Falling In and Out of Love

My love affair with Houston has been waning, as many of you reading my blog have already surmised. I don't have many friends here and none of them are close friends. I don't have work. And it gets too hot and humid for too long for my taste in the summer. And it has giant roaches.

That being said, I have a terrific therapist and psychiatrist. I am involved with an interesting non-profit for which I do both volunteer and paid work. Rarely is there snow and ice in the winter.

I know that the friends part is due largely because I haven't gotten involved in a lot of things. I have gone to professional meetings and networking lunches and met a couple of women there, but they have drifted away. I'm involved with the non-profit and enjoy the people I know through there, but only a couple of them socialize with me and that is rarely. So I guess I have tried.

I think I'm noticing this more since my trip to Oregon. I got to see several friends (and was perhaps busier than was necessary for a vacation). I got to see the ocean again, which I love. I even imagined the sound of gulls my first morning back in Houston. 

In Hiding

Something happens to me when my anxiety hits a certain level: I stop going out unless I have to. I don't leave for a walk or just to be outside of my apartment. I leave for work — when I have some — and for medical appointments. Even leaving to go get a haircut, pick up prescriptions, or get groceries require herculean effort. If I couldn't pace around in my apartment, dance, and do minor exercises, I'd get no exercise at all.

This began last year but I think it's worse this year. The last time it happened was when I was in my early 30s. I'd bought my house, which was my haven, and both work and my ex-boyfriend had become serious stressors in my life, to the extent that I took a couple of months off of work due to mental health issues (this was the boss from hell, an exceptional person at making my life miserable). Even when I was going to work, I was going out in other ways less and less until I'd cancelled on my girlfriends once too many times. They came to the house and used the house key that I had given each of them to come in, make sure I was okay, and forcibly socialize me.

There is currently no one to come do that to me here and now. I don't think I'm that bad, either: I would gladly leave for a job interview and, if necessary, commute to work. I'm trying to get one friend to get together. I do leave here for lunches out with friends (I forgot that in the first paragraph).

Why do I hide inside? Fear. Anxiety. If I stay in the apartment, it's less likely that something bad will happen, so my mind whispers to me. I know that's crap ... staying home would not have kept my mom from dying ... but my mind is persuasive and I want to believe that there is something I can do to stay safe.

Home

What and where is home? Much has been written about it: Home is where you hang your hat, home is that place where they have to take you in, home is where the heart is.

For me, I guess it was the last one. The problem being that my heart was with my mother. She was also my center and my anchor (this goes back to my lack of self-differentiation from her). So when she died, there went home, center, and anchor. 

I could pretend that I had a home when I went to visit the house and check it out. I called it "my house." But although I still felt very comfortable there, it was empty besides me.

What about Houston? you might ask. Well, I like it well enough (although the early high temperatures this year are not making me any happier than the flooding this winter). But I don't have friends to do things with much. I have some commitment issues, so my heart isn't really here.

Ms. X and the Storage Bins of Doom

The morning dawned bright with promise, so I was told when I wandered over to my neighbors' at 10 am. The morning was still bright, but dawn was long gone, and so soon would be my neighbors. We were still yelling our good-byes as I clawed my way through the short path between our houses (Note to self: tell the yard lady to trim back the hedge). 

And there she stood by my front door — Xatrax, come all the way from her hidden compound near Portland, to help me store irreplaceable items inside inconsequential-seeming plastic bins. We were continuing the work begun by my previous assistant and myself just days before. With the preternatural intuition that she is known for, Ms. X knew that without her help, my project was poised for failure. I beamed with gratitude so strongly that Ms. X had to bat it away from her face like a fog of gnats.

"Yes, yes, you're welcome. Shall we get down to work? Your project is too vital to let it fail," she said. Grabbing her ever-present gear bag, she ushered me into my house, letting the screen door slam closed behind her. From the tips of her dark, skull-hugging 'do to the soles of her history-encrusted boots, Ms. X radiated "can-do" ... and the super-secret power of the FGB vibe.

