U.S. Dept. of Redonkulous

The full name is Department of the Interior, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, Division of Middle Management Authority, Feet Dragging and Hemhawing.

What a ridiculous exercise this has been. This goes into the If Its Not One Goddamm Thing Its Another file. This is one of the things that sent my stress level through the roof last month and had me hyperventilating daily between bouts of spontaneous crying and hand-wringing.

Here's the thing... we're moving... again. We're moving the household back to Alameda so I can be close to family and go back to work. It's a long story.

I thought it would be somewhat complicated but not redonkulous. We hired an actual moving company this time that will magically load the giant trailer for us and clear our stuff back through customs - all good and a huge relief to have professional help.

On a hunch, I asked our moving coordinator if I had all the proper paperwork to move Henry - the blue-fronted Amazon parrot - back home. My little voice kept nagging at me to make sure. She didn't know but offered to ask around. Thank gawd she did.

See, when we moved here, I took all the kids to their vets and had them checked out, vaccines updated and received State of California Department of Food and Agriculture certifications for international movement of household pets. That's all the vets said we needed. Great!

I don't know why I thought that might not be enough to get Henry home, but I'm glad I asked...

Turns out, we NEVER had the required permits to travel with/move a pet bird. Our vet didn't know about such permits nor did the Canadians who helped us move here. When no one knows about such permits it's tough to obtain them.

I scoured the web trying to make sure we'd have all the required paperwork/certifications when we came into Canada. No website - US Customs, Canadian Customs or any other - had any information about these permits. If they had, well, I wouldn't be writing this post.

If you own a pet bird and are planning to go ANYWHERE outside the U.S. with that bird at ANY TIME - moving, road trip or whatever - you MUST have the following permits:

• a CITES permit for the transportation of live animals or animal products (pet parrots usually fall into the Appendix II category).
  
• a U.S. Dept. of Fish & Wildlife Export Permit for a pet bird (PDF form). You may also need an Import Permit as well, to get the bird back into the States.
  -- no ifs ands or buts --
  

So, I found out about these required permits at the beginning of June. The CITES Export Permit from Environment Canada takes 4-6 weeks to process. The U.S. Import Permit takes at least 4 weeks and up to 90 days to process. The moving truck arrives next week.

Amazingly, Environment Canada was fine with a faxed application and required no fees. The U.S., of course, would not accept faxes or email. Everything had to be FedEx'ed (or snail mailed) and they require a $50 processing fee.

Environment Canada was great. I got the direct number for a lovely woman, Lynn, who helped process my application and couldn't have been nicer. She took the initiative to communicate through email, keeping me updated and letting me know when the permit was issued and on its way. Canada took about a week to process the CITES Export Permit.

As I sit here writing this sorry tale, I'm still waiting on the U.S. permits. They've had everything they needed to process the paperwork for four weeks and I've not heard a word about status.

The woman I've been calling in Virginia - I'll call her Slow Suzy - is no longer returning my calls. Early on, she sounded somewhat sympathetic and like she might make this happen within a month - imagine that - issuing TWO WHOLE ONE-PAGE DOCUMENTS in a month's time. CRAZY!

At first I was told I would only need an Import Permit to get Henry home, but after talking to Suzy and explaining our situation in detail, she said I would need a "retrospective." I believe she meant "retroactive" - a retroactive Export Permit.

Because we never had the proper permits, I moved Henry out of the country illegally. Had Canadian Customs seen him in my car at the border, they would have confiscated him. Without the right permits going back, the U.S. can confiscate him.

To be clear, the bird was never hidden, nor were the cats. When we crossed the border they were all right there in the car. No one asked me for any paperwork or any sort of documentation about ANYTHING we had with us. No one even glanced into the goddamm car to see what was in there. I was ready for them to inspect the car and to hand them all the documents I had - no one asked for anything.

To make matters worse, when Suzy learned we've not been out of the States for at least 12 months, she told me "Oh no, you have a real problem." Why? No one can explain why. Why a U.S. resident cannot return home trouble-free in one month, five, or 15 no one can explain. Free country? I guess not.

So now I'm waiting on Slow Suzy to figure out a way to issue a retroactive ("retrospective") Export Permit and an Import Permit, all by next week. She's had a month to get it done.

Maybe she's required to make the paper on which the permits are printed, then make the ink with which the letters are printed, then weave a decorative border out of flaxen linen and spun gold. Whatever she's doing, she's doing it as slowly as one can move without being declared legally dead.

Bottom line, I cannot leave here with my bird without those goddamm permits in my hand. This is when we should pack Henry a little satchel of food and Gatorade and tell him to fly his ass home.

