Coming Unmoored

Well, with my latest trip to check on the progress of the house, I think I’ve finally grasped the full enormity of the task I’ve bitten off for myself. I just kept thinking it was going to be “just a few more weeks” until I could move in. But, the reality is, I suspect I won’t be looking at a habitable house until probably spring-time. Thankfully, Charlie seems less that heartbroken that I may have to keep crashing at his place through winter.

Now that I’m through my denial, I’ve stopped thinking of the improvements to the house as a “remodel” and started to call it what it is–pretty much a full-scale restoration of the existing structure.

Once we got done discussing all the work that still needs to be done, my contractor, Kenny, fixed me with the eerie, falcon-stare that seems common amongst water-folk and said, “You know, you probably should have just had me build you a house from scratch. It would have been cheaper and very likely quicker.”

I know he’s right. But, for starters, I had no idea just how much I was taking on with this project. And, more importantly, I fell in love with my little house. A I like the idea of saving a small piece of floating homes history rather than letting it get scrapped like so many others.

What’s been really neat about the project is that once the locals realize that I’ve really invested in the project and willing to do what needs to be done to do it right if I intend to save the place, they start getting excited about the project, too. The marina manager, Brian, was excited for me to see all the changes since my last visit. My contractor has been leaving the front door open for his workers and I suspect that several of the marina residents are taking regular peeks at the progress.

Anyway, the float and deck are done. As is the basic framing of my new home office where the boatwell used to be, and the new, rooftop deck on the house.

The next phase of the project will be a new roof, windows, doors, and siding. At that point, all the external work on the house should be done and it will (hopefully) be weather-tight for winter.

Here’s the latest round of pictures…

So, I was able to spend the last week working for Portland, which let me check in on the progress on my house. I spent the better part of two days planning the next two phases of renovations. More on that in another entry.

I just had to share that while I haven’t been able to enjoy set up housekeeping in my little place yet, I can take some small comfort in the fact that, apparently, some of my local “neighbors” have.

A seagull took advantage of the fact that my office-to-be (formerly the boat well) still doesn’t have windows to build a nest on the framing between the back room and bathroom, where cabinets had been ripped out.

I found that pretty amusing but one of my handymen, Gene, has an even better story…

Gene is a soft-spoken older Portlander who usually turns up garbed in what I’m starting to think of as the obligatory work ensemble of paint-stained jeans, ratty t-shirt, black belt, and baseball cap with fishing logo. Gene is a wizard with anything wood and frequently does framing for my current contractor, Kenny.

Anyway, last week Gene was busy working on the framing for the new rooftop deck. He goes to pry back a piece of siding and out fly 30-or-so, small, but very indignant, bats–straight at him. I don’t know who was more upset by the experience, Gene or the bats. Either way, poor Gene ended tottering backwards into the water.

That’s right. I apparently have a colony of bats living between the siding and walls of my house. I’d really like to know how my myopic inspector overlooked THAT little item.

I’ve always thought bats were interesting creatures. When I lived in Tucson, I never begrudged their drunken little evening parties where they’d clean out my hummingbird feeders or careen across the surface of the swimming pool at sunset gorging on bugs. I have to admit, though, that I’m a little less enamored with the thought of sharing the walls of my little house with them.

I had already planned on replacing the siding, which is in lousy shape. Discovering the presence of my furry little flying squatters, however, has just moved that project to the top of the priority list.

The guys are under instructions not to hurt the bats but to ask them, very politely but firmly, to find new diggs. The bats are welcome back next summer for evening drinks on the porch, of course.  They’re just not allowed to stay the night.

So I guess you could say that while some people have bats in their belfry, I, apparently, keep mine in my boathouse.

Since life has settled down for me somewhat in New Mexico, I’ve been starting to focus on shedding the fifteen or so pounds I gained over the course of my relationship with David.

I haven’t been terribly motivated to fight lately. Especially since my right hip, knee, and foot are still all in various phases of recovering from injuries. So I’ve been hunting for other forms of exercise I can enjoy.

I joined a local gym in Albuquerque that I like and I’ve been doing a combination of yoga and pilates to try to recover some of my flexibility and core strength. But I really needed to find something cardio to add to the mix.

