We won't know if we're getting the house for sure until next week. We have the renter's application in hand and she'll pick it up Monday, run our credit, and then we'll see. I don't anticipate any problems, but I know better than to count on anything until it's a done deal. If she changes her mind, there are other houses out there. Not that I want to go looking for them, but we'll find something.

And because it became a very minor issue in comments from the last post...the wishlish link started out as a joke. It's been there for 4 years and until now no one, other than the chosen few, has noticed it. Those few people knew it was there because they asked for it. Initially it was littered with obvious eye-rolling things: a 42" plasma TV, mega-expensive computer systems, a Segway scooter...and toothpicks. Cinnamon flavored toothpicks. When the joke was over and friends wanted something different, it morphed. It's no more realistic because the crap on there is pricey, but...so?

Thing is, I've had links like that for years and no one noticed. To me, that was funny. But to have it called disgusting...that's not funny. The commenter didn't ask why the links were there, just called it disgusting. She didn't bother to find out that the Bike Fund link was there for one specific person, who pledged 52 cents if there was only a way to get it to me. She didn't bother to find out that when he coughs his 52 cents up the link will disappear. She never asked for why the wishlist was there or knew about its million-dollar-list origin. She just assumed.

Look, a lot of people have links for donations, links for wishlists, links for porn, whatever. Some people have tons of text ads--click on those and they make money. It all ads up to a big fat shrug of the shoulders and a hearty"So?"

If Murf ever coughs up his 52 cents, the bike fund link will go. The wishlist link is there for friends. It stays. No one says you have to click on it anymore than you have to click on the text ads on other peoples' blogs. I expect nothing, other than email from those friends who want to know when I'm pulling my head out of my ass.

Whoever keeps shoving firecrackers up Buddah's butt in the middle of the night can stop now. The 45 minute holy tears through the house, thundering up and down the stairs over and over and over again--especially when he runs into the bedroom to bounce off my chest--is getting old. Really. I appreciate that he's getting some exercise, but I'd really like some uninterrupted sleep...

First we were not going to move.

Then we found out we were. 'Cause the owner is totally a liar-liar-pants on fire.

Then there was the chance that we could just move to the house next door.

Then a few days ago we met with the lady who owns said house, and who was oh-so-apologetic, because she had promised it to her nephew. But she did have another property around the corner we could rent...which sounded good until we got to the part of "the garage has been converted into a bonus room." We kinda need a garage. The bikes need someplace to sleep.

She really was apologetic, and very nice.

So today we went to look at a house; it was very nice and the bedrooms were big, but the living room was so small that our furniture would not fit. There wouldn't be enough room for even the spiffy chair upon which my Christmas-present-pillow sits.

We passed it up. We figured what the heck, we've been with this property management company for a couple of years and they'll find us a house. Upon talking to the lady showing the house, however, we learned that the rental market is super tight, what with all the foreclosures, and they're taking names and having waiting lists, and whoever has the best credit rating gets the house. We could spend the next 4 weeks just trying to get a house we don't even like.

Screw that.

We went somewhere else. They let you take the keys and go see their houses all by your lonesome. All they ask is a copy of your ID and $20, which you get back.

'Course, we got the wrong key and couldn't get into the house we wanted to look at, but we got to peek through the windows. It was doable, even though the appliances were about a hundred years old. And the grass was dead and knee high. Well, the weeds were knee high. But I can regrow grass, and I can make an ugly house presentable. Those are things I can look past.

We had another address; no key was needed, the lady said there were workers there, they would let us in. And we figured if that didn't pan out, fine, they had a house coming up that was right around the corner from where we used to live and it's a very nice neighborhood.

Just as we pulled up to the house, before we knocked on the door and disturbed the workers, the Boy called.

Lady that owns the house next door left a message on the answering machine.

Her nephew will take the other property instead, if we're still interested in that house.

Hell, yes we are.

So. Keep your fingers crossed. We meet with her again Thursday; hopefully she's ready to take deposits and the like. She might want to run a credit check. And get rental referrals. Which means we might not know for a few days after that.

I want my house with the pool.

And the hot tub.

I don't like that all the bedrooms are upstairs, but the guys can haul my laundry up and down for me, and if I need something from upstairs, well, someone else is going to have to go get it for me.

'Cause the house has a pool.

Did I mention the hot tub?

Thumpa wants.

=blink= =blink= =blink=

Normally I would not endorse the planting of one's butt in a chair all freaking day long, but that's exactly what I did today. Well, it's what I did after I hopped on the bike for a quick run to Costco in order to procure a copy of that book.

