloquialism that should be in common usage: "Here are the perts:" as in, "Here are the pertinent facts:".

Petition for Peace

Here's what I wrote on my petition for peace to our congress representative in support of this week's peace rally in D.C.: Our country must end this costly occupation and violence. It is never acceptable to take lives under the guise of peace. In addition to the lives lost in battle, there are the lives lost recently in the ineptitude of Katrina, while our Commander in Chief's mind and heart were trapped firmly in his wallet, looking only at his own personal interests. Finally, every day lives are compromised and lost due to the evil of poverty. As an elected leader of our democracy, it is your responsibility to alter our government's priorities to serve the highest good for all of the planet's citizens, not just the wealthy few.

I belong to an organization called TrueMajority, the first and only place at the moment where I feel a glimmer of a chance to have my voice heard.

Our house inspection is tomorrow. Please send good energies our way that all goes well, and the house sale becomes final. Yea!

Sold Pending Inspection

Our house is Sold Pending Inspection! Yea! We are being offered a little bit more than we asked for. I'm trying to be thrilled, but it is tempered by waiting for everything to be really real when the inspection clears.

QUOD: Why must following our bliss be so damn challenging?
MUWOW: pupportunities. The opportunities for pups in my book, such as off-leash dog parks, sidewalk dining, and beautiful b&bs and inns that allow dogs.

Now to dive deep. Here I am blogging the tip of the iceberg of my experience, while a life several fathoms deep lurks under the surface. I do want to share the immensity and wildness of being SFHC, but most of it is still too close under my skin. I suspect it's all going to have to go into a novel or two, loosely disguised as prose and parables.

And, frankly, there's too much going on right now. I barely have time to live it and cope, much less write about it.

Let's start by dropping a small bomb. My brother is schizophrenic. So far, his pathology is largely benign to others and damaging to himself, things like walking around naked, giving away all his possessions, and deciding he doesn't need food.

One of the hardest parts about living with mental illness is having to grieve each day or each event anew, never being allowed to get over the loss and move on. Sometimes, I actually envy people whose tragedy is losing loved ones in death. Other people can understand and relate and aren't afraid to comfort you, and you get to spend brain and heart time with finality of death, and start focusing on recovery and recuperation. To me, coping with mentally ill loved ones is having to face many small tragedies without release.

And now for something completely different. Yesterday was such a treat for me. I got to spend all day with dozens of dogs who were being photographed by a genius, Bev Sparks, and play and pet and love on all of these joyful beings. Because I was selling my book, it was all in the name of work, too. Hah!

This Life Is Under Construction

Pardon our mess, we are under construction. Today, our house ceased to be ours mentally, as our real estate arrived and began rolling off a long list of changes to make, WITHIN THE NEXT 4 DAYS, before our first open house on Sunday. I trust her implicity, but as I paint and re-arrange and start boxing up personal items, the finality of all of this hits hard.

Of all the superstitions a person could load into her weight-of-the-world suitcase of emotional baggage, the number 13 is the one that gives me the biggest willies. Monday is our 13th wedding anniversary, and it's gonna' be a doozy. My husband will be gone all week in Las Vegas, I'll be cooped up in a cabin in Mt. Bachelor with the pups, and the realtor will be tromping folks in and out of our lives/house. We'll be selling our most prized possession, our only asset, to pay off our debts. I'm not thrilled.

This will be my next to last posting for two weeks, while we get this process underway. The last posting will be a short story I wrote for a friend's dinner party, when we were given the instructions to "bring a piece of chocolate with a story."

P.S. If any of my editors are reading this, don't worry. Of course I'm already working on the next book! Uh huh.

Little Boy Blue

As If I Don't Have Enough to Worry About

I let my imagination run away with me. There's an adorable golden retreiver puppy mix who lives up the street, named uninventively Goldie. She looks like a golden, except with short hair. Anyway, Coop and Isis and I walk by her fence often, and she tries to stuff parts of her body through the chain link so you can pet her. Well, yesterday, she looked lethargic, hot and dusty, and sad. Now, I know her owner loves on her as an only child, and I also know her owner has recently had heart surgery for a weak ticker. So, my brain started going to the place, "What if he's died and is lying somewhere in the house, and Goldie's trying to tell me something is wrong?" When I woke up this morning, I decided to wander over there. Goldie was still out in the yard, but she looked better, and I called her owner. Turns out he's fine, no heart attack. And Goldie looked like she was pooped and lonely because she was, having played all day for three days straight with three strapping male dogs who live on the same street, then taking a day for time out. I'm sure I was influenced at the same time by listening to an audio recording of The Tipping Point, where the author at one point talks about group psychology and how 40+ people in New York watched someone die because everybody thought somebody else had already gone for help. I wanted to be the one who went for help.

Isis, O Snouted One 

Burrowing Babies

I love it when my dogs burrow. They have blankets on each of their doggie pillows. Isis is especially funny, because she will hear something she wants to investigate, and will wake up running, carrying the blanket with her, looking like a furry Queen Amidala with a long train.