Discrimination

I’ve mentioned before, my life lately is all about the cutting away.

I spent the weekend getting rid of stuff. If you haven’t been following along, we have to clear out the house by August 13. Next Thursday, for the calendar-challenged among you. Yes, we have time. But I can tell you, this particular stone has accumulated a serious amount of moss over the past 21 years. In an arid climate, too.

My moves before this were either as a young woman who owned practically nothing (18-22) or within the same small town over a few blocks. I’ve lived a lot of places within Laramie, but only two in the last 16 years.

When David and I moved out of the (much smaller) house we’d shared for 11 years, it went okay until we hit the basement. Time slowed as we dug out the sedimentary layers of toys and obsolete computer parts. Things we’d moved into the house and never used were in the far back corners, whispering quietly to themselves in the dank dark.

In this house, it’s the attic.

My (wonderful) Aunt Karen drove up from Montrose, Colo. (read: a long way) to help for two days and drive home again. She felt like she didn’t make much of a dent, but she helped me clear the attic spaces. Even though she had to ask for a flashlight to get back into the dark, “scary parts.” Dark, scary parts filled with decades of obnoxious roofing dust from when they ripped off the roof last fall to replace it. Second only in sinus-yuck factor to coal dust from when David and I remodeled the old coal bin in the previous house. Blew black snot for days. Looking into the blackened tissues, I thought of my Kennedy grandfather who died of black lung.

The attic is now clear. I rid myself of a thirty-year collection of fabric. I know. It’s a disease. I even had fabric I took from my other aunt when she had to build a separate shed to house HER fabric collection. You’d think it would have been a cautionary tale. No no no.

But I’m free now.

Gone is the sewing machine and all the fabric. No more quilting until I’m making a living as a writer. Tobiah’s baby quilt was the last, which is somehow fitting.

Gone are the Breyer model horses I’ve saved from childhood. Into the arms of a little girl in a sparkly purple body suit, who spun around and carried the box back to her mother’s Suburban, where her brothers impatiently waited.

I’m good with that. Gone also are the old bean bag chairs, the boom box with tape-to-tape record, the four-drawer filing cabinet and the boxes of overhead transparencies. All via Freecycle. I love Freecycle. You send an email to the loop with an offer and people respond. They come and take it away with happy smiles.

One of my friends who left Laramie a year ago asked how I’m managing the good-byes, since we completely blew having a going-away party. She did it well, arranging carefully sequenced farewell drinks and meals.

No such grace from me.

I’m using the serendipity method. Which is a nice way of saying I’m not arranging it at all. People have stopped by, knowing we’re packing. With all the fraught-ness that word entails. Ann offered to bring us sandwiches, which was one of the nicest things anyone could offer.

And I’m meeting the new arrivals in Laramie. The ones who are moving in for the new semester and love to have our ratty old sunroom couch. The girls from Texas, filling up their five-room house in Tie Siding with Freecycle finds while their boyfriends go to school at Wyo Tech. After that, they’ll go back to Texas, they assure us. We don’t know what they’ll do with all the stuff. And the mother of the little girl in the sparkly purple top, who asked me where to buy plants that would thrive so well in Laramie.

Blessings and good fortune in this little town to them all.

Ode

There go the tornado sirens. 10 am on the first day of the month. A regular forlorn hooting that has informed my life these past 252 months, that I’ll likely never hear again.

Twenty-one years ago this month I moved to Laramie, full of loneliness and ambition. I’d left my college friends behind, a network so intimate and involved that they still feel like family. I came to Laramie for graduate school. The starkness of those early days is still vivid. Living in my little apartment with my cats. My desk in the lab with my manic/depressive Hungarian (is that redundant?) PhD advisor, the air filled with his cigarrette smoke. All the friends who’ve come and gone over the years: grad students, professors, Silver Sagers.

This morning, David and I went for a walk around Washington Park. Then went for Saturday morning Starbucks (I get to have a peppermint mocha twist on Saturdays! Sugar-free the rest of the week) and Daylight donuts (the other special Saturday treat). We drove past our old house, the one we bought in ’93 and sold five years ago. The aspen tree we planted for Father’s Day that first summer stands taller than the apartment building next door. All around it cluster smaller aspen, the ones David and Mike illegally salvaged from the dump, when Walmart discarded them after a hailstorm.

We saw two friends at the donut shop. The writer Mark Jenkins, who’s off to Tibet next week for National Geographic and taking his fabulous wife, Sue along, and one of David’s Game & Fish cronies.

I think this is how it will be — the gradual good-byes. We ran out of time for a party. But this works. Saying good-bye to each thing in the course of errands. To each person as I gather, pack and redistribute around town.

To the vultures who circle above the skylights in my writing studio, sweeping out to the valley, following the cycle of their days.

