Lost

Inspirational song: Is There Something I Should Know (Duran Duran)

Well, I tried. An attempt was made. I tried to branch out and follow the recommendation of the waiter at my old favorite restaurant, when he said, "We do have gluten free pain perdu." Sure, why not? It was Mardi Gras, and I was at the best Creole restaurant in town (possibly the ONLY one in town?), and I felt like living on the edge. Let's just say that after my last three visits to this establishment, I may have to consider it my former favorite, and leave it at that. I still love the hot spiced tea, but the food does not love me as much as I once loved it. This experience is lost to me now.

I'm feeling very frustrated this week. I have been working my tail off trying to get people into houses, and these clients have been slippery as eels. One has decided to go on vacation for months, and delay searching. Another is just unsure whether this is the right time to put a place on the market, even though it things are already starting to heat up around here. I heard today that someone we had been trying to work with has now decided to find a rent-to-own situation. I'm hitting brick walls everywhere I turn. Why is this so hard? It's enough to make me question everything I've been doing for the last two years, to get to this point.

And now I'm worried that I'm pushing my health to its limits. I tell myself every day that I need to learn how to say no. Yet there I was today, thinking I was sitting down to a run-of-the-mill social committee meeting, only to realize that I had just fallen into one of those months-long big event planning sessions. Naturally once I understood what we were convening to discuss, I was intrigued and wanted to play too. There was no way I was walking away from this chance. But by the time I was at my last event today, after breakfast out, Rotary lunch, planning meeting after, working on the Meals on Wheels donation (even with a pretty snowstorm to watch while I sewed dinner napkins for the tablescape), and writers group, I was worn down to a nub. I am exhausted. I need to take it easy tomorrow, or all the progress of the last few weeks will be lost.

BRT

Inspirational song: White Wedding (Billy Idol)

For a month, "something came up" over and over. My foster daughter and I have been trying to get together to work on her wedding dress. If she had free time, I didn't. If I had several hours to devote to it, she was working overtime at her job. The last time we scheduled to start cutting fabric, a stronger snowstorm than was predicted made the roads so treacherous, I didn't want her on the highway coming out here. Her wedding is only about six weeks away, and so far all we had done was buy the fabric and pattern. That was all, that is, until tonight. She made it here, and we put in a solid three hours or more of effort. The pattern is completely cut, the pieces ironed, and the primary fabric has been cut. We still need to cut the accent lace, and she hasn't even purchased the lining yet. But we are both sore and tired from all that we did so far. We made adjustments to the pattern to fit her exactly, and we very carefully laid out the soft, satiny fabric on my living room floor. Even though that rug is super thick and soft, sitting on the floor for that long just about did me in, and it just about did the same to that kid who is just over half of my age. There is a reason we budgeted plenty of time to accomplish this project. There is no way our bodies could do this all in one shot.

It's kind of a shame I had to beat myself up this much on this day. I had just come from physical therapy, where my therapist and I both reached the conclusion that I've gotten just about all the good that I can from this particular series. The exercises he gave me have worked wonders on the parts of me that were freezing up. I can raise my left arm a whole lot more smoothly and reliably now than I could a month ago. My back still gives me fits, but it has done that since I was six years old. He was mostly just helping me gain flexibility there. All we did today was put flex in between each vertebrae in my spine, and then I lay on a heating pad with the electro-stim cranked way up. In fact, I had him set it so high, I was still slightly numbed halfway through the drive home. And then I sat on the floor and wrecked the good feelings. I get one more shot with the therapist, before I graduate and he moves to a different clinic. I need to get the best of it.

We finally got the green light to move Mr X's RV (the one that even Cousin Eddie might look at weird) from the repair facility to the storage lot. I'm just so happy that it didn't have to come back here and park on the street once the repairs to the transmission were done. If there was enough room on the side of the house, in a place where we hadn't already planted a bunch of stuff, then I might tolerate it. But it just doesn't fit, and being out on the street wasn't an option. A space in the storage lot came open exactly when we needed it. The timing couldn't have been better.

