Poopy the Puppy is adapting very well to city life. He loves his walks. He loves sitting out on the courtyard patio with me, Mr. Hot and our darling wine-drinking neighbors. He greets his new buddies, “Scrabble” (who appears to be the love child of a Basset Hound and an over-permed blond), “Percy” (a black pug) and “Knuckles” (a seemingly caffeine-addicted chihuahua*) each time they walk by. A little butt-sniffing here and there and voila! BFFs.

(If only it was that easy for everyone to make new friends.)

One thing he doesn’t love, though, are the random people walking under our windows. He burfs at them constantly. He doesn’t bark. He doesn’t howl. He doesn’t even growl. He burfs. Now, consider that we live approximately 50 feet from an El stop and random people walk under our windows approximately 24.5 hours every day. It’s like Burf City around here.

(Apologies to Jan and Dean. Also to Brian Wilson.)

If they walk close enough to the building that he doesn’t see them, he’s fine. If they’re on the other side of the street, as long as they don’t, y’know, TALK, he’s fine.

Otherwise – you got it.

“Burf. Burf burf burf.”

It’s not loud. None of the neighbors can hear it. It’s not even, as one may expect with the constant flow of foot traffic and tops-of-heads right under his nose, an all day thing, but sometimes? He gets started and won’t stop.

“Burf. Burf.”

Almost under his breath…like he hopes we won’t notice.

Then one of us will say, “Skeeter. Stop that.”

(Yes, his real name is Skeeter. Poopy is his nickname. He answers to both.)

Then he’ll come over and wedge his snout under our hands looking for pats and pets and assurance that we’ll protect him from those People! Outside! Who are walking!

And all will be well for a while.

Then he’ll forget what he was scared of and go back to the window and we’ll resume our television watching or computer game playing. Until the next time he hears a bump or a car door shut and it starts all over again.

“Burf.”

“Stop it.”

Nudge. Nudge. Nudge. Pat Pat Pat.

Repeat. Ad Infinitum.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, after a particularly burfy day, and a bunch of “Stop.That.Now.” and “No, I’m not going to keep petting you, just go lay down.” it got quiet.

Very quiet. Too quiet. Like, “What are you kids doing?” and then you go upstairs and find that they’ve redesigned their bedroom walls with Sharpies – that kind of quiet.

He wasn’t on the back of the couch. He wasn’t in the kitchen or downstairs or eating the cats’ food. He wasn’t even hiding under the dining room table.

He was in our bedroom, laying on the bed with his head on his paws. Very quietly and very deliberately NOT looking out the window.

He put himself in Time Out.

So now, the magic phrase has become, “If you can’t stop that, go get in time out.” and he does. He slinks off to the bedroom and stays there until we tell him he can come back.

—- We usually let him get up after 5 minutes even though he’s 7 years old. —-

*Yes, I know that’s almost redundant, but this is the most hyperactive of all of the hyperactive chihuahuas I’ve ever seen. I’m thinking he’s got a triple-shot expresso three-times-a-day habit.

So, what have I been doing in the three weeks I’ve been MIA?

• Working. Lots.
• Reading. Lots and lots.
• Unpacking. Still.
• Drinking wine with the new neighbors. Cool.
• Preparing for the Diva’s sister’s visit. Fun.
• Trying to think of something to post about. Unsuccessful.
• Watching World Cup Soccer. Weekends.
• Eating at a multitude of neighborhood restaurants. Yum.
• Listening to the thunderstorms. Loud.
• Mopping water from an unknown source. Fuck.

Things I haven’t been doing?

• Taking photos. Damn.
• Keeping in touch. Sorry.

—- But I think my break is finally over. I did manage to get this shot this week. And thank you to the people who checked in and the 102 readers still listed in Feedburner. —-

Oh mah holy hell y’all. The movers arrived to start packing last Wednesday morning. Shortman and I flew from Detroit to O’Horror that afternoon.

Thursday, Mr. Hot showed up after I spent 4 hours putting together a pantry – just me, myself, and a screwdriver (not the vodka kind, either, dammit). Shortman did provide the extra hands when I needed four of them, but otherwise? Too busy texting his girlfriend (whose existence he denies vehemently…but seriously…when you text a girl 1800 times in two weeks…it’s a girlfriend).

Friday, the movers unloaded into our new home. (Not like that, you’re gross. But shit. Oh. Heh.) They couldn’t actually bring the truck down our very narrow street so they had to park far, far away and move everything from Truck A to (smaller) Truck B and then move it in. Twice.

Then we stood around and swore. A lot. (Surprise, I know.)

Where the fuck did all this stuff come from?

Mr. Hot and I spent most of the weekend moving stuff from one box to another – to go to the thrift shop. We thought we purged before we left Ann Arbor. We barely threw up in the back of our throats.

Today, I went back to work. I had to. Even though the original plan was to take Monday and Tuesday off to finish unpacking – if I’d have stayed one.more.day. surrounded by packing paper, cardboard, and

Where are we going to put THIS???

– I would have thrown myself into Lake Michigan. With a piece of granite (countertop) tied around my neck.

Plus, who wants to waste vacation days working? Saturday morning I woke up wondering who the fuck beat me with a baseball bat while I slept. Also, wondering if I won the marathon I’d obviously run. It was less painful to return to the office.

