Canadia

(as in, Hazel Nootsmaak - my alter ego and name of this here bloggie blog)

Random notes since arriving:

An woman came up to me at the Esso station and asked me to pump her gas - said she didn't know how.

She started walking back to her car and I said, "Hold on there, don't go anywhere - what is it you need help with?"

She said she didn't know how the machine worked. You know, the credit/ATM card thingie that's been on gas pumps for hundreds of decades - that thing billions of people use every day - sorry, that thing billions of COMMONERS use every day - my mistake.

I showed her how you put the card into the slot exactly as the picture shows how, then choose the type of gas you want, push the button and GO. She nodded along and then said she's from the U.S. and doesn't know how to do it.

I leaned over and pointed to the license plate on my car and said "So am I - see that? I'm from California." Then she said she wanted to pay cash. I told her to go inside. Moments later she came out with one of the employees - she was trying to get him to pump her gas, but he wouldn't do it.

Moments later she drove off. Her car had British Columbia plates on it.

The traffic radio station plays ads for a 1-800-Got-Junk competitor - Rubbish Removal. According to the voice over, two guys in blue come to your house to get your crap. They're "happy to take your crap all day," and their tag line is "Taking your crap all day!"

Home Depot doesn't carry fireplace screens. Says no one really does up here. Go ahead & build a big ol' fire and set it ablaze - don't worry 'bout those giant sparks flying out onto your clothes - just roll around a bit - you'll be fine.

Wondering if I should worry that every day the lines to get into the U.S. are two-hours long, while the lines coming into Canada average only 15 minutes.

Upon arriving I was given a Visitor's Permit, even though they had David's Work Permit and immigration paperwork stating I should receive a Work Permit.

To fix this error, I cannot just return to the Customs office where I cleared our trailer (with my Visitor's Permit) and have them issue the proper Work Permit. I must cross back into the U.S. then return to Canada and get the right paperwork. Let that wash over you for a few minutes.

The trash pickup schedule is complicated enough to warrant a calendar poster with color- and icon-coded dates showing trash days, green waste or recycling days (which change every month and sometimes by week), and all the different zones and holidays. I had to put it down after a while - none of it was making sense. I'm just going to look out the window every day & see which bins the neighbors put out.


Related to an earlier post about the driving/traffic here - yesterday someone drove into the Frasier River, requiring a "hover craft" and other rescue vehicles to save the driver/sailor.

Today several cars were reported to be flipped over onto their roofs. That's astounding given the terrible traffic and how slowly those drivers must have been going when they lost control, yet they still managed to tumble over like stranded turtles.

There are few (if any) local coffee shops in the suburbs. There are quite a few in downtown Vancouver, but out here, you gotcher Tim Hortons, some Waves, a Blenz or two, and more Starbucks than you can shake an unprotected fire at, and that's it.

Riveting, no?

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.

Horsey Pill Monday

Neeeeeeeeeeeyyy! [paws ground with her hoof]

While I love me some homeopathy, I'm glad I didn't try to fight this nastiness with 11 herbs and spices. The horror forum was right - cats are the Komodo dragons of our living rooms.

Within just a few hours of the bite, the swelling spread from the wound point across the back of my hand and pinky finger and sweet chocolate christmas, it hurt like a bastard. My left hand has become a throbbing Smithfield ham.

If I weren't on these horsey pills, that damn cat would be waiting for me to drag my diseased body into a corner where he could start gnawing my flesh.

The pharmacist was right about taking them with food. They're a little rough on an empty stomach, resulting in wooziness and stomach cramps. Tonight I followed the dosing directions and wrapped my big pill in an entire pizza. That should do the trick.

Just nine more days of this and I'm cured!

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.

Trolls Secretly Love Trees

As I've mentioned before on The Nootsmaak, we have a troll that lives next door to us and she's only happy when she's bitching at me about our beautiful oak tree.

If she could, she'd chop it down with a serrated butter knife, but she strikes me as terribly lazy, so maybe that's why she sticks to verbal attacks that don't take much physical energy.