My eyes are all fuzzy and I need a little blood to move into the lower half of my body, but I am done and I thoroughly enjoyed my wasted day.

I am sure I was not alone in my literary endeavor today.

Real life may resume tomorrow.

Apparently, I have not updated my archives page in 5 months.
Thusly have I deprived you of going back to read my incredible dronings for 5 months.
I fixed it; you may now go admire all over again the Wonder that is Me.

I think 2007 is in reverse order every month...at some point I'll fix that, too.

No hissing at each other.
No paws swiping at each others' face.
No growling.
They never get this close quietly.
I think they're plotting something...

My editor seems to have issues.

He has spent a considerable amount of time this weekend sitting by the front door, not five feet from my desk, where he faces a wall and meows his little fool head off. Every time I stop and ask what the problem is he turns his head to look at me, and the look on his face suggests that I have interrupted something very important.

He's either having a two way conversation with the wall, and I am not fortunate enough to be included on one side of it, he's confused and means to be talking to the front door, trying to convince it to open up and let him out, or he hears mice in the walls.

I'm not sure they have kitty anti-psychotics, he knows he's not allowed outside, and if it's the latter, I may be glad we're going to move soon.

Buddah has been so insistent in his conversations with the wall that my harshest critic finally wandered over to him, hissed, and then popped him upside the head with a mighty swipe of his paw.

It worked for about ten minutes.

He's back talking in a stream of kitty chatter, and I am getting nothing worthwhile accomplished.

That's not a complaint.

I think I'll go bake a cake.

Border's Books apparently hosts a book club. And, apparently, you need to be 60 years or older to take part, and you need not have read the book of the month. Apparently, too, it meets on Friday afternoons, a time when I evidently had not yet hogged a table while I sip iced tea and pretend to write.

I didn’t find out what book they were there to discuss; I don't believe that the entire time I was there anyone mentioned it. I did, however, get to hear that Irene's bladder infection has cleared up nicely--they were worried to would spread to her kidneys--and that she would join them the next time. I also learned about Michael Jackson (but not that sissy boy singer!), son of Sumner Jackson (Why, I’d known him my entire life), who died last year at 76 years of age while on vacation in Italy. He had cancer and wanted to see the world before he died, and that was the last place on his itinerary.

They agreed, it was a lovely way to pass on, doing those last few things that you want to do. We should all be so lucky.

I also heard snickers and titters over the young man with waist long hair and a wiry beard who left the cafe with a flourish; he was wearing a long dark linen dress with a gold paisley-type pattern, pearls around his neck, several costume jewelry bracelets, and he carried a vibrantly sequined purse. I waited for the ugly edge of it, but they were merely amused.

"Honey, if I looked that good in a dress like that, you bet I'd wear it no matter what!"…"Good for him. If I can wear dungarees, he can wear that pretty thing."…"I want to know where he got the bag..."

They laughed at stories of each other's grandkids--three year old Jimmy has learned the word "booger" and says it at every inopportune moment, including quite loudly during a church service--and of the horrible way several of them golfed this week. "I got a 92!" one woman proclaimed, only to be met with "Well, yes, but that was on the first four holes and I don't think I'd be bragging about it."

There was a belch. I’m too old to need an excuse for that.

There was a spill. Get a napkin for me…Eh, get your own napkin…Don’t make that poor girl behind the counter clean up after you…Why not, I’d give her a nickel…

I was a little sad to see them go, but they noted the time and realized they only had half an hour before the Harry Potter movie started.

I love spunky old people.

I've been sitting in the cafe at Border's bookstore for a couple of hours, struggling with this manuscript, trying to figure out why I can't seem to make it come to life. It has the elements a story requires, but it’s missing that spark, the thing that would draw you in and keep you reading.

Right now I think if someone picked it up, they'd shrug it off by page 10 with a "meh" as they tossed it aside.

It works, but it doesn’t work.

Then this couple walked in. He looks like he's 90 years old, walking in microshuffles, his hands clenched tightly in front of his stomach; he takes a few steps, and pauses, as if he's trying to remember where he is and why. She seems to close to the same age, but she has that youthful bounce that says life has not yet swung its mighty sword at her. She's clear about where she is and why, and when he pauses with uncertainty she places her hand on his arm and waits, patiently.

I watch them out of the corner of my eye, not wanting to stare but wanting to drink them in. He stands by the counter, staring at the menu board, and she rubs his arm, as if to let him know she's right there, and it's okay. After a moment she tells him in a strong voice that he really enjoys their muffins, and some cold tea would be nice. He brightens a bit, nods, and she leads him to a table just off to my right, making sure he's safely in a chair before placing their order.

