Virtual Friends, Meatspace Strangers

In high school, most of nearly every girl's time is either spent thinking about, talking about, or scheming up ways to best subtly approach boys.

I was no exception.

Well...except that I never could work up the courage to subtly approach anyone resembling a boy and, instead, used the not so successful tactic of pining away silently and hoping the object of my affection would notice.

 

It shouldn't surprise you then to learn my first serious boyfriend didn't come along until the year after I left high school.

But this story isn't about that first boyfriend.

There was a boy I liked - let's call him The Honorable Lord Vigo, Scourge of Carpathia and Sorrow of Moldavia¹ - Vigo for short. I really only saw him a handful of times. We didn't attend the same school. Hell! By the time I met him, I lived in another town. So it wasn't one of those angsty, heart-wrenching, watching-him-lean-on-his-locker-and-slowly-dying-inside-day-after-day sort of crushes. It was simply one of those crushes where, from the moment I met him, I just really liked being near him. It felt good to be near him. He was adorable and funny. So, whenever I was in his town visiting, I was always super happy when our paths crossed.

Me, of course, being the shy, tongue-tied, type didn't ever hope to make an impression. If I recall correctly, I may have said all of 10 words to him during that time and likely they were monosyllabic. And, as one-by-one my closest friends from that town - Beasley, Brad, Nykki - moved up and out of it, I didn't see Vigo again...Not for nearly 25 years.

Eventually, the crush floated away on the winds of Wyoming as it blew in other boys who would become men.

Still...every once in awhile, I'd wonder what happened to him.

I would, rarely, get updates through the Beasley-Brad-Nykki vine. Eventually, they too lost touch with him. For many years there was nothing.

And then? Facebook happened. I think it was Brad's 40th birthday party invitation when I became aware of Vigo's online existence and knew he was physically present here, in Denver. He had a new last name and only recent pictures but it couldn't possibly be anyone but him. It was him. That was in 2010.

You have to understand...I wanted to send him a friend request back then. I really did! But! There are many people who date back from that time in my life - people I thought quite highly of - who, I fear, wouldn't even remember me. It was a time in my life I spent mostly in the corner, smoking, writing bad poetry, fearing rejection, deflecting attention. I didn't want anyone to see me...except that I really did...unless I knew they would like me. I was convinced no one actually liked me...except Beasley, Brad, Nykki.

Finally, at Beasley's insistence, near my birthday in 2013, I sent Vigo a friend request. It was weird. I felt weird. But he accepted right away.

Turns out? He did remember me.

Turns out? I intimidated him back then.

I blame it on resting bitch face.

Still got it.

And the fact that, since I couldn't actually formulate full sentences in the presence of testosterone then, I likely just grunted and growled and, occasionally, squeaked which probably made me seem a little whacko.

Anyway!

He accepted my friend request. Subsequently, I learned more about him and the man he's become through Facebook than I ever knew about the boy he was then.

But, even though he was here, in Denver, my adopted city, we weren't compelled to hang out until last week. We'd exchanged a few private messages prior to last week. Mostly about my dad, last summer, when I was looking for an elder care facility for him...something Vigo knows a lot about.

But then, last week, I was thinking a lot about being an empath. I stumbled across an article and, in reading the comments, I developed a theory about empaths. A theory that suggested empaths, including me, feel lonely, even in the presence of fellow empaths, because, in social situations, we are so used to feeling the feels of others and giving away our energy that it's all but impossible for us to know how to receive it. I wanted to test my theory - or discuss it with a fellow empath. So I posted something about it. Asked my friends on Facebook if they identified as an empath.Vigo said yes.

That's what started it. The conversation.

I think I started it - the private conversation - after he commented that he was an empath. We talked. A lot. We shared a lot via email. Not just about being empaths. About lots of things. And then he asked me to meet him on Friday for supper.

So...Friday night, we met, for the first time since 1989.

I was nervous. I was shaking as he approached. The high school crush thing wasn't the issue. It felt as though I was meeting him for the very first time. Virtual friends, meatspace strangers. What would he think of me? Would we have anything to say? Would we argue? Would we meet each other's expectations? Would we run out of conversation before we'd reviewed the menu? Would I forget my words and resort to prehistoric grunts and growls and squeaks?

 

I worry too much.

He got to the table, I stood up, and we hugged long and hard and then we both just started laughing.

The moment we sat down, we were on.

Words, his, mine, tumbling over the top of one another. Tell me this story, that story, OMG! That really happened?!

There were tears. There was laughter. There were stories galore!

Five hours we sat there asking, answering - empath to empath - about everything under the sun. We shared secrets. I told him things I haven't shared with anyone. It was a gloriously stimulating energy exchange the likes of which are exceedingly rare in my experience.

By the time I got home, there was an e-mail from him. We talked via e-mail for a couple more hours. I was so energized, I was practically giddy. I stayed up past 3, writing for the first time in months.

 

My theory was thoroughly debunked and in the best way possible. It would also seem that whatever that exchange was cured me of the constipation of the writing kind from which I'd been suffering since January. Pretty cool, huh?

 

So...that's the story. It's better than the first serious boyfriend one anyway. Trust me.

 

Thanks, Vigo. That was rad. Let's do it again soon.

 

 

1. I asked him how he'd like to be known for this entry. That's what he selected.

42

I turn 42 tomorrow.

The age all Douglas Adams fans anticipate with great excitement. The year we become the answer to life, the universe, and everything...whatever that means. We're all still looking for the ultimate question as far as I know.

And I'm celebrating it by attending the memorial service for Acr0nym's father.

He had a heart condition - his first heart attack came 25 years ago - so it's not like this was completely out of the blue. But the timing couldn't be any worse...for Acr0nym, for TC, for their mother...for me.

The last two months, I...well, there isn't much I can say about it publicly. In so many ways it isn't my story to tell. Even though I played, and continue to play, a central character in the story, it still isn't my story to tell and I am so lost for words. I am so lost period.

Lost enough to seek out therapy for the first time in 8 years.

Lost enough to beg my doctor for help in the form of as-needed anti-anxiety medication for the first time ever (which, as it turns out, I'm too damned anxious to take).

