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.

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.