Category: Living the Dream… ish.

Great Wolf Lodge

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I spent a night at the Great Wolf Lodge in Grand Mound, WA.

Now, before I left, I had done much reading of reviews and perusal of their site. I knew, much like going to Disneyland, I was to hand over my wallet at the door and let them tell me how much I should be left with.

I had a fantastic time.

Great Wolf Lodge is a place for kids: an oversized, indoor water park with a hotel and multiple eateries and shops attached. The catch is that you must stay the night in the hotel, you can’t go into the water park without a room for the night. I went, not as the typical nuclear family (2 adults, 1.7 kids), but as the typical single mom: 1 adult, 1 kid. This is important to note as it impacts how you operate within a water park (for example — you stake out your table and need to go to the lockers to retrieve something?  You’re both going — there is no other parent to hold on to things.)

At a nominal average price of about $180-$200 for a night, depending on seasonality, you get:

1. Wristbands to let you in to the park. The adults get RFID wristbands that allow you to do things like open the room or charge things to your room. Ergo, your wallet stays in the room and you are not tethered to it.

2. Access to a large water park from 1pm to 9pm on day of check-in, and from 9am to 9pm on day of check out

3. Access to an arcade. (Games cost the same as everywhere else).

4. A relatively nice, standard hotel room.

For $40 more, you get a wand and an interactive game that will take you the whole day, even if you rush at it. It involves climbing a lot of stairs and running around, and I enjoyed it as much as the small child.

Taken together, your total outgo minus food is about $230 for one kid and one mom. GWL has a reputation for being hideously expensive but, I will note that same room would run you about $120 or so elsewhere. The remaining $110 then is to cover the magic game and the water park and the convenience of your RFID tag. (That convenience goes both ways — proffering your wrist to pay for something removes you from the emotional attachment you may have for your cash).

With the magic game prepriced at about $40 (there’s the cost of the wand and the cost of the game itself), you’re left with $70 for two day’s access to a water park for two people. And here’s where the “it’s overpriced” argument fails: 4 water slides, a wave pool, an activity pool, a kids pool, and an indoor-outdoor pool and sunning area, unlimited clean towels, thorough and plenty lifeguards are yours for 2 days for $35pp. That is on par with local water parks — even those without as many slides.

YES, you will pay $10/day for locker rental (you check out at 11am, so if you have things like car keys or cell phones or wallets, and you don’t have a spousal unit out of the water at all times, you’ll need a locker). YES, the food is relatively overpriced (relatively = overpriced for “normal places to eat”. Not overpriced in the context of amusement park food, theater food, etc.) and it isn’t really all that good: but your admission comes with in and out privileges, and there are plenty of local restaurants (La Tarasca, Dicks Northwest Brewhouse) to go to. There is a Starbucks inside the building and it’s priced normally, too.

More to the point, there isn’t a single place in the edifice where you are not responsible for your own child (I regard this as something worthy of kudos). If your child is in the water park, so must you be. There is no day care, kids club, babysitting service, etc. If you want to go play in the spa or the bar, better have your spousal unit watching the kids and trade-off with you — because you, parent, do not get to abscond your responsibility. This, to me, was great. Also, the entrance to each water slide is monitored, and they ask you EVERY TIME, regardless of if they remember you (and they did remember us after 5 or 6 goes) if we met the height and weight requirements. (I’m not 700 pounds yet– that’s another post).

Now, there was one down side to GWL: I blew out my knee going on the Howling Tornado. It’s six flights of stairs to the two largest water slides, and we went on them multiple times. We were both eight years old this weekend — we’d ride down the slide, tumble out of the inner tube, scream “AGAIN!”, run up the stairs, wait in a very small line, and ride down again. After a day and a half of this, my knee has started making audible cracking sounds, and it is rather swollen; I’m going back to Mme. le Docteur next Monday. At least I will have a really fun story as to why it is doing that. I expect I’ll get a bunch of physical therapy, some more exercises, more taping to do, maybe another injection.