HEA

When we last visited our heroine, Sweet Sue was tied to the railroad tracks. The train was bearing down. I stood over her, black hat cocked in a jaunty manner, saying “if you don’t give me the deed to your house…”

Well, she didn’t.

The people at Puerto Court dug in and refused our offer as too low. So we turned around and offered only $5K more for the Glorieta Road house, which is perfect and gorgeous in every way. It must be noted that Kristine Krantz, aka KAK (couldn’t resist!), picked this as the front runner. She wins a free visit to our guest room!! (Okay, okay — so does everyone. But still…)

I keep thinking about those other sellers, of the Puerto house. I feel like they made such a mistake, refusing our offer. I wish I could call them and tell them to ditch their current agent, who is letting their house deteriorate and advises them to hold out for a price *I* don’t think they’re going to get.

But what do I know?

And it’s not my deal. I’ll add that to my mantra list: It’s not my life. It’s not my relationship. It’s not my deal. Rounds it out nicely.

Special Happy Birthday to RoseMarie today. I have a little something for you, but it’s not in the mail yet…

Yes, My Hat Is Black

My life now is about negotiations.

I find myself becoming a shark. A surprising development, but there you are. We’ve all always known I’m not an especially nice person, but lately I find myself becoming downright mean.

Alas.

And still: I don’t regret it. Sometimes I think you have to be a bit mean, to fight for your own interests. Because there sure seem to be plenty of people out there who will take you for what they can if you let them.

Quick Summary: (nod to Marin)

We offered on Puerto Court, they countered, very high. We countered with a firm offer. If they won’t take it, then we’re offering on Glorieta, which is lovely and wonderful also. (If you don’t know what I’m talking about then you’ll have to skim the last few posts here, here and here.) Seems the people selling Puerto bought it just a year ago, lost the job and had to move. The house has been empty and on the market since December. The seller’s agent and even our agent feel bad for the sellers and seem to think we should make up more of the price difference.

Hence me feeling mean.

I’m sorry the market slumped. EVERYBODY is sorry. We lost about $100K of value off our house and that’s a sorry thing. But it doesn’t hurt us so much because we still have a lot of equity in our house. Which was a house we could easily afford. I’m sorry that things went badly for this other couple, but I really don’t feel we should agree to a less than ideal financial decision for us, to make things up to them.

Call me mean, indeed.

So, that’s where we stand. Hopefully the Puerto folks will be smart and take the offer. I really do feel it’s generous, given all we have to do to fix up the house.

Stay tuned…

A bit of my melodrama:

You must pay the rent!

I can’t pay the rent!

You MUST pay the rent!

I CAN’T pay the rent!

Where is my hero in dusty chaps and a silver Prius? Oh wait, I’m the bad guy!

And the Winner Is… (the real, for sure, one)*

6 Puerto Court!!!
I know. NONE of you voted for it.
Because it’s a bit shabby in the current pics. I understand. Really, I do. This is all about the potential.

Actually, these pics are from the last time it sold, before it was abandoned for nearly a year and left to languish. And be invaded by mice.

I should mention that the whole “get rid of the mice smell” thing is in the offer.

But after that, some paint, some landscaping and some love ought to shine it up again.
Oh, and a refrigerator.
Who takes a refrigerator when they move?? Taking votes now on THE refrigerator to buy. And yes, in three to four years, we’ll likely leave it behind. After all, who takes a refrigerator when they move? Yeah.

No, you’re not seeing double. This is the master bedroom. The great room kiva fireplace has saltillo tile, the master kiva fireplace has carpet. (Soiled, nasty, soon to go.) They’ve done funky things with the shades in this pic, but the view above? Right out these windows, too.
I’m fantasizing about one of those four-poster beds right now. Oh yeah. A collection for my birthday, maybe? Only 29 shopping days left!

Okay, I know it’s fatuous to show a picture of the master walk-in closet.
But lookee!!

I’ve ALWAYS wanted one. Always, always, always. I’m like the woman in Broadcast News who converted her guest room into a closet. Only I didn’t. Still, I understand the urge.

SO ready to fill those nooks. Once the mouse-smell is gone. Did I mention the mouse smell? No no no.

And master bath. Needs work, alas. No, Felicia, I didn’t get the house with the fab tub. There is a tub, but it’s beensie. WHAT are they thinking?? But, the bath is huge and we’re thinking remodel dollars here. I’m seeing tile surround. I’m seeing sunken tub. I’m seeing glassed-in shower. Ask me again in two years, k?


Guest bath. Decent, eh? No good pics of guest bedrooms. Very blah. We’ll work on them. But come visit anyway!!

Big move now scheduled for August 14. Taking visitor reservations after that. We promise quiet, big skies, sunsets and coyotes yipping at night. You provide the rest.

Yippee-kay-aye!