—- So, we’re here. In Chicago. Me and the whole fam damily. Me with my 10 broken fingernails, 14,275 hoodies, and 2,373,263 plastic storage containers and not enough cabinets. —-

Last night Way too early this morning, as I was lying in bed trying desperately to fall back to sleep (at 3-freakin’-30), I realized that Shortman and I are down to our final nights in this house, on this street. (Mr. Hot has a few extra days before he joins us.) We’d planned to live here for the rest of our lives – until real life intervened.

I’ll miss watching things turn green, hearing the mules that live behind us braying, running out to the garden to pick a fresh tomato or an ear of corn, but I know there will be many new places to explore and new adventures to be had. Rather than the white bread existence we’ve lived for the past four years, we’ll be surrounded by different languages and people – in one of the most diverse neighborhoods in the United States. THAT, my friends, is an awesome thing.

Like counting sheep, though, last night, I wanted to see if I could figure out all of the streets I’ve lived on in my life. Amazingly enough, even in my advanced state of Can’t.Remember.Shit, I got through the list.

1. Middlesex – No, not the one in the Jeffrey Eugenides novel, but being that our Middlesex was in Dearborn, and that one was in Detroit, it could have been an offshoot.
2. Ternes – My brother The Golden Child was born while we were renting the upper flat.
3. Birchwood – Until I was 13.
4. Lilley – MomandDad still live here.
5. John C. Holmes Hall – at Michigan State. But only for a year.
6. Kanawha Terrace – My first out of state home, it’s where I lived with Practice for a year.
7. Route 2 – Yes, really. A Rural Route road out in the middle of nowhere. Practice and I lasted six months in that place.
8. Lower Falls – The first mortgage in my name. I left Practice to sell it after we split.
9. 20th – The honeymoon apartment for me and Mr. Hot. Shortman was conceived here. One of my favorites, for certain.
10. Buffington – Shortman was born while we were in this house. It was our last home in West-by-gawd-Virginia. It’s been replaced with a parking lot.
11. Brooke Park – My least favorite apartment ever. It felt like a motel, but with gross-er carpeting.
12. Mansfield – Our longest tenure anyplace, we lasted nine years in this little spot. Had our upstairs neighbors not been douchebags, we probably would have stayed even longer.
13. Mansfield – No, not a typo. We moved from one end of Mansfield to the other. Our townhouse was bright, shiny and sun-filled. Then it was converted into a condo – and we had no interest in buying from the developer.
14. Maplewood – Next door to the Best Neighbors in the World.
15. Iris – It’s where I’m sitting now. At least for another 24 hours, it’s home.

—- Two flowers and two tree references. A couple of Great Britain references. A dorm named after a hairy porn star. A couple water references. I’ve left memories in each and every one. —-

Thank you all so very much for the well wishing and the congratulations. We’re still way too busy trying to get out of one house and into the other; coordinating Shortman’s move out of the dorm (and storing his stuff at MomandDad’s for the summer); convincing the U.S. Census Bureau that yes, indeed, we did complete the forms you sent – for three different addresses even!; and figuring out WHERE.THE.FUCK. we are going to put all of our furniture, clothing, Christmas decorations and miscellaneous junk.

I won’t even get into the fact that moving from one state to another brings its own unique challenges – where DOES ONE get a driver’s license?

The boy cat hasn’t come out of the bedroom since we arrived. Of course, the fact that he’s completely hoarse from crying the entire 265 miles does mean that I’m fine with not hearing him for a few days – as long as he’s using his litter box (and that does seem to be the case). His sister – the brave one – comes out from under the couch when I get home from work, as long as I lure her with her favorite sound: the sound of a cheese stick wrapper being peeled back.

Poopy the Puppy was here for the weekend, but went back to Ann Arbor with Mr. Hot to finish up his duties as official greeter of all of the inspectors and repairmen traipsing through his home. He learned quickly that walking the city streets can be fun, but hearing people walking overhead? Not.so.much.

Annnnyyyywayyyyyy.

All of that to say that I’m still around (oh Hai!) and once we get internet back and I’m not working off an aircard (seriously? sucky.), I hope that posting won’t be so painfully slow. In fact, I may actually get to talk to y’all again. (And by talk, I mean…y’know, respond to your wonderful, generous, hilarious comments.)

And about that aircard? It took me 15 minutes to find the movie clip I wanted to show you for Anonymous Boxer’s Movie-Clip-Wednesday (see? the title on this post does make a little bit of sense) only to find out after watching the first 88 seconds (which also took 15 additional minutes) that embedding was disabled. During that time, I completely lost my signal. Twice.

It’s Viggo Mortenson playing Aragorn and Liv Tyler as Arwen in The Lord of the Rings. I remember when we first saw the movie – Mr. Hot and I were sitting there with Shortman. Y’know how hard it is to get all mushy with your date when there’s a 13(?) year old sitting between you in the theater? Yea. Kinda like that. It’s how I feel about our relationship though – like I waited an entire lifetime for him (and dammit, I’m sitting here STILL waiting for him to get his cute ass to Chicago).

Favorite Movie Kiss ever.

—- Nearly twenty years later and I still feel like wet noodles when we kiss. —-