Even more annoying, I'm playing by the rules and I'm getting screwed up the ass for it. I'm not trying to pull a fast one or cheat the government out of $50 critical dollars. They didn't catch me - I contacted them to get this squared away, and what are they doing? Nothing.

Slow Suzy is sitting on her lazy, government-job-time-wasting ass filing her gaudy acrylic nails and telling her girlfriends about her corns. If I ever meet Slow Suzy one day, I will punch her in her lazy goddamm neck.

p.s. If you ever apply for such permits and your bird does not have a microchip or a leg band, you'll need a letter from your vet explaining why this should not be done - both are very dangerous for birds. But in that letter you can have your vet provide a description of whatever identifying characteristics your bird might have that should help identify your bird as YOUR bird.

Zero to 60

Been a while... sorry about that. Got busy - quick.

Last week we had a marvelous AmeriCanadian holiday with friends from SF. Had to clean up a bit, make the loft into a suitable guestroom, gather up the requisite groceries and run a kajillion errands.

Shopping on Robson, suspension bridge fun @ Capilano, Wii, tasty dinners out, Thanksgiving dinner at home and of course, Tim Hortons goodness. Good times - very good times.

Unfortunately, it rained like a bastard the whole time with dense clouds that obscured what would have been lovely snow-capped mountain vistas all around us. Instead, it looked like any damp, rainy area anywhere - say, New Jersey maybe, with a little less mob activity and quirky Pacific-Northwest architecture.

I wanted to post sooner - I've missed you - but my head's been full of syrup. I've been homesick, yet still happy to be here. I know we're where we're supposed to be, but my whole life is somewhere else.

Well, not my *whole* life - most of it's right here in this house. But family, dear friends and favorite haunts are all far away. It's difficult to start over when you're in your early fogey years.

I get by with email, a brand new magicJack and... Facebook. For reals. It really helps. I don't feel so disconnected from everything. Fun photos of friends (alliteration rules!) in festive situations, silly status messages... if only Scrabulous was still there... fugging greedy licensing bitches.

Driving back from Seattle last weekend where I dropped off our fabulous house guests, I felt torn. Part of me wanted to turn around and keep driving to California, but the pull was much stronger to keep going north, back to my little family.

I feel unsettled rather than settled. It feels like I'm dating two guys at once. Both have fun qualities and annoying flaws, but one is the guy I know a lot more about - the one who feels comfortable. The other guy *seems* nice & interesting and may be a refreshing change of pace, but his pants don't fit him quite right and he talks funny.

I don't think I can break up with America. Definitely not San Francisco. There's no leaving the Bay Area without regrets. The food, the wine, the Peet's, Target, North Beach Pizza, and the fantastically liberal, accepting, bubble... god I love that bubble. The dark blue, No-on-8, I'm Getting an Abortion at Lunch bubble. That's my home. And I miss it. I cannot wait to get back to it. There, I said it.

Right now, I miss it more than Thin Mints when the freezer stash runs out. I know I was ready for a change and I couldn't wait to get here, but now I think what I couldn't wait to get to was David. I need to be wherever he is, and I hope one day it'll be back in our Bay Area bubble.

Losing My Shit

That's literally losing my belongings and coming unhinged about it, so maybe the title should be Totally Losing All My Shit. But I digress.

I turned into Sherilyn Fenn yesterday, the character she played briefly in Wild At Heart where she's wandering around the strewn car wreckage, flipping out about losing her wallet/bobby pins/scalp/brain matter.

I wandered through boxes of crap talking to myself and swearing all day long. Where the fuck did I put that fucking thing - it was just there goddamn it - fuck. Shit. That fucking thing should be with the other fucking thing but it's not, piece of shit. Fuck.

This went on all day, one outburst flowing into another, and I never did find the one fucking thing I was trying to find all fucking day; the one goddamn thing I need to work the other fucking thing that's now just sitting there, a useless fucking paperweight without the fucking thing that makes it go. Fuuuuuuuuuuck.

Fucking irritating.

Doin' The Flagpole

(image from http://dylan.iamstillalive.net/notes/16-the-tallest-flagpole-in-calipatria)

Today was Flagpole Day! No, not run my panties up a flag pole or climb a flag pole. I got to drive to the border, cross into the U.S., get a form, then go back through Canadian Customs to get my Work Permit.

When I was told this procedure is called the "flagpole," I thought that was just a cute term used by the HR folks in David's office.

Turns out, "Flagpole" is an official immigrations term used by both the U.S. Customs and Border Patrol as well as Canadian Customs.

At the U.S. Customs station, I told the uniformed lady I needed to get the right paperwork from Canada, hesitant to tell her I was "doing the flagpole," but then I said, "I guess they call it 'the flagpole,'" and she said "Oh, sure - the flagpole!"