*Oops, actually not! See later posts for news that Glorieta won with a last-minute nose across the line!

Our Eight Lovely Finalists

1 Azul Place.

Pros: Most bedrooms, great rain catchment system with drip irrigation. Lovely office. Decent views, with more view potential. Trombe walls. Nice guest suite set-up. Kiva fireplace and patio access in master. Sunken master bath tub.
Cons: On private well which may have issues. Possible offer already.

6 Puerto Court.

Pros: Nice view, fenced yard, walled patio, trombe walls, kiva fireplace in master and patio/yard acess. Empty now for immediate move-in.

Cons: small bath tubs. Views aren’t perfectly framed. Needs a refrigerator. Not as glamourous.

4 Glorieta Road.

Pros: Fabulous views. Best asking price. Really lovely inside. Fantastic walled garden with grape arbor pergola.

Cons: Not in the best sunset-watching position. No fenced yard for the dog and proximity to wild wash could mean danger for the pets. Smaller.

4 Cibola Circle.

Pros: Most traditionally “Santa Fe.” Pretty mountain environment with gorgeous patio. Cozy and lovely, close to town.

Con: Highest per square foot cost. Small. No tub in master. No views. Propane heat. Some highway noise.

4 Camino San Lucas.

Pros: New, perfectly framed views. Gorgeous design. Premium lot.

Cons: Not quite finished. NO internet yet???

Ooops. Now I’m out of time. The remaining ones are:

1 Montana Court

30 Azul Loop

15 Monte Alto

Input?? Votes???

Under Contract

Oh yeah.

I totally buried the lead on my last post. Blogger’s privilege. Somehow, the bigger the news, the more I want to de-emphasize it. Don’t make the gods jealous and all that.

So, yes, I absolutely told you about my suitcase caroming down the escalator and miraculously killing NO toddlers and only casually mentioned selling our house.

Which we have. Under contract. Sweet words indeed.

The bad news side of our good news is that they all wanted to move in RIGHT AWAY. Being the flexible types that we are, we (read: me) TOTALLY REARRANGED our plan. And we’re leaving for Santa Fe tomorrow to house hunt. My job? The one I get paid to do? I’ll work in the car while David and my mother drive. Yes, of course she’s coming along. House-shopping and Santa Fe are at the high end of her top-ten list — it would be cruel to keep her away. Plus she’s a delight to have along. I give thanks every day that David thinks so, too. And no, I’m not just saying that because she reads my blog.

Just so you can feel sorry for me: I figure I get to spend eight nights in July at home. Isn’t that sad? My home that I’m about to sell. To Californians! At least they’re moving here to be in the UW English Department, which means they love/read/write books. This gives me a lovely sense of continuity. And they love the fish pond, so are unlikely to fill it in.

I know. I know. I shouldn’t care. Here I am, pretending that I don’t.

La la la.

Convinced?

Okay, yes, I’m punchy. See me after another week of house-hunting and a work-trip to Nashville.

Maybe Marin has a point, that not only is it not necessary to blog every day, but that it also might be a really bad idea some days.

But hey — stay tuned for more house-hunting pics! Wheee….

Mind the Step!

I am reminded, yet again, of my bad blogging habits. I can’t tell you who by, because my mother made me promise not to say in my blog again that she was nagging me.

Yes, I am a terrible, horrible, irresponsible, bad and wrong blogger.

I think that, sometimes, there’s an inverse relationship to input and output for me. The more input I have, the less I write. Once the input is over, I can process, assimilate and write. Kind of like a plant: I’m all about dark photosynthesis. But take heart. During the bright daylight, I’m storing up all kinds of brilliant bits, ready to convert them into radiant blogs.

Just you wait.

So, I have to tell you my trials of leaving RWA. Which, by the way, was covered on NPR. Listen here if you’re interested. (HOW could you not be?)

There I was having lunch/drinks with Keena Kincaid, author of Anam Cara, who I met for the first time at real life and feel like I’ve known forever. We ended up skipping vital convention stuff, just to yak. Doesn’t get better than that.

So, I’m late leaving for the airport, but not terribly.

I walk back to the Omni, the overflow hotel that was FAB, retrieve my suitcase from the luggage room and head to the Metro. The bell captain asks if I want a cab and I say, no, I’ll take the Metro back. I then pause, ask how much a cab is and he says $17. Cheap! So, I hesitate, but he says, ah, the Metro is easy. And I agree. It’s $2. The station is right there and it’s green. I do try.

I drag my stuff to the metro: my laptop bag, my suitcase, my purse on one shoulder. A passing smart ass notes I need only one more item to have a full suite. But it’s okay. I take the hugely long escalator down to the platforms. You’ve seen them: the escalators to the DC Metro are stories tall and super steep. But I have this technique. I spin my wheelie laptop bag around, push it onto one step, I step onto the next and pull my suitcase onto the level behind me. Standing considerately to the right, I am a streamlined linear travel group.