Our first forays showed that my assistant Kem had gone further toward my project's end than I had first thought. Areas of action were sharply defined by lime paper and cobalt ink — both highly necessary ingredients in my plans. Leaving me to my mumbled thoughts — No, this stays here, right? Oh lordy, we never even looked there — Xatrax efficiently collected what I pulled out of nooks and crannies and gathered it all in the staging area.

Then it was time. I whipped out the bubble wrap and Xatrax slid free her lethal knife and we threw ourselves at the suspiciously innocuous-looking plastic bins in red and blue. By tag-teaming, a little cutting, some tight wrapping, and a lot of re-positioning, we filled those bins efficiently and effectively. As for the infamous Dancing Ladies, a little bright yellow duck tape from Ms. X's bag was enough to hold them where we wanted them. And thanks to her magical sparkly silver pen, we know what is in which bin. No surprise is a good surprise, is what I say.

There remain a few outliers lying low about the house that don't fit in a bin or were forgotten during the choreographed mayhem of earlier, but we did a lot of work and I rewarded us both with a leisurely, talk-filled lunch of BLTs from Subway. 

After our energizing and nutritious lunch, I discovered that there was no work remaining to do at this stage. This left us with an unanticipated significant amount of time left before Ms. X had to return to her home in the wilds of a Portland suburb. So what to do with all that time?

THE BEACH!!!!

Yes, it was another perfect day at the beach and I so wanted to impress the great Xatrax with my physical strength as well as my mental prowess that I poured my remaining energy into keeping up (mostly) with Ms. X, even tho' I've spent most of the last year hanging out on a couch. I don't know for sure how far we walked, only that it was a really, really long way great distance and my legs ached. A lot. (I know I would have to pay for this unaccustomed physical activity tomorrow, but I conceived the plan to just walk again on the new day and the new pain will simply blend into the existing pain so I won't notice it. Brilliant!) It was awesomely fun a tremendous experience, even when I got my shoes, socks, and the bottom four inches of my jeans wet because it turns out I can't actually jump anymore. (Gotta fix that before the Zombiepocalypse!) Xatrax cheated: her boots are Goretex.

Talking for hours with a girlfriend another super-power is a comfort I've missed, comfortable even if the friendship is still new and there is so much initial stuff to learn about each other. We packed. We talked. We ate. We talked. We walked down 137 steps and across a wide expanse of soft sand and we talked. 

We walked and talked (except when I was stopped and panting) all the way down the beach from 21st to the Wayside, which Google Maps says is approximately 1 mile. When you are walking on mostly soft sand in one direction, it's more than one mile. When you are walking uphill in the other direction, it's more than one mile. Those are my rules. So by my rules, we walked at least 3 or 4 miles. Ms. X very kindly lounged on a park bench with me as I regained my strength, commenting that she, too, needed a rest. The woman's legendary graciousness is a truth.

We looked at kites and tacky souvenirs, then I bought chocolate and Xatrax bought caramel corn and we carried our treats and our weary bodies uphill back to the house. After a too-brief leave-taking, the amazing Ms. X, woman of mystery and a really great hat, swept away in her little Black Soul, bearing sand and caramel corn to the incomparable Mr. X, and leaving me nursing sore calves, sore thighs, sore feet, sore achilles tendons, sunburned cheeks ....

Thanks to Xatrax, I now have no worries. My plan will succeed. It will change lives and turn around economies. Most importantly of all — it will finally be all over.

Beach-Happy

Even in the midst of anxiety- and angst-inducing situation and activity, I am smiling and I feel like Champagne — little bubbles are starting at my toes and tickling their way upward.

Why? Because I'm beach-happy. It's kind of like being slap-happy, except that I've been "slapped" by being at the beach.

I took a walk today, longer and harder than any of the (extremely few lately) walks I've taken in Houston. There are no hills in Houston. I walked the seven-or-so-story stairway down the bluff to the beach, then walked along the soft sand wayyyy out to the firmer sand. Then I played tag with the waves because it was almost high tide and the water kept changing the edge of the firm sand. I took pictures of waves. I watched the people and dogs enjoying the sun and sand and waves. I watched the waves. And I just couldn't stop smiling. 

You might think that means I should really be living at the beach, and I couldn't say you're wrong. But note that I am ecstatic on a sunny day at the beach. I am emphatically not ecstatic on a gray, windy, wet day at the beach, except on occasion. 