Lost enough to be worried about how many hours a day I'm sleeping...something I haven't done since I was 15, since my suicide attempt. Worried and wondering if I'm sleeping because I'm depressed and attempting to escape my reality as I did back then or sleeping because it's my body's way of trying to heal from trauma.

All the time knowing anxiety is driving the question and the answer (TAKE THE PILL ALREADY, JANE!!!).

Still...the jury is still out because anxiety doesn't trust itself.

Anxiety, like all mental illnesses, lies.

And there has been so. much. anxiety.

So much grief.

So much loss and lost.

While trying to be strong and available and proactive and ridiculous. 

I'm going to regret this in the morning.

Only Way to Beat It Is to Bat It Down

And the only way you're going to get that title is by listening to the song at the end. So there.

We have a pretty sweet recording/performance studio at my work.

And by sweet, I mean, it's the kind of place in which world-renowned artists have performed (like, yannow, that Yo-Yo Ma guy, for one). And, since a certain adult alternative (AAA or triple-A) format launched a couple of years ago, the performance studio has become a veritable revolving door of any manner of musicians dropping by to visit and record.

Mostly, I don't pay too much attention. I'm compensated for my work and they prefer it when I work and my work does not include loitering near the performance studio to catch a glimpse of the bands. Occasionally, when I'm lucky (or unlucky...depending on who it is), a band will load in through the door right next to my office and I can peep out my blinds and ogle them like the dirty, dirty voyeur I am. Which then gives me bragging rights because I can honestly say I have been two feet away from a handful of famous folks...even if there was a wall between us and they couldn't see me.

Every once in awhile though, if it's a particular favorite of mine or if I have a special connection to the band (like any time Alameda and my friend, Jessie, come in), I'll make a point to find business near the performance studio.

As an aside, did you know that if you carry papers in your hand and walk through highly populated areas relatively fast, you look busy and important and no one questions your motive or destination? It's true.

Anyway!

There are a handful of musicians who, if they magically appeared before me, I'd promptly drop to the floor  and uncontrollably flop like a fish out of water in a self-induced fan-girl swoon. Artists who have touched me in profound, intimate, formative ways. Paul Westerberg comes to mind. Bob Mould, check. Mark Kozelek, yes, yes, yes. Zoe Keating, of course. Also, Patti Smith and Exene Cervenka would likely render me unconscious. And if they all came in together, you'd probably need to order an ambulance in advance. There are others. Bowie, David Byrne, Robert Smith, Debbie Harry, Terri Nunn, Greg Gaffin, Trent Reznor, Gary Numan...larger than life and, frankly, unimaginable.

But none of those artists (and more) are likely to roll into our humble little performance studio. Yo-Yo Ma was a well-timed fluke...right? RIGHT?! That's what I believed anyway. At least, I did until this week.

And then Tuesday happened.

Tuesday morning, mid-morning, I was attempting to schedule a conference room for a training session and accidentally clicked on the calendar for the performance studio. Before I could realize my mistake I saw, scheduled from 10 a.m. to noon, "Mike Doughty". Don't worry. I have edit access to that room's calendar. I was totally allowed to be all up in it. And the booking wasn't intended to be clandestine or anything.

Perhaps it should have been.

At that moment, it was 10:46 a.m.

My heart started racing. MIKE DOUGHTY! OMG! He's here! He's here! He's OMMFG! Mike Doughty is yards away!!!! 

I do realize this means nothing to most of you. 

Suffice it to say that Mike Doughty is, to me, one of those artists I might faint if I met in real life. (Hide the glassware.)

Knowing time was of the essence, I leaped up from my desk and ran - yes, I...who never runs...ran from my desk out into the lobby where I came to a screeching halt when I saw Keefer, the guru who coordinates such artists for the performance studio.

*SLIDING TO A BREATHLESS HALT*

Me: Is *gasp* Mike Doughty really *gasp* in this building?

Keefer (while looking at his phone): Huh? What?

Me: Is. Mike. Doughty. Really. Truly. In. This. Building?"

Keefer (looking worried): Well...he...um...was. He just pulled out of the parking lot.

Me: ... ... ...

Keefer: He finished up a few minutes ago. That's him in the RV pulling out of the parking lot.

Me: ... ... ... *tears welling up* FUCK!!!!!!!!! Excuse my language. [Inappropriate for an HR professional in a high-traffic area.]

Keefer: Are you a fan?

Me:  I'm...yes, I'm a fan. I have every album he's ever put out.

Keefer: Oh! Wow. I'm sorry you missed him. Do you want me to put you on the list for his show tonight? Free tix.

Me: Where?

Keefer: Boulder Theater.

Me:... ... ...

Yeah, right. Me drive to Boulder. At night. On the freeway. Alone. Sounds likely. Or not. Not even for Mike Doughty. For Acr0nym or my mom in an emergency MAYBE. But only if it's life or limb threatening and even then only maybe.

Me: Shit! [Still inappropriate language.] No.  I can't...I can't get to Boulder.

Keefer: If you change your mind, let me know. I won't turn in the VIP list until 1.

I slowly walked away.

Fuck.

Stupid brain.

PS Yes, I stopped driving on the highway most of the time two years ago. I can do it, occasionally, if I absolutely have to but will avoid it if at all possible and, with the exception of a trip up to Loveland this summer - and only because I had 3 other licensed, mostly capable drivers in the car with me, have avoided driving on the highway outside very specific Denver city limits ever since.

Wait Ten Minutes

That's what they say about Colorado weather...if you don't like it, wait ten minutes. It'll change.

It was only a couple of weeks ago that Denver and the Front Range were seeing record-breaking temperatures nearing 100º. School districts were closing some schools early or altogether as the attempts to keep old buildings without air conditioning relatively cool against the oppressive heat failed miserably. Everyone in this neck of the woods has heard of that glorious unexpected holiday known as a "Snow Day". No one, to my knowledge, can recall schools closing for a "Hot as Hell Day". It was unprecedented.

I think most of us have been waiting, anxiously, for that first hint of autumn. That first morning we step outside of our houses and feel that first bit of a chill signifying its inevitable approach. This summer started much like the last with fires raging - devastating communities, destroying homes, contributing, psychologically, to the unbearable heat. It felt hotter than normal - at least, to me. Maybe that's because I was moving in the middle of it. I don't know. Regardless, I don't believe I'm in alone in saying that, last weekend, when the powers that be began forecasting cool temperatures and rain for several days in a row, I let out a ginormous sigh of relief. AT LAST!