Enrobed

Inspirational song: Mr Crowley (Ozzy Osborne)

It was project day. A very dear friend of mine needed a white ceremonial garment sewn, and she claimed an utter lack of sewing skills. She has known me since before a mutual friend and I had our costume design business, so she came to me to ask the favor of creating it, knowing I have the design chops to do it. There is no way I would turn her down, not now, not ever. In fact, I have been waiting a year to do something good for her, in return for the good deed she performed for me. This is the same friend who drove me to the ER a year and a week ago, when my backache turned into pain level 10+ spasms from which I couldn't seem to recover. I owed her big time.

The design she described was super simple, but this is me we are talking about. I couldn't just make it something essentially folded in the middle with one seam under each arm. I had to cut and shape it just a little more than she expected, to fit it to her shape. I made a facing for the neck opening. I played with the fancy stitches on my machine that I hardly ever touch. And four hours, one big dinner from 5 Guys, and a lot of talking and catching up later, the robe was done. I could have finessed it a bit more, but she assured me that perfection was not required for this project. I made it as good as time and energy would allow. She seemed very happy with the result.

Now, if you will excuse me, as sewing projects involve a whole lot of sitting-on-the-floor time, I'm off to soak away my sore back. Until tomorrow, my friends...

Where Do We Go From Here?

Inspirational song: Fugazi (Marillion)

I am experiencing a surfeit of inner turmoil. I feel like I'm living a double life. I am trying to be your average, middle-aged, female WASP in my public life. I spend as much time and energy as I can to build my real estate career, after all the personal life hurdles I had to overcome last year. I work on rebuilding my physical and emotional equilibrium daily, and in that effort, I focus on the joyful things in my life, on my animals and art and quiet time. But there is a growing unease, and I find it harder to hide from it as the days and even hours pass. I am well and truly freaked out. I can't stop scrolling through Twitter. I add new handles to the long list of those whom I follow almost every day now. I cross-check my sources. I put on my hip-waders and venture out to read the comments (and then feel like I need to bleach myself head to toe afterwards). My blood pressure is rising, and my ability to sleep fluctuates for reasons wholly unrelated to my autoimmunity and menopause. I can't quell the desperate need to Do Something, but I can't for the life of me figure out what is appropriate or even possible for me to do.

But when I open the laptop to write the blog before bed every night, I quash all of my political desperation, and I invariably retreat to safe subjects. The outside world is FUBAR, yet each night I am talking about charity events or gardening. It feels like a lie. I am not this calm person who only thinks about how funny her cats are. I find myself jarred, recoiling physically when other people post jokes or celebrity stories or cute baby animal videos. The world where that was possible seems too far away, more than just a few months in the past, but I'll be damned if I'm not still trying to produce that very same sort of content. I honestly do not know which direction I should go now. Do I talk about the things that scare the shit out of me every time I glance at the internet? Do I find out whether I have a voice and a platform to make a call to action? If so, exactly what action would I be calling? I can imagine that I'd be subversive, hiding messages in my flower stories. But that is probably purely arrogance speaking. I doubt I'm really that clever, for all that I am in possession of an above-average vocabulary. It's one thing to compose pretty paragraphs. It's another to rally the resistance.

Hell. I am no closer to a resolution than I was when I started this rant. Have some cute cat pictures. Athena and Jackie ran outside in the freezing temperatures while I soaked in the hot tub, and cried when I refused to brave the cold wind to let them back in until I was done warming myself. I think there is a metaphor there, and it doesn't reflect well on me.

