Like sand thru the hourglass...

I know it's an irreverant phrase, but I am wasting time.

Boston Legal’s extra-long season premiere airs tonight!! I love, love, love that show. It’s the imaginary place where morality sits right beside legality, and both always win in the end. Well, if they don’t, we somehow understand – mad cow and all. John Laroquette joins the cast, too. I don’t know how the writers will have time in each episode to fit his and Alan’s closing arguments, but I can’t wait to see. Michelle Pfeiffer must beam with pride every day.

Today is the last day of registration for the Muse Online Writers Conference. I’ve never done something like this, but think I will try it out. It sounds like fun!

The Indiana Clean Elections Summit is Saturday! This group should be so proud of this accomplishment. I’m so happy to be a small part of it.

National headlines:
Bush announces a health plan.
Hillary’s not a lesbian.
Clooney is in tux after bike accident.
Jessica Alba admits to being super-dorky.

These, when the real news is that it’s raining in Indiana this morning! I might be able to skip a dose or two of the allergy meds, if it keeps up.

But seriously, did you know that an assembly of more than five is considered an illegal gathering in Burma (Myanmar)? And that the last time they had a protest like the one this week, the military opened fire on the crowd killing thousands of the protesters? And that, right now, the military is heading towards the crowd who are still protesting? God bless them. Where would we be without people like this?

After reading about this, I have a renewed strength to stand up for the (much smaller) things in which I believe, and a new appreciation (mixed with a pang of guilt) for a few silly American headlines and another irrelevant blog post.

“Never think you’ve seen the last of anything.”

It’s that time of year. Fall, yes, my favorite. I also enjoy the beginning of the end of another year when I stop to think about the last months’ accomplishments and shortcomings and the goals for the next year. I even get a kick out of repeatedly figuring out where the heck my Halloween and Thanksgiving and Christmas decorations are.

But I’m happiest because it’s time again for the Welty Symposium at the Mississippi University for Women. And, this year, I’m going!!!

The first time I attended, in 2001, I cried. I can’t explain why I cried – yes, I can – I was overwhelmed by the sensations of Southern academia, literature, authors and the ghost of Ms. Welty in an intimate and appropriately dimly-lit auditorium. I remember my seat; I remember the faces around me waiting for a story or two. I remember the huge, proud and protective trees outside the beautiful ceiling-to-floor window next to me. I breathed too deeply and quietly cried. It felt like home, like Love.

But that was my first and only visit because we moved to Indy the next year, and I haven’t been able to go back for this or that reason.

This year’s line-up is too good to pass up. Plus, I’ll get to drive through Kentucky to see the Fall leaves (something I’ve sworn to do since living in Indiana) and stop for a dinner with Sheila and an afternoon with Miss Hazel.

Home. Love. Mississippi? :-o

“Long before I wrote stories, I listened for stories. Listening for them is something more acute than listening to them. When their elders sit and begin, children are just waiting and hoping for one to come out, like a mouse from its hole."

For Wasatch Academy Parents

Some still active Google search results relating to the Rome Georgia boating tragedy killing Sean Wilkinson and Clay McKemie, which was led by Steve Hall, former Darlington teacher who now works as Outdoor Recreation Coordinator at Wasatch Academy in Utah (as of 9/21/2007).

As of November 2007, the school has been made aware of Hall’s past and asked to take extra precautions. They have understandably and predictably “lawyered-up”. There is a liability release form on their website for parents to sign before letting their children participate in rigorous excursions. Now that the school is informed, I wouldn't imagine that it would hold much weight if something terrible happened, but who knows. I just hope they are legally able to at least hire a more reasonable chaperone for the chaperone.

http://www.stpetetimes.com/2005/03/01/Tampabay/Trip_paddled_into_dan.shtml

St Pete Times witness and Coast Guard quotes (in case the above link is removed)

https://www.piersystem.com/external/index.cfm?cid=586&fuseaction=EXTERNAL.docview&documentID=64966 (Yankeetown) Coast Guard Press Release

http://news.mywebpal.com/news_tool_v2.cfm?pnpid=680&show=archivedetails&ArchiveID=1090664&om=1

Rome News Tribune 2005-03-02 (PDF) Cell phone!

http://news.mywebpal.com/news_tool_v2.cfm?pnpid=680&show=archivedetails&ArchiveID=1093029&om=1