Just in time for my next GWL visit! AGAIN!

Frankly France

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My boss is French. My skip-level is French. And I think I’m becoming a closet francophile, but NOT because of them. We had an offsite.

In Lyon, France.

For those not in the know — which, until about a week ago, included yours truly — Lyon is the gastronomic capital of France. I was there for 4 days and gained approximately 1 pound per day, and so we can all acknowledge that this was due to the fantastic food. I ate everything and then some, and in a country where bread is served at every meal (and contains only the classic ingredients — none of this corn syrup business or dough conditioners, thank you very much), this was no small feat. Oh, and the wine.

The Wine!

As I stated, my bosses (plural) are french. And so when it came time for wine to be decided, the menu was handed to them, and after a studied reflection of the menu and nonverbal cues between them, they’d summon the wait staff and give them the cursory order. In French. In other words, I couldn’t understand a bit, and so I can’t repeat what they ordered, but everything tasted wonderful. (In the states I eschewed French wines as “dusty” — not a speck of it in France. Not sure what is up with that!)

I see I’m babbling. Let me go at it chronologically:

After a day of travelling — Seattle to Heathrow, Heathrow to Charles de Gaulle, CDG to Lyon via train — I checked into my hotel (the Radisson Blu, which has unparalleled views in Lyon and quite the nice breakfast!). It was 10pm at this time, and the short walk from the train station allowed me to see the perfect pinks and oranges of the sun as it set. Bracing myself for “French disdain of the American”, I asked the concierge downstairs for restaurant recommendations.

I was presented in a charming and friendly manner with a map, highlighted directions, and two options: did Madame want something “safe”, or did Madame want something traditionally Lyonnaise? Madam indicated Lyonnaise, because I am not about to let a little jet lag in the way of Madame’s sense of adventure. A right from the hotel, and then the next right, and then a left, down two blocks: I found myself at a not-very-distinguishable bistro on a cobblestoned lane.

I was one of 3 tables at that time: a french couple having a romantic dinner, a set of Americans doing their best to keep all sorts of boisterous clichés in place, and then, well, me. The waiter switched to nearly-flawless English (and not in a disdaining way) when he discovered my French was non. He did want to make sure I understood what I was ordering as I was picking it out of a French menu but fortunately French is a Latin-based language and I can understand it just fine, I can’t speak it. Anyway, chicken with mushrooms and a side of ratatouille, and an okay bordeaux was dinner. It was beautiful (hey Kevin — the ratatouille was WAY better than that one we did, so we may need to revisit that at one of the HP get togethers), and then there was dessert.

Oh yes I did. I’m sorry, but my weight loss programme does not extend beyond the borders of the US, and so tarte tatin it was, and it was AMAZING. That, and coffee in a little demitasse cup.

Sated, I went back to my room… and woke up promptly at 5am. With the local gym not open until 8am, and no power converter (the three that I had brought with me did not work, and the person in charge of adapters at the hotel was not in until 9), I went for a run. Lyon is an excellent place to run — the walkways are wide, it’s mostly flat, and you cannot help but look at amazing architecture, beautiful scenery, and it’s cool in the morning even on a summer day. I only did about 4km — the knee is messed up again (that is another post for another time). However, it helped me feel better about the caloric intake of the night before.

I will say nothing of the meetings in Lyon that I was there for because they are proprietary to my company, with the exception that they were incredibly productive and useful. I was surprised because usually these sorts of things are endless power point decks and stifled yawns, but by day 3 we were still active and passionate about what we were doing, and had come to a better understanding of how each wheel works in this little clock of ours. I came home with 7 pages of notes.