Top to Bottom

Inspirational song: Penthouse and Pavement (Heaven 17)

I organized today's house tour based on a map. Honestly. I didn't pay attention to the fact that I also had arranged it in price from high to low, or at least in overall costs. We went to four different condos today, my new person and I. We started at the top, metaphorically and distance from the ground. The first listing was in a high-rent sort of neighborhood. It was a restricted community, with a high HOA that covers a lot, like heat and water as well as snow removal and building maintenance. Unfortunately, it didn't have a pool for that $400 a month fee. The condo was upstairs, up an elevator ride. It wasn't a giant place, but it was laid out well, so it felt bigger than it was. It had been updated recently, or so it seemed. I thought it was lovely, but it left my buyer rather cold. We moved on without any remorse. The next property had the highest list price but the lowest HOA (less than $200 a quarter). It was beautiful, but it was ridiculously vertical. Steep, slightly sloping concrete stairs with no handrail just to get to the flight of stairs that leads to the unit (that thankfully had a rail). It was still snowing a little today, and the exterior stairs made me move overly cautiously. Inside there were more stairs, down to the garage, up to the living room, and then a three-turn staircase to the bedrooms. It was another beautiful home, but it honestly was out of the price range we were searching in. My person asked, "Do you think he'll get that price?" Yes, actually, I do. It was the perfect place for a young professional who works at one of the high tech outlets on that side of town/of the county. And for as pretty as the interior was, yeah. It was priced correctly.

From there we stepped down just a little. The next place was a ground floor condo with an adorable fenced courtyard. It was a little 90s inside, with some flowered wallpaper and borders. It was my buyer's favorite of everything we saw, but it had a couple near-fatal flaws. The living room was tiny, and so awkward that there was absolutely no good place to put a couch, or much furniture at all. And I discovered that there was a light switch near the stove that turned the microwave oven on and off. It made me wonder about the safety and efficacy of the electrical system in the house. As we discussed the place, we reached the conclusion that as fun and different as this place might be, in the end, it would have been a lateral move for her.

And then we went to Sketchytown. Sadly, it was less than half a mile from my house. But as much as I love my own block, I know that just a few blocks away, property values dive. And this place was no exception to that sad condition. The price was significantly lower than the others, with good reason. The outside was dreadful enough. The inside had the original carpet, rust colored and threadbare. It was dark and dreary. The best part about the entire place was a long-haired tuxedo cat who just hung out and watched us walk around. We waited until we got in the car, into the cone of silence, to say, "Oh, hell no." The worst part, they were asking only $22,000 less than I paid for my house. This is how much prices have risen in two years. So, I guess I have a lot more equity in my property than I calculated even a few months ago, right?

Three house tours with three different clients in three days. I think I need to sleep late in the morning.

Cheers

Inspirational song: Try to Love Again (The Eagles)

I was back out on the trail with another of my buyers tonight, trying to find the house that speaks to him. He and I must speak different house languages, because the one I wanted to turn my nose up at completely was the one he looked at and thought he could bring up to snuff. Of course, that place is ridiculously overpriced for the condition that it is in, so maybe he thinks he can strike a deal. That place needs to come down something like 10% to be where I think it should be, but we don't know that the seller realizes that yet. This guy definitely has more vision than some of the people I've met along the way. He said today about some basement finishing project that he was looking forward to most of it, just not the drywall-lifting part. I'll wait until the weekend before I know whether an offer is forthcoming. I don't know how to read the buyer's reaction to the overpriced place that reeked of smoke (two kinds). He did dryly comment how he didn't like those deep egress window wells out on the plains, as he pointed out one that was full of tumbleweeds, and what at first glance looked like a skull. (It turned out to be a half-deflated ball, but Mr Buyer said, "Is someone missing?")

I very nearly spent time, energy, and money to wash my car yesterday while the sun was shining, so that I wasn't driving this buyer all over northern Colorado in a dusty, dirty car. I am so glad I decided to skip that part. I woke this morning to a thin layer of white covering my back yard, and it kept snowing all day long. I really didn't believe that this was going to happen. February had been so unseasonably warm and dry, I had begun to worry that winter was over. Quite the opposite. In fact, several times today, on the way to Greeley and points north, and then on the return south, there was very nearly white-out conditions. I don't know that the high winds and blowing snow constituted a true blizzard by the books, but for the sake of driving in it, it might has well have been several times. The ground stayed warm until I made it back to town, and then the roads froze enough to send a few of the more squirrelly drivers fishtailing in front of me. I had every intention of staying in once I got home, putting on jammies, and decompressing for the night. Instead, I turned around and headed back out.