Rome News Tribune 2005-03-11 Lady Tigers 9-0 (PDF)

Rome News Tribune 2005-03-02 (PDF)

Rome News Tribune 2005-03-16 (PDF)

http://queensbury.injuryhelpline.com/index.rwl?category=news&section=wrongful+death&article=florida+officials+say+boating+trip+was+not+properly+planned&id=195

http://www.woodenboatvb.com/vbulletin/upload/archive/index.php/t-43531.html

http://lists.infoteam.com/pipermail/paddle/2005/000113.html

http://www.staugustine.com/stories/030105/sta_2920408.shtml

http://articles.latimes.com/2005/mar/02/nation/na-rome2

LA Times Article 2005-03-02 (PDF)

http://lists.infoteam.com/pipermail/paddle/2005/000114.html

http://www.naplesnews.com/news/2005/mar/03/ndn_official__poor_planning_in_florida_boating_tri/

http://www.thebackpacker.com/trailtalk/thread/36892,-1.php 

http://www.wichitapaddler.com/Articles/CNN_WetExitDeaths.pdf

http://www.xanga.com/Remember_Clay

http://www.christianindex.org/1125.article

http://wmac-am.com/news/2005/feb05/022805_students%20mourn.htm

http://www.darlingtonschool.org/Alumni/letterView.asp?letterID=134 

http://www.kayakforum.com/cgi-bin/Technique/indexh.cgi/noframes/read/22698

Remembering September 17th

My mother would have been 77 today. She died at age 50 on October 17, 1980. My father told everyone she was 49, because her birthday was only thirty days before and he knew she would have liked that. She hated getting older. I think she might have grown accustomed to the idea eventually, but at 49/50, she hated it. Everything around her was changing and she was terribly unhappy, which I think was the largest contributing factor to her heart attack.

Anyway, it took me years to figure out that my teen angst, forever frozen, was misguided. She was the stability, the driving force, the one who worried and cared and gave a damn.

I’m sorry for those years. I like to think she and I have worked out our differences since, because I’m pretty sure she and her mother are our guardian angels. There have been too many signs and blessings to be unexplained.

Anyway, happy birthday, Mom. Thank you for adopting us. I know that you struggled and that you had the best of intentions. And I know that was love.

Texting!?! After this week, I'm happy to pay it.

I added text messaging to my son’s cell phone bill earlier this year. He had started doing it, “texting” I think the kids call it, only 10 or 20 times each month, so the added amount on my bill, before we officially added it to the plan, was minimal.

We’ve coasted along all year with right around his allotted 200 text messages. Cool beans.

Until now.

340. Three hundred. And forty.

And he’s a boy.
And he’s not a girl.
And he’s unemployed.
And he’s back in school (doesn’t he see these people every day?).
And he has a phone (obviously). And a voice. And a dialing finger (should be easier than the opposable texting thumbs).
And he’s been talked to about this before. In fact, just the other day, when I heard umpteen incoming buzzes in a row.

But he’s a good boy. And it seems trivial in the scheme of things.

Maybe I’ll make him dust or brush the dog or run get me something or Windex my car windows. Or all four. Two hours of work at $10 an hour, less the usual mama tax, should cover it.

But he’s a good boy.

I think it's the water

I'm convinced that all the trouble with the ground water in Rome, Georgia, has created some of the scariest minds I've come across in my 44 years. I could write a book (ha). This is just another (and more serious) example.

I tried to see if the Editorial Page Editor of the Rome News-Tribune would publish my plea to Rome or Darlington parents to contact Wasatch Academy if they had any information or experiences to share. After a lengthy exchange with him - which ended in nothing more than insult lobs (one he liked was about my not being "local" (that one makes me laugh, because he has no idea how grateful I am that I was able to escape the asylum that is Rome) - this is just one part of his last email.

I sensed a diversion of attention to the idea that kids die even on trips with their parents (to which I ask myself: what about the parents of Clay and Sean who had NO idea that the trip leader, Steve Hall, was going to put their children in the Atlantic Ocean in t-shirts and shorts and canoes and kayaks on a stormy day in February (48F water temp))?

And "what not"?