At any rate, each day had breakfast in the hotel — oh, the cheese! — and a prearranged luncheon. Dinners were out on the town with the bosses, and that was where the careful wine menu scrutiny/ordering took place. Dinner conversation was equally as pleasantly a surprise as the meetings themselves: our party included two from Hong Kong, one from Amsterdam, two from London, the aforementioned two French, a few Americans, an Italian Australian, an Italian Italian, a Swede, and three from India (originally). I discovered many things, including that restaurant service and gratuity expectation/practice varies widely globally, that personal space in social situations does as well, and that the US is sorely behind in languages for its children. Case in point: my colleague from Amsterdam had mandatory Dutch and English until she was 10. Then French was added in. Two years later, so was German. She took Latin and Greek for fun.

(If you’re counting that as six languages, let’s take note that she knew a handful of words in other languages including Spanish and Italian).

At any rate: Lyon was pretty, with a variety of architectural styles but mostly consisting of the beige stucco/stonework and reddish-tan roofing, most buildings not exceeding 4 or 5 stories. We visited the local cathedrals (the two biggies, anyway), if I can get them off of my iPhone I will post pictures.

In short: Lyon is a 2-hour train from Paris and worth it.

As to Paris: I spent half of one day there (by the time I got the train and metro sorted out). In that half of a day I saw the Arc de Triomphe (larger than expected, and there were people at the top, which I hadn’t realized was possible), walked down the Champs-Elysees (endless shopping possibilities, but I’m not a shopper and people were thick — in both senses of the word), walked around the Louvre (not in it, I’m afraid, time being what it was), and down to Notre Dame (did walk in, it is GORGEOUS).  If you’ve ever seen the TV Miniseries The Pillars of the Earth, you will learn how they figured out how to make the heavy stone archways (and not have them pulled down by gravity and killing people, for example) or the architectural purpose of flying buttresses; and this makes the Notre Dame all the more impressive. That, and the realization that all of that lovely colored glass was done without chemicals — or not the way we think of them. For example, did you know that in order to get RED glass you need gold?

I didn’t make it to the Eiffel Tower, as I dawdled (dawdled??) in my walking — the architecture in Paris is AMAZING. You can tell the difference in building ages just by their accoutrements — who has gargoyles, who has scrollwork, what kind of columns were in fashion. Some buildings are relatively new — say, mid-1900’s– and about twenty feet wide, having been risen between two older buildings that formerly may have had garden space between the two. Cobblestone streets abound, and the smell of everything is in the air. I don’t know a better way to describe it, but I’m in love, I truly am.

My only dinner in Paris I had close to my hotel (Hotel Ampere, 17th arrondissement, absolutely beautiful in and out) and was a fixed-price with some choices. I sat outside, so as to watch the people walking by — I love people watching — and had a very leisurely dinner. The service was very friendly and attentive, I had to ask the people to my left — four older French people, two older couples — if tipping was okay or would elicit offense. I had to do this in Spanish as it was the only common language we had, their English being only fractionally better than my French. (I am not dissing them at all — at least they spoke another language! Never mind two. America, we need to catch up!) After some discussion, they agreed that the service was very good, and that leaving service (propina in spanish) was okay — in this instance. Of course she would not be offended, I just needed to realize this was only done when it was *really good*, not as a matter of course.

Morning came on my last day, with enough time for a quick breakfast and then 4 Metro lines (kinda like our subway system) to the RER train, back to my flight. In all, travel on my last day took 22 hours. I was very happy to see my bed.

I will be seeing France again though. I politely informed the male person this morning we are going back and spending some real-time there. He took it rather well.

Travelling, Light

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[editor’s note: this was actually written nearly 6 days ago. I’ve been in France, and will wait until tomorrow — on my FOREVER flight schedule — to update on the sheer awesomeness that is France. No seriously: France is awesome. So awesome that I can’t be bothered to blog, tweet, check-in, etc. ]

This is actually a two-fer, because I find myself on a British Airways flight with no Wifi (this is acceptable. On a transatlantic flight I can appreciate the engineering feat that wireless internet would represent. On a 2-hour flight to San Francisco, there’s no excuse.)