When she brings their food and drinks to the table he asks, quite loudly, "Is it cold outside?"

She reaches over to pat his hand and says no, it's very nice outside, but if he needs his sweater she'll go out to the car and get it.

No, he replies, I thought it was cold because of the coffee.

She reminds him it's ice tea as she unfolds a napkin to lay across the table. She breaks up the muffin into several pieces, and tells him not to worry about getting burned, because it's a cold muffin.

There are only a few other people in the cafe; no one seems to mind the volume at which they have to communicate. He tells her repeatedly that the coffee is cold, but it's good anyway. She reminds him that it's iced tea. He asks again if it's cold outside. Three times he mentions wanting to buy a new book by "that bald fellow." Three times she promises they'll look for it as soon as they're done with their muffin.

"It's the biggest fucking muffin I've ever seen," he declares once. I know I'm not the only one biting back laughter; she simply agrees that it was very big and that's why she only bought one for them to share.

"Is it cold outside?"

She never lost patience with him. When the muffin was nothing but crumbs, she reached over with another napkin and brushed it gently across his face. He smiled and in a moment of clarity thanked her, and asked if they could look for his book now. His eyes sparkled: I know who you are, I know that you love me.

I watched them leave; he walked in the same microshuffles with which he arrived, pausing to look around, seemingly unsure of where he was. She kept a hand on his arm, rubbing gently, assuringly. I watched decades of love and devotion inch across the carpet, and then disappear in between book stands.

They are the spark I don't have in this book. I'm trying to write about people who are patently unkind to one another, who are clueless about how to find the rhythm to dance with each other through life. I'm having a hard time writing about it because my life has been more like this old couple who shuffled into my periphery for 20 minutes. Even when bad things happen, my life has been peppered with these sparks of kindness, the unspoken understanding that even when we don't like each other very much, we will always love each other and treat each other with respect.

I'm having a hard time creating these people because I don't really know them.

That old couple, I know them. I was raised by them. I married into a family with people like them. I'm not enough like them to satisfy myself, but I know them well enough.

That's a good thing. It's not helping me whittle away at the words I’ve already committed to virtual paper well enough to finish the story--sooner or later it will get done--but at least I think I now know why.

It's not true that writers should write what they know; sometimes they need to write what they need to know...sometimes that brings their own reality into focus.

Meet my new editor.

Buddah Pest.

Apparently, he's not satisfied with the level of my work lately, as he's taken to shielding the world from it with his 13 pounds of shiny black wonder.

And he talks to me. Normally he's a quiet little guy, but as he splays himself across the first draft, he meows repeatedly, which roughly translates into "You should stop now. Save yourself incredible literary embarrassment and just come play with the kitties."

Or he might be saying "Crunchy treats. I want them. Right now."

Either way, I'm not getting much done.

:::waits for lottery numbers to be drawn:::

Well, it is supposed to be a lucky day. I figured this was as good a day as any to finally remember to actually buy a ticket.

::crosses fingers:::

Hush...

Flipped on the TV for noise as I blog surfed, and was greeted with the news that they're sure they've caught the serial rapist that's been running loose for the past couple of years here.

I have some ideas what they should do with him, but they're not very nice and would surely propel my blog from a G to a hard R rating...

HAPPY 4TH OF JULY!
With thanks for those who've served to get us this far...

We celebrated by taking a bike ride this morning before it got too hot, and it got too hot long before we expected it to, hence a ride shorter than we'd planned. Tomorrow looks to be even hotter, so if we want to ride, we'll have to get up at a normal people hour, and the opening of the garage door is going to wake The Boy.

And why would a motorcycle dealership have a huge 4th Of July Summer Blowout Sale! sign hanging off its roof, and then be closed for the holiday? They totally missed out on a sale today. Well, we would've bought a pair of gloves, but a sale is a sale and now they may never get my $19.99...

I don't know why I was having a yard sale on a cruise ship in a dream this morning, and I especially don't know why Rosie O'Donnell walked up to me, a mass of people in her wake, so that she could pluck hairs from one of my eyebrows.

Just one. Apparently the other eyebrow was tidy enough.

And I really don't know why, as she passed with that wake of people behind her, someone reached out and stole the $4.50 I had earned from selling my collective crap on the cruise ship. But I do appreciate that Rosie herself, upon hearing that the woman with the wayward eyebrow had been ripped off, came back all by herself later and gave me $5 to make up for it.