I ignore her now and rarely speak to her, but every time I see her I know she loathes me and our tree, which is why she's going to end up in a heavily forested region of hell.

This afternoon while working in the front room I heard a guy next door speaking in a loud, enthusiastic voice and I thought Who the hell is this jackass and what is he going on about in the front yard?

I looked out the window and saw a guy with two big cameras around his neck taking pictures of a guy in a tux. The tuxed-up dude was casually leaning against our tree just like a JCPenney's model.

I thought that was funny - not just the JCPenney pose, but that the folks next door were using our lovely tree for a photo back drop.

After that shot, the photographer grabbed another suit and maneuvered him in front of our house for a red-shingled backdrop. It was too much to resist.

I skipped out onto the front porch and in my very best Cheerful Happy Neighbor voice said, "Wow, this looks like a very important day!" [translation: If you keep shooting your wedding photos in front of my house, I'll need your billing address for invoicing.]

The photographer looked a little startled and replied, "Uh, yes! Someone's getting married today!" I told him I thought that was FANTASTIC NEWS and CONGRATULATIONS!

To that he said he was using our tree as a backdrop. I told him I thought that was WONDERFUL! and my grandmother would be SO PLEASED!

He went on to say he had a tree just like it at his house and how he hires a guy to clear out its deadwood. Riveting, no?

I cheerfully responded that we just had that big, gorgeous tree pruned and ISN'T IT BEAUTIFUL?! He said it was and that it was a wonderful complement to the house. I thanked him heartily and repeated my congratulations and well wishes for the happy couple. I was so incredibly sweet, everyone had an instant cavity.

As I talked to the photographer, I noticed the groomsmen, who had been scattered about the driveway/outer area of the neighbor's lot had all drifted back to the patio, behind the fence. The photographer followed and they didn't come out from behind that fence again until it was time to go.

Won't it be wonderful when they see the pictures of the happiest day of their lives, our tree will be right there with them every time.

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.

Snarktacular Wednesday

I had to go up to Sonoma this evening for a "dusk shoot," which I never enjoy, because when "dusk" arrives, I should be at home in my sweats watching the news or enjoying post-news reruns whilst eating my dinner.

But because I have to go, I went, at the peak of rush hour. I anticipated bad traffic and left early. Early enough to stop and get a sandwich at Whole Foods - the easiest thing to eat while driving (and texting, changing CDs and painting my nails).

Why is making a sandwich so difficult? How is it that only one sandwich in ten is made according to the order? I either get the wrong bread, the wrong meat, the wrong toppings - something - something is always wrong.

Tonight it was the bread. Instead of sliced sourdough, they used a baguette. Maybe it's just my wussy mouth, but I can't eat a sandwich on a hard roll without tearing up the roof of my mouth. So irritating.

Also irritating? Peppered roast beef. Who came up with this stupid idea? All I could taste was pepper. Are these ideas hatched in a food lab staffed with heavy smokers?

At the shoot, the agent followed me around from room to room the entire time. Like a nervous puppy, he hovered behind me during every shot. I wanted to smack his nose with a lead pipe rolled up newspaper.

Not any better was the hovering stager who kept asking if I wanted to move anything. If I want to move it, I'll move it. See these things hanging off the ends of my arms? They allow me to pick shit up and move it somewhere else - it's fucking brilliant - watch me do it.

In one room she asked me if I'd heard of a guy - a photographer she's worked with before - you know, because at night they round up all the photographers all over the county and put us all in one big room where we can't get into any trouble.

I told her I hadn't, but what I *should* have said was, "Oh John, the guy who takes all the great photos of naked children? I love that guy's work!" She continued and said, "I've worked with him in the past - he's pretty good."

That's great. What am I supposed to do with this information? I left my random chitchat diary at home and I've nowhere to record this exchange. Have you heard of not loitering in the room where I'm working? It would be super awesome if you could move your ass the hell out of the way so I can finish up this job and get the eff home.