Ahem.

About that...

Tuesday, September 10

After a long day at work and an extra long, intense acupuncture treatment for tennis elbow (apparently from all that, um, tennis I play) I sat out on my patio in the gloaming, enjoying an adult beverage, when the wind kicked up and I realized I was sitting outside and I was cold and not really in a good way. There's a difference between a crisp chill in the air and a cold wind stirring the leaves ominously. I shivered. I went inside and grabbed a sweater. 

It began to rain.

Wednesday, September 11

It was lightly raining as I made my way to work. It didn't seem unusual or even particularly heavy. Just, you know, rain...like the rain that rains in Seattle a good portion of the time. It had rained off and on throughout the night. Occasionally, very occasionally, that happens around here. I had an umbrella. I left it in the car. That's what most Coloradans do...cuz, you know, why carry an umbrella when, in ten minutes, the weather will change?

It rained pretty steadily all day but was, all in all, uneventful. I went home. I slept well. The rain was such a nice change from the weeks of blistering heat.

Thursday, September 12

Morning dawned. It was raining still. Light and steady most of the time but punctuated every once in awhile with a hard shower. I thought nothing of it beyond how annoying morning rain is when it impacts my ability to enjoy my morning cuppa joe out on the patio.

A couple of hours later, when Acr0nym rolled into work, he IM'd me and said, "This shite is crazy!" I made some comment about how this was just like Seattle so what's the big deal. And that's when he told me about Boulder.

Boulder was flooding. Boulder was, in effect, closed. 

Huh? Boulder's closed because it's RAINING?! That's almost as ridiculous as Denver Public Schools closing buildings because it's hot.

And that's when I thought to tune into the news.

Ahem.

It wasn't just Boulder. By then, Lyons and Jamestown had been completely cut off - no way in or out. Reports of houses collapsing and being washed away in Nederland. And then Longmont, home to TC and Mrs. TC and Mr. & Mrs. Acr0nym Senior - his whole family, cut in half by the St. Vrain River and impending evacuation orders issued. 

Both of us sat, mesmerized, horrified. 

Highway 7 12 miles west of Lyons, CO from the Camping in Colorado Facebook page

Parts of Commerce City, near Denhac, evacuated. Pictures rolling in, stories of wide-spread havoc and devastation from Colorado Springs to the south all the way up practically to the Wyoming border 100 miles away.

And then I saw this picture on the 9 News website...

Utah Park, Aurora, Colorado 

Utah Park is approximately a mile from my house. My NEW house.

And then I saw this picture also on the 9 News website...

This is a picture of an apartment complex right up the street from my house.

And all of a sudden I just really really wanted to go home. Because those pictures, while not nearly so devastating, were much closer to the little world I've carved out for myself, for Lex, for Vinny.

I canceled my chiropractic appointment (my back had been whacked for weeks) for that afternoon, sounding to my doctor, I'm sure, like a helicopter parent who has left her child at daycare for the first time. He told me to go home. He told me he was at a conference all weekend but, if I needed him, to call his cell. I assured him I would be OK. I told him I'd see him on Monday. Ha. Hindsight. 20/20.

My house was just fine. We were snug as bugs in our little nest. While the streets and neighborhoods around me were inundated with flood water, hail, and torrential rain, my little neighborhood's roads didn't have so much as one puddle. I counted my blessings. I worried about my friends, family, loved ones who pepper the communities hit hardest. I went to bed.

Friday, September 13

My back hurt.

Bad.

Badder than it had hurt since I had a strained sacral ligament and spasms in my piriformis muscle back in February and spent weeks and several hundreds of dollars on acupuncture and chiropractic care getting put back to rights.

I took an ice pack with me to work. It got worse. I started to re-think the wisdom of canceling the appointment with my personal wizard, Dr. Sid, the day before. 

I crossed my fingers and just hoped I could muscle through (ha ha) the pain until Monday. I doubled down on the Aleve. I iced. I rooted around my recently unpacked medicine chest and found an old prescription of Robaxin...just in case¹.

It was still raining.

I barely noticed.

I posted to Facebook: "Oh hai, Back Spasm. Been expecting you. Why you gotta land on a Friday when Dr. Sid is busy at a conference all weekend is beyond me. Regardless, I see a weekend fueled by Robaxin and the haze that goes with it. Also? Friday night couture should not include ice packs in the pants. Pretty much ever."

I went to bed.

Saturday, September 14

I guess it was about 1:30 a.m. when I awoke with excruciating pain radiating down my left leg.

"Oh my gawd. What fresh hell is this?" I thought to myself as I grabbed for the Robaxin and then stumbled downstairs to retrieve a fresh ice pack.

But I already knew. Sciatica. An affliction that, in 1988, landed Betsy, the Mom, flat on her back for days and on prescription strength painkillers ever since. An affliction that's plagued several people in my life...Acr0nym (who, if he is even a few minutes late taking his evening anti-inflammatory, gets a little panicky), Beasley, my boss to name a few...for years.

I cannot possibly describe the pain. There aren't words. Only if you have experienced nerve pain can you truly understand. All I can tell you - those of you who have never had the pleasure and by pleasure I mean suckage of the Dyson kind - is that the pain was so intense, so horrible - the worst I've ever experienced - that amputation, if offered, would have come as a welcome relief.

Sincerely.

It was that bad.

I confess. I cried. The ugly cry. Several times.

The muscle-relaxer/sedative fog descended. Still...I couldn't sleep. The pain was the worst if I sat or stood still for just a few seconds. Even lying flat on my back hurt. The only thing that remotely helped was to keep moving. Walking and ice. I paced. And paced. And paced. I shoved ice packs down my pants² quite possibly more than was prudent. I paced until my spasming back screamed shrilly in protest and I was forced back to my bed, tears streaming, begging some unknown and unbelieved in deity to please Please PLEASE just make it stop.

It didn't stop.

I took deep breaths and considered my options.