If I could live anywhere I wanted and had the money/income/ situation to do so, I would live at the beach, but I would probably move further south. Supposedly it is warmer and less gloomy on the southern Oregon Coast ... I've never been there. And I've never been on the East Coast beaches.

I have things to do in Houston; I am not ready to leave there. However, I can easily see myself continuing to live and work in Houston, and visiting the Oregon Coast throughout the stormy parts of the year (the Autumn storms are amazing) and living here all summer, because summer is hell in Houston.

Being at the beach, in good weather or during torrential storms, makes me very, very happy. Which is why I feel like a cross between a grinning fool and a very fine bottle of Champagne.

Territorial

I spent today marking my territory. Instead of pee, I used lime green post-it notes and a blue gel pen.

The friend who was helping me suggested I mark items before beginning The Great Adventure in Packing. Smart woman, that Kem. So we wandered thru much of the house marking stuff to be sent to me in Houston, to go into storage for me (and a couple of things for my aunt), and then marked things for the estate sale as $ for Skye or $ for Carolyn. It was a useful day, complete with lunch from Subway and lots of talking. 

All that remains are the two smaller bedrooms, although there is a lot of stuff in one of the closets. Once all the marking is complete, then the packing can begin!

I imagine I'll begin some of the packing tomorrow, after a break and perhaps a walk on the beach. Then my friend Glynis will be here all day Monday; I imagine we will finish most if not all of the rest. Plus a walk on the beach.

The movers come Tuesday to swap stuff in and out of storage. Then Wednesday I begin to go thru my own storage unit so I can make room for whatever is left in the second storage unit.

Universe, please give me enough money so I can afford a larger living space and be able to move the things in my storage unit in Oregon to my home in Houston. Really, I've spent more than enough money on storage. And, no, getting my portion of the estate will not be the money I'm asking for. See yesterday's post and my comment for why.

I'm tired and should consider going to bed very soon. I imagine I will feel like this most days that I am here. (Hey Merry! Come join me at the beach!) But it's a good kind of tired. It's a "I've been on my feet almost all day and accomplished a lot" kind of tired. And I am very grateful that I had help; I couldn't have accomplished half of what I did without it.

The Estate Saga

Finally, I am near the end of my time as Executor of the Estate. It hasn't been fun and I haven't been great at it, but nothing's blown up and I made it through alive. (I was going to say "no one died" but that isn't quite accurate.)

I've got many tasks to accomplish in less than two weeks and I'm hoping for help that may not manifest for my hardest task. I thought to myself, what else can I do to make my life easier? That thought ran away as fast as it could, so I then decided I should blog about these next two weeks. Because it will all be so fun!

I flew into Portland Airport on Wednesday at about 11 am, but had to wait until 2 for the shuttle to the coast. A friend picked me up and took me to the store so I could buy some basic groceries, then brought me home. I ate ice cream for dinner; it just seemed the thing to do.

Thursday almost killed me: I spent the day and much of the night fearing and feeling as if I was going to barf. I stayed very still on the couch and I slept as much as I could. I did manage to get up long enough to see my realtor and sign a couple of things and talk. She rocks. She even volunteered to be "my place to stay" so I'm not losing the beach after all. 

My friend Sierra spent a few hours texting me amusing thoughts and pictures, and sent me a truly bad joke, just to amuse me and make me feel better. Sierra rocks, too.

Now it's Friday. I don't feel like barfing, but I'm being careful, which means I've accomplished nothing on my planned tasks. Nor did I walk on the beach. But I haven't moved backwards, so that's something. And the appraiser came by: they had better say that not only is this house worth what the buyers are paying for it but that they are getting a damned good deal! (Click through to see the interior shots, especially the living room and kitchen!)

As much as I hate giving up this house, both as my mom's home for 20 years and as my place to stay at the beach, I realized that I really couldn't live here on my own or keep it comfortably. It's my mom's home. Well, even tho' her second husband shared this home with her for more than half of that time, she re-did it after he died and it really is her house. I don't think I could ever make it my house, and it isn't exactly the house I'd buy if I were just out here picking out my own place. So it is okay that someone else will own it.

