21 days to the ocean

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The countdown to the new house is moving at an alarming pace. As of today, we’ve got 21 days to go. Three puny little weeks.

I haven’t moved in over five years, and those moves don’t count, because I was in my twenties and was mostly moving from one roommate to another. Only one of those moves involved an actual couch. This time, there are multiple couches! More than one bedroom, even! And books: ridiculous quantities of books.

I feel like we should be more frantic about this. I worry that we’re falling terribly behind and the end of the month will a huge disaster. I worry that Max will run away. But I think I’m wrong.

First off, Max loves us and we love him, so he’d be a really dumb cat to run away from that. Hey Max: if you’re reading this, don’t run away. You’re fluffy and adorable, and your new house has a door just for you.

Also, the plans are coming together. We’ve got a moving company lined up. We’re having reusable moving boxes delivered a week before the big day, and I’ve booked time off work. I’m tackling as much cleaning as I can in a non-empty apartment. I think we’re doing pretty well, despite the doubts. I don’t think it would be sane to go through such a major lifestyle change without doubts. Without them, I wouldn’t have attacked the bathroom with a toothbrush yesterday.

In a month, this will all be laughed off over a beer. Right now, a month feels like a really long time.


Too early to panic

A mere 41 days stand between right now and keys to the new place.

That’s a big number, right? And it represents a veritable wealth of hours, doesn’t it? It feels like minutes to me, because I’ve been telling people I’ve got a big cushy month and a half before crunch time, and now that approximation feels like a huge lie.

What is “crunch time”, anyway? That doesn’t feel like real slang.

I’ve lived in this apartment for more than five years, and Scott has been here for ten. An entire decade! And yet, part of me knew that I’d eventually see this place empty. That’s going to be a bittersweet sight. I might not even take pictures of it. This, though, is a time to be relished, because it fleets. It’s fleeting right now, as I chip away at the red wine (the more we drink now, the less we have to move) and watch it pass.

I’ve already gone through almost all the packed-away boxes, some of which I haven’t gone through since moving here yonks ago, and I’ve been ruthless. My Nintendo Power magazines are in my past. Ticket stubs? What ticket stubs? THEY ARE DEAD TO ME. Beck at the Queen E in 2005? Only if I have any recollection of it actually having happened. Memories is all I’ve got now. It’s also all I had before, aside from tiny bits of paper that I’d completely forgotten about.

Ruthlessness. I am completely without Ruth. And it feels spectacular. I don’t even want to keep my CDs. Is it a shiny circle? I don’t want it. I have a hard drive for all that jazz (and rock and roll and shibuya-kei). So far, I’ve reduced no fewer than 5 boxes of ridiculousness to a single not-entirely-full box of ridiculousness, and that contains really important things like Hello Kitty figurines and thumbtacks.

My knowledge of floating homes is still in its infancy, since I have a massive 41 days until I actually have the keys to one, but I know that fewer material possessions is a good thing, because a big enough anvil collection could sink a house, unlike those land houses that belong only to the fabulously rich where I live. And there’s been a bit of heartbreak, especially when I decided to part with my mid-90’s Nintendo Power magazines, but I’m facing the future, baby. A future on the ocean with my cat and my boy and a head full of memories.

Hopefully my big overloaded head doesn’t sink the place.



Sea is for cat. And B is for berthday.

How fitting that my last post, written way back in November, was about a house floating on the water. Back then, it was just a lovely little dream. Now, it’s imminent. In a mere two months, we will have just moved into our charming new floating home in North Vancouver.

This was confirmed only days ago, making it the most amazing birthday present ever! A house on the water, complete with a cat door leading to the deck for big ol’ Max to enjoy some raccoon-free outdoors adventures.

But the dreamiest of the dreamy is the amazing Scott, the best boyfriend ever.

If you’re lucky, somebody will write a song for you. If you’re me, you get an entire album.

I am the luckiest girl in the world, and I can’t wait to see what happens next.


I’ve got prune-hands!

If I lived in a house that floated on the water, and I was having a lovely bath within that house, would that be ridiculous?

And what if a rubber ducky was involved? Would it have to learn to swim twice?

I’m asking for a friend, of course. The real me is super busy writing a novel that nobody will see.


Nano whatever, yo.

I don’t want to talk about my Nanowrimo progress. I don’t feel like flaunting my wordcount. This might change in time for the weekend, but I wouldn’t put money on it.

What I am stoked about, though, are chores.

Effing chores. I was avoiding them one night while reading blog posts about increasing productivity. Yes, lol. The article itself is lost, because I read it more than a week ago, and googling “productivity” isn’t quite specific enough. No matter, because the main idea was “do stuff”, just like every other blog post about increasing productivity.

One of the suggestions that I did like, though, was that it’s easier to get stuff done when your environment is prepared for it, so you don’t find yourself intimidated by all of the things you have to do to even begin doing stuff. I took this as a personal slight against my housewifey chores, and ever since then I’ve been getting mega dishes done! Even the big gross things that I usually avoid. Even the things that aren’t allowed in the dishwasher. I always leave one dish undone, though. You’ve gotta leave something for tomorrow.

Now, when I get home at Stupid Late P.M., I arrive to a sparkly-clean kitchen with a fork in the sink. And it makes me feel all warm inside.

I’ll try not to get too carried away about vacuuming, because Mr. Hoover finally sucked up his last bit of debris and has been replaced. Mr. Hoover had a terrible habit of smoking in the living room. It’s no kind of behavior for a vacuum cleaner, but I’ve tolerated it over the years because I know Mr. Hoover has a tough job, what with our fluffy kitty and two grown-ups with long hair who sometimes get a bit messy with the quinoa. We’re not particularly easy on a vacuum. But Mr. Hoover was not particularly easy on me, either. Mr. Hoover is gone now, and nobody misses him. He’s been replaced by a snazzy snazzy Dyson. Mr. Dyson makes me want to dump stuff on the carpets, just for the chance to whip him out again.

And vacuuming is the worst of all gateway chores, because once the carpets are impressive they start to make the walls look all smudged, and floors unkempt, and the blinds unbraided.

Chores. They are done. Words, not so much. But as long as nobody dirties a dish or tracks in any carpet debris (lookin’ at you, jerk of a cat), I’m so ready.

Not exactly right now, though. There’s a bath and wine. And potential banana bread.