Tonight was a "Unity in the Community" meeting hosted by the Chamber of Commerce. I had been invited to go, and then I thought I wouldn't be back from this afternoon's house tour in time, so I didn't even register for it. When we found out that one of the US senators was rumored to be attending, the Mr and I decided maybe we could pop in for a few minutes after all. This particular senator has refused to attend town halls or even acknowledge that the deluge of phone calls he is getting from his constituents are actually from us. The day after Mr X called to register his opinion, from his cell phone that still has the same number from a duty station twelve years ago, Senator Gardner stated publicly that he is being bothered by calls from people who live out of state, not even his own constituents. People here in the northern quadrant of the state held what they called a Town Hall With(out) Cory Gardner this week. Alas, the rumors did not pan out, and there was only a staffer from the senator's office in attendance, but that didn't stop the Mr from having a conversation with him.

Confrontations aside, it was actually a rather enjoyable event. It was absolutely a crush in the convention center. Barely room to move around the largest ballroom they had. I ran into dozens of people I knew. In fact, as we left, Mr X asked whether I would use the theme from Cheers as my song tonight, because I wasn't able to go five minutes at a time without running into someone I knew by name, almost entirely from Rotary. It was quite wonderful, actually. It made my new home town feel cozy and familiar. I didn't pick up a whole lot of swag from the tables, just a couple pieces of literature from people I spoke with, a couple of pens that I almost immediately lost, and a rainbow flag that I'll put up somewhere around the house until I can go be an ally at Pride and wave it there. The main thing I got from the event was a sense of community, and that is better than a note pad any day.

Like the Dark Ages

Inspirational song: Oh Babe, What Would You Say (Hurricane Smith)

Oh, how movies have warped my perceptions lately. I really don't watch that much horror, but I've seen enough that are scored with ironically sugary sweet pop songs, such that when something truly bubblegum like the abovementioned song comes on the radio (yes, I listen to the 70s channel a lot), all I can imagine is a long, slow pan over a creepy scene of carnage, with that happy little tune playing over the top of it. This is so messed up.

I'm working with minimal Internet tonight. I have cell data, and nothing else. I'm in the middle of the busiest week I've had in recent memory. Perhaps I will take advantage of my lack of external inputs, and just play a non-connected game on my iPad. I can't share photos from the phone app, so I'll send out a barrage tomorrow. There should be plenty of subject material.

Sleep well, blogosphere. I certainly shall.

A Trip Around the Sun

Inspirational song: Jumpin' Jack Flash (The Rolling Stones)

I might be taking this "Tuesdays are my big days" a little too seriously. It was supposed to be closing day for the last house I had under contract, but we know how that turned out. (I'm still trying to think of home inspectors as my friends, but it's hard these days.) So I thought today might actually be an easy Tuesday. Nope. Non-stop from first light until nearly bedtime. Mostly good stuff. Some great stuff. Some mishaps that turned into bonuses. Some absolute catastrophes.

I woke very early this morning, compared to usual, and checked my messages earlier than normal. I had two requests to see houses that came in overnight, and I needed to send a stack of new listings to the client who wasn't closing today, so I got up and at 'em before 7. I couldn't sneak around the house silently enough not to alert the dogs, so I thought I'd be nice and let them out before the old dogs' bladders gave it up for the morning. The cats noticed I was moving through the kitchen at breakfast time, so I thought again, I could take care of one more task for Mr X, so that he could sleep in a tiny bit on his birthday. No good deed goes unpunished, and within ten minutes, Alfred was throwing up his hastily-eaten crunchies onto my family heirloom rug. My first instinct was to bring in a vomit specialist, so I opened the back door and invited Elsa inside (Bump came in too). They each spun in excited circles and before I could blink, Elsa was vomiting up something even more disgusting onto a rug made by blind Pakistani girls. Mr X woke on his birthday to the sound of me screaming, "No! NO! God DAMMIT!!" Happy birthday, kid. Welcome to Chaos.