I'm not sure why "Rome" should "get involved" without there being a concrete reason for this. Certainly, you could try to address the general topic of whether parents should send their kids on such outdoor excursions no matter who is allegedly looking after them. However, keep in mind that before our society started relying so much on surrogates for parenting duties, lots of kids died on "camping trips" with mom and dad … drowning, fallen off cliffs, eaten by bears and what not. However, not having a reason to drag Darlington into this, except perhaps obliquely, I'm not sure how "local" the end result would be for someone removed from this area. (Whereas we would consider a local parent worrying about this, etc.).

Email Two Years Later

(Director of Communications! I can only pray that Wasatch has no emergencies!)

-----Original Message-----
From: Chris Hall [mailto:chris.hall@wacad.org]
Sent: Tuesday, September 11, 2007 12:33 PM
To: Karen Rutherford
Subject: Re: Email

I am the same. I'm so sorry but I don't seem to remember you! Can I help you in some way?

Chris Hall
Director of Communications
Wasatch Academy
435.462.1455

----- Original Message -----
From: Karen Rutherford <krutherf@comcast.net>
To: <chris.hall@wacad.org>
Cc:
Date: Tuesday, September 11 2007 10:31 AM
Subject: Email
Hello,

I was just wondering if you're the same Chris Hall from Rome, Georgia, married to Steve Hall who taught at Darlington?

If so, I'd love to hear from you.

Thanks!

Karen Rutherford

Ramblings

After a whirlwind August, with the move, start of school, project change, life, etc., September has been such a reward. Too many moments to list here, but near the top are the bathrooms at this new job. They are FABulous! Like a bank of hotel, nice restaurant or new truck stop (so I’ve heard) bathrooms, each with its own full-concrete-walled stall and shutter-like wooden doors, automatic sinks and towels, timed aroma spray. Just lovely. A breath of fresh air. Well, for a bathroom.

Last night, during the 29th episode, I finally remembered why I stopped watching Big Brother after Season One. The rewards go to the most conniving, the most hypocritical, the most obnoxious, the most lying, and the most turn-on-a-dime player. This will be the LAST season I watch. I swear. Unless I forget again in another seven years. And that's like dog years to me now.

My freak magnet is in full force and surprisingly entertaining. I was banished by the team manager, along with two other gals (one of whom is now the third person on a permanent deal-breaker list for future projects – first being a man that gurgled all day, second being a crazy person), to a $100 lunch in August to work out our communication problems. Told “don’t come back until you have this worked out.” AS IF.

I came back long enough to send a g'bye email (unprofessional move #2 in 10 years, but it had to be done). *I sound tough here, but I heard about my current job when I got back to my desk from lunch.*

Then, last week, I went to a free event at the WC and got behind a lady in the registration line who wanted to register under “her stage name”. I got a cold chill thinking I had signed up for an audition! I had nothing prepared.

I used the word “conversate” in a meeting the other night. I was using it in a joking way, but the joke wasn’t clear and I got some blank stares, hopefully confused by a rare sign of my being an idiot . I hate when that happens. It’s so hard to overcome. I’ll have to use a big word at the next meeting.

Austin is so seventeen. I asked about a last mom and son trip for the two of us, he said I should save my money to pay for a Spring break trip to Florida with his friends. I asked about a laptop for Christmas since he’ll need one for college, he said he needed a MacBook. I asked about a new television (ours are older than he is), he said he needed an Xbox 360 to go with. Funny, last year, I thought I had done a pretty good job raising this kid.

Superman

Train and Brandi Carlisle music. The Story. Superman. Beautiful, unattainable boys. Why? Why now?

New, really lovely people and closer connections than I’ve felt in years and years. Centuries, even (ha).

Maybe it’s a universal reminder that I really shouldn’t be in a place so close to things I can’t have. A place where I can’t control my mind from wandering. The sad endings (so many) that I haven’t thought about in ages are suddenly and still so familiar.

All coming along with a reminder that there are these women to admire and emulate. I can take pride in them and me. Can I be happy with that? This is what I’ll find out soon.

King me. Final Indiana move.

The Last Four Days

Moved.
Came down with a nasty cold.
Went on two interviews.
Worked 24 out of 40 hours at day job.
Fixed ICE Pay Pal HTML code.
Taught class.
Arranged cable guy, gas guy, garage door guy – all of whom were EARLY!
Dealt with four plumbers and two working (one new) toilets.
Made insurance changes and filled out and faxed in forms.
Found fax machine.
Sewed a vinyl window curtain for the shower.
Lined shelves.
Got brake light and turn signal fixed on car.
Made trips to Wal-Mart and stores.
Cleaned two houses – old and new.
Adjusted to 6am alarms and start of senior year of high school.
Avoided fist fight about work boundaries.