I also need to get over my anger and resentment over having to split the estate equally with the Steps. Here's why I'm angry and resentful: nothing in this house came from their father. When he and my mom got married, he had virtually nothing. My mom had a nice house and nice furniture that she bought with my dad. Second husband retired a year or two after marrying Mom and pretty much brought nothing money-wise to the marriage. Proceeds of the house my mom and dad bought allowed Mom and Second Husband to buy this house outright. And yet my mom, from some misguided feelings of being "fair," left equal shares of this house and its furnishings to her second husband's two daughters. And while they have both said a few times "let me know how I can help," they were empty offers because we all live in separate states and they weren't around or able to help me at all. Once the shares are distributed, they will add to the lives or retirements of the Steps, who have homes and jobs. My share will keep me from having to live in my car. In trying to be whatever her mind was thinking of as "fair," my mom practically left me hanging out to dry and was exceptionally unfair to her own daughter. Yeah, I really need to get over it. I just haven't figured out how yet.

I do love this house for many reasons, but not for the design or layout — it is pretty dark inside and completely misses most opportunities to bring light into the interior. (It truly is beautiful, it's just not my style.) I would happily take the kitchen and dining nook and place it into any house I ever live in again. It's within four or five blocks from the bluff overlooking the beach and out onto the ocean — with a several-story set of stairs down to the beach. And it's within walking distance of a grocery store and the main downtown strip, including my bank.

I'll continue the story of my love-hate affair with Lincoln City in another post. 

It's Friday night, and I'm signing off for the day.

Travel Tribulations and Exaltations

or How I came to the Coast, met Julie of JulieLand, and rediscovered the Need for Sleep

For those who don't already know, I flew from Houston to Oregon on the 18th and Julie promptly visited me here on the Coast. She arrived late Wednesday night, we stayed up way too late talking (plus I was already two hours behind and suffering from a 4- to 5-hour, broken sleep the night before — I don't always travel well), and she left Thursday about 8 pm. And we didn't accomplish nearly enough or spend enough time together! But much fun was had by all, and there was much rejoicing (and we didn't even have to eat the minstrels! — we did, however, eat dessert).

The fun began when I forgot to bring my cell phones with me. I discovered this delightful fact when I got out of my car at the Park 'n Fly lot in Houston. Too late to go back and get them (yes, there are two and no, I won't explain it right now) and how would I call someone to get them for me?

Portland's elevated walkway with clear "ceiling".

The line to check baggage was long. The line thru security made the baggage line look like a poser. A third of the way thru the security line and I was wishing for my cane; my lengthy exercise-free phase and my "oops, accidentally undernourished" streak made me weak and unready for such a long time standing. When I finally arrived at the gate, perfectly ready to upgrade to first class, the flight was not only full, it was already boarding! I typed up a couple of urgent emails and sent them off so people would know that I had no phones. It has been (and continues to be) Very Uncomfortable.

Long flight, interesting seat mate, too little room, got a kink in my back (not the good kind and I'm still working on it). Waited three hours for the shuttle out to the Coast, then half an hour for my ride home. At least the sun was shining. 

I got the basics of food, went home and exploded all over my bedroom (luggage here, clothing there). Then I proceeded to email Julie and nap until she arrived around 11. Ah, the wonderfully distinctive sound of the VW Bug (original) engine!

Julie was everything I imagined she'd be and more. We had the best time and we both talk a mile a minute when we are excited. We both adapted our sleep schedules. Then, instead of tromping thru the treasure cave (storage unit), we spent the day dealing with dead car battery, trying to charge it, getting new one. I think some of our activities were redundant, but that's okay.

Julie's the cute one. I'm the scary redhead.

While waiting for the car, we wandered around the shops nearby (one or two were highly interesting), then went home. At least Mom's house is within walking distance from the mechanic, a very useful aspect of that mechanic shop (besides being trustworthy and good at their job).

Then it was time to take a nap, then have dinner, and there went Julie, driving off into the darkness toward Eugene.

I'm already looking forward to this coming Wednesday and I'm trying to catch up on my sleep beforehand!

Now I'm off to rest up so I can write another blog post later!