I recently had the pleasure of going to Dallas. That’s right. I said “pleasure”, and I totally mean it. I went to Dallas in late June/early July, for work, and you’d think that this would be a Fate Worse Than Death, or at least a Fate Worse Than A Really Good Beating, but no, I actually enjoyed it.

I’ll wait until you retrieve your jaw from the floor.

Dallas was roughly 100 degrees and humid each day, but it was warm… and sunny… and the people were IMPOSSIBLY friendly. Example: the hotel I stayed at — to be reviewed — had complementary passes to Gold’s Gym. At Gold’s Gym I ran across a lady who was probably 3 years my senior and 30 pounds lighter, with flame-red hair down to her knees. It was gathered up in a braid but still, it was gorgeous. I couldn’t help but comment — I’m like that — and instead of the typical “Seattle Freeze” (e.g., “hey thanks!”, and then promptly go away) she chatted me up. Wanted to know where I was from, did I usually come in the morning because she didn’t remember seeing me. Dallas was like that all over — exceptionally friendly, down to the Subway guy who gave me the 2nd chocolate chip cookie because really, that’s how the meal is supposed to be. Or something.

This is not like when the Lesbian Lawyer from New York chatted me up. I was flattered, she had great shoes. That was a fun dinner.

At any rate, I stayed at the Hotel ZaZa.

If you are going to Dallas– and really, I don’t care why you are going — stay at the Hotel ZaZa. Oh! Where to begin.

Accommodations:

The room was only slightly smaller than half of my house. The bathroom had a separate tub and shower, and the tub would fit two strangers or three very well acquainted people. The toiletries were “racing fuel” — separate shampoo, conditioner, lotion, bath gel — in those cool wide-open mouth containers that some of us (Hi!) use (re-use) for gym toiletries. The bed was exceedingly comfortable, it’s a shame I only slept five hours a night. I never tried the TV or the room service (hey, that’s a first!) but the restaurant attached (Dragonfly) had wonderful food and a great wine list (Malbec, represent!). The hallways are littered with funky Vogue and W magazine photo ops, all framed and they help you find your way by day two. The butler’s pantry (on the way to the elevators) is stocked with all manner of breakfast beverage to kick start your day, complete with to-go cups. The hotel staff is incredibly friendly and accommodating — I parked in the wrong place and couldn’t figure out the internet at 2am — and they were there to help.

Am I going back to Dallas? Oh, I hope so. And when I do, I’m staying at ZaZa, even if I have to pay for it myself!

Fast forward one hectic, crazy week. I spent 4th of July at my mom’s… where I ate everything, naturally … and then home to 4 days of back-to-back meetings (excellent, productive meetings — normally I eschew them but these were actually *productive*), and then 1.5 days of errands, laundry, and family fun before here I am on a British Airways flight.

My first British Airways flight.

So far they’re a decent 2nd to Air France (sorry, mate). Granted, I’m only 36 minutes in, but damn! The service is good, the flight attendants are incredibly patient, and I am overstocked with 2 blankets, 2 headsets, and 1 pillow. I’m in a 3-stack to the starboard side with no one in the middle, which is excellent. My seatmate and I established rules of engagement — she’s an American lit student from England (wait, what??) wearing a UW Rosebowl 1993 sweatshirt. I asked her, “Oh, were you there?” and she said, “No, I was at UW, but I had to buy something, I was at the student store… did you go to UW?” to which I had to say “Yes… and I was there…”. Sigh, I have aged myself.

At any rate, I’m watching “Paul” with Simon Pegg, drinking red wine from a screw-cap bottle (tempranillo garnacha, so it’s good, actually!), and enjoying a very comfortable seat. The flight seems consisted of 75% expats going home (like my seatmate) and I’m relishing the variety of accents.

Before I got on the flight, I spent a harried 20 minutes downloading data and emails from my local machine — so alas now, I must actually use said data. I leave off, going back to watching “Paul”, and playing with numbers.

