Well, there is that angular part at the beginning—kind of like two incomplete triangles that are missing their hypotenuses. Then there is that other thing that is sort of like a circle, but not quite round. And yet not really an oval, either.

Those parts. The rest, I'm fine with.

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maybe.

The spouse will be gone between tomorrow morning and Monday evening. I was hoping to sneak in a Grandma-run (a quick overnight trip to Shell Beach), and maybe even a mini cousin-run (to the Bay Area, as long as I'm halfway up the coast seeing my grandmother) this weekend, but that's clearly impossible if I want this place to be inhabitable in the next few days.

So instead of a drive up the coast I'll head to the hardware store for some switchplates, and pick up a photo from the frame place. The thrills are a mile a minute around here. (Actually, they are: the new place is beautiful, and we are a lot less overwhelmed with boxes than I feared we might be at this stage of the game.)

I tried to catch up on news, politics, and the blogging world yesterday, but I kept falling asleep over my laptop. In point of fact, I spent most of the day yesterday unconscious, and most of today unpacking.

Life is good, though I have no idea whether Western Civilization crumbled while I was focused on other things. (My concept of same being a bit analogous to the spouse's POV on football games: if my attention drifts, external events will go all to heck. It's only my continued concentration that keeps the ship afloat.)

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I just worked a 26-hour shift on the move, from 8:00 a.m. Tuesday until 9:00 a.m. Wednesday—minus twenty minutes or so, trying to sleep next to my husband on the floor of the old house in the middle of the night. We started working again at 4:00 a.m., stopping only to have a few spirited words about how pleasant it is to move from a house to a condo with half the square footage—and how great it is to sort through twelve years' worth of accumulated stuff as dawn breaks on the day the new owners are set to take possession of the House on the Hill.

We've been napping in shifts, though it's a bit warm in our new bedroom: we need window treatments in there to cut down on the glare. The first time the cable/phone person showed up, A the H took the lead. The second time, I did, while he started his nap.

I'm eating part of a leftover bagel, and drinking some milk to get some protein in me and cut the dehydration. The idea of figuring what we're going to eat tonight sounds overwhelming, as does bending over, lifting anything, or even getting dressed.

I had all kinds of plans for setting up the new kitchen very quickly, but that isn't going to happen. The new place looks great, but we are both exhausted and hurting: sometime after dawn, I realized I was sort of shuffling around like an 85-year-old. I couldn't even really walk.

Life keeps pitching, and we keep hitting.

More blogging later. Maybe.

UPDATE: The alert will notice that I've now blogged the equivalent of my eight-year "decade," or Obama's 57-state Union. I've always thought I should get some extra time each day, and I guess that desire is bound to come out every now and then . . .

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I'm busy packing, exhorting the painters to finish the job at the condo, fending off my husband, who is vaguely unhappy that I have so much stuff, or that I'm not filling very many boxes, or that I'm not working hard enough, or that I'm too short. Or that until the end of the day tomorrow we're basically homeless.

I'll be doing double-duty today: heading over to the condo to approve the accent colors (and then again to take the painters a check, and kiss their feet for working today instead of Friday, when the carpeting people dominated the scene). And coming back in between to pack things into boxes.

We seem to be running short of cardboard containers, so I asked my father to drop by at noon—wearing his grubbiest clothing and toting about a million gazillion boxes. (I'd ask my mother to help, too—but she's buying me the flooring in the new place. Also, I'm not sure she and my father would have anything to say to each others, or that Mandy the pit bull would be able to resist the temptation to, um, "unpack" the packed boxes. If you get my drift.)

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If The Monkees and Green Acres had to do battle with Moonlighting and Freakazoid!?

Speaking of Cosmic Battles of Surrealism, here's some entirely made-up dialogue:

A: "Let me strap your seatbelt on, in case your recliner makes a sharp turn sometime soon. Safety first."

B: "So, you're afraid that the condo is going to step out at night, as condos often do? It's going to leave the complex? Are you concerned that it might go off to see a lady condo?

A: "Um. I'm going to need more time for that one."

B: "Then I win this one."

A: "Yes, you win. This one."

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But I do.

Busy, exhausted—and doing just fine.