Oddz N Enz Numero 6,293,890

• The Spouse Thingy has 4 days in a row off next week. Or 4 nights, depending on how you look at it. Now, my first thought was "Niiiice...we can take a couple of long bike rides." Then I saw the forecast for next week.
  
• One hundred nine freaking degrees should be illegal.
  
• As I sat upon the edge of the bed this evening to fold laundry, I pointed at both cats and told them the litterbox was off limits for the next fifteen minutes, as it is directly across the hall and I didn't want to deal with it.
  
• Both cats had massive intestional explosions within 3 minutes.
  
• I think they were both laughing at me, too.
  
• This is evidence that Max laughs at me ===>
  
• While the world mourns the sale of my spiffy black convertible, the world should know we were trying to sell it even before we found out we have to move. The meager proceeds from the sale, however, are no longer going to what we'd originally intended.
  
• It's horrible, but I wish an itchy, nasty rash upon the tender nads of our landlord.
  
• Just in case the house next door is not available in time, the Spouse Thingy and I scoped out a few neighborhoods in and near Sacramento. There's some spiffy stuff up there. Roseville is especially nice now. We'd be near a fricking huge mall and the flea market. But I'm not sure how his commute to work would be from there; it might be even longer than from here, time-wise.
  
• I have not seen Library Bob in a long time. Perhaps he finally read all the books...?
  
• Or maybe he just got tired of no one, including the people who work there, using their inside-the-library voices.
  
• I have a wicked case of the munchies. And there's pie in the kitchen. I think I'm doomed.
  

::Hangs Head:::

A brief moment of mourning.
There will be no more topless driving for Thumper & family.
My spiffy black convertible has been sold.

OK, I'm done.
The idea of moving is now much less stressful.

:::goes back to Snoopy Dancing:::

Happiness is a successful eBay auction.

Or 5.

Now, to dig through boxes for more stuff. It's really fun when everyone pays...

For Wasamonkeytoo...the rest of y'all can skip this one...

Wow... I'm not sure why you pointed me to that other blog post. You wanted to hurt me? If so, congratulations, you accomplished that. It's just a shame that the blogger in question had the details wrong, and blamed me for someone else shutting down their blog.

But, for the record--in case you're reporting back, which I suspect as I can't see any other reason for pointing me her way again--I knew the moment the blogger who quit made his grand announcement (and my dreadful comment on his blog was " :::tiptoes out quietly::: " which was obviously horrid...) that the dynamics had shifted. Yet no one ever bothered to ask ME what the deal was. I knew I'd lost her as a friend--though I hung on for two more years, hoping the ice would melt--and she never treated me remotely close the same. Which was entirely her prerogative.

I have *missed* her for two years, my heart was fucking BROKEN over it and still is. I *still* miss her. It only took one comment that cut far too close to home to break me. So I walked away. I had to.

So report back this: I'm sorry. I really am. She was one of the last people I would ever want to hurt, but after 2 years of feeling like I'd been kicked in the gut and when every comment felt encased in ice, I couldn't take it anymore. Yeah, I caved in to my inner 8 year old, picked up my toys, and went home.

And no one--no one--online will ever get that much of me again. I would never trash her to anyone; to have it pointed out that I am now a laughingstock among some people I thought were friends... well thanks. That just makes me feel so special.

I'm not sure if I'm proud or disappointed in that...

Explain to me why my first thought upon waking this morning was Did they really expect us to believe that Gomer Pyle would have ever made it through Marine boot camp?

:::scratches head, wanders off:::

Keep your fingers crossed...there's a chance that, while we still have to move, it would only be to next door. Seems the house that was for sale for forever recently sold, the new owner did lots of work on the inside, and after having it back for sale for a couple weeks is renting it out. Right now its being rented for 4-6 weeks by his Realtor, which would make it available right about the time we would need it.

Spouse Thingy got to go inside and take a quick peek at it; it's a little smaller than this one, which is fine. It's a little less per month, which is great. AND IT HAS A POOL! The idea of moving is sucky, but I don't think I mind as much if it's just next door. Still have to contend with deposits and the like, but not a truck and stuff.

Once we leave this house, we may take bets on how long it'll be before there's a foreclosure notice on it. Looking at the sale records for it, the guy bought it 2 years ago for around 425K and 10 months later took a 2nd on it for $240K...We're wondering if he's just riding it out until our lease is up so he can bail on it.

We shall see...

But keep your fingers crossed...