Some work perks defy easy naming, but are beyond words in other ways.

On The Road Again…

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[Editor’s note: This was written in the airport before I left on my flight to Dallas. It got in at shortly after midnight, and I vowed to get up early and work out this morning (after retrieving my rental car, getting lost on the way to the hotel twice, and suffering from insomnia). I did work out, and I did get coffee– offered by my wonderful hotel. I will wait to review it when I have fully sampled the sheer awesomeness that is ZaZa, but I will say it is “Racing Fuel” in the gasoline comparison of hoteliers. Also, their gym made working out this morning fun… even on 5 hours’ sleep.]

 

Once again I am travelling without WiFi, although I sit here in SeaTac where it’s purportedly free. I can only assume someone else is hogging it with videos of kittens yawning, or something, because I can’t seem to get on and stay on. Ergo, I am using my iPhone to work.

Well, to be perfectly honest, I am using my iPhone to work and my laptop to type this in notepad, and maybe, just maybe, I will get internet on the plane (hoo hoo, haa haa!). I am flying to Dallas where I will learn many things, including how a revolutionary sub-section of our organization works. At some point someone sectioned off a group and said, “here’s your demographic. Make it work. And do it with minimal resources.” And… they did.

I get to see how they did it.

This is one of the best parts of my job: figuring out what people do when left to their own devices, and seeing what can be done with the output. It’s entirely possible that their practices are as specific as their organization and *nothing* is scalable. I don’t believe that’s ever really the case though, and there may be things that we can make easier for them. Plus, you know: Texas BBQ, which I hear is off the hook.

So where’s the down side? Well, to start, Texas is 90 bajillion degrees right now, and humid. I now have shorter hair with lots of layers and the curl shows up more. And so, fro. I have packed my 2.4 ounces of hair goo to anti-fro myself but I may end up using it all on day one. Also, this trip happens smack-dab in the midst of “we aren’t selling the house” reorganization and projects (yay!) and Other Big Projects Of Which I Cannot Speak, meaning I’m pretty much in meetings from 6am to 8pm local time. I hope to get out at least one night.

Oh, that’s right: unlike New York, SFO, and Chicago, in Dallas you rent a car, because the climate and age of the city lends itself to wide, clean, beautiful roads. I land at midnight, and even though the airport is devoid of most human life after 8pm (according to my friend Ms. Krieant), I should be the proud driver of a Hertz Economy car (my boss is cool, but not “go ahead and rent the Mustang” cool). This means I’m likely to check into my hotel (to be reviewed later) at 1am, and must alight at 6am to work out and my first meeting is at 8am.

I sincerely hope Starbucks is as ubiquitous there as here. I think I’ll need it. Fun fact: My “Starbucks” expenses equate to 33% of my overall food expenses on a trip (sometimes more). Buy stock.

The End of an Era… or, a few days

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My house went on the market May 3. It went off the market — unofficially — today. This was not a good market.

We got an offer. It wasn’t a good offer — anyone on the receiving end of an offer in a buyer’s market knows there is no such thing as a good offer — but it was tolerable. Yes, they asked for $9k off of the price. Yes, they asked for closing costs. Yes, they asked for a short turnaround time. We negotiated all of that out, but their realtor gave the phrase to “PM this shit” whole new meaning. It was not a pleasant experience. I am still walking kind of funny.

But there was nowhere to go. After using software and detailed searches, we whittled down to about 40 houses. We looked, over the last 3-4 weeks, at every single one. Not one was a match. They were either too big, on a too-small lot; they had weird layouts (we nicknamed one the “rabbit warren”), they had updates that needed to be made (and we are not in the market for a project house), NONE seemed a better deal than staying put. As we were in the market for a house another 50% in price over mine, you’d think there would be something: there wasn’t.

People are not selling in this market unless they have to. This is what is weird: you’d think that in a buyer’s market there would be a glut of supply; a seller’s market is a glut of demand. In this case we have a glut of supply but it’s crappy corner lots, busy streets, and desperate folks.