While dying was preferable, it wasn't forthcoming. That was plan A. Plan B was to make it until Monday when I was scheduled to see Sid. Considering a moment felt like an hour, that didn't seem survivable - especially knowing I'd have to sit at my work desk for a full 8 hours before my scheduled appointment. Plan C was the ER. However, knowing what I know about sciatica, muscle spasms, and western medicine in general I knew Plan C would result in either a cursory examination and a handful of prescriptions for crap that wouldn't do much of anything that the Aleve and Robaxin I was already taking weren't doing or a bunch of ridiculously expensive tests and an even more expensive reservation in a surgical suite for an epidural. That left me with Plan D...seriously inconveniencing the 2 people I count on the most in these kinds of situations on a weekend...my acupuncturist and my chiropractor.

Luckily, my acupuncturist, the lovely St. Jude, was due at my house that day around 2 for a leisurely afternoon on my patio. So, you know, I kinda knew her schedule was already blocked out for me. I called her. I left a tearful message. "I need you. Help me." The call to Dr. Sid, even though he'd told me to call if I needed him, was harder. He was busy doing continuing education-type chiropractor things. It's hard enough to interrupt a friend for professional reasons on a weekend. It's way worse to interrupt when they've paid money to attend a conference you're going to rudely circumvent after you needlessly (as it turns out) canceled your appointment at the very last minute because you can't seem to control your out-of-control anxiety and helicopter homeownershiphood.

Still...I made the call. He answered. After listening to my tearful, plaintive plea, he said, "Call me at 9 a.m. tomorrow and I'll see you in the morning. Unless Jude can't help you today. In that case, call me this afternoon after 3."

St. Jude, however, came to my house prepared, carrying an old fashioned doctor's bag filled with needles and a heart full of healing gold. She laid me out on my bed, stuck me full of needles, and then we talked. We talked about my diet. About diarrhea. About yogurt. About wine. I don't know why. The pain was alleviated...a little. There was little she could really do until the root of the problem - that pesky sacrum and piriformis - was resolved.

It wasn't raining. I hardly noticed.

Afterward, I took her out on my patio. I took Vinny (harnessed and leashed) out on my patio. The sky above was broiling with angry, black storm clouds. Within ten minutes (wait ten minutes), we heard no less than 3 emergency sirens going off in several directions. "Tornado?" I said. "Flood," she said.

Fuck.

I invited her into my living room - the living room whose accommodations include one ratty old couch and boxes of stuff we don't know what to do with and haven't unpacked. She sat on the couch. I laid on the floor. I got up. I took a muscle relaxer. I laid back down. We turned our heads toward the picture window and talked not looking at each other - one of us more coherent than the other - as we watched the hail and the torrential rains pelt the world outside.

Jesus. Is this ever going to stop?

In my head, I was questioning my question...am I talking about the rain or the pain?

Both.

She left a couple of hours later with me issuing grateful promises to gladly have her back in a couple of weeks when I was functioning and able to host her appropriately. 

I retreated to my room. I tried to sleep. No go.

Sunday, September 15

The hours between the wee sma's and 9 a.m. were spent pacing, pacing, pacing intermittently spattered with futile attempts to sleep in my bed and then the guest bed - a bed that, while certainly lacking in lavish comfort, is lower to the floor and easier to enter and exit - and excursions to the freezer for more ice and to the patio for a smoke.

At 9:05, I called. 

"Help," I said.

"OK. How soon can you be here?" he asked.

"Now," I said.

20 minutes later, I found myself lying on my stomach, the e-stim machine attached and scritching away at my back, stimulating the muscles, in hopes that they would relent and allow Dr. Sid to provide me with full release from my agony.

He gave me an extra long time on the machine in order to "cook" he explained.

I took deep breaths in time with the machine.

"I hope this works," I said.

"It will. You'll be OK," he said.

The machine beeped as it stopped.

"Take a deep breath. Now let it out," he said.

And I did.

Pop!

Pop!

Pop!

My spine.

"Turn over on your side," he said. "I've got you," he said.

POP!

My hip.

"Turn over on your other side," he said. "No really. I've got you. I've got you! It's OK, I've got you," he said.

POP!

My other hip.

Immediate relief. No pain. Just sore. The muscles and the sciatic nerve retreating in defeat.

"Don't lift anything heavy. I'll see you tomorrow," he said.

"Thank you. I can't even tell you how much," I said.

I drove home. I slept deeply. I watched the last 6 episodes of Homeland season 1. I no longer hurt.

It wasn't raining.

I didn't care.

Monday, September 16 

It was so beautiful today! Blue sky, low 70's. Colorado in September. My adopted home of 20+ years that I love so much. I relished my new lease on life without pain. I'd forgotten about the floods.

As I drove to work on dry roads, relishing the tasks that laid ahead, the sun shining, listening to Colorado Public Radio, there was a story about the floods. A girl - 15, I think - describing how she and her mother, each carrying a cat, escaped from the devastation of Lyons, CO. just a few short miles from my little nest. "They're saying we won't be able to go home for, at least, 2 to 3 months at the soonest," she said.

Wait...what?

Acr0nym, later, said, "Jane. Lyons is basically gone."

Wait...what?

The gravity hit me again. Floods. Devastating floods. Lyons is gone? The pinball museum? The original Oskar Blues? What about the commune where my darling, Nykki, lived for a time? Gone?

They are calling it a 1,000 year flood. 30+ bridges washed out. The rescue effort the largest since hurricane Katrina. Towns - towns I know intimately, towns whose citizens are friends - devastated, no water, no sewer treatment, no electricity.

All of a sudden I understood...

Ten minutes is a lifetime.

When it's ten minutes of pain. When it's ten minutes of devastation.

Ten minutes can feel like infinity when it's your life.

Wait ten minutes and everything can change...for better. For worse.

1. I really hate taking drugs period. But I especially hate taking drugs whose potential side effects include jaundice because that means the liver is compromised and, well, if I'm going to compromise my liver, I'd at least like to enjoy it. 

2. FYI: Every ice pack in my house has now been shoved down the backside of my underpants several times. Just know that, in the event you need an ice pack while at my house, you are one degree of separation from my ass. You're welcome.

Snippet

Yesterday, Acr0nym and I went on a Sushi Adventure in my new neighborhood. 