My gym has a pretty good Nia program and Albuquerque also has an independent Nia studio called “Sway”. I’d seen vague references to Nia in the past, but didn’t know a whole lot about it. When I missed one of my yoga classes due to a conference call that ran over, I fortuitously decided to poke my head into the Nia class that came after and was hooked.

I’ve been describing Nia to Charlie as “hippy aerobics” but that doesn’t really do it justice. It’s more a form of dance with a lot of emphasis on the individual doing what feels good to their body on a given day. It’s definitely not your typical aerobics class with a bunch of leotard-clad perfect bodies marching in lockstep. It’s a lot more fluid than that. Most of the classes have felt less like exercise to me than being silly and dancing around in my living room to music I love when no one’s watching.

The couple of instructors whose classes I attend are all the kind of groovy, free-spirited, bohemian chicks I’d admire and enjoy spending time with. The women who attend the classes are also a marvelous eclectic mix. You get everything from dance majors at the local U to pink-haired painters in their sixties. It’s great fun.

Aside from being great exercise, one thing Nia is teaching me is just how rigid I am in my body. I just cannot move and flow to the music the way a lot of the women in my classes can. I feel as rigid and creaky as the Tin Man in the Wizard of OZ prior the much-needed can of oil.

I watch the other women, and the teachers in particular during class. There’s a type of fluidness to these women that I sorely covet and aspire to. And I don’t think it’s just about performing better in class.

I’m missing limberness and ease in my life. And I want to figure out how to find it.

”Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass… It’s about learning to dance in the rain.”
–Anonymous

I’ve been pretty stressed and moody lately. And, until last week, I’ve been confused about why I’ve been feeling that way.

I mean, my life is in a much better place than it was this time last year, and REALLY in a better place than it was two years ago. This is supposed to be my “Happily Ever After”, dammit. What do /I/ have to be stressed about?

Well, for starters, there have been a hell of a lot of changes for me in a short period of time. I was in a rocky relationship and had an ugly divorce. Now I’m trying to date someone new. I’ve moved from Tucson, a place I really liked. Now I’m in a holding pattern in New Mexico while I try to finish making my place habitable in Portland. And it’s taking a lot longer to accomplish that than I anticipated. I don’t put down roots easily and it’s difficult to know how many I should be putting down in Albuquerque.

I’ve started a new job that I really like. But there’s also a lot of pressure on me to perform. Not to mention, it’s been stressful just trying to hunt down the basic supplies I need to do my job. It seems like half were shipped to Portland and half to Tucson. I’m spending an insane amount of time on the phone trying to explain to people why they need to be re-sent to Albuquerque—from a phone with a Dallas area code.

I miss my friends. I miss my stuff, which is all stowed away in storage up in Portland. My life feels like a fragmented mess spread across four geographic locations. I’ve just been in a real funk.

I finally broke down a week ago and called my former-rockstar-groupie counselor, Chris, who I adore. Chris has been through some pretty spectacularly ugly times in her own life. (Chris ran with the Patti Boyd, Beatles, Eric Clapton, Rolling Stone crowd for about a decade of her life and has had two rocker husbands of her own before she cleaned up her act, went back to school, and got her masters.) I value her for both her wisdom and sense of humor.

Whatever drama I might be having in my life, odds are good she’s experienced it some point in her own—and with far more drama and Technicolor than my own.

Chris reminded me that if I were to look at my life on one of those “Life Event Stress” scales, I’m pretty close to being off the end of the chart… divorce, new relationship, new job, new house, (two) out-of-state moves, significant change in social activities/recreation, etc.

That explained the stress part to me, but not the deep emotional funk. Some of my mood could be related to stress. But this has felt a lot more like I’ve been sulking because I don’t have what I want/expected.

I’ve been feeling like I’m stuck in “limbo” in New Mexico. This was not what I intended to be my new home. I want “limbo” to be over so I can get on with my visions for the next phase of my life. And that ain’t happening anywhere near on the schedule I would like.

Anyway, shortly after my call with Chris, I stumbled across the quote at the top of this entry, and the rest of the picture clicked into place. Life has definitely felt like one long storm for me over the last year or so, and I feel sorely overdue for some sunny weather.