On her little orange official paper she wrote "Flagpole" and showed me where to park and go inside to get the form I'd need for Canadian Customs.

The U.S. Customs office is all business - very brightly lit with clear queues cordoned off and stony-faced officers giving off a very serious vibe, like they might have to draw down on everyone at any moment and defend the entire border on behalf of all Americans everywhere.

I waited patiently in line until a salty officer barked at me to come to the desk. I told him which form I needed and he went about hand-writing my information on it, including the word "Flagpole," underlined, next to the reasons why I was not being admitted back into the U.S.

With my official Flagpole form in-hand, I drove over to the Canadian Customs to complete this fascinating process.

Inside the Canadian office, the vibe is totally different. The lighting is subdued, there's one general area to queue up and all the officers are talking and joking with each other. They also offer public washrooms and have vending machines with snacks & sodas. There's none of that civility provided on the U.S. side.

An agent waved me over to the counter and as soon as he started talking, it was like working with Patton Oswalt. He sounded just like him and was about as funny. He reviewed my U.S. form and laughed at how they wouldn't allow me back into the country.

I had stacks of paper and forms to hand over, so I asked him which forms he might need - he said probably none of it. He just used David's paperwork to get mine in order, gave me a temporary import form for my car (that's a whole other process/story) and sent me on my way.

It was all supposed to be very official business, but it felt like I was amongst friends. I'd totally hang out with them anytime.

Now the next customs party we get to have is officially importing our cars, which means handing over some forms and leaving our cars in the U.S. for three business days prior to *exporting* them so they can be *imported* into Canada.

Trouble is, our cars are already HERE, so that means we have to drive them back THERE and leave them, one at a time, obviously, and then we can officially import them and get that paperwork taken care of.

It would seem the U.S. Customs folks are either totally stupid or totally stoned or both, because NONE of that shit makes any sense whatsoever.

As I overheard one U.S. Customs agent say while waiting in line, "I guess I have to do something today, or make it look like I'm doing something..." No shit.

Whose Crap is This?

I keep unpacking box after box of crap and stuff and junk. Even after getting rid of so much stuff before the move, it's obvious we had no idea just how much crap, stuff and junk we actually had.

Evidently I have a bag problem. And a bit of a shoe problem. And most likely a jacket/coat problem. I knew about the shoes, but the bags and jackets were sort-of a surprise.

We had a lot of hooks in our closets in Alameda. Things have a way of blending in when they're hanging up. Very different than when piled one on top of another in a large box.

And David has a book problem. A book and games problem, but I bet that's not a surprise to anyone who knows him.

The cats have a bit of a toy problem. Faux mice and tiny sparkly balls have been pulled out of the cat tree cubbies and littered all over the house. Countless more were found while unpacking and have been tossed.

All this crap seems to attract more crap - it's a friggin crap fest. I'm not even done unpacking and already I have a pile of stuff to take to Goodwill.

So Much for Trophy Wifing

So, here I am in Canada, trying to be a trophy wife and fuck if I'm not still *working* on this move. I'm supposed to be hanging out at Tim Hortons and shopping for lingerie, but NOOOO. Instead, I'm driving all over town running my ass ragged and listening to an all-traffic radio station.

I'm not sure what's wrong with Canadian drivers or if it's that few people have full time jobs here, but there's a SHITLOAD of cars on the roads at ALL TIMES of the day and there are ACCIDENTS or MAJOR CONSTRUCTION going on all over the place, resulting in fucked up traffic all the time.

If you move to an area that has a radio station devoted to constant traffic updates, that's a sign. Sure, Canadian drivers are very polite, but maybe that's how these accidents happen - maybe it's a result of too many people saying "No, you go," and then no one knows who should go and they all go and BLAM - four-car pile-up that blocks an entire intersection.

And then there's the border crossings. You'd expect them to be backed up at rush hour, but at 11am? Seriously? A 90-minute backup at 11am? WHY?

This morning I had to go back to the border to clear our moving trailer through customs - something I thought ABF did for you, but apparently not.

You have to go down to the ABF office at the border, get their copies of your customs forms you gave to the driver when he picked up your trailer, then walk them across the street to Canadian customs, get them cleared, then walk them back to ABF so your shit can be delivered.

Now, on these forms, there's not much instruction about how to fill them out, but it looks like they want you to itemize every last thing you own. One Oral-B electric toothbrush: $75; 47 pairs of underwear: $218, etc. No one has that kind of time or patience, but being that they're official forms, I tried to be as detailed as I could without losing my mind.

I listed stuff by room, e.g. Living room items: two couches, one coffee table, one television, etc., and after all the stuff I gave a combined value. Nowhere on the form is a "Total" line and there's no way to know how they might want to verify what you have or its worth in Canadian play money.

