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.

Cost, Quality, and the Professional

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I recently finished a book called “Spend Shift” (note to self, update Goodreads) in which the basic tenet is in the ‘post recession’ USA spending habits have fundamentally changed. This is not to say that Jon Doe is not spending money on things altogether (like, *cough*, travel), but that he is spending more prudently: he will closely evaluate cost vs. star rating, he will check in the amenities to see who offers free breakfast or spa credit. He will leverage sites like Trip Advisor and Kayak, he will check the hotel photos from Expedia to the hotel’s own site. He will once again evaluate the cost, and then make his decision.  Ultimately what helps him decide is how much he trusts the data that he has based his research off of, because that helps him evaluate the quality (subjective) from the cost (objective).

On Saturday I sat myself in my hairdresser’s chair for the fifth time we’ve ever seen each other. She had 4 hours to do whatever she wanted, period. I gave her no limits on cut, color, style, maintenance, etc. I trusted her to know enough through our history and through her training as to what would be best. 

The latter paragraph looks to be a complete non sequitur, but it is not. Allow me to explain:

There is too often the temptation to do-it-yourself or look to the least expensive option when looking at an expenditure.  Do we really need to hire an electrician to move a lightswitch? Well no probably not. Do we need to hire an electrician to go crawling through our attic and reposition seven can lights and rewire our breaker box? Yes. Do you hire the least expensive electrician you can find? No. Why not? Because you don’t want your house to burn down from a short circuit. You are very likely to NOT pick the cheapest electrician, and you are very likely to use subjective data (referrals, ad space, reviews) to help you determine if the electrician is worth their (objective) cost.

At some point you have to trust in the research you’ve done and the professional to do their job. After four previously successful sessions with Kursten and having her do things to my hair that I asked her to — and I have not been to hair school nor would I be good at cutting/designing hair on anyone — I figured it’s about time to let the professional do her job. I realized the cost having been to her before, and decided the cost was worth it; and I had enough personal (subjective) data to feel comfortable in my decision. (By the bye, it looks fantastic).

In short: good decisions are made with attention to both objective and subjective data. Solely the former you’re narrow (and not as likely to enjoy the results), solely the latter you’re foolish (and likely poorer in the pocket).

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Real Estate Epitaph

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Ok, ok, we all know my house went on the market. Five weeks later it went off, not through any incompetence of my realtors — I got an offer, tho it was not attractive it was an offer — but through a dearth of attractive real estate.

Please, please, if you have a deity or light candles, please pray and/or light because I am getting hounded. Daily.

Roughly twelve times each morning I receive a call to my only real number — my cell phone — from some aspiring realtor who is just all ready to “help me out” because “my old team couldn’t”. It borderlines on harassment, and on Wednesday morning I changed my voicemail greeting to say, “Hi. If  you’re calling about the house at 1108 216th Avenue NE, it’s not for sale, no we don’t want to sell it; we intend to live in it for quite some time. We don’t want any realtor help. So quit calling”.  That seems to have done the trick as I don’t often get repeat calls.

Today, I finally lost it. It was 10:15, and the seventh call of the day came in. I paused the gal in the midst of her sell speech and said, “I am not interested in a realtor. But could you help me? Is there any way I can stop this? Because I’m getting harassed, multiple calls per day, and I need it to stop. I am seriously considering legal action.”

Bless her, she let me know in a very composed fashion that my previous realtors should have made notes in the MLS before closing it out, and that even they can’t change it now, and that I can call the Northwest MLS to have them change it, BUT anyone who’s downloaded my information before today will not have those notes. So in short, deal with it.

In other news today, my brand new boss (today was day 5) confirmed that the word that comes up most often when discussing the Bobbie is… “frank”. Fortunately he’s French, as is my skip level. To realize why this is fortunate, look up the word history of “France” — comes from the same latin root word for “frank”. So if I am not of France, perhaps I’m just french enough in essence. Mas oui.

When next I blog, it will be about less trivial things. I hope.

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.

Everybody’s Selling Something

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My house is on the market.

No, this isn’t an homage or reference to a “Company Men” instance, in fact, life is good at the Big Travel Company. But the fact of the matter is my house and its square footage (interior, not so much exterior) isn’t enough for Myself, Boy, Man Person, and His Cat. Honestly, it’s the Cat that needs the square footage.

Having taken most of the unused furnishings and the entirety of my 2k+ volume library and boxed them up, tetris-style, into my garage, I can no longer park in it. Having replaced the carpet and repainted much of the interior, the house is officially on the market. This is a demoralizing, un-fun event, on several levels.

First, there is the fact that one needs to work with a realtor. In a buyer’s market, selling a house is a pain in the butt, and it’s a double pain in the butt if you’re a hyperanalytic metrics fiend. I can tell you right now the selling stats of every realtor who’s been through this house, the days on the market of each competitor to this house, and the pros/cons to my place vs. my comp set. I can also tell you it astounded me, too, that the competitor house listing at 35k more than mine that had their hot tub in the front yard (mine was in back) and had 100square foot less and about 1/3 the acreage just went pending. I have no idea why. Your realtor is there to guide you through this, mine is guiding me, but that doesn’t mean that her years of experience and my years of analysis don’t clash occasionally.