Because sushi.

The place we wanted to try - Sushi Katsu - was closed for lunch on Sundays so, instead, we drove a block down to the Seoul BBQ and Sushi joint...that may actually be the name of it, "Seoul BBQ and Sushi", hence the capitalization...to roll the dice against ptomaine. 

I'm happy to report ptomaine didn't win and both of us are alive and well-ish.

It's a nicely appointed restaurant - the decor is tasteful, the food is above average. It's not the best sushi in town (that distinction, in my humble opinion, continues to be awarded to Japon until further notice) but it hit the spot even if the rolls were ridiculously, unnecessarily messy.

What was unusual, at least for us, was that, after we'd placed our order, the waitress appeared with a dozen monkey dishes full of various "side dishes" to partake of while we waited for our gunmandu (dumplings), sashimi, and rolls. And because we were starving, we dug into them with our chopsticks, regardless of the fact that we couldn't really identify any of the contents.

Conversation:

Jane: Well...I think this is tempura-fried zucchini.

Acr0: BLECH! No. Cucumber.

Jane: Oh...uh...sorry. [Acr0 can't stand cucumber.]

Jane: What do you think this is?

Acr0: Um...carrots?

Jane: Not even. Potato maybe?

Acr0: I'm sorry I put this in my mouth.

Jane: What is it?

Acr0:.. ... ... parsnip maybe? I've never had a parsnip so I'm guessing.

Jane: Uh no. Not parsnip or turnip. But I'm also sorry I put it in my mouth.

Jane: I'm not eating this one.

Acr0: Why?

Jane: Because it looks like orc boogers.

Acr0: Say again?

Jane [slowly]: ORC BOOGERS.

Acr0: Heh. Oh. It's just seaweed.

Jane: Uh huh. Still not eating it.

Jane: Also? I'm pretty sure this one is bugs.

Acr0: Bugs?

Jane: Bugs.

Acr0 [taking bite]: Hrm. You may be right.

A moment or two later the waitress came by and we asked her to tell us what stuff was. Sweet potatoes, kimchi, seaweed (the orc boogers), and on and on. And then she pointed to the bugs and said something unintelligible. 

I said, "I'm sorry. What did you say this was again?"

And she said, "Dried shrimp."

And then walked away.

Acr0 and I looked at each other, nodded once, and, at the same time, said, "Bugs".

Seoul BBQ and Sushi bugs

It's Like That

And...just like that, it's done.

As of Monday evening just past, I am down to just one house - MY house - that I own.

As of Wednesday afternoon, I am down to just one job - the NEW job - one that I love.

Yesterday morning was the first weekend morning in months I didn't wake up in a panic wondering how I was going to get everything done that had to get done before:

• I moved my dad
• I closed on my house
• I moved into my house
• I vacated The Grotto
• I started my new job full time.

Friday marked the end of 60-70 hour work weeks. 

It occurs to me I won't ever have to throw a post-apoca-audit party again.

I've spent this weekend shopping for household goods and groceries, unpacking, re-arranging, and finding new places for long-kept treasures. Slowly but surely, the boxes are disappearing as Lex and I make this space our own. 

Both of us fall a little more in love with our house and our neighborhood each day. The "modern" conveniences we now have that we've lived without for the last 5 years - a dishwasher, central air, a double-car garage, our own designated trash and recycling receptacles, reliable postal service, OHMYGAWD bathrooms!!! 2 for each of us!!!, and space...alotta space to spread out - seem like the best kind of magic. We have way more elbow room than we've actually got elbows.

Lex said tonight, "It's pretty great here. It's like...we've moved up...to that deluxe apartment in the sky."

It's also way too quiet here. For years, we've fallen asleep to the sounds of buses, "street tv", and oontz oontz Thursdays (and Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays, Mondays, etc.). It's so quiet that, when I'm sitting out on the patio enjoying my morning coffee or an adult beverage and a smoky treat, I jump when the a/c condenser pops on and does its thing - whatever that "thing" is - to make it cool inside my house. As a result, I'm listening to NPR pretty much nonstop. I've revived the habit of tuning into the BBC during the night - a little something I picked up while dating N8 the GR8 all those years ago. I feel smarter already. At least smart enough to win Karl Kassel's voice on my answering machine by answering all the questions on Wait! Wait! Don't Tell Me! Heh.

I'm missing Defcon going on right now. I was supposed to be a Goon again this year but saw the rude writing on the wall back in early June boldly, brazenly stating I would not have time or the physical/mental capacity to live through the stress of all the packing and the moving and the switching jobs and the care and feeding of an aging father AND plan/execute a trip to the desert to sleep little and party lots with the nerd corps. So I backed out.

I hate that I missed the world premiere of Defcon: The Documentary in which I have a (albeit extremely short) speaking part. I hate that I'm not there with friends...with Acr0nym. I hate that I'm not adding to my badge collection (although Acr0 will be bringing me my 4th annual Defcon souvenir knife). 

And yet...I have a house.

An awesome house! With a Target and a Noodles & Company and Korean BBQ and scrumptious sushi and Sam's No. 3 nearby. 

I have a house.

MY house.

A lovely house.

And a grown up bedroom freshly outfitted with grown up furniture and bedding.

It's done.

Just like that.

Whew.

Skeletons in the Closet

Have you ever started reading a book and gotten, say, a third of the way through and then went out of town - on business or vacation or whatever - for, like, a week and you forgot to bring your book so you're forced to buy a new one at the airport Newstand or the 7-11 and then you get home and you're halfway through the new book so you don't want to stop reading that one to pick up the first one and so, by the time you get back to the first one, it's a month since you last read any of it and you read half a page and realize you've got no idea where the story started, who the characters are, or who you are rooting for and so you have to start from the very beginning again?

I kinda feel a bit like that about this blog. Even I've lost the thread of the story and it's my own story to tell!

And I know that I can't just jump right back in and start writing about this moment forward because there are chapters I've introduced still missing huge chunks of my story that are pertinent to this point in time - huge chunks under which I'm even now still buried - and yet explaining those chunks feels daunting and somewhat stale because I've been living them for awhile and I'm kinda tired of living them, explaining them, hashing them out in my overly anxious head, examining all possible angles as I search for ticking time bombs of impending doom.