Eventually the world settled into a semblance of normalcy. Mr X went to renew his drivers license while I worked and went to Rotary. I was volunteered to go to a surprise mixer in two days, so I'm trying to figure out how to reorganize my schedule to fit it. I came home and waited for the kids to arrive with a dead vehicle being towed here for repairs. (They can't do auto maintenance on the street at the condos. Against HOA rules.) As the tow truck was backing it into our driveway, the driver turned too sharply and smashed in the back window with his crane. Luckily, they had gone with the company most people recommended, and the owner not only agreed that the window would come out of his insurance, not the kids', but he removed the charge for the tow also. Once the glass was cleaned up, Mr X set himself to troubleshooting the problem, and I kidnapped my daughter to run some errands. I got the last two items for the tablescape, and food for a birthday dinner.

I baked a flourless chocolate cake this afternoon, combining techniques and recipes from multiple sources and from what I was craving on this particular day. It baked up almost like a souffle, but by the time it was chilled, it was much more dense. It was rich but not overwhelming, and the flavor was superb. I need to write down what I did. This one is going in the cookbook.

One of the things required for repairing the vehicle was removing the fuel tank from the car. Mr X drained as much of it as he could, transferring surplus fuel into other vehicles when his gas cans filled up. A few drops spilled in three different places. Is it super redneck that he got them out of the concrete by burning them off? Is it worse that I let him? Is it even worse that I sang Happy Birthday to him over one of the flames? I suppose the balloon that daughter-2 and I got him was more prophetic than we realized. The messages on it were congratulatory, as in "yay, you made it all the way around the sun again!" Didn't know it would be an exclamation of surprise that he didn't immolate himself this evening.

Rebounding

Inspirational song: Tubthumping (Chumbawumba)

Can I share something I never thought possible? I got out of bed today. And I walked around. And I went to physical therapy. And I shopped. All of this after shooting a bow and arrow for three hours non-stop and standing at a late-night rockabilly concert, and consuming a hearty amount of adult beverages two nights in a row. I survived! Not only that, I bounced back like it was nothing! I'm not signing up to run marathons or anything. That would be irresponsible. But I was able to suggest to my physical therapist that some combination of what I've been doing (between the two doctors, PT, massage therapy, buckets of pharmaceuticals and supplements, good eating, guiltless resting, and gentle exercise) appears to be working. I don't expect to live pain-free, not now, now ever. But I find that a rapid rebound with only minimal extra fatigue feels like a lottery win.

It's a good thing that I had energy throughout the day. I learned that my deadline for the tablescape donation for the Meals on Wheels fundraiser is due sooner than I expected. Or at least a name and a photo of it are due. I have most of the components purchased, after a panicked shopping excursion. I still require the dinner plates and flatware. I have enough fancy pieces offset with rustic charm. I just need to assemble and decorate according to my theme. I have decided on a peacock theme, based on what I found available on my scouting missions, and thanks to my daughter's suggestion, I am using as my inspiration one of the oldest botanical gardens in the US: Magnolia Plantation and Gardens. I may try to acquire some brochures or literature from it, if there is time. We shall see what magic I can pull off in the last two weeks before the event.