And stayed current on Big Brother drama.

The Next Four Days

…zzzzz.......zzzzz......zzzzz......

(The Secret principles have been applied to title and the next four days.)

School Days

My recent involvement with the new Indiana Clean Elections Coalition has resulted in something completely unrelated: a real hankerin’ to go to school. We meet at the University of Indianapolis and are organizing a Citizens’ Summit there in September. Three of the charter members are professors. And we click. I love it when Miss Charlotte patiently corrects our grammar. I love it when they talk their everyday academic talk and use words like plenary that I have to secretly look up.

My first adult appreciation for higher education came when I worked for CBU in Memphis while finishing my Bachelor’s degree. I loved it. Well, politics and misunderstood pecking orders aside, I loved it. We employees could take time off for class, for studying, for projects, or just for deep discussions all surrounded by impeccable landscaping, grand old buildings and oodles of ideas, and thoughts, and words, and opinions and perspectives.

I’ve wanted a graduate English degree for years now, but my son’s education has always been top billing. And still is. If I had $10,000 to spend on me, though, I’d be at school tomorrow!

Anna at Borders

With all the griping and whining I’ve done about the living situation lately, I think years from now what I’ll remember most is what Miss Hazel said to me on the phone after I had filled her in, in probably way too much detail.

“You know what’s funny about things like this? It’s that none of it ever matters ten years later.”

Point. Set. Match. Miss Hazel. As usual.

My horoscope says August will be full of fluctuations. It couldn’t be more accurate so far, because this is just the 5th and I’ve already had ridiculous ups and downs. Just Thursday, I had a great conversation with an interesting, inspiring woman at work and a nice lunch with another tech writer (even though this one asks me sometimes if I need some work to do and means it), then got home to a humunGus IRS bill from 2005 that I’ll have to spend even more time and money investigating and fixing.

The highlight of the week happened on a lunchtime trip to the Borders in downtown Indy when I asked a girl named Anna to point me in the direction of the recent release of The Portable Writer's Conference.

She walked to the section where it should have been with me and asked, “What do you write?”

I hung my head and stammered: “Oh, nothing. Nothing, really. I don’t have anything published or anything. I just play around with things.”

“I think that’s so cool.”
“Writing is the hardest part.”
“Writers are my rock stars.”
“Like what types of things are you working on?”
“What’s your genre?”

She kept pressing me. And thank God!! I left the store feeling like a real writer, and, since I don't believe in chance encounters and coincidences, I'm going to go back to the store when the book I ordered arrives and thank her some more.

If I never, it'll be too soon.

If anyone had told me this time last year that I’d be moving again exactly one year later, I wouldn’t have believed it. But it’s true. The owners and I discussed at length staying for two years, but after just eleven months, they have decided to sell. I would think that they saw me coming - take advantage of my rent money while it's up for sale - but that'd be giving them way too many points for apparently non-existent smarts..

Lessons Learned
Never rent a house that’s up for sale.
Freakin’ people.

Bad Karma
The owners of the current house now have to put the house back up for rent because they’ve received no offers. It’s been up for sale for 29 days now. 16 days ago, I offered them $200 extra each month in rent to stay another year if they’d take it off the market. Nothing. No response. Chirping crickets, as a matter of fact. So, I turned in my termination notice.

Yesterday, Wife, tried like heck to light into me. She believes that the reason the house didn’t sell is because I was difficult toward the realtors trying to show the house. I have pages and pages of horror stories from the past 19 days of showings (little annoyances like 15 phone calls a day, 4-minute showing notice, 7am weekend phone calls, an irate phone call from the listing agent mad at me because his realtor had to break in (Husband didn’t think to put a key in the lockbox), a realtor with no showing scheduled attempting to break in while I was staring right at him, I could go on). She believes I just overreacted and should have "at least been cordial" in the last case. CORDIAL? Are you freakin' kidding me? Cordial never crossed my mind.

But the funniest thing is that she’s mad because I caused them to “lose the summer months, prime time to sell”. They just decided to sell June 26th, with the first showing on July 10th. And there are multiple reasons for a prospect not to buy this house (tiny little issues like cracks in the foundation and ceiling, backyard spigot leaking under house and back bedroom, mildew/mold bathroom issues, leaning trees....)!