My house is no longer staged. We celebrated one and all by NOT making our beds this morning, and I have a single dish in the sink as an homage to the sort of sloppiness we didn’t really do before staging anyway. I’ve collected all of the non-us staging articles and “staged” them in the entryway for easy retrieval. We’ve begun planning little projects here and there, I have a new idea on how to subvert the deer and grow tulips. We will relax in the comfort and confines of my 1969 rambler for another year, maybe more, and wait for the good stuff to come on the market.

I don’t need Tiffany’s — but I’m not shopping the flea market, either.

Numbers & Life

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I am led to the conclusion that the word “numbers” starts with “numb” because you must learn to make yourself numb to tolerate them. This comes to you from someone who plays with numbers all day long. Numbers are not currently my friend.

Selling your house in a buyer’s market is a bit like online dating: you find the *best* picture(s) of yourself, you present the best face, you clean yourself up and dress yourself up for every date or even phone call, and you make yourself hyperavailable. Any sign of interest (Oh he WINKED AT ME!) is immediate grounds for hyperanalysis and contingency planning, any sign of disinterest is grounds for beating yourself up.

If selling your house is online dating, an open house is speed dating. For a three hour period random folks walk through your house, possibly attended by a realtor, and you have no idea if you managed to get across what you wanted to in that space.

Pricing your house is a whole other fresh level of hell. Again: I’ve been an analyst by trade. So when our realtor provided a Comparative Market Analysis (CMA), I of course ran my own numbers against it. Someone spent an awful lot of time on their algorithm, and it’s mostly right. I will point out that the numbers my CMA told me I would get back in January (yes, it’s been that long of a process) were much different from the ones I got in March, and again in April. The housing market is expected to drop 10% from December numbers and the pricing of my house shows it. Then there were unforeseen expenses — new carpeting and pad (very much needed it) and fresh coats of paint — that dipped into perceived net equity. Naturally,  I have a “drop dead” number — everyone does — and thankfully I’m not there yet. Having had to drop my house by $15k after 2 weeks (courtesy of two new listings, one foreclosed), is enough to send my Excel models into ‘not responding’. Pricing your house and dropping the price is that part of dating where you decide just how far you’re willing to lower your standards to get dinner, be in a relationship, or get laid.

Living in a staged house is both more and less of a pain than you would expect. The painful parts are the upkeep — done with that glass of water? Put it in the dishwasher — no, not the sink, no, not the coffee table or bedside table. Done with that magazine? Put it back in the display. Done with the remote controls? Hide them. Leaving the house? Open all the curtains, leave lights on. Need to do laundry? Do it after 8pm and get it all done and put away so no one sees it.  Have yard service? Make sure they come during “off” times so no one sees them (your house apparently is supposed to be fabulous without effort). Glass coffee and dining table tops are not your friend in this instance, and that’s precisely what we have. Oh, and there are spare hand towels in each bathroom, because the “good” ones are wrapped in raffia — the spares get hidden before you leave. Hide all of your soap dispensers, unless they’re decorative. Wipe down every surface, every day.

The less painful parts are that you don’t experience clutter, ever. It’s hard to have any clutter when you must even hide your keys, or your glasses. Also, your house is nearly always ready for a photo shoot, which the OCD narcissist in me enjoys. Finally, you learn you don’t need that much stuff when most of it is boxed up in the garage or under the house. I miss my books but movies have gone so much by the wayside that the male person and I are considering abandoning cable altogether, and having to keep a pristine clean fridge means you’re better about eating leftovers.

The good news is shortly we shall be on the flip side of this buyer’s market, as we will be buyers. We can expect someone else to go through all of that dating nervousness and hassle, we go from being the pursuer to the pursued. And when that happens, I’m bringing my black light for the carpet, and tsk-tsking older windows. I may wink at the ones I like, though.