So, with my forms I head into the customs office and just like Sunday night, I speak only when spoken to, give clear answers and do not fidget. I do not look nervous nor do I look too relaxed. I do not look too interested in what's going on in the quiet office where most agents are having a laugh with each other or watching the U.S. Open on the TV in the lobby.

A soft-spoken agent reviews my paperwork and my passport with the Visitor's Permit stapled inside. He asks me how I can be a "settler" if I only have a visitor permit. I tell him my husband has the work permit and he doesn't bat an eye. He doesn't ask to see this work permit or my husband, who may or may not exist.

Continuing with my paperwork he asks me if I have the title for my car. I tell him I don't have it and he quietly asks "Where is it?" Does it matter where it is right now? What difference does it make where it is - it's not HERE, is it? Because I don't have the title with me, I cannot "import" my car at this time. OK, thanks very much.

While leafing through my forms he finds a log book in a drawer and opens it up. In it are hand-written records - it looks like a restaurant reservation book. I'm wondering what this book is for - it can't be part of the official importation/customs process.

As he looks over my paperwork, he asks me if I totaled up all the values. No, I tell him, as I think, How would I know to do that? How would I know you want a total value when there's no TOTAL line on the form?

We add it up together and agree on a number. He writes that number in that log book as I tell him I came to that number without including the declared value of the car. He gives me a look, like Dammit, now I have to do it again and he grabs some WHITE OUT from the desk.

HE WHITES OUT the number he just wrote down in the log book. There is no computer data entry, no triplicate forms with carbon paper - just a hand-written book listing a total dollar value of goods imported, per importer.

No one asked where the trailer is to maybe have a look at the stuff I've said is inside of it, no one wanted to see the car I said I'm driving. At this time, only I know what's in that trailer and what I've said it's worth.

With a few official stamps on my paperwork, I was on my way back across the street to ABF and headed back to PoCo to continue a marathon of errands with the traffic station helping to avoid delays all through town.

The traffic station is incredibly useful for not only avoiding accidents, but for knowing where the radar speed traps are set up. They play the Dragnet theme song and tell you exactly where they're trying to catch speeders. THAT I like.

Driving to Canada Hurts

Holy jesus am I tired. Getting to Canada has been a marathon on top of a triathlon on top of a decathlon while wearing ice skates and a lead suit.

We did the drive in two days, stopping in Oregon for a couple of nights to let the kids (and me) enjoy a crate-free day. It'd have been better to spend a week between legs of the trip - the second one almost killed me.

We left Bend at 9:15am and didn't get to Port Coquitlam until almost 11pm. The entire goddamn state of Washington had endless, bumper-to-bumper traffic, without any reason. No accidents, no fifty-car pileups, just a bunch of slow Sunday-driving turds flushed onto the roadways all at the same time.

Then we got to the border. For over an hour we crawled slowly toward the checkpoint where we expected the car to be thoroughly inspected and all our paperwork closely examined. Not so much.

At the first checkpoint we were waived through without a glance from the burly dude in black kevlar. At the second checkpoint, a lovely recent high school graduate politely asked us if we had any firearms, gifts for Canadians or more than $10K in cash with us. She never looked past our passports or asked about pets, booze, drugs or plants/vegetables.

Once past her checkpoint, we had to go inside so I could get a visa/work permit/visitor permit - I'm not sure which one I'm supposed to have and they don't seem to know either, but after a relaxing 20-minute wait, I got a pretty piece of official paper stapled into my passport and we were on our way.

We tried to sleep that night, but the cats were wigged out, meowling through the house as if to ask Where the hell is our shit? Where the hell are we? Why the hell did you hold us captive in that car for over 13 hours?

Overall, it was a day I'd never ever like to repeat. Not until they build a bridge over the state of Washington so I never have to sit through that bullshit again.

Werekitty Kitty Kitty

Just when you think you've gotten through a rough patch, something else happens and you're dealing with another problem. It's always something.

Yesterday I was under the weather all day dealing with either mild food poisoning or a lower GI bug - either way, it wasn't a fun day. I like a good purge as much as the next girl, but a full day of cramping and weakness was a killer, especially with so much left to do for the move.

I went to bed a little early and got a good night's sleep. Until the big, retarded cat started making noise as only he can at 6:30am. As he woke me up, I realized I felt a lot better and would be able to catch up on the stuff I couldn't do the day before.

El Gato Retardo found his way into an old, empty moving box - a weird one that folds over on top and tucks into handles on the sides. It was up on its side, propped open, so the cats couldn't get trapped inside it, as had just happened the day before (two got inside then the third curled up on top, holding the others captive - an impressive trick, when you think about it).