Chirp. Chirp.

It takes a special breed of idiot to blame someone else for their inability to have a complete thought. I guess I should have called the poor people to make sure they thought about putting it up for sale in May or June.

Chirp. Chirp.

Good Karma and Faith that everything happens for a reason
We’re moving into a beautiful, well-kept house in a great subdivision near Austin’s friends, in the Township, and for only a little bit more rent. The owner has no plans to sell, looking at it as an investment property.

And, as of this update at the end of September, their house is still up for sale.

The new Down East website

Dear Lord, a new Down East website!

The perfect Saturday morning. Thank you for calling. I love you, too, and I'll be there soon.

Tainted Love

Since the break-up, my father continues to send me birthday cards. Last year’s sentiment was about 1963 being a great year because it was the year they “got me”. This year I got a once-every-few-decades compliment about what a nice young man Austin has become. But not only was it tainted by a disclaimer that I “had done a good job for a single parent”, it was a homemade card with a picture on the front of him and me together on the patio of a garden home he purchased in 1982.

I distinctly remember the day the picture was taken. My brother was behind the camera. He had a weekend furlough from the halfway house he was in at the time and my father was just thrilled about the fact that the kid had to come to his house, what most folks would call home.

Appearances always being priority, pictures were in order, but each of us knew that the others would rather be anywhere else. We were dressed up for my grandmother’s first holiday open house in her new retirement home. If I recall correctly, the words spoken that entire day could be counted on about three hands.

A lot was happening around this time. My mother had died the year before. My father had been in a drunken stupor for months (I had too, now that I think about it). He was either traveling or at his girlfriend’s (no need to state the obvious here) house most of the time and I was in college, so I had been instructed to give my seven-year-old dog away just a few months before. And he had just sold our family home to move into this hip new bachelor pad.

More than a few of my requests to come home from school for weekend visits around this time were met the same response: “I would prefer that you not come home this weekend”. In many a conversation about my inability to emotionally process my father's transition, my grandmother let me know that he had told her that he was “closing this chapter of his life”. So, apparently, anything before 1982 had no place.

Perfect choice. Thanks for the memories, as usual, Tim.

You can have a town...

I started working for a new client Friday. First days are hectic and awkward, but they went out of their way to make it a comfortable and nice day for me. Computer accounts were set up and ready to use, a whole desk was provided (no cube share, no corner of Bob’s desk “until we find a place for you”), and an unexpected and guided tour of the building was given.

It’s impossible to appreciate everything in just one day, but, looking at going back on Monday morning, I’m a little excited. This client is right on Monument Circle, the center of downtown Indianapolis, and it’s a special experience to work in such an historic area and building.

It was also fun to walk around at lunchtime in the 75-degree sunshine and see all the people scurrying about, talking, visiting, and eating their lunches on the monument steps.

I've never felt so much like Mary Richards in my life and if you know me, you know how happy that makes me. :)

Once I’m settled and a little more comfortable with folks, I want to take pictures from the roof of the building, which they have set up with tables and chairs and call the “deck”.

Indianapolis really is the perfect little downtown. Tomorrow, when I walk around the circle, I'll be looking up and mentally throwing my fuzzy blue beret in the air.

Alive for another birthday

I’m in love. With two people. Brandi Carlile and Khaled Hosseini. What finds. What treasures. I have to keep them apart, though. Each deserves undivided attention. Neither requires it nor demands it; you just want to give it, freely and happily. That’s love.

Another birthday has come and gone. This one went by too quickly. I usually enjoy a few moments each July 17th to think about my past, my present and my future. Test my contentment. Ask myself some tough questions. And, dare I say, praise myself for how far I’ve come.

I didn’t get a chance yesterday, but that’s okay. I received some much appreciated birthday wishes and messages of love, was surprised with a couple of cupcakes and cards, signed paperwork on a new contract, met with a prospect, started a class, finalized website plans with the Indiana Clean Elections committee, and had a lovely, spiritual three-hour conversation and connection with a stranger I now feel like I have known for years.

Austin and his friends returned safely from Chicago's Pitchfork Festival and brought home great stories about some fascinating characters they met. I sent my 45-day lease termination notice, which is a consuming sadness and uncertainty, but the finality of the decision is even a blessing.

Love, work, and a safe, happy kid. Oh, and still alive. Another successful birthday.