However, in order to move forward, I'm going to have to look back at most of what's been happening and it's going to have to be over the next few posts because it's too much to disseminate in just this one. I think this will be to everyone's benefit...perhaps especially mine as much of this remains undocumented.

Tonight then I bring you a tale of a house...THE HOUSE that turned out not to be THE HOUSE at all.

If you reach back into your memory, you may recall I'm buying a house. You may also recall I was buying a house way back in March too. If you're really into my every last word, you might even remember said house I was buying was a Short Sale which made all the normal house buying hoops considerably more complicated. But I was prepared to wait. And wait. And wait. Because the house I'd found was EXACTLY the house for us.

Ahem.

First of all, I need to give you a little background on the sellers and the seller's agent. Remember, I've never met any of these people personally but, you know, I'm human, therefore I judge.

When a person attempts to sell his home via short sale, it's because, most often, the owner is in financial distress and is on the fast track toward foreclosure. The game then is to sell the property - at a loss - before foreclosure proceedings can conclude. Realistically, a short sale is better for the homeowner's credit somewhat and usually it's better for the seller's lender's bottom line. Occasionally, foreclosure is cheaper for the lender than short sale but rarely. However, it is typical for the property to go into pre-foreclosure proceedings at the same time a short sale is being attempted. The Bank, you know, they hedge their bets always and The Bank will always win...you can take that advice, heh, to The Bank. Knowing that the clock is ticking on one's credit though should behoove the seller to get the short sale approved as quickly as possible. Usually, it does. Usually, the seller is extremely motivated to sell and GTFO so as to call off the hounds baying at their heels.

Ahem.

Note: the number of short sale and foreclosed homes on the market, as I'm sure you can imagine, has been extremely high over the last half dozen years. In fact, for awhile, and even now to an extent, the market contained short sales, foreclosures, and hunks of junk and that was about it. So it's no surprise I ended up under contract to buy a short sale really.

When I made the offer on the property, I remember talking to Lex about the fact that it was a short sale and that I felt really good about making the offer at list price, knowing I was helping the sellers out of a massive financial jam while getting a decent deal on a house we both loved. Enlightened self-interest, to be sure, but still a good deed.

My feelings of good will toward the sellers continued even though their (pompous asshat of an) agent nonchalantly missed the very first deadline of contract acceptance by more than 24 hours. My good will continued even after their agent said he couldn't possibly get the short sale negotiated with the seller's lender in our specified 30 days, needed 45 days, and then sent over the counteroffer specifying 60 days.

I didn't balk once. I simply signed each and every document my agent - my darling Courtney who is full of win - sent over to me within the hour it was sent. And then I waited.

While I was waiting, I, because I am me and am obsessive, full of anxiety, and have access to The Google, began researching both the property and the sellers and the HOA. What I discovered was that the owners had filed for, and been awarded (Yay! An award! You like me! You really like me!) bankruptcy last year. This wasn't a particular shock to my system. I mean, a short sale indicates financial distress so, you know, it made complete sense to discover the distress wasn't isolated to just their home. I must confess, it added to my, and Lex's, feelings of good will.

But there was also this gnawing inside my somewhat altruistic - even though altruism doesn't actually exist - soul. Because this bankruptcy might have been averted. Thinking back on what I saw in their house...the matching leather 7-piece living room set, the gorgeous master bedroom suite mahogany furniture, the 50" flat screen TV down in the man cave complete with wet bar, the high-powered telescope in the guest room, the gorgeous, top of the line, massage table in the office...bankruptcy my ass! They'd kept up with the Joneses all the way to, and through, court!

Still...awesome house. Help people out of a jam. Fight pompous nonchalance with patience and responsiveness.

Let no good deed go unpunished.

So I waited.

And waited. And waited. I waited 3 months actually. And even when the seller's lender came back and said they needed to net $11,000 more in the sale to move the file forward, I didn't hesitate. I signed on the bottom line, e-mailed said signature back to Courtney, and continued to wait. Even after I found out the property was no longer FHA eligible and knew I'd have to find alternative financing - I secured that financing, starting basically from the beginning of the financing game - and continued to wait.

But then...

THEN!

When we were thisclose to short sale approval...within just a few days...the bomb went off. That pesky little ticking time bomb I hadn't anticipated.

The morning of the bomb, I'd received an e-mail from Courtney saying she'd heard from the seller's agent stating everything looked great and the file was moving forward with approval imminent.

I was on Cloud 9. House! I'm buying a house! THE HOUSE!

That afternoon then, when another e-mail from Courtney came in, the one in which she said "Read this and then tell me your thoughts" I expected to open the attached pdf and read about how the short sale had been approved and we were clear to proceed.

Ahem.

Expectations are pre-determined resentments.

The pdf contained 2 things...

1) A letter of compromise to resolve the lawsuit brought against the seller by the HOA offering, in light of their bankruptcy, to waive the almost $24,000 debt owed to the HOA - for which they held not one, not two, not three, but FOUR liens against the property. But only if the sellers signed...

2) The restricted covenant absolving the HOA of any liability of expenses incurred for repairs to the portion of the roof in which unapproved skylights had been installed...pretty much half the roof.

The seller's agent had sent along these documents to Courtney with a note that said the lender was giving them cash to negotiate the lien but he just wanted to make sure I wouldn't have any trouble with the rest of it.

I immediately called Courtney. And I said, "Courtney? You really REALLY don't want to know my thoughts."

Because really. REALLY?!

Here's the timeline:

December 20, 2012: HOA sends letter of compromise and restricted covenant agreement.

December 28, 2012: Homeowner signs all the paperwork and disclosures - including the property disclosure (which asks the seller if there are any liens against or issues with the property - specifically skylights and roof - in which they've definitively answered a resounding NO!) - with their agent to list said property.

January 3, 2013: Property listed for sale.

March 14, 2013: Offer to purchase extended by me.

March 16, 2013: Offer accepted.

June 4, 2013: Bomb dropped.

Bottom line: they lied.

They lied!

THEY LIED!

Liar liar pants on mutherfucking fire!