Princess of Thieves

Inspirational song: Psychobilly Freakout (Reverend Horton Heat)

My feet were numb. I was standing in a large crowd (well, in a full modestly-sized live venue that felt like general admission tickets were oversold) and I was watching the clock. It was already 10:30 and the second opening act had yet to show up. The first opener was on for almost a full hour, and as far as we knew, there was a midnight noise curfew in Boulder. I didn't know whether Jello Biafra was going to actually play with Reverend Horton Heat at this point, or have his own set. If he had his own, the Rev would have gotten two maybe three songs before they shut him down. But then, just as I started drafting out tonight's post on my phone, a cheer went up in the crowd. I looked up to see a dude off on stage right, wearing a funky black and white Western suit. Hardcore rockabilly music emanated from the stage, and the main event had begun. They played three or four songs, and then Jello came out and sang a combination of his own songs, primarily from his Dead Kennedys years (like Holiday in Cambodia), and cover songs that were interesting choices. Together they played House of the Rising Sun, Folsom Prison Blues, the Ace of Spades, and Viva Las Vegas. Alone, Reverend Horton Heat hit several of my favorites (like the Jimbo Song, Galaxy 500, and Bales of Cocaine), some that I liked but didn't know well (Zombie Dumb, Eat Steak, and Smell of Gasoline), but not a few that I expected (no Martini Time or Crooked Cigarette). By the end, my feet had gone way past numb, and my whole body was sore. I really didn't care. It was the rowdiest night I've had in years, and it will be worth every ache and pain tomorrow. I felt 20 years old again, and I loved it.

We had a fantastic day up to that point as well. My girl has been a huge fan of archery since she was at the Camp Goddard, where all the 6th graders who have ever cycled through my hometown have gone. Her camp nickname was Robin Hood. (A little tangent: for the concert I was standing in the exact spot where I sat to watch Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves for the first time, her favorite movie when she was in grade school.) She took us to an archery range this afternoon, where we were able to rent equipment and relearn a skill that her father and I have not practiced in many years. For me, honestly, I don't think I have pulled a real bow since I was in camp myself, probably the gifted and talented camp I went to in 8th grade. My first few shots were terrible! I was happy just to hit the portable ... uh... they call it a butt, right? ... that the target was pinned to. By the end of the three hours we shot, I was creeping ever closer to a bulls eye. I was consistently making at least two out of every three shots in the red ring, sometimes the edge of the yellow center. I had a funny feeling that once I picked up a bow again as an adult, I would love doing this, and it was absolutely correct. I'm hooked. I know I'll be able to convince other people to go with me to do this again. I already have a commitment to go down there sometime from my foster daughter, who even owns her own hunting bow. I will enjoy getting to do target practice with a weapon that doesn't require ear protection or single-use projectiles that get expensive after a while. I'm so happy my daughter picked this activity!

Furious Pillow

Inspirational song: Season's End (Marillion)

I stayed home today. This is relevant, because daughter number one is here, but she was here specifically to kidnap her daddy and take him on a special "all-about-dad" trip. I've done one of these days before, years ago. Like mine, hers involved a long day of geocaching, but since it also revolved around a large plate of begniets at Lucile's, I stayed home. From what I can tell, they had a good time. They were gone for about eight hours, maybe more. I tried not to interrupt their quality time, so I didn't do a lot of texting. But I did get some photos from the trip that disturb me. We have been talking about how unseasonably warm it has been this year, and how I am afraid of what is going to happen to the trees if they bud out and blossom now. I got very little fruit last year (some cherries, zero apples or nectarines). If March is normal and cold and snowy, but the fruit trees have already bloomed, will we have any fruit? This bothers me.

I have been working on my blog for over two hours now. That's right. Two hours, and I'm starting the second paragraph, and the first one is short. We are getting caught up, daughter, her ex roommate, and I. This has been a terrific evening. We started it at a local pub, where we ran into Mr X's and my roommate from when I first got pregnant with above-mentioned daughter. We ate mass quantities of food, they all drank stout beers, and we listened to some stellar bluegrass and folk music from the duet set up directly behind my chair. (They performed a spectacular rendition of the Tennessee Waltz, one of my most beloved songs, which was the first song of the first show I ever performed in the CU marching band.) We ate and yelled over the top of the band for as long as we could, and then we came back here to talk and drink some more. It has been too entertaining to write.