The Things One Does For Money

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Instead of run/walk/limp, Sunday featured a run/walk/run. I managed to complete with a time of 10 minute miles. But let’s be honest, that’s not what you’re here for. You’re here to see how the tattooing went.

The henna was applied on Thursday by Katie Bachand, and she is a lovely lady. She makes the henna herself, and adds essential oils, so instead of smelling all chemically I smelled like a spa. One interesting thing about henna is that when it is applied it is much like a mask: it’s gloopy, then it dries, and then it flakes off leaving little “henna boogers” everywhere. If a booger drops and gets remoistened, it will stain whatever it drops. I will remind you I just got new white carpet.

It’s fine, no henna boogers. I couldn’t resist adding that measure of suspense.

Here’s what was done on Thursday, and how it turned out on the day of the race:

I still have them with me, as the henna will take up to 4 weeks to fade.
 
I was sincerely thinking about shaving my head for an upcoming 3 day bike ride in September, however, it looks like two of the days are not what I though they were, so I backed out. No head shaving for me.
 
Unless I find another just cause.

Cohabitation, Part II

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When I was a young lass (so many, many years ago) I cohabitated with a male person who then became my husband. All of my friends were cohabitating too. And, at 22, your notion of what is irritating or inconvenient is much different from the notions you have fifteen years later.

There has been not one debate over toilet paper roll placement (paper goes OVER THE TOP), toothpaste tube squeeze methodology (I’m not touching this), bed-making efficacy, or dishes. There have been no lengthy discussions over the cat box, feeding of the cat, or locating the cat (the cat likes to hide).  There have been no concerns about money, or time apart, or time together.

In a large part, the things I have to get used to are the things that never occurred to me.

Leftovers, for one. As a mom of one (who goes to his father’s house 3 nights per week), leftovers in the fridge mean lunch– or even dinner– for the next day is taken care of. Bankable food. Thanks to folks in from out of town, and a disinclination to cook after you’ve moved furniture around all day (all the furniture that was left in the house was crammed into my 12×12 dining room), we had Indian leftovers and Italian leftovers.

They never stood a chance. I’m not saying Lobster Carbonara isn’t a perfectly acceptable breakfast item, I’m just saying that if my choice were that or cereal I’d eat the cereal.

Then there’s the GIGO law: Garbage In, Garbage Out. Literally. When the Male Person asked me when Recycling was, I told him it was on Thursday. However, I did not mention that Trash Day and Yardwaste Day are on the same day. “How come the Recycling bin is at the curb?” I inquired. “It’s recycling day, I thought you said.” “Well, why didn’t you take the trash and yardwaste out with it?” “Because you didn’t tell me that was the same day.”

Or, like the time we went to go yell at Lowes. I had ordered new basement doors — my basement doors are an odd size and come with measurements that suffix with “3/16” and so forth — and they came in incorrectly. After procuring the receipt, copy of submitted measurements, etc., and piling them neatly in the “man area” of the counter, I sauntered down to the truck and asked him if he needed help with the doors. He said no, so I went and sat in the truck. As we readied to depart, he asked me if I had the paperwork, and I said “No.” And he looked at me as though I was from Mars.

It’s fair to point out I may have been. I have no idea *why* I just assumed he’d take the paperwork, because after all he was the one to do the measuring and so, in my semi-logical brain it fitted that he’d get the paperwork. How that was supposed to manifest itself into his hands from the kitchen fifty yards away was not part of the equation.

Taking two people who have lived essentially “alone” for a period of time and having them live together is an interesting social experiment. It is also an exercise in patience, something I’ve been short of as of late. (You have your house torn up for 4 days straight and see how well you function). (Also, the IHOP in Bellevue does not have cheese blintzes, so if like me you made a special trip to get a fix to kinda calm you down? Don’t do it.)  As we move to Phase III of Operation Super Secret Project, I expect to be more patient. After all, my house is together.

If only I could get over the insurgence of forest-green towels. Really.