He was sitting inside the box, pulling old tape off the cardboard with his teeth. I really wanted to go back to sleep, so I got up to remove him from the box.

As he typically does, he becomes three times heavier and sinks down into the bottom of the box, refusing to vacate. So I did what I always do, I tried to upend the box to help him find his way out.

Unfortunately, the dumbshit stuck his foot through the hole in the side and FLIPPED OUT because the WORLD WAS ENDING WITH HIS FOOT IN THE HOLE. Meowling like he was being branded with a hot poker, I tried to free his leg, and that's when he chomped down on my hand like it was a tuna steak.

As I screamed bloody murder, he got free and tore out of the bedroom and I ran to the bathroom sink. The cold water felt like kerosene in my pretty puncture wounds. I bled and bled, then washed the wounds with soap and poured four gallons of hydrogen peroxide in them.

When the foaming subsided, I found a band aid and went online to refresh my memory on treating puncture wounds. That's when I found the website with user posts about the WORLD ENDING BECAUSE OF A GANGRENE HAND AS A RESULT OF A CAT BITE.

Totally freaked out, reading about super strong IV antibiotics, tetanus shots, days in the hospital and hand surgery, I called the 24/7 nurse line. A kind, sleepy RN recommended I skeedaddle right down to my local clinic for some of those antibiotic horsey pills.

But wouldn't my oregano oil and probiotic capsules knock it out? Maybe, in time, but since I'm about to drive to Canada in a matter of days, I thought it smarter to get the big guns and nip it in the bud. I'll slam the pills any day if that means I don't have to get that effed up tetanus shot.

Now I'm on the horse pills - Augmentin - staggering that with probiotics in hopes of avoiding the yeast infection side affect. If things continue in this manner, I suppose I can look forward to starting my period with a yeast infection as I drive to Canada with a throbbing hand the size of a football.

Huge thanks to Cameron for letting me drag him to the Walgreens after lunch to pick up my Rx, and for his help choosing the right Monistat - there's the One Day, the Day & Night, the Three Day, Five Day, Twelve Day All Day, Gentle Applicator Day, Topical Anti-Itch Day and the Six Nights and Three Days varieties - they all look like so much fun, I wanted to get them all.

Cat Lady Goes to the Vet

And what does she wear? A white t-shirt. Because I'm the crazy cat lady and I don't care how much black cat fur ends up all over me. I don't mind walking around with a sort-of black angora shirt with tufts of hair drifting off of me into the breeze.

It was just a simple trip to get their vaccines updated and the requisite paperwork to import them into Canada, but after what Ninja did, I think we might leave him here with a bag of food and a deck of cards.

He's 60 years old in cat years and it shows. What a ferocious, cranky asshole he's become. Couldn't weigh him, couldn't check his temperature (in the dignified way every cat loves) and almost couldn't get the shot in his leg.

As he lay there on the table, scruffed to the limit with a towel over his head, he suddenly grew four extra paws with straight razors at the tips and his teeth were ginormous. He almost chomped me twice and I had to apologize profusely for my big, angry retarded cat ass.

The vet and the vet tech backed away like, "he seems fine, bye!" Meanwhile Neo, the street-tough thug, was all sweetness and love, meowing calmly as he explored the exam room and all its surfaces. He didn't flinch when he got his shot and later rubbed against the vet's legs.

The best part of the visit was the small bottle of kitty tranquilizers they gave me - some for them, some for me - for the drive north. We very well may drug the cats, mainly to see how they behave all doped up, but it might make their trip a little less stressful. I'll want to put a gun in my mouth if I have to hear 16 hours of nonstop meowling.


Neo & Nikita, inspecting the equipment


Neo, thinkin' about dinner


Stack O Cats

p.s. I would like to add that it's all David's fault for collecting cats like souvenir mugs. I happened to find a stray one day, but the other two were intentional "go out and adopt another cat" acquisitions. But who do people point and laugh at? Me.

Update:
Everyone seemed fine yesterday, then this morning, little Nikita didn't get up for breakfast. She stayed on our bed all morning and into the afternoon before finally getting up around 2pm to slowly amble into the kitchen for a nibble.

She looked like she hurt all over and ate only a few bites before heading right back to the bedroom to where she spent most of the day.

I followed her and massaged her a little, checking the back leg where they injected the vaccine. She mewed loudly at that - she wasn't a happy kitten.

I called the vet to find out if hers was a normal reaction to the rabies vaccine - she's not reacted like this before and with only a few days before we move, she'd better be OK.

They called back and said she was having a "borderline normal" reaction, but for next year's vaccine, it might be a good idea to give her some Benadryl before she gets the shot.