By the way? I don't have a whole lot of compassion or respect for liars. Especially liars who are depending on the good will of someone else - namely me - to wriggle out from beneath the increasingly tight spot under which they are pinned...while lounging upon a leather chaise and watching reality TV on a 50" screen while scooping Nutella onto their tongues.

Evidence of Nutella in the Mormon pantry - 2nd shelf from top, far left

Still...THE HOUSE! Right?!

Wrong.

I told Courtney that afternoon, "They've got 48 hours to figure this shit out. They've got 48 hours to come up with a specific plan of action to resolve both the lien and the lack of insurance coverage on the roof. Otherwise, this deal is off. I'm not buying a house that is partially uninsured due to no fault of my own. And I don't want any vague 'working on it' answers at the end of the 48 hours. CLEAR plan of action. Period. I'm not waiting longer than that. If they can't give us the kind of answer I deserve then the deal is off."

At that point, I was just done. I'd been patient, responsive, ridiculously accommodating, and generous during a time when they - the seller and their agent - had taken their own sweet time to have it the Burger King way...and we still had to get through the inspection and appraisal during which I could expect no compromise from the seller's lender.

We heard nothing...nothing at all...for the better part of those 48 hours.

At 36 hours, I knew instinctively that it was over. I couldn't possibly expect a timely response from people who had so nonchalantly ignored my initial offer, could I? No. I could not.

So...I logged onto Realtor.com that morning and halfheartedly looked to see what was available for sale fully expecting nothing much as had been the case for months. Courtney had warned me to keep my expectations low about the inventory a couple of weeks before when we were debating about whether or not to accept the $11,000 net increase on THE HOUSE. She said, "We can let this one go if you don't want to go that high. Can I find you a house? Absolutely! Can I find you a house tomorrow? No. It's going to take some time. The market is ridiculous right now. It'll be awhile. Are you OK with that?"

At that point, no, I wasn't OK with that. It was THE HOUSE we were talking about after all and I readily agreed to the increase.

After 36 hours of additional waiting with no response though, feeling jerked around once again, I suddenly became completely OK with the fact that it would take possibly much longer than I'd wanted to find the right house. I was done with the house that was clearly not to be. I was done with that asshole agent. I was done with those clearly irresponsible, lying sack of shit sellers. I was ready to look. Again.

Lo and behold, that morning, there was a brand new listing...less than 12 hours old. A listing that was in my price range, with beautiful pictures, in the precise area I wanted to live in (The House was not in my original desired location area), and contained all the must haves Lex and I had identified for ourselves several months ago. Even though my heart was downtrodden, Hark! A small beacon of hope!

I e-mailed Courtney the link and said, "While I will certainly honor the full 48 hours I gave the sellers, it's time to start looking again and we need to start with this house. Send me the MLS information."

She did.

I looked at what she provided which only confirmed my belief that it was a property worth a closer look. She arranged for me to see it that afternoon at 4 p.m. - 2 hours before the 48 hours were set to expire on THE HOUSE.

Just before I arrived at the prospective property, Courtney called THE HOUSE's agent and told him he was out of time and he'd better have something "meaty" to convey. He said, "I just got off the phone with the HOA. The lien has been negotiated down to zero. They will keep the restricted covenant in place but that's no big deal, right? I mean, what a shame for your buyer to back out now when we're so close."

Courtney didn't tell me about this conversation until after we'd crawled all over the new property, falling more in love with it with each step we took.

It wasn't quite perfect. But no house ever is...not even THE HOUSE. It didn't have the Mormon pantry. It didn't have the attached garage. It was smaller by several hundred square feet.

But it had personality. And it had obviously been well-loved and well-maintained. It still had a 2-car garage (albeit unattached) and it still had space for me to have an office on the main floor which, in hindsight, is a much better, less isolated place for me to spend the bulk of my time.

And, after I was thoroughly, hopelessly in love with it, Courtney told me about her conversation with the other house's agent. What I felt like saying at that point, and probably did say to Courtney privately, was, "It's not a shame that I'm backing out of the contract thisclose to short sale approval. What's a crying shame is that, because they are all LIARS, they wasted my time. If they'd disclosed the lawsuit and the restricted covenant at the get go, I would have been much much more likely to work with them. Instead, they lied. Fuck them."

I instructed her to terminate the contract.

I then instructed her to make an offer - list price - on this standard sale property.

She did and she did.

By 10:55 a.m. the following day - just over an hour before the deadline we'd imposed - my offer was accepted without counter.

I have a contract. I've had an inspection that passed with flying colors, I've had an appraisal that came in $6,000 over contract price, I have a closing date. Both the seller and her agent have been incredibly responsive and cooperative. I love them nearly as much as I love THIS HOUSE.

So...I'm buying a house. THE HOUSE. But not the one I started out buying. And that's OK with me. It's better than OK. It's perfect...for me. 

We move a week from today. 

OMG! I'm buying a house!!!

Epilogue

The original house I was under contract to buy is back up as an active listing...at the same asking price I first offered. I don't know if the whole "we need to net $11,000 more" was a ploy to get more money out of me after they saw my credit or if they - the sellers and their agent - are attempting, once again, to sucker someone new into biting before knowing what they will ultimately be given to chew. It did make me take pause though and understand that, either way, these people are parasites...all of them.

Courtney is still in awe at the fact that I found something even more perfect for me immediately upon making the decision to terminate. So am I frankly. But I'm not questioning it. I'm just going with it.

Being willing to compromise, to be accommodating, to be helpful, gracious, and responsive, doesn't mean a person can't have firm boundaries and be willing to pull the plug on something that should have been right but ultimately wasn't. There are, as the saying goes, lots of perfect fish in the sea.

You should only push me so far.

That One Night I Actually, You Know, Blogged

Oh!

Hi!

I didn't expect anyone to still be here lurking around in my blog space waiting to hear from me. You must be starving! And likely thirsty. I would be too if I'd stuck around this long with nary a word. You should go fix yourself a snack. Perhaps a cocktail too. I'll wait. I'll just, you know, occupy myself by blowing the dust off and vacuuming up the cobwebs around here until you get back.

Ready?

OK!

So...let's see...where should I start attempting to fill you in on where I've been, what I've done, and why I've neglected the blog? Well...I know! Let's start with the big stuff.

