Coming Unmoored

(Note: Stephanie can be reached at stephanie.reiley@gmail.com)

Simply put, this blog is about my attempts to rebuild/redesign my life in a Portland floating home. Below is more about me and people you are likely to read about in my Blog…

Probably More Than You Ever Wanted to Know About Me

Whatever complaints I may have about my life, it has certainly never been boring.

At various times, I’m made my living as a historical romance writer, one of the first ten employees at a successful dot.com venture, the manager of a $10 million dollar Customer Satisfaction program, and as a Competitive Intelligence analyst. I currently work as a consultant working primarily with banks.

I grew up in Michigan and moved to Arizona directly after college, where I have lived all my adult life (until my move-in-progress to Portland).

Four years ago, I was living in Phoenix and feeling pretty on top of the world. I had a good job. I owned my own home. And I just met the person I thought was Mr. Right.

David was charming, romantic, Ivy-League educated, a trust-fund baby, and successful in his own right. He was–and quite honestly, still is–probably the most dynamic, unique, interesting person I ever met.  (David stands a decent shot at being awarded the Nobel Prize for Economics at some point in his lifetime.  He’s that level of brilliant.)  And, for whatever reason, he seemed to think I was the perfect person for him, too.

Our relationship progressed, and David convinced me to move in to his place in Tucson. He was a professor with tenure and an endowed chair making twice what I was salary-wise. Unfortunately, my job wasn’t willing to consider me either telecommuting or doing some sort of flex schedule. So, in order to relocate, I had to resign my position. I thought the move made sense at the time. I was hoping to have children before I got too old, and wanted to see if David and I could really make a go of it.

Unfortunately, I discovered there wasn’t much for me in the job market in Tucson. Plus I’d put my own place on the market when I moved down. In a very short period of time I’d lost many of the things that I’d relied on to define my identity–my job, my home, and close connections with my friends in Phoenix.

I think, to some degree, everyone goes through something similar when they move. In my case, though, I ended up getting in up to my eyeballs into a relationship that was extremely emotionally turbulent and, as time went on, physically violent, as well. It was just a very bad situation all the way around. Not having an external support system or structure to my life made it that much harder to reach out for help.

As things got progressively worse, I tried to lose myself in the material aspects of our life in an attempt to find some sort of comfort. As David’s wife, I had a VERY comfortable existence. We lived in a 3,000+ square foot adobe located in the Catalina Foothills. We traveled extensively–to the point that I was a Premier member on two different airlines. We dropped $1,000 on dinners in Paris and spent at least $30,000 a month on “general living expenses”.

Near the end, I was averaging somewhere between $5,000 and $10,000 a month on clothing and jewelry. Much of which, I had to struggle to get around to taking out of the mail order boxes. I bought so much stuff online that I think we received roughly ten different catalogs a day in the mail.

I imagine that’s got to sound good on paper. I can picture some of you snidely saying: “Aww. Poor baby. My heart bleeds for you.” But, not only did none of that stuff bring me any comfort, it actually increased my level of misery. I literally felt like I was choking to death in a sea of meaningless stuff. And I hated myself for continuing to buy it.

Finally, I stopped trying to hide behind vast quantities of stuff and dealt with the problems at hand. A year and half into my marriage, I finally found the strength to leave. It took the better part of another year for the divorce to be final.

I have spent this last spring doing some real soul-searching about what I would like my life to look like going forward. And this I know for sure: I want something far more peaceful and simple than what it’s been for the last several years. I want to shed the miserable clutter, both emotional and physical.

The Co-author: Rumi

Rumi is my eight-month-old Balinese cat. I honestly don’t think I could have made it through my separation and divorce if he hadn’t entered my life when he did.

At probably the darkest point in the legal battle last year, when my husband’s high-powered attorney was busy earning his fee doing everything in his power to make my life thoroughly miserable, I lost my 17-year-old cat, D’Artagnan to a respiratory infection. I got D’Artagnan straight out of college and he was with me all of my adult life.

Having to drive my cat to the vet at 11 o’clock at night by myself to put him to sleep after he’d suffered a stroke, I felt completely, overwhelmingly alone. (Well, alone, other than my husband’s private investigator trailing after me in case I was up to anything interesting.) It was, hands down, one of the worst moments of my life.

Losing D’Artagnan was the last straw in a already terrible year. After that, I spent 99% of my waking hours simply curled up on my couch, doing nothing for the next two months. I didn’t even have the energy to cry. Every couple of days, my mail lady would bring my overflowing stack of mail to my door–which mainly consisted of legal proceedings–and that was pretty much it.