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We did close both deals today, which means that we no longer own this house: we're just leasing it for four nights after the three-day grace period. We do, however, own the condominium, where I shall be meeting tomorrow with:

- the handyman;
- the carpet installers;
- the painters;
- the cable people who will install our cable TV/internet connection;
- the cable people who will install our phone lines.

In the meantime I'll be wiping out cupboards like a crazy person, cleaning the fridge, etc. etc. and starting to get a few necessities over there—such as yogurt and Coca Cola in the fridge.

After I wipe it out with baking soda, of course.

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. . . while I'm trying to blog.

There are busy footsteps wafting up the stairway, and the sounds of someone furiously packing.

My husband is clearly taking a shortcut of some sort, since we don't move until this coming Monday, and it's cheating to start packing before Sunday. Saturday, earliest.

I also have editing to do. And housework. But I'm not sure how to access the internet while I'm physically working; is there some sort of IV drip available now?

Work, work, work. Tromp, tromp, tromp. He's doing it on purpose. He wants me to feel guilty.

The only way out, as I see it, is to take a nap. But, here. On the couch. After all, the WiFi doesn't seem to work very well from the bedroom.

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We had a nice little party to celebrate Joe's launch into the world of shrinkdom.

I asked him where he learned to read lips, and unfortunately he picked that up from his speech therapist as a child. I still think I should earn lipreading and/or ASL before my hearing starts to go in a few years: I have seen the future, and it is my grandmother. If there are steps I can take to avoid becoming quite so isolated, they would be a good idea.

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Web M.D. has a partial list.

Coping With the Symptoms of Menopause

There are many ways you can ease menopause symptoms and maintain your health. These tips include ways to cope with mood swings, fears and depression:

• Find a self-calming skill to practice such as yoga, meditation or slow, deep breathing.

• Avoid tranquilizers.

• Engage in a creative outlet or hobby that fosters a sense of achievement.

•Stay connected with your family and community and nurture your friendships.

• Seek emotional support from friends, family members or a professional counselor when needed.

• Take steps to stay cool during hot flashes, such as wearing loose clothing.

• Keep your bedroom cool to prevent night sweats and disturbed sleep.

• Take medicines, vitamins and minerals as prescribed by your doctor.

• Eat healthfully and exercise regularly.

That's fine, as far as it goes. Naturally, I had a few thoughts of my own:

• Invest in a Cool-Max pajama top.

• Buy your wine by the box.

• Use plenty of lime when burying bodies.

• Keep sorbet on hand for hot flashes.

• Consider alternatives to firearms, such as razor wire and edged weapons.

• Eat lots of Rice Krispies.

• Find a copendent friend whom you can endlessly berate over the phone when your estrogen levels are low. Avoid people with self-esteem.

• If you find yourself with a staff job, make a study of your boss's dietary habits. Buy a small manual on untraceable poisons. You may never need it, but it'll give you peace of mind.

• Read books on revenge carefully; learn to cover your tracks when you go on the karma-balancing prowl. Consider getting even with people other than those you imagine are somehow wronging you. After all, someone will pay it forward, some day.

"Did I get 'em all?" I asked Attila the Hub.

"Almost," he replied. "Just one more."

• Howl like a wolf for hours on end.

"I thought I was doing that already," I remarked.

"No, no. I don't mean internally, or using mere words. Or blogging, for crying out loud. I don't mean like Alan-freaking-Ginsburg. I mean actual, literal howling."

"Excellent idea. I'll try it. But I think I'll have some sorbet first."

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No; I have no idea how they ended up in an entry about pit bulls. Though I admit that Mandy likes to lick them when they are bare.

I do keep all shoes away from her, of course. Her notion of engineering, whether it has to do with a shoe or a suitcase or a chair or a vacuum cleaner, is that anything built "to last" was actually built to be a challenge when it's time to destroy it.

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Eric is not exaggerating. Though I've developed a sense for when Mandy might noiselessly pounce, and I can usually nip it in the bud with a command. (Unless she is trying to get out of the car and go off-leash; we have had some vigorous "discussions" about that, and if she really wants to make a break for it I will give the leash to my mother, when feasible: Mom has more weight than I do.)