I ride down. I see the signs that say “major delays.” I see the teeming, hot crowds for the trains that aren’t coming.

I decide to take a cab.

So, I go back up the hugely steep escalators, using my streamlined technique. I’m nearly to the top when I turn slightly, brushing my suitcase behind me… and it falls.

I’m not kidding.

It was like a bobsled. The curved, glossy hard surface turned it into a sled worthy of a luge competition. It rocketed down the escalator at lightning speed. All it lacked was purple midget riders.

I confess, I’m punchy enough that I doubled over laughing at the sight.

Fortunately no one was on it behind me, because no trains were arriving, were they?

This lovely woman at the bottom, who fortunately arrived late enough not to be flattened, picked it up and brought it up with her. God bless friendly strangers.

Oh, and we got three offers on our house yesterday, so now you can ask how the house sale is going!

Heading home and loving it.

Bouncey bouncey, fun, fun, fun, fun

Okay, I confess I’m starting to lose track.

It’s 11:18 pm here in D.C.. Which is 9:18 pm in Laramie and 5:18 pm in Waikiki. And no, I have no idea which time zone my body is on, much less my brain.

I mentioned this before, the new research on jet lag. See, the way sleep works is, a person spends the first part of the night in Slow Wave Sleep (SWS), which is the deep, healing sleep. Dreaming or Rapid Eye Movement (REM) sleep occurs only in brief periods between the sometimes two-hours-long stretches of SWS. As the night progresses, the proportions shift, with more time spent in REM sleep and less in SWS. This is why you usually wake from a dream in the mornings, and you dream more if you sleep in. It’s also why the afternoon nap can feel so deadly — that deep sleep can be hard to shake off.

So, for those who don’t care to link to the article, the upshot is, even though you may adjust to a new time zone and sleep during the ambient night, the parts of the brain that regulate the sleep cycle may be continuing on their regular schedule. So when I flew to Hawaii, that meant my usual dreaming time of, say, 2am to 6am, was shifted to 10pm to 2 am, skipping SWS altogether if I didn’t go to sleep before 10. Which, erm, I didn’t. Now, if I adjusted to Hawaii time, which, after nine days, I likely did, now my dream time is occurring from 8am to noon.

The interesting thing is, the studies showed that if you don’t get enough REM sleep for a while, you start to get REM intrusion — which means your brain clicks into REM state even when you’re awake.

Yeah.

You know that surreal, dreamlike feeling? There you are.

So it’s hard to say which state I’m in. We’ll choose “deprived” as an umbrella term. Soon I’ll be overstimulated. Which is worse?

You be the judge.

Hawaii: The Recap

Okay, okay — as several of you have noted, I dropped the ball.

It’s been a week since I posted. I am truly remorseful. I promise.

(Maybe not so much — it was a hell of a week on several levels.)

So, here’s the recap, montage-style. Here, you can play the fast-paced Hawaii-5-0 theme song for background, if you like.

4th of July was spent in the Tropics beach bar. Many sail boats. More Tiki torches. Have to admit: I have a real thing for Tiki torches now.

Fireworks over Ala Moana park were fab, especially from our table. And there was drunken fun. Followed by amateur beach fireworks. Hard to capture with the camera, but oh-so-fun to try!

Sunday we spent on the North Shore: Waimea Bay was gorgeous beyond belief. What happened was, parking was awful, so we parked around the bend at the Catholic Church. And no, this wasn’t Bad & Wrong because the youth group CHARGED for parking as a fund raiser. Screw the car wash thing — charge the tourists $5 to park. We loved it. And besides, we then didn’t worry about leaving our valuables in the trunk. Upshot is? Camera and purse were in the trunk, so if you want to see beautiful Waimea bay, you have to go yourself. Or look up one of the undoubtedly millions of other pics out there. But here’s one of the beach bar at Turtle Bay.

Yes, there is a theme.

Then I went to work. And David played. With the local herons, koi and seahorses. I know. Don’t ask.

And then, Tuesday after work, I went swimming and it was the straw on the camel’s back of two days of non-stop snorkeling and beach-walking.

It rebelled and I was sad.

The “now I can’t walk much at all” kind of sad.

But we managed to make it to some great restaurants: The Ocean, House Without a Key, Go Mate, Cheeseburgers, Seafood Paradiso, Roy’s. And our breakfast spot on the lagoon. Included just because Marin agrees that “lagoon” is a great word.

Overall, it was wonderful. We worked hard. (Not David. Or Joe. In fact, the valets got quite a kick out of them loading Val, Laurie and I into the car for the workday and waving goodbye.)

But when you have a view of Diamondhead, somehow it’s not quite so bad.