However, all things considered, things really aren’t so bad. They’re just not what I anticipated. My current choices are to continue to stew in a moody funk until I get what I thought I was going to. Or I can look up and make an effort to appreciate what I do have.

As much as it may feel like it, this isn’t limbo. These are hours of my life. And my choice is whether I wish to spend them sulking or dancing.

Dancing sounds like a lot more fun.

So, it’s been a little while since I posted an entry. This has been a combination of being focused on getting up-to-speed with my new job and, frankly, because I’ve kind of been stuck in construction limbo-land.

The float rebuild is done on my house, which is good news. I still have to finish sealing in the boatwell before I can move in, however. And I’ve just exhausted my readily-available cash for the project. Having to completely re-do the electrical and plumbing set me back in my planned budget for renovations.

I’m trying hard to do everything with the house on a cash basis rather than using credit. I REALLY like owning my house outright. So, now, it’s a question of letting my shiny new paycheck catch up with the new round of contractor fees. My paycheck on the 15th covered the last of the boatwell. My paycheck at the end of the month should cover the money down to get the new contractor rolling on the boatwell.

I’m just a bit grumpy and more than a little down that things are taking longer than I would like. I had been hoping to be in my place by now. By the time all the construction is done, odds are good I’ll have missed the prettiest part of the summer.

Plus, since starting my new job, I’ve been pretty much handing 95% of my paycheck over to contractors. My income looks great on paper but, man, am I living frugally right now. I’ll be really glad when I’m through the Money Pit part of owning my new place. Charlie has been great about letting me crash at his place but I’d also really like to give him his space back as soon as I can.

On the more upbeat side, I really am enjoying my new job. It’s nice to be using my brain again and I feel well-suited for the position. I’m also profoundly grate that the position pays well and my boss is extremely flexible about where and when I work just so long as things get done. The universe cut me a real break with my new job.

All in all, life is okay. I’m just restless to get on with moving in to my new place and making it an actual home.

Living with someone, even temporarily, is definitely the quick way to discover differences in idiosyncrasies.

Case in point… I needed to do my laundry a few days ago and offered to do some of Charlie’s at the same time. When it came time to put it away I was puzzled to discover Charlie had three separate sock drawers. I couldn’t figure out why one human being needed three drawers for socks. But he did have a massive bureau he wasn’t sharing with someone else. I figured the socks had simply expanded to fill the available space.

Upon closer study, there appeared to be one drawer of black socks, one of tan, and one of white. So, I put the clean pairs of socks in their respective drawers and thought nothing more about it until the following morning… when I woke to Charlie in a mild panic to get to a meeting and completely incapable of understanding the devastation that had been wrought upon his sock drawers since the day before.

Apparently the actual system is this–there is a drawer for “work socks”, one for “casual socks”, and one for “slummin’ around socks”. Somehow, I had managed to put every pair of socks I had washed in the incorrect drawer.

Charlie has since tried to explain to me in great detail what constitutes each of the three categories of socks. He might as well be speaking Latvian to me, for all I understand him.

Now, I would like you to know that I am trainable to a reasonable degree when it comes to cohabiting in a relationship. You want the toilet paper to hang a particular direction on the role? Fine. You don’t want me to kill the DSL in the house by plugging a fax machine into the wrong jack? Cool. I’ll move the machine. You’d rather I not use your first edition Iron Man comic book as a coaster for my morning green tea? Whoops. Sorry ’bout that. Won’t happen again.

But I’m afraid I’m never going to be able to adapt to Charlie’s sock classification system. In the future, any clean socks of his are going ON TOP of the bureau and he can sort them appropriately to his heart’s content.

Arriving in Albuquerque last week, I hit the end of my adrenaline spurt from closing up my Tucson home and multiple cross-country trips, and simply crashed. The first few days in Albuquerque, I was pretty much a slug on the couch, watching unhealthy amounts of Grey’s Anatomy on my laptop, bonding with my very clingy cat, and attempting to eat my weight in white cheddar popcorn.

After a few days of that, and tiring of Meredith Grey’s fictional drama over a guy for whom I fail to understand the appeal, I got a little more productive. I unpacked and organized my belongings which will be living at Charlie’s (all my historical reenactment gear and a surprising number of bladed weapons). I figured out how to successful operate the hot tub and get into and out of it without shocking Charlie’s retiree neighbor or arthritic dachshund, Wilbur. Then I turned my Virgo eye to the bachelor squalor in which Charlie and his invisible roommate Josh choose to live. (Josh spends 95% of his time at his girlfriend’s.)