Hard to explain: the girl can bluster and bark and growl, but if she goes into stealth mode, she moves like lightning.

She is a true athlete, and a work of beauty. And she has soft, silky fur.

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Despite the fact that I've never gotten around to learning the names of all the birds that alight on my balcony here in La Canada, I may miss them after we move: they come in all sizes, from hummingbirds to crows—and everything in between.

At the condo in Glendale we've seen signs of pigeon-proofing all over the railing. Though no actual pigeons. I suppose it isn't pigeon season.

I guess that's part of the Urban Experience: supermarkets within walking distance, and fewer species of birds.

If I play my cards right, my next digs will feature pterodactyls. We shall have to pterodactyl-proof our balcony, lest the beasts get in our way when we grill chicken breasts on hot summer nights.

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1 I would have thought pterodactyls would have been a bigger problem in La Canada, due to its greater distance from The La Brea Tar Pits. Just goes to show me. Better keep some Purina Pterodactyl Chow in your pocket to fling over the balcony in case of an attack. And get John McCain to work on another mythical problem. There's probably a multi-trillion dollar solution to that one too.

Posted by: Darrell at May 13, 2008 09:06 PM (pE9Mf)

2 Well, it turns out that the pterodactyls are all over the hills; they actually go out as far as Arcadia, where they are really big. Apparently a lot of the medium-size ones nest in the Angeles National Forest, and that's what worries me. I don't mind the bitty ones--I was, in fact, thinking of putting out some pterodactyl feeders for the sub-foot-long ones--but the biggers ones apparently swoop in and steal the feed. They are reportedly more aggressive about that than squirrels. And one has to watch out for the teeth, of course. Though I do have experience with Mandy, and I might be able to simply say "no!" or "ouch!" (She respects "ouch" more than "no," because we sound serious when we say it: so my mother has started to say it when she isn't in pain, like when the dog jumps on the new couch.) I have never tried to train a pterodactyl. But, really: how hard could it be?

Posted by: Attila Girl at May 14, 2008 01:17 PM (Hgnbj)

3 Maybe get them to extend their feeding range about 350 miles due northwest. That should take care of a lot of problems.

Posted by: Darrell at May 14, 2008 07:52 PM (6B7A4)

4 No can do: too many friends/relatives up there. Including the second-youngest set of nephews (the nieces/nephews go in clumps: early twenties, college age [Chicago area] the two Bay Area schoolkids, and the baby/baby enroute [in Connecticut]). I don't know why I flagellate myself over not having had kids: there are plenty of 'em around, after all. I just have to decide which nieces/nephews I need to snooker into taking care of me when I get old. Maybe I should make it a point to get rich. Then the snooker-ee can cut a better deal in my will, and everyone wins.

Posted by: Attila Girl at May 15, 2008 12:02 PM (Hgnbj)

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As I stopped by the supermarket, the woman at the checkout counter asked if I was a mom.

"Oh, no." I replied. "But I'm a daughter, and I'm cooking for my mother in a few minutes."

Please note that "cooking" is rather a grandiose term for throwing together some pasta, cut melon, and a green salad—and keeping the dog away from the table while my husband and mother were having dinner. (No, no: I ate, too. I'm not that codependent.)

Happy silly Hallmark holiday; kiss the folks you love.

Not bad for 72, huh?

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. . . here. Just keep scrolling.

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with the people from AT&T, trying to figure out whether it was a better deal to get television, telephone, and internet service from them at the new place (with the aesthetic evil of a dish on the balcony), versus the same bundle from Charter Communications (without the aesthetic evil of a dish on the balcony).

Afterward I considered eating my gun, but that's a trick you can only perform once. So I descended the stairs and informed my husband that I was tempted to do something freaky: "what if I just let the people who know how to do phone service do that, and the people who know how to give us extra TV channels do that, and stop trying to save ten dollars a month or whatever by getting all these functions from one entity, gambling that they'll actually be able to deliver it properly?"

He was into the idea, but I'm going to make one more round of calls on Monday to be sure. At least the internet part is easy: x amount of bandwidth for y amount of money.