Because I Have a History of Pimping...

I threw some things up on eBay today. This is stuff I was planning on at some point but never got around to. Today, I was motivated...

20 GB 4th generation iPod -- it'll hold 5,000 songs and there's over 4500 on there now that I'll leave on. There are some scratches on the front and back, but it works. New earbugs, installation software, and the USB cable included. I have an eclectic taste in music, so there's everything from Barry Manilow to Green Day on it. And there's this playlist, it's one song played out like 10 times...yes, you may laugh at me.

Under Armor Heat Gear Shirt size L new with tags. It's all shiny and slippery feeling, very comfortable and if you don't put anything on under it, you might feel a little naughty/

Under Armor Heat Gear Pants size XXL new with tags. These are shiny and slippery, too.

Draggin Kevlar Shirt, size XL. Probably only of interest to anyone who rides a bike. It's a wicked nice shirt made out of woven kevlar, will help keep your skin intact should the Big Bad happen.

Leather Pants (shut UP!) size 38. These are jean-like leather pants by Xelement. They're unhemmed so you can cut the legs to your own inseam. We won't discuss why I've never been able to wear them...

And somewhere around here I have some rollerblades I got but never used. Those will probably go up on eBay tomorrow or the next day. If I go box-diving, I bet I can find a lot more to eBay. When did eBay become a verb?

And you can still buy my car.

Common courtesy is dead. Or maybe just dying, lying there on the gurney, gasping for breath...

About a month ago, we looked outside and saw the owner of the house taking pictures. The only thing we could thing of was that he was considering putting the house on the market, and the pictures were for the Realtor. So we called the property manager, because our lease ends in August and we wanted a heads up if we were going to have to move.

He called the owner; no problem, the house isn't going up for sale. And Property Manager Guy said he would really be nuts to try to sell right now. It's a tight market and he has tenants paying him money. And if you look up and down our street, at all the houses that have been for sale since we moved in, yeah, he would be a little nuts.

He's nuts.

He's also incredibly inconsiderate. We asked if the house was going up for sale, he assured the property manager it was not. He let the guy know we asked because we had seen them taking pictures, and he lied. Apparently, he admits now that he lied.

For what purpose?

We needed to know. We can only scratch up so much per month, and that 4-6 weeks heads up would have given us just that much more time to try to come up with money to move on. And you know he's not going to just let us have our deposit back upfront to make that a little easier.

Four moves in four years. I am really, really tired of it.

If you buy me a house, I'll bake you some cookies...

You likey?
You hate?
Makes your eyes bleed?
Liked the old one better?
Don't care?

Cuz she said I could share this...

Char, wife of Murf (he who never blogged and then let his blog lapse so now the URL belongs to someone else) rides a 2007 Honda VLX. It replaces her 2006 VLX, which was stolen from in front of their dojang, which prompted many other friends to wonder who would have the balls to steal a bike when just inside that door there happened to be a 7th degree black belt, a 6th degree black belt, and two third degree black belts, along with their assorted sweaty and ready to strike students.

But, that's neither here nor there.

Char was enjoying some alone time, riding her spiffy and shiny new bike, while Murf took the kids to some dad-friendly activity. She zipped along, had fun in the curves, and after a while realized there was a cop car behind her.

Not to worry, she was not speeding. In fact, she was very conscious of the speed limit, as she was on a stretch of road where it was one lane in each direction, with the face of a hill on one side and a drop off on the other. There was also some construction, so the speed limit of 40 had dropped to 30 and was posted with a "Fines Are Double" warning.

She rolled along, aware of the cop behind her, but not concerned. She made sure she would not exceed 30 mph on her speedometer, which meant she was likely only doing 27ish. It would only last about 9 miles, after which she would be able to roll on the throttle a bit and speed up to 45.

Roughly two miles into that stretch of road she heard the crackle of a loud speaker behind her, and a deep voice saying, "Please speed up."

She wasn't sure she heard correctly, but she eased her speed up to 35, knowing that would put her close to an actual 30 but not in danger of getting a ticket.

A half a mile later she heard the speaker again. "Please speed up."

She glanced into her mirror, wondering why. But she wasn't sure she should go any faster. Was it a trick? Was she about to get hosed into a speeding ticket? Was it worth the risk? She shrugged her shoulders visibly, hoping he would get that she just wasn't sure.

"Please speed up," he repeated with a sigh. "I have to pee."

She sped up, and when the road widened a few miles further on she pulled to the far left and left him pass.

She sincerely hopes he found a restroom in time.