Charlie has a very nice house in the foothills of Albuquerque. But two early-30-something guys have lived there for the last two years without a female presence or a maid. It shows. I understand why Josh’ girlfriend likes her own digs.

When I arrived at Charlie’s, there was nothing but a six-pack of RedBull and a lonely Guinness in the fridge. (Well, that is, if you discount everything in a bottle that had an expiration date later than 2006. There was also something a mottled grayish-blue I never did successfully identify.)

There was no sign of toilet paper in the house. One bathroom had a few sheets of paper towel sitting on top a dusty pile of magazines with titles like “Twisted Throttle” and “Motor Cycle: Ten-Nine-Eight ARRRGH!”

The pile of unwashed laundry in the corner of the master bedroom resembled Marjory, The Great Trash Heap from Fraggle Rock. Dust bunnies the size of Rumi caromed in herds across the red birch floors. (Charlie insists he vacuumed just before I arrived. If he’s telling the truth, God only knows the size of the ones he killed.)

Anyway, you probably get the idea. So, last weekend and most of this week I’ve been trying to clean and organize enough so that I don’t feel the need to renew my tetanus shot if I want to pad barefoot to the kitchen while still allowing Charlie a few bastions of masculinity. I’ve left his “man cave” upstairs (translation: den) completely alone. Even if I wasn’t trying to not disrupt his natural habitat too much, I’m too big a wuss to know where to even start on that chaos.

Charlie has accepted the disinfection and organization of his world with a surprising amount of equanimity. However, I suspect he’s going to be quietly grateful when things return to normal in his house at the end of this week.

The orientation for my new job starts next Monday in Dallas. I fly out Sunday evening. I’ll still be crashing at Charlie’s on the weekends when I’m not up in Portland.  Especially until the construction is finished on the boatwell.  But this should be the end of the full-time cohabitation for a while.

I’ve long had a tendency to collect gadgets like a magpie does shiny things to feather its nest. I blame it on my PhD engineer father who got me hooked on tech at an early age.

I’ve actually been quite proud of myself slowing down in my acquisition of bright, shiny, new tech-toys in the last few years. I’ve resisted the siren call of the Blackberry. My Mac laptop is more than two years old and has a seriously warped case from being dropped more than once during stormchasing (well, to be technical, during the running away from tornadoes that got too close). And I dumped the flatscreen TV several months back when I realized the only purpose it was serving was to justify the presence of the cable box that was Rumi’s favorite place to sleep on cold winter days.

But the Amazon Kindle was pure lust at first sight for me. So, when I seriously downsized my book collection I didn’t feel too guilty about using some of the trade-in cash to buy one.

The appeal of the Kindle for me doesn’t have that much to do with the packaging. While I love the rotating, wood-cut style artwork on the screensaver, I think Amazon has a way to go in both aesthetics and ergonomics. (The “clip” to hold the Kindle inside its cover has given me no end of headaches.) But with their electronic paper, Amazon has come up with the first eBook reader for which I’m willing to forgo the kinesthetic pleasure of flipping and scrawling on the pages of a book. It’s easy on my eyes and not a battery hog.

I travel enough that I love the thought any device that allows me to carry 200 or so books in a compact space and under a pound. And should I actually run out of reading material mid-trip–horror of horrors–I can simply download something new to read rather than dive into the nearest airport newsstand and select from the lesser of evils.

Charlie is another gadget freak. He keeps peering over my shoulder at my new toy. But, so far, he’s resisted the urge to get his own because he hates the fact he’d be required to “turn off” his book during take-off and landings. I figure that’s when I get to enjoy my trashy magazine (another vice of mine at airports) or make time to actually meditate for a couple of minutes.

A bigger negative for me where the Kindle is concerned is that I’d say roughly half the books I would like to read aren’t available on it yet. Right now Amazon seems to be focusing mainly on hardcover and popular releases. Most of those run $9.99 a book, which means they’re also more expensive that if I were to buy them used and ship them media rate. (Although, on the plus side, it also means I’m not adding weight and taking up space with a new title in my floating home.) Perhaps the biggest downside for me is that I like to share my books with friends, and that’s not easy to do with the Kindle unless I loan them the unit and that ain’t happening.