But hey, if you want to pay double for an evening shoot that won't make your generic house look any different than it would at 11am and follow me around like an anxious chihuahua, to each his own. Good luck to ya.

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.

Super Sunday

Thanks Miriam, for a fantastic Girls Day Out and for helping me run 6 miles with no training. Sure, I'm sore and wondering where I left one of my lungs on the race route, but I did it, and I'm sure I'd have walked the whole thing had I been there alone.

The 2-mile walk back to the car was nice - a long, gradual cool down that allowed me to feel just how tight my right Achilles tendon had become. How it didn't explode in my ankle and roll up into my ass cheek I'll never know.

So, kids, here's our lesson for today. When you sign up in February for a race in July, you should train for it. It's better that way for all involved.

However, doing it without training will allow you to feel a special sense of accomplishment you wouldn't have otherwise, and you'll treat yourself with a delicious piece of pie afterwards.

Peeved

Last night I was excited about having all day Saturday to focus on the kajillion things left to do for the move when I got a phone call.

Someone needs an urgent photo shoot - a test shoot to help sell a new contract. Greaaaaaaaaat. I called the agent and right from the start it was clear that she has a ginormous bug up her ass (in the shape of her own head). Not only is my Saturday going to be ruined, but now it's going to be ruined by a total asshole - even better.

We finally agreed on a time and while I was trying to get her to tell me the address, she asked me where I'm located. First, what the hell does that matter - is she planning on coming to my house to make me breakfast?

I tell her I'm in Alameda and she says, "Oh that's so far away!" The job is in Tiburon. I told her that's only about 30 minutes from me. "Oh no, that's at least 45 minutes." Again, who gives a shit? Is this really important?

Trying to lighten the mood, I told her it doesn't take that long if I'm driving. Then she says without any trace of humor whatsoever, "What are you driving, a helicopter?"

Yes, as a matter of fact, I have my own chopper and heliport here in my back yard. The neighbors hate me, but I think it's important to have options.

This agent is supposedly one of the wealthiest in the country, selling homes to celebrities and billionaires, and unfortunately, she's a humorless troll. She started asking me about equipment and how much time I could spend photographing this house, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

I suspect I'll get there and she'll immediately start telling me what to do and how to do it. And just like the other day when I couldn't hold my tongue, I'm not sure today will be any different. I couldn't care less about this house, its views, how much it's listing for or what she wants me to photograph. She can have a big giant poster print of my colon.

Had she been at least polite or in any way flexible about timing or not grilled me on where I live and how long it takes me to drive, she might have been in for great service, but right now, it's all I can do to not call and cancel.

But just like Cameron in Ferris Bueller's Day Off, I'll go, I'll go, I'll go, I'll go, because if I don't, she'll just keep calling me, and then I'll end up killing her with my tripod.

If she turns out to be just as shitty as she was on the phone, I'll quietly gather up my stuff and leave without saying a word, because all I care about is getting this move behind me and starting the next chapter far away from this bullshit.

Update:
She arrived over a half an hour late, which is funny considering how concerned she was about me being able to get there by 11am, and she lives five minutes away. Amazingly enough, she camped out in a small corner of the house and made numerous phone calls, allowing me to work without distraction.

Many times she mentioned that she has two chateaus in France. Two. Chateaus (or chateaux, if you want to be really frenchy about it). In France. She asked me if I could scale a 6-ft. tall property fence to get a better shot of the front of the house, to which I said I would not, but I would gladly ask the neighbors up the hill if I could use their deck. They weren't home, but I tried.

While trying to weakly explain a particular shot she wanted of the back of the house, I thought about pushing her down the stairs right into the pool, but I didn't want to spare the extra time. At ten after 1pm, I said I really had to get going, to which she quickly replied, "Oh I have to go, too, I have clients waiting for me..." She was probably very late, but who cares about time when you have two chateaus in France.

So, About That Job...