We keep circling back to the topic of cats, as mine wander through the room and the girls reminisce about their own pets and share stories of what they've been up to since they moved apart. Jack has been lying on the carpet at their feet this entire time, obviously baffled as to why no one is rubbing her belly. Rabbit has been hiding under the table next to my chair, where she has been off and on all day, wanting attention but not wanting to be out in the open where any old person (or feline) can find her. And Athena keeps pausing around the room, shooting daggers at my daughter with her eyes. They've always had a strange relationship. Daughter doesn't take Athena's crap, Athena torments daughter's dog in return. In the absence of the dog this trip, Athena has been sending the stink-eye uninterrupted by canine enthusiasm. I know one day I'm going to find Athena curled up on the guest bed with my daughter, finally getting the attention she so obviously is craving. Poor little Angry Ewok, not knowing how to get out of her own way to make friends.

Tension and Relaxation

Inspirational song: We Can Work It Out (The Beatles)

It's been a study in frustration, trying to make a solid travel plan, based on rapidly changing data coming out of the airline schedules. We are waiting for daughter number one to blaze through on a whirlwind visit, and this storm on the west coast is stealing precious minutes of our time with her at each update. So far the flight has been delayed three times, and at last check it was about 2 1/2 hours off. When our time together can easily be counted in hours, losing over 4% of it feels pretty significant. Now I'm stuck wondering whether to stay up late and go to the airport in the middle of the night, or nap first and hope I'm not groggy when I wake and go. These are not the issues I wanted to be worrying about at this point. I should be panic cleaning the kitchen and fixing the covers on my guest room bed. Instead I'm getting resentful about Los Angeles finally getting a solid rain. My priorities are messed up.

I'm starting to get nervous watching the real estate market heat up even earlier than last year, which was a rougher year than the one that preceded it. Sunday I sent a new list of properties to my client who fell out of contract last week. By the time he concluded his inescapable business and called me today, two thirds of the properties were under contract, and most of those were not even taking backup offers. There's one single new one that meets his criteria, just one that makes me think he'd want to see it. Last year was so rough, so cutthroat. I dread going through that level of competition again. So many people ask me when I think things will calm down and be like a "normal" year. I hate to say it, but I don't see it happening anytime soon. So many people are moving here, and the inventory of houses up for sale is so thin. The influx of new residents is not going to slow down in the near future. Construction starts are trying to keep up, but that takes time. My newest client says that she tried to speak with a couple of builders, just to tour a model home here and there, and they were absolutely rude and dismissive of her. They didn't need her, it seemed. She got the idea that their homes are sold before they break ground. It's going to be a crazy year, isn't it?

At least I can count on Slow Hand to work his magic on me. I was five minutes late to my only massage this month (thanks, train that was stopped on the tracks until 2:32, three blocks from where I had to be at 2:30), but I didn't think I had arrived particularly tense or anxious. Thirty seconds after he put his hands on my back, he said "Holy Moly, You. Are. A. Board." We spent half of my session just trying to work out the knots in my shoulder blades. Slow Hand made some comment about finding a big knot right on Ralphie's belly (on the newest tattoo, right shoulder), and he starting talking about how our reptilian brains compartmentalize some long-ago trauma in soft tissue in globs of tension like he found there. He was implying that it could have been emotional trauma, but in that moment, all I could think of was actual physical trauma that occurred in that exact spot. When I was 10 or 11 years old, I was locked out of our little house on Belmont Street. I stood at the top of the stairs at the kitchen door, knocking loudly, waiting for someone to acknowledge me. I leaned back while I waited, and put my hands behind me on the porch rail. The cross bar gave way, and I fell backwards, landing on my right shoulder where it met my neck. If my math is correct, my shoulder traveled about seven and a half feet before I slammed into the ground. I don't know that I lost consciousness, but I was stunned, and yeah there was a bit of emotional trauma as I lay on the ground, sure that this wouldn't have happened if my mother or grandmother (not sure which) hadn't locked the back door. I've had soreness, numbness, and electrical tingling in that shoulder for decades, and until Slow Hand called my attention to it, I never associated it with that fall. I wonder what other secrets are buried in my muscles.