Tomorrow morning's good time: Compare carpeting to vinyl tile. Conveniently, carpeting is priced per square yard, and vinyl tile is priced per square foot. Fortunately, my mother will probably pick up the flooring costs for us (instead of buying us a groovy energy-efficient washer-dryer), so that will help out a lot. Yet I still have no intention of paying more than it's worth—whether we're "on scholarship," or not (the first estimate I got was unacceptable, no matter who's paying). So back to the calculator I go, reminding myself that a square yard is not really three times a square foot, but rather nine. Because flooring arithmetic uses one more dimension than, say, cooking arithmetic.

We're considering taking the old carpeting out, putting sawdust on the floor, and living without television, telephone, or the internet. We can communicate with the outside world by carrier pigeon. (A the H suggests that we might even release those pigeons and seal up the windows, so as not to take a chance on having to see the outside world. "Also," he reminds me, "that would save us money on window treatments.")

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Mmmmm. Back in town, and I'm ready to start really blogging again—along with editing a cool piece of fiction a friend's trying to knock into shape, and fixing up our new home in Glendale.

Mostly, though, I feel like sleeping for 12 hours solid before I get back to Real Life tomorrow. I mean, on one level it feels creepy to admit that I'm exhausted, but I did show up at three different locations on Sunday to take pictures. I did bring The Runner fresh water, and take his gear belt off of his hands at Mile 18. I did drive us back to the airport today.

So I'm ready for a night off. I'll be reading tonight, and going to bed early.

I am ready, in short, to surf the internet of the just.

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I'm in love with Eugene, Oregon, but I'm sure it's just a passing fancy. After all, they got snow here. I suspect.

Anyway, it was forty-four degrees this morning, and it stayed that way for hours and hours and hours. I mean, cold.

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It is just past 8:00 p.m. on a Saturday night. I'm trying to remember how we handled this night-before business the last two times I accompanied A the H on a marathon trip; the early hours he has to keep make things a challenge. I'll see if I can get to sleep in another hour; otherwise, I could go for a walk, read in the lobby (or in the bathroom), or go grab a martini in the hotel bar. Right now a little blogging and a Damrak on ice are working for me, though potentially I should think about getting headphones for future trips, so I can watch video without disturbing the spouse.

One thing that's different this time: we only have one bed here at the Red Lion, which means that there's no second bed to be used purely for "staging"—a large flat surface only for marathon paraphernalia. He's had to use the desk for this. I tried to adopt a little sliver of that desk for my stuff, but have had to beat back his imperialist incursions into that space. Maybe next time I'll tape off my section—as if we were squabbling teenagers in the back of a car on a family trip.

We drove around town this evening so I could get my bearings; the idea is for me to get A the H to the starting line (or close to it, anyway) before too many of the roads close. Then I need to zip back over to this side of the river and see how many points I can intercept him on during his 26.2-mile par-tay. The critical meetup is at Mile 18, where I'm to take his empty water belt from him and hand him a fresh bottle of water for his final eight miles.

After that, I jump back into the rented SUV and book over to the finish line, so I can see him cross. Then (supposedly) I give him back his wallet, money, comb, cell phone, and wedding ring. [I'm not positive why a guy doesn't need his wedding ring for an endurance contest of this nature. I choose to believe that it's because his hands will swell up during the race. I realize there are other possible explanations . . . ]

Eugene is a pretty little town, and I do love it here. It reminds me of Northern California; it reminds the husband of the suburbs around Chicago. I understand that it probably wasn't quite so lovely here a few months ago. Even now, it got pretty chilly toward the end of the day, and I'm having trouble believing that it'll be over 70 degrees tomorrow. I'll be wearing layers, just to be safe.

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It was an uneventful trip, though I'm as dehydrated as I usually am after flying. I might be able to get online for a time tomorrow morning, and I'll definitely check in at some point over the weekend.

But things might be just a bit light around here until I'm back in L.A.

Tonight, though, I'm going to bed: I was up all night last night. And tomorrow will involve some strategizing over a race map, and the collecting of Strange Marathoner Objects such as a piece of fabric ribbon, a Sharpie pen, and some packing tape.

You be a good blogosphere, okay? And don't forget to send me money.

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