Really? So, she's already having trouble with the vaccine, which is administered "one shot per cat," not adjusted for weight differences, and you're telling me I should put additional substances into her tiny body before you shoot her up with too much of the thing she's allergic to? Really?

This is why I don't like taking healthy cats to the vet. Sure, sometimes it's necessary, but like human doctors who are happy to hand out Rx meds like candy, most vets don't seem to care much about how they're treating different animals - just slam the shot in there and if that doesn't work, throw another chemical down there to even it all out.

No wonder Ninja wanted to rip her hand off - maybe he's not retarded after all but some sort of idiot savant with the ability to sense quackery from a mile away.

At this point, I'm happy to report she's doing much better. Stupid shitty vaccines, and for cats that are exclusively indoor cats and well cared for, they definitely do not need annual shots, no matter what the vet says - even mainstream Prevention magazine agrees.

Persistent PMS

That's what I have. Acute, persistent PMS. It's not coming from my lady parts - it's a byproduct of this move. I totally underestimated the stress factor. Jebus, it's a pickle.

All the emotions are simmering just below the surface of my typical "everything's great!" face, while I stand in the cereal aisle at Trader Joe's getting teary-eyed about missing the cereal aisle at my favorite store.

And why am I loitering in the cereal aisle? Yup - carbs. The soothing, warm blanket of natural serotonin - I'll have a large bowl, please. I bought cereal and dark chocolate caramels. The only thing missing was the giant slab of frosted cinnamon rolls, but I have *some* self-control.

The Olympic synchronized diving is making me angry. What a boring boring boringly stupid sport. I don't caaaaaaaaaare if they're not spinning and twisting the exact same way.

But man, that men's swimming relay sure was fun. I stayed up too late to watch it, but I'm glad I did. And watching Aaron Piersol seems to help elevate my mood.

It's down to the wire and I have just five more days to pack - I have to work a couple of days next week, which is going to be interesting. Speed shooting, is what that will be, then rushing home for another bowl of cereal.

The Nervous Crapper

A nice salesman from United Van Lines came by last week to give me a quote for the move. That morning I made a point of not only scooping out the cat boxes, but also cleaning them to ensure the house would not smell like a cat-crapping emporium, not even a whiff. With three cats, it's a daily battle.

Right after kitty breakfast time, as I walked through the house with my coffee to turn on the laptop & check email, BLAM! Smacked in the face by one of the worst cat shit stink bombs ever set off in a domestic kitty litter box.

They know something's up and they're not happy about it. The anxiety has a less-than-desirable effect on kitty's digestive system.

I re-scooped and re-cleaned the offending box, opened the windows, turned on the fans and then found the super-powerful deodorizing air spray. It took a while for the toxic off-gassing to dissipate. Thank god the salesman wasn't coming for a few hours.

After he arrived, we went through the house room by room so he could build an exhaustive list of all our stuff. As we moved into the bar, a terrible smell crept up on us. He'd done it again! Neo jumped out of the box and ran through the bar like his butt was on fire, which apparently it was.

Not only is our little kitty bear cub a nervous eater, now he's also a nervous crapper. I can't wait for the 16-hour drive to Vancouver with him in the back of the car.

But that little, stinky cat growler was an omen. When the salesguy was all done with the estimate, he printed it & showed me the bottom line. He'd documented all our stuff accurately, and the estimated cost to move a 3-bedroom house, a greatly pared-down 3-bedroom house - really more like a 2-bedroom with a tiny office house, was $8,500.

$8,500. I couldn't believe it. I was expecting $3K, maybe $3,500 - that seemed likely - but almost $9K??? I thanked him for his time and showed him the door. I wanted to curl up on the couch and stay there in a catatonic state.

Instead, I went to the bank, then I went to the store and bought some groceries in a daze. I got home and ate a potato and some chocolate. Then I did some laundry. Then I googled for more information that might help get us moved for under $5K.

Lo and behold, there's this little company called ABF/U-Pack Moving. They drop off a commercial trailer at your house, you load it, then they drive it wherever you want it to go. Their estimate to move a 3-bedroom house? $2,500.

They couldn't have been any nicer on the phone and they have great reviews on epinions and Yelp. I'm very encouraged and no longer feel like I need to shield my rectum from large moving companies.

And if we don't use as much space as estimated, the cost goes down. One of my many talents is being able to pack a car (or a dishwasher) so tightly and effectively, every square inch of space is used. This might actually be a little bit fun.

Cathartic Cleaning

Moving is usually just a pain in the ass, no more, no less. That's still true in this case, but this time it's different. It's been a cathartic purging of crap - actual crap and emotional baggage.