1.  I am under contract to buy a house! And while you are likely thinking, "Oh! Of course! That's where she's been...looking at house after house after house in search of her dream first time home!" you would be wrong in thinking that's where I've been spending my time. Because, in reality, I saw that first house and then, five days later, saw the second house and put an offer in on it the very next day after receiving the stamp of approval by my realtor, my boss, and non-husbands 1 and 2. 

That's right. I am buying the second house I laid eyes on and I'm not even sorry because it's EXACTLY what Lex and I wanted. It's so perfect (for us) that Lex was practically bouncing about it. For the record, Lex doesn't ever really bounce. He doesn't ever say he loves pretty much anything. Ever. So when he said he loved it, I knew this was the one. Of course, I knew it was the one the day before - likely from the moment I saw the Mormon pantry or the all-mirrored, 70s disco powder room on the main floor - but I figured I might as well give him the illusion of having a say so.

The one down side to this particular house - OUR house-to-be - is that it is a Short Sale. In essence, the sellers are thisclose to foreclosure and, in order to avoid foreclosure, are attempting to sell the house for less than they owe on it hoping their lender will take what they can get and save everyone the time and expense and additional loss created by the headache of an actual foreclosure. Why is this a downside, you ask? Because it takes forever to get approved. It could be 3, 4, or even 6 months before I close on this house. And there's always that added extra stress of wondering if the lender will approve the offer and worrying about whether or not, once it's approved, if it'll pass inspection and/or come in at a reasonably comparable appraised value. 

Ugh. I don't even want to talk about all the little things that are keeping my sub-conscious busy with all sorts of bizarre anxiety dreams (of which I ought to write down because they are just that weird and frequent).  

Just...trust me. I love this house. I'll wait for a long time for it if I have to just...let everything go smoothly. And while I'm waiting I'll just keep pinning stuff to my decorating ideas board on Pinterest. Because yes, apparently I've finally figured out just exactly what Pinterest is for and I don't believe any good will come of it.

2. Let's see...oh yes! Right after I wrote a letter to a sick co-worker, I got sick! With the flu! It was really awful. I ran a fever upwards of 102º for the better part of 9 days and didn't think I'd ever feel well again. woot. If you've ever run a fever that high then you know there isn't much to do except lie about feeling sorry for yourself and watching television. Except I have no television or Netflix or much of anything really (because I'm a cheap bastard) except books and a computer. Reading, however, is out of the question with a fever - I mean, if I want to retain anything more than a few words. The saving grace was that, after a couple of days lying around in germy pajamas, trying not to moan so loudly the neighbors would call for the police or for a sex addiction intervention, I discovered PBS has every episode ever produced of Frontline available online. I don't know why that is important. It certainly seems ridiculous to me now that, while burning up with fever, the one saving grace in my life was hard core documentary porn, but it was important.

No Rocky and Bullwinkle, Inspector Gadget, or Loony Tunes here in this sick ward, folks! No, no! It's all about the opium brides of Afghanistan, AIDS in black America, or poverty through a child's eyes. I suppose maybe I got hooked because misery loves company. Either that or, relatively speaking, the flu ain't got nothing on the street gangs of Chicago. Regardless, I spent 9 days off work, in my pajamas, eating cough drops and Advil while watching people talk about euthanizing themselves.

There's a party all up in here, y'all! Just a barrel o' laughs. Clearly.

Eventually, even though I thought it would never happen, I got better. But not before I'd forsaken every one of my new habits ...with the exception of rubbing the lotion on my skin every day. Oh well. There's always next year.

3. Mostly what's been keeping me away from the blog though is actually a great thing! I've been spending most of my free time volunteering as a board member for Denhac! I don't remember if I mentioned it when it happened but, back in October, I was elected to the board and subsequently elected as an officer - secretary - of the board. After a massive Denhac-ian kerfuffle in December that had me re-thinking relationships and led me to the discovery of the drama triangle - in which I am most often pulled into playing the part of rescuer but found myself in this instance being cast as the villain to which I said wholeheartedly "No thank you. I won't be playing your bullshit game henceforth" (I paraphrase...I didn't actually say it quite like that) - I took over the all important role of managing communications for the space. Turns out, I love it! And I'm really good at it. But it's a lot of work that, for the most part, was neglected in the past. So I've been spending most of my free time building an audience for the space while neglecting the audience I've built here. 

For that, I am sorry. Because I miss my blog. I miss my friends. I miss writing for me...without much purpose and without intent to promote.

But I'm not sorry to see the Denhac hours I put in every single day make a difference. And there is most definitely a tangible difference. Of that I can be extremely proud.

So there.

That's why you've been left to your own devices for much of the last several months. Hopefully you'll forgive me and will continue to poke your noses in every once in awhile to check in on me. I promise I won't make you watch any Frontline episodes on undertaking while you wait...unless you want to, that is. It's a pretty cool episode. I mean, if you like that sort of thing...

Which I do.

I Found Hell

And, as it turns out, hell is a sports bar located in Small Town, Colorado.

My version of hell looks like that anyway.

I don't like sports. I don't like watching sports or talking about sports or yelling at the TV when a sport is being broadcast. I also don't like finding myself surrounded by gobs of people watching sports - especially when it is all kinds of sports on a number of TV screens - and hearing them yell...for no reason.

It sets my nerves a jangling. 

Additionally, I don't appreciate the seating in sports bars which typically comes in two types...

1) High bar stools which leave my short legs a dangling or

2) Booths in which my quadruple D breasts have nowhere to hide and are forced to rest on the table itself.

Lastly, this...

This song should play in no bar - sports or otherwise - pretty much ever.

(Oh hai, Spux. Apparently this video would demonstrate how one ought to dance to this song. You're doing it wrong.)

Throw in throngs of drunken people who've clearly been there for hours, the inability to take the edge off with a cocktail myself due to the fact that I've got to drive myself several miles home on the freeway (something I don't do well under ideal conditions...you know, like in daylight completely sober) while recovering from a persistent migraine, and witnessing one particularly dick move by someone who wasn't invited, shouldn't have been there, who is lucky I didn't stand up and punch him full on in the face, and all of a sudden you've got...

H-E-Double Hockey Sticks. Hell.

Other than that, how was the play, Mrs. Lincoln?