But, despite the downsides, I’m really enjoying being able to throw the equivalent of a small library in my purse in case I end up having to wait somewhere. I’m actually started to make some progress on my pile of “to be read” books. Even though I’m in the process of streamlining my life, this is one gadget I don’t regret buying.

Considering his book The 4-Hour Work Week is on the New York Times Bestseller list, I suspect half the planet knows who Tim Ferriss is right now. He’s definitely the business guru of the hour. I suspect it’s a slightly smaller subset of readers, however, who would like to bear the man’s love child. I am definitely a member of the later set.

Okay, so maybe that’s a slight exaggeration. I tend to be prone to those. But you know those theoretical questions along the lines of: “If you could invite two people from any period in time or history to dinner, who would you ask?” Well, I’m afraid George Sand just got ousted from the list in favor of Tim Ferriss. (Although, Sir Richard Francis Burton still makes the cut for the other slot. With my luck, though, Ferriss and Burton would spend the night arm-wrestling, comparing scars, and plotting the takeover of Apple Computer with nary a glance in my direction.)

I enjoyed Ferriss’ book. I like the way his mind works and felt he presented several thought-provoking ideas I want to spend some more time mulling over. It has also felt like there’s been a bit of synchronicity at work with the book appearing just when it did in my life, as I’ve been giving a lot of thought recently to my personal life design.

Anyway, after reading the book on my spiffy new Kindle, I jumped over to Ferriss’ website to check out some of the supplementary information he hosts there and quickly became hooked on his blog.

I’ve always been a sucker for intelligent men with a predilection for dumping the status quo on its ass. Ferriss is clearly smart, driven, and well-read. He thinks in unconventional ways and has chosen to do unusual and interesting things with his life. He’s been fired often enough and broken enough rules to meet my bad-boy quotient. Yet he can talk intelligently about tech and modern culture. The fact that he’s heavily into martial arts is just icing on the cake.

OK. So his idea of a breakfast is microwaving egg whites and adding flaxseed oil. That’s awful enough to choke a rabid vulture. And he outsourced his online dating recently, which sounds like something my ex would come up with. A man’s gotta have a few flaws, right?

In all seriousness, though, if Tim Ferriss keeps going the way he has been, I suspect he may end up being my generation’s version of Ben Franklin. He’s unconventional and intelligent enough to come up with some radically innovative creations. I’m really interested to follow where he heads from here.

There’s more than an academic interest on my part, though, where Ferriss is concerned. He makes my little OCD, Virgo, cybergrrl heart go pitter-pat with his discussions of the Pareto principle, breakdancing, and Argentinian wine. And there’s been enough written about Ferriss, both by himself and others, to keep a Competitive Intelligence analyst with a burgeoning crush entertained for days.

Ferriss definitely hits the high end of my “Yummy!” scale. But I’ve also learned that when I’m this obsessively smitten over someone it’s rarely just about the person. More often than not my “crush” is an strong indicator that there’s something about the person’s life or conduct that I long to emulate in my own. That’s certainly true with Ferriss. I watch the YouTube of him tangoing with some scrumptious young thing in South America and think to myself: That looks like great fun. I listen to him rattle off four different book titles in an answer to an interview question and I think: I want to spend more time with my “To be read” stack.

I don’t just want to do Tim Ferriss. I want to do what Tim Ferriss is doing, if at least in the abstract sense. I admire his decision to live a consciously-chosen life.

I ask you–what more could a girl want? Eye candy, food for thought, and inspiration.

And just in case you have no idea who I’m talking about. Here’s a copy of his recent fireside chat at Google:

(Editor’s note for the benefit of my mother: yes, I am still happily dating Charlie. If he can coo over Cary-Ann Moss, I can swoon over Ferriss.)

Please bear with me, guys. There may be some weirdness with this blog over the next few days. I’m in the process of converting it from Typepad to Wordpress and incorporating a new theme in the process.

Trust me–it’s frustrating on my end, too. The dust should settle shortly.