Yesterday I sorted through all the stuff I'd squirreled away in a cedar chest - things I thought I would always keep with me, like a paper trail of my existence or a time capsule for others to find after I leave this world. Old SAT scores and report cards, travel souvenirs, journals, stacks of newspaper clippings of momentous events and a few letters to/from friends.

What a surprise - most of that crap wasn't worth keeping. The program from the skating show at the Coliseum when I was 12! I MUST have it! It was fun to look through it and remember what I used to be so attached to, but a relief to throw it out and be free of the clutter.

Amid the papers, playbills and cards I found a few letters from a friend I lost touch with years ago. We had our ups and downs as any friendship does. Unfortunately I'd saved some letters written during the downs.

But reading those letters now, for the first time it became clear that the friendship I thought we had was mostly what I'd imagined it to be. I thought it had been much more than it actually was.

It's hard to lose a friend and even harder when it's not clear why it happened, but seeing the situation with the clarity of hindsight and time makes it easier to let it go. It was never what I thought it was, so I didn't really lose what I thought I did, if that makes any sense.

I still miss her and the connection we had, but it feels good to finally see things clearly and move past it in a new way. I kept only one letter, a funny one that made me laugh. I put the others through the shredder.

What a Difference a Bob Makes

After seven years of never-ending Bobness, he's finally gone and the entire block has come out of hiding.

Yesterday I spoke to a neighbor across the street I've never said a word to before because she's always been securely contained inside her car or rushing into her house - much like everyone else on our block, myself included.

We started talking about landscaping and within seconds remarked how much nicer the neighborhood is without Bob. She, like me, stopped spending any time in the yard because that creepy freak was always all up in everyone's business.

One down and one to go. We still have the Shitty Bitch on the corner who tried telling our arborist to cleave the oak tree in half so there wouldn't be any branches on her side of the property.

When he told her he couldn't do that or else the tree would fall onto our house, she said she didn't care about that. What a sorry sack of shit. Her broken hip/stroke/heart attack can't come soon enough.

And here's the kicker - when we had the garage sale a few weeks ago, she waddled over to chat with some of the neighbors. When she heard we were moving, she enthusiastically asked if we'd be renting out the house. I told her most likely, yes, and then she asked if we had anyone lined up to rent it. When I said no, she said her son would love to rent it.

Her son, with two of the brattiest kids I've ever seen. Those kids would destroy the house and that shitty bitch would be over here every day looking for something she could steal.

When my grandmother died, I mentioned it to her in passing one day and the first thing out of her shitty bitchy mouth was that my grandmother had told her she could have an antique tea cart. Klassy, eh? But yet, she was allowed to breed.

At any rate, the moving process continues. Selling more stuff (what did we do before Craigslist?), donating a ton of other stuff - soon there won't be much to pack other than a large bag of cats.

Fraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaak

I need to go to sleep and wake up in Canada, all moved and settled in whilst I was snoozing. Doing all this by myself is bullllllshit. Not feeling so positive today, obviously. I'm overwhelmed and every time I turn around there's another issue/problem/whining cat/deranged garage sale lady.

A few days after the garage sale, which was a couple of weekends ago, a weird lady came back to the house asking for a transformer for a lamp she bought. I should have told her then I wouldn't go looking for it and I should have shoved a $5 bill into her crabby, wrinkled mouth.

But I thought we might actually have it somewhere, so I told her I'd see if I could find it and asked if she lived in town. She said she didn't and that she'd be back the next day. Great! After she left I closed the curtains and locked the porch screen door.

Sure enough, she came back the next day and when she couldn't get the screen door open, she knocked/clawed at the front window. Funny, but that will never make me want to come to the door, so I kept working and eventually she left.

She came back again when I was actually not home and left a friggin' note on the door. I'm no accountant, but if she doesn't live relatively close by, she's just spent another $5 making repeated trips to my house.

I'd have gladly given her money back the first time, but I honestly thought she'd find the transformer on eBay or elsewhere, rather than keep stinging me like an angry wasp.

Came home today after a shoot and guess what was sitting on my porch? The goddamn lamp she bought with a self-addressed, stamped envelope taped to it. I know what you're thinking because it was my first thought, too - What should I send her in that little envelope?

Of course I'll do the right thing and send her money back, but it might be graphically enhanced and very securely taped to another piece of paper, or it could end up soaked in tuna oil right before it makes it into the envelope, because these things happen sometimes.

What a giant waste of time and energy. She must be a joy to live with. Speaking of joys, people have GOT to stop walking in front of the lens when I'm trying to photograph their goddamn properties.

Do you not see the big tripod and the shit attached to the top of it that makes the pretty pictures? Do you think we can just photoshop out the blurred vision of you obscuring the view, oblivious to the rest of the world and the people in it? Is my job somehow not as important as yours?

