We’ve come to the conclusion that The Big House was planted atop an untapped iron deposit.

Sitting high on a hill that pops up out of nowhere, The Big House is part of an intimate neighborhood surrounded by large trees and sweeping views of a broccoli like forresta. It’s also just a smidge above the houses on either side, all of which converges at once to make said casa one. big. lightning rod.

In the past few years, The Mc has lost the following items to the wrath of the sky bolts: one expensive thingie that runs the jets in the jumbo tub, one giant TV it took two guys to move, one play station that crushed his nephews, one computer, and one garage door – twice.

Just a few short weeks after paying someone to come repair the mechanical bits of the right side garage door, she got capped again. Results: one broken door and a good deal of swearing and cursing the house that’s clearly already cursed.

Summary: this Mother-Nature-is-pissed shit is getting expensive. Were the past strikes recog-retaliation for the wooden hangers, or is she really just that anxious for me to set up a rain barrel?

PS I love my friends and I love pie!

Disclaimer: may offend.

I’ve no sooner moved in with the big oily bo-hunk than we’ve begun talks about selling The Big House for something more bungalow or cottage-y closer to the city. We bounce around that big beautiful beast like pinballs with no bumpers, leaving a bigger carbon footprint than I can rationalize.

Rewind three or four weeks and watch me as I walk out of the local grocery, pausing in the vestibule and glancing over the stacks of Auto-traders and real estate booklets. I close in on one in particular and grab it, whisking it away to it’s new home where I promptly plop on the couch and “oooh” and “ahhh” to The Mc while rattling off details of one neighborhood after another.

The booklet was empty-nest centric, with beautiful homes that were all kinds of Goldilocks: not too big, not too small, and just the right price.

Always the realist, he says to me from across the bar “you know we can’t live in any of those neighborhoods, right? They’re for 55+”.

So finally we reach the catch/the point of my babble: I’m not a breeder, nor am I technically an empty nester. What I am, apparently, is screwed.

The fact that I desire a child-free neighborhood (it’s not the children; it’s the squealing/gleeful sounds of play at 8am on a Saturday and having something in common with my neighbors) is complicated by the fact that I am not, in fact, retirement age.

I’ve long lobbied for newbie-free days at IKEA and child-free days at area venues (cry free movie theaters, stroller/over tired mom free shopping centers) as my attempt at a chaos free existence but this one could be the end all / be all.

I want: a neighborhood in the city where the architecture hasn’t been contaminated by jamming a modern structure in a village of neo-craftsman bungalows, where the trees are large and healthy and huggable, where I can’t hear gunshots or car alarms or the excitement of tiny voices.

Is that so wrong?

Because the paper towel holder wasn’t enough, we cleaned his closet and moved him to big boy hangers.

I spent the last two days in a Photoshop class and all I made you was this. Lalalalala.

On a loosely related note, there’s a guy on the aisle next to Kelly and I who is afflicted with some sore of disorder that requires him to clear his throat constantly. How long must I/we tolerate this before I prairie dog and tell him to get a cough drop (or STFU, whichever happens to fall out of my mouth)?

OCD + moving = pleasurable.

Never happier than when in the middle of a logistical tornado (sans the blue gingham dress, pig tails, and yappy dog); I’m pondering a tattoo that says “I don’t think I’m in Kansas anymore”. It should be inked in body paint, since life OTP is decidedly temporary.

Excited to be settled enough to catch up on reading, have friends over for dinner and settle back into a running routine, the move is complete. The move is complete and the reinvention that happens with any major life change commences. Another awakening/epiphany looms and threatens to fall on me like a house…which makes my fashion choice for the day easy. No zebra shoes: too similar to striped socks.

Evenings after work this week, we’ve been going by the condo, loading up a couple of boxes at a time. There’s less to move now than there was a little over a year ago: I’ve purged, I’ve stored, and I’ve flat out failed to unpack.

The Mc has been attempting to prepare for my official arrival, and I’m attempting to adjust to being officially arrived. It’s a lovely home associated with an address that we in the Hot Hot would call OTP (with a hint of distain). I am not an OTPer by nature, but the commute isn’t all bad, I’ve made some great new friends out this way, the man is spectacular and sometimes you have to sing the Facts of Life theme song in your head and let it all shake out the way it will.

Cramps are threatening in the form of an extraordinarily uncomfortable lower back, my workload hasn’t slacked to make way for the distraction the move should be and through it all my gimpy finger and I are coming to terms with one another.

Evolution.

Wish me luck.

To my favorite seester… I love you.

1. Swank Pink Toolbelt/HouseWarming Gift from Jen, 2. Valentines Pack 2006 From The Seester, 3. Fauxhawk –> Bad Idea, 4. Trying not to pose, exactly, with the necklace she made me, 5. Me + Jen, 6. Seester feets, 7. Batface in Bastrop, 8. Jen carries me, 9. Jen and I