Somewhere at about the two-month mark a friend told me about a Balinese breeder in town who had a litter of kittens and encouraged me to “just go take a look”. I’m about as capable of “just going and taking a look” at kittens and not returning home with one as Paris Hilton would be trying the same thing with purses in a Gucci store.

And that was how Rumi entered my life. (For a longer version of how I came home with Rumi, you can go here.)

For those of you who may be unfamiliar with what a Balinese cat is, picture a long-haired, exceptionally soft-furred Siamese. Like their Siamese kin, they tend to be loud and extremely generous with their opinions. In addition, Balinese are referred to in cat circles as “Velcro cats”. They bond fiercely with their owners and tend to want to remain in physical contact as much as possible.

Rumi is no exception to any of these traits. He has a piercing yowl, holds strong opinions on just about everything under the sun, and wants to be permanently planted in my lap. I spent many hours this past summer with a small, white kitten curled up over my heart, purring loudly, trying what he knew to do to heal what he sensed was broken. This probably did nothing to discourage his tendencies to want to be physically attached to me at all times.

On the up-side, I’ve drawn an enormous amount of strength and comfort from Rumi’s presence. On the down-side, as I’ve slowly pulled my life back together, I’ve discovered it makes it difficult to accomplish things normal human things again like trying to do laundry or make it through a phone interview for a job (especially since he likes to try to chat with anyone who happens to call). More than one recruiter has thought I had an infant in the background when Rumi has been throwing a yowling temper tantrum that he doesn’t have my undivided attention.

Like most smitten cat owners, I think my cat is the coolest one ever. In my case, though, it’s absolutely true. (I mean, who else has a cat with a passion for imported beer and Jim Butcher novels?) So odds are good you’ll hear more about Rumi in the future.

The Long-Suffering Boyfriend: Charlie

Charlie and I have been friends for roughly ten years. Back in 2002, we tried dating for about a year without great success. We both have our personal takes on why things didn’t work back then. (I argue that he was WAY too damn stiff-lipped, British, and incapable of verbalizing what the hell he wanted from me. He says I was just plain crazy.) Whatever our reasons, we chose to end things and I proceeded to date David on the rebound. Charlie also moved on pretty quickly to a live-in situation with someone else.

The two of us remained friendly and sent each other notes a couple of times a year. When we both found ourselves single again last spring, we started talking on a more regular basis. When I had to go home last summer and help my mother for two weeks through her hip surgery, Charlie served as my lifeline, keeping me sane. Shortly after that, we found ourselves in Dallas at the same time and had dinner together. After that, we continued to turn up at an increasing number of events at the same location and time (which is pretty good considering we live in different states). Sometime around Christmas, we finally admitted to both ourselves and friends that we were dating again.

Charlie is 6 foot 7 inches tall, British, charming as all hell, and thoroughly an extrovert. He loves nothing better than to spend the night out with 40 of his closest friends being the life of the party. I, on the other hand, would far prefer to wallow in ratty, flannel pajama’s at home curled up with my cat and a good book. I’d rather be waxed from head to toe than have to make small talk with a room full of strangers. (Although, I do love small gatherings of friends.)

If you want a quick character sketch of Charlie and you like to read, he’s friends with the author Jim Butcher and was the original inspiration for the character Harry Dresden.

Charlie and I are both fiercely competitive. This can be interesting in that we first met across the field from one another at a fencing match, and both have continued to compete. We both argue, quite convincingly about why we’re the stronger fencer. This dynamic tends to follow us across most situations like playing Scrabble, debating who has the cushier job, and determining who gets control of the TV remote.

Charlie comes from a family of Olympic medalists in rowing. His older sister won a Bronze medal in the last Summer games. He works as a very high-end security wonk and spends a good part of each week traveling across the US to see clients. He lives in Albuquerque. But, quite honestly, it’s hard to tell that as little as he’s home. Charlie couldn’t manage to keep an air fern alive he’s home so rarely. To be honest, I’m not sure how Charlie keeps Charlie alive. Usually, the only staple in his kitchen when I go to visit is very bad Lipton English Breakfast Tea.

I think Charlie knows me, serious flaws and all, about as well as anyone alive. And, for whatever reason, he loves me. Most days that realization takes my breath away. I am profoundly grateful he’s a part of my life.

Charlie is definitely amongst the group of family and friends who’s been puzzled by my current fascination with floating homes and decision to relocate to Portland. But, in spite of his confusion, and some level of disappointment that I didn’t choose to join him in Albuquerque, he’s doing his best to be supportive of the move. This is a Very Good Thing both because I want my relationship with Charlie to continue to work and because I really am going to need his help to get my damn furniture down the freaking 100+ foot ramp and dock to my new place.

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