Second, there is the fact that your house is no longer your home — it is NO ONE’S home. It’s staged. Ever live in a staged house? It’s seriously un-fun. First off, staged houses do not admit that people wash their hands, so 2/3 of the bathrooms and the kitchen have the soap dispensers hidden. Also, because people do not wash their hands, the towels in those areas can totally be wrapped in raffia — no point in drying hands that haven’t been washed. Somehow it is still okay to have toilet paper in the bathrooms, apparently we all acknowledge that people poo. They just magically have sanitary hands afterwards. 

In a staged house, your TV will be at an angle that home-theater experts will declare is “exactly wrong”, you will have dishes in areas that you never had dishes (over the fireplace??), you will have angled “uplights” and fake ficus, place settings on the never-used breakfast bar and feature cards touting the wonderfulness of your RV parking (hey, mine has coax and full hookups!). Your glass coffee table and dining table (they aren’t really mine, in a way) will be cleaned daily (as will your stovetop) JUST IN CASE folks show up to view your house.

About that: item 3,492 that sucks about having your house on the market? Realtors who leave messages insisting they will show your house between 11 and 1, and then don’t. Or show up early or late. Or call with 5 minutes’ notice.

You would think the yummy prospect of homebuying (with a staggering pre-approval) would take the sting out of this: it doesn’t, quite. It’s not that we haven’t found some amazing places (we have — and considering that our search radius is 1.5 miles, that’s impressive). It’s not that we haven’t created a pecking order (we have a solid #1). It’s that there are so many that come *close* but are either oddly laid out or have too much space or have too little space or have EVERY ROOM angled. Paint and cabinets are relatively easily ameliorated, bones of a house are not. I tell you what though: anyone who wants a beige and brick 2-car garage house that looks like every other one on its block is TOTALLY in luck.

This also brings up a different sort of language you speak with your Significant Other. You start to refer to housing prospects by such monikers as “619 Dog Pee” (it was going for 619, the garage smelled of Dog Pee) or “Rambler Weird Kitchen” (nuff said) or “Eat Pray Love” (you don’t want to know). And then you need to explain the relative merits of things that excite you: “Oh, okay. So finding a house with a greenhouse is like you finding one with a complete home cinema already wired and all tech stays”. “Marble slab countertops = good, marble tile = bad. I would explain why but it’s like you explaining why one projector is so much better than the other. Just trust me.” 

I totally get that these are great problems to have. And ultimately there are things I will not be flexible on — location, for example. There are things he will not be flexible on — space, for example. If it means we are left in this house for another year while we wait for someone to transfer or bail, that’s fine.

I have cranberry juice in my crystal decanter, and artfully done throws on each bed; so I cannot live like this for a year or even several months.

I’m on a Plane… I can complain…

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(written on Cinco de Mayo at 35k feet):

I have a massive issue with airlines that don’t offer wifi on all of their flights. I’m sitting here, United, on a 3 hour direct flight and couldn’t help but notice that my personal productivity has gone down the drain.

Part of the problem is I am one of these people whose brain is always on. Always. I have trouble going to bed at night sometimes because it’s on, and if I get up in the middle of the night then it’s 2:1 I won’t be able to sleep for an hour or two because the brain is on. I’m not even remotely suggesting what is running through it at any given time is useful: oftentimes it ranges from work-related (useful!) kid-related (useful!) or PTA related (useful!) to an in-depth analysis of when I last got a pedicure and if I really should go and get one in the next few days (so! not! useful!).

For me, getting to the airport early means I can leverage free-wifi and the ubiquitous Starbucks. Today’s blog post is courtesy of a work-provided venti iced caramel latte. It’s technically decaf but I think that isn’t doing much to stem the tide of angst. While I got lots done in my hour-after-security-before-last-minute-boarding, I am stuck on this plane with no access to anything useful. Cloud computing, the idea that you can access *your stuff* from anywhere, because it’s not tied to a given machine, has one fatal flaw: you need to have internets to get to it. And I have none.

Instead I have sat and watched the movie Red again (pretty good, actually funnier the second time around), paid $9 for in-flight Tapas (also surprisingly good), and seethed at all of the things I could be doing right now. Mostly work.

People often ask me what I do. My official title is: Director of Business Development & Initiatives, Americas. I can write that here because it’s on my Linked In. But that title doesn’t really tell you what I do, and really? I can’t tell you what I do. Not in a, “I’d have to kill you”/CIA sort of way; it’s more like a “I don’t want to get fired” kind of way. Easily twenty-five percent of the projects I work on either do not come to fruition (we go down the path and discover it’s an untenable or impractical one) or would have no external significance whatsoever. The other seventy-five are either corporate-specific (the travel industry is different from, say, the financial services industry) and would require you to be in the industry to get what I was driving at (or have a 2-hour primer on the topic), OR are very very shiny and I can’t talk about them. I really do mean that.

From a professional standpoint, there is a measure of tooting one’s own horn that is of value, both internally and externally to your company. Internally it’s valuable to work your way up and over (or over and up as it is sometimes done); externally it’s valuable to show a prospective new employer what you are capable of. I cannot, however, post about most of what I do.

Right now for example, I’m on a flight. I’m going to a place where I will need to discuss a business and operational plan, as well as the associated human and project management associated with that. Sounds very nebulous. Next week I have a meeting about a method of incentivizing people to do something extraneous to their job description without harming the parts of their job that are IN their description. And then there’s the process tree chasing — it’s official that X leads to Y, but unofficially we all know it routes to Z who then checks with A (or B) and if it meets condition C then it will never ever go to Y.

See? It doesn’t help the discussion along at all. Knowing that I can’t further any of it, though, because I’m on a plane, is sad.

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.