...The one I mentioned a few posts back... I had a little photo shoot a few weeks ago that I couldn't talk about, but now it's old news. And if you cruise my Flickr photostream, you already know the scoop.

I was hired to get a head shot of Kay Ryan, our new poet laureate, who lives in Fairfax, but I couldn't tell anyone until the official announcement was made (which I think was last Thursday).

She is so nice and really funny - it was an honor to work with her and I was thrilled to do this for the Library of Congress.

Check it out on Time.com.

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.

Selling Your Crap

I think it was George Carlin who commented on how strange it is for Americans to sit in their yards surrounded by their crap, selling it to passersby who are happy to trade you $10 for something you don't think is even worth dropping off at Goodwill.

But by golly, it can be worthwhile if you can endure the pain of standing around in the blazing hot sun all day to earn a little gas money.

We parted with a basement full of useless crap - useless to us anyway - and cleared about $700. Not a bad wage for a Saturday I'd otherwise have spent watching HGTV or napping on the couch.

Oh, to nap on the couch. I can't wait to do that again someday, especially now, when my legs can't support my body's weight and I'm so stupid tired I'm actually enjoying an HBO boxing pre-show.

The whole garage sale scene is fascinating. What you think will be a big seller is oftentimes not, and what you think should probably go straight into the trash can goes like hotcakes.

And then you have the Bargain Bettys. No matter what price you quote, they want it for less, even if what you quoted is ridiculously under-priced.

One woman obviously didn't want the sweater she was holding, as all she could do was tell me everything that was wrong with it. I was ready to rip it out of her hands and tell her she wasn't allowed to buy it.

It seems like people are happy to find a treasure that doesn't cost much - a momentary source of joy, and no more. Things that might bring long-term value, like antiques, aren't popular. Few people are willing to barter. I kept saying "make me an offer, this isn't Macy's!"

Thankfully, we got rid of a huge amount of stuff and nearly broke even on the cost of my trip to Vancouver last week. Not too shabby.

And one shopper told me I had great teeth - who doesn't love to hear that? The best part of the day, by far, was David making a run to Peet's for me. Best husband ever.

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.

Wednesday Can Suck It

Eff you, piece-of-shit Wednesday and your crap ass antics. No one likes Wednesday - you're totally useless - just one more stupid day between the days that matter - Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Wednesday is a joke, and with stupid spelling to boot.

I figured you weren't going to be a great day, with David up at 3:30Am to head up to Vancouver. I was awake at 4AM wondering if I should get up or try to get back to sleep.

Opting for the latter, I laid awake pondering the potential changes to come, finally falling asleep about an hour later.

Up at 7 to feed the cats, I felt like crap, but at least I had some time to get caught up on things before heading up to Sonoma for a shoot.

I got in the car and began to pull away and realized something was very wrong. How I didn't see it when I walked out to the car is a mystery, but there was my right front tire, flat as pancake.

That would explain the low pressure it had a couple of days ago... Great. Now I'd definitely be late for my appointment and worse, would have to drive on that stupid donut until I could get to the tire shop.

Back into the house to change my clothes and get the latex gloves - maybe I could get it changed and make it up to Sonoma only a half hour late, which could work out OK since my client was running late.

Got the stupid thing changed, and once on the car, that donut really doesn't look at all safe to drive on. I decided Sonoma could wait. I drove, slowly, straight to the tire shop.

Thankfully they were able to fix it so I didn't have to pay for four new tires - and it only took them 90 minutes to do it. I was almost totally asleep in the shop when they finally came in to tell me it was ready.

Then at 3:30 I got to drive from Union City all the way to the Haight to take some pictures of a garden I didn't get yesterday because, between you and me, I didn't think it was worth the memory. I was wrong.

And now tomorrow I get to get up at the ass crack of dawn and shoot the job I had to cancel today, then race all the way back down to Milpenis for another job already booked. But, better to start early than finish late, right?

Crapatoa. Is it summer vacation yet?