Put on hold, by God

Eleven (at last count) phone calls about the house I'm living in (that's up for sale, see previous whine/post), two conference calls in the car with my barking dog in the back seat (have to vacate when the agent needs to show the house, see previous whine/post), and a phone interview in aforementioned car with aforementioned barking dog later, I came home for a little silent prayer time.

After which, I decided to call the listing agent myself to call a truce and hopefully and peacefully lay down some guidelines, but was put on hold. The recording was a meditation tape. Telling me to breathe. To close my eyes. Inhale. Hold. Count. Exhale. Slowly. Relax. Picture yourself on the beach. Hear the waves. Feel the breeze.

That God.

I did eventually have to talk to the agent's voicemail, which, after my typical two to three hours of obsession, pissed me off again tonight, because, as usual, I received no response.

But I get it, God. Women in Ethiopia. Rwanda. Darfur. Afghanistan. Iraq. Katrina. Bigger pictures. Mind off self. Gratitude. Faith.

I donated what I could to an online charity, apologized to the Universe, and went back to my happy place:

Driver's License Renewal Day

You know you’re having a bad driver’s license renewal day when:

1. The Neanderthal behind you in the check-in line uses his outside voice on his 15-minute personal phone call to his buddy about how lax his week has been. And when you turn around to mention to him that it sounds like he has plenty of time to make this call anywhere but within six inches of your left ear, he just responds with a goofy smile and a wink, because he understands how impressed you really must be.

2. You count four female butt cracks in the pack of riffraff.
3. The photographer snaps your picture, looks at it on the computer, and says, “Um. No. Let’s try again.” And repeats this process FOUR TIMES.
4. You arrive and leave on the same page of the book you brought to avoid encounters with undesirables.
5. You look at your picture when you’re alone in your car and understand the problem: old and angry, a combination impossible to camouflage.

Take my July, please

Let me get this right….

Sunday 7pm: Austin helps me hang pictures next to the new bookcase that was finally (ordered two months ago) delivered Saturday. I unpack the last box (of books) from our July 2006 move to this house. The living room is complete and I’m happy with it.

Tuesday 1pm: I get to thinking that I could spend the month of July not desperately looking for a new project but finishing my first draft. The relief from this first-time freedom will last nineteen more minutes.

Tuesday 1:20pm: The owner of the house (we rent because of Austin’s tentative college plans, my future New England plans, my Mississippi house that took forever to sell last year, my new debt-free conviction, I won’t go on) calls.

“We’re having financial troubles and need to put the house on the market.”

"Uh. Uhm. Uhhhhmmm. Is there a magic rent number I could pay to be able to stay another year like we discussed? I just need one more year. We discussed that when I moved in. Son starting college, blah blah. Right? Do you remember that?"

“Yes, but we have no choice. Do you want to buy it?"

Uhhh, hell to the -  "No". Did you not hear me two sentences ago?

"Well, we want you to stay while it’s up for sale, though. And it could be up for sale for a while.”

"Ummm…yea...okay."  (think the boss in OfficeSpace)

Tuesday 2pm: 30 minutes of mad, madder, and the infamous Karen silent rage. I understand multiple mortgages (though these folks have four mortgages and are in their mid-fifties, which I don't understand) and hard times, but I’ve settled on irate. We just moved in 11 months ago. WTF.

We’ll be paying rent, taking care of the place, the yard. Of course you want us to stay. How nice for you! Did you plan this? This could make a girl feel used, if she thought about it for 30 more seconds.

The inconveniences. Ours, of course. You want to put a FSBO sign in the yard first to save the commissions. How many drooling agents will be knocking on the door every day? What time on weekend mornings will you start pounding on roof shingles or knocking on the door to come inside to fix this or that? You mentioned wanting to tile the kitchen floor. How nice for us. How many prospective buyers will be traipsing through the house looking at our stuff while I have to drive around the block 100 times with the dog? Will we have the joy of fumbling with lockboxes on the doors, too, if FSBO doesn't work?

You don’t know it yet, but we will, of course, be moving. I’m ridiculously private and won't be able to take it. 

So, I need to polish my crystal ball to see three years into the future, find a place, sign another lease with another stranger, and move AGAIN (which causes a "moving chain reaction" to accommodate multiple transitions in the next couple of years).

I still feel like throwing up.

With a sign going in the yard “within a week”, my July isn’t mine anymore.

Freakin’ people.