Unfortunately, because I'm a jangled mess of nerves right now, I actually told a guy today to please stop walking in front of the camera and to either come up or go down the stairs - one or the other, because I need to get the shot and move on.

Speaking of moving on... I had the flying dream again last night, but sadly, I was flying in and around a house to survey the best shots. Right after that, I was talking to Jennifer Aniston at a party. She'd had a major face lift and was still in recovery. As one might expect, she was aloof and not at all as friendly as you might hope she'd be.

It's Been Too Long...

And I've missed you so... please forgive my absence. I wasn't breaking up with you, I just needed some space. You know, time to think. It's not you, it's me.

But I'm back, at least for the moment. There's so much going on right now, it's tough to sit down and write about it, as I was just telling my good friend Rooty yesterday.

Rooty called me with a most interesting job offer. A single job that is, as in "gig," which I enthusiastically accepted but cannot talk about until next Wednesday. Curious? I hope so!

I'll do my job this afternoon, then maybe, just maybe, you might see the results of it next Wednesday. That's all I can say about it.

On the moving front, things are progressing, though now I feel like it's happening *to* me, because I've been so slammed with work, I've not had time to actually pack anything or even think about how we're going to move a whole house and four pets.

But I have thought about how to make it a bit easier - give up a little control and let my husband help. WHAT? I know - it's a big step for me, but I'm all about growth.

Today I asked him to clear out a giant bookshelf for me so I can sell it tomorrow in our moving/garage sale extravaganza. I don't know what he put where and I don't care. I wasn't reading all those books right now so it doesn't matter.

The biggest hurdle for now is getting four metric tons of crap moved out to the driveway/front yard where the bargain shoppers of the world can pick it over and take it all away.

So what I'm I doing writing a blog post? Procrastinating. And now I'm done. Back soon, I promise. Call me. Miss you love you bye.

Here We Go

We're moving. Just a few things to take care of before we go, like purge a whole house full of crap going back to when my grandmother still lived here, paint the entire house inside and out, clean up the yard, put in a heating/AC system, and maybe some light vacuuming.

I know it's going to be an ordeal, but I'm looking forward to the adventure we're about to begin. Maybe we'll live in a house where we're not just 10 feet away from our neighbors and in the summer with all the windows in the neighborhood open, won't hear everything going on all around us.

And maybe Ninja will feel at home amongst the moose - he's about the same size and would probably enjoy standing around in a pond for several hours. This morning he chewed something off of his paw/claw and moments later was hopping around the room, like he was trying to run away from whatever he found on his foot.

A few seconds later, he was foaming at the mouth and drooling. I pried open his gullet but didn't see anything. Then I looked at where he'd been on the floor. He must have stepped on a red pepper flake - we'd had pizza and a few of those suckers drifted onto the floor, what with all the fans going yesterday. Poor kid. If only we had some milk in the house...

Anyway, I digress, sort-of on purpose. It's going to be an interesting summer but also overwhelming at times. It's easier to think about the cat eating hot pepper flakes than think about all the packing we're about to do.

Take Off, Hosehead

The universe is a strange, tricky lady. In the span of one week's time we went from David returning from 4 months overseas to him being laid off and now we're contemplating a move to Vancouver. Right now I'm just happy I can find my pants and put them on.

We're excited about the idea of relocating to the Great White North. Vancouver is a beautiful city - the clean, polite version of San Francisco with slightly better retail prices. Used to be a much bigger "discount," but that' OK - they make up for it with better manners.

We're not Bay Area haters by any means, but here's a list of things I wouldn't miss:

• The Eastbay Freeway
  
• Waiting in line for everything
• Gang-infested areas of Oakland
  
• Frank Sommerville
• The Nasty Nimitz
  
• Crapplebees et al
  
• Our shitty bitch neighbor
• Sourdough bread
• Hartzheim Dodge
• The South Bay
• Sacramento/the Central Valley
• Penngrove
• 580/101 construction nightmare
• Toyota Zone commercials
• The Raiders
• Crazy Neighbor Bob (who still hasn't left, even though the house has sold - INsane)
• Melpenis
• Bart
• Sirens
• Road rage
• Cherry bombs on 7/4

And here's what I would absolutely miss:

• My wonderful, terrific friends
• This incredible house
  
• Peet's Coffee
• New theaters right down the street
• Trader Joe's
• Encinal Market
• The SF skyline
• Louis' @ Ocean Beach
• North Beach Pizza
• Day trips to Sonoma
• Mill Valley's town square
• Highway 1
• Capitola
• Dave Morey & 10@10
• Dottie's True Blue Cafe

I'm sure there's more I would miss, but it seems manageable. It's a quick flight up & back.