Ch-ch-changes

Sigh. Has it really been since May that I shared post that was truly legit? What a wanker I am.

Well, of course, there are excuses. The election. Trump. An ongoing war with my mom's accountant. The election. Trump. Crap like that. You get the picture. But there have been changes too. Let me re-cap. In no order of priority or gravity.

1. I have a teeny-tiny job!

Well, not so teeny-tiny right now since we're hip deep into the holidays and my teeny-tiny job involves a spice shop. A very nice spice shop where I've shopped for years. By the way, spice shops sell LOTS of spices this time of year.

I sort of applied on a whim. The shop was looking for a "Saturday person" which fit quite nicely on my dance card of life. My date and I tend to bunker down on the weekends and do all our fun stuff during the week so I said to self, "Why not?" And, damned if I didn't get the job.

It certainly wasn't because of my vast retail experience -- at the prime age of 63, I have learned to use a cash register for the first time if life. Let's just say it was my winning personality.

No remarks from the peanut gallery, please.

2. This guy!

This guy -- and his parents too -- have moved to Portland! The Number One Son accepted a job as outdoor education director at a prep school here in the City of Roses. They landed here in July and now live about 15 minutes away. The joy of having a grandchild -- and kids -- in the same town simply cannot be described.

Every moment, whether it's time here on The Lane, trips to the zoo, gym class or other adventures, is precious. It's good to remember this when it's so easy to cross over to the dark side these days.

3. And Ben.

Photo credit: Cindy Shaver Photography

Our beloved squirrel-herding, bathroom-hiding, beach-combing Australian shepherd left us in early July. He was 15 1/2-years-old, loyal and loving to his last breath. I will stop here because I am crying. We miss him so.

****

So, those are my excuses. Mostly good -- and full of fodder for future posts.

I promise. It feels good to get these old fingers banging on the laptop keyboard.

Sofa wars

About a month ago, it looked like we might lose our dog Ben. Almost 15-years-old, Ben's hips are going, and one night in December, they completely gave out, leaving Ben panicked in pain.

We rushed to the emergency animal hospital, where Ben collected himself, took a few tentative steps and then peed on a bush. We took him home, thinking it might be the end that week.

But it wasn't. He got better. And better still. To the point where he is now sneaking up on the no-fly-zone living room sofa any chance he can get.

You talkin' to me?

Sneaking is the operative word. If we are in another room, and the sofa is open, he makes a break for it. If we are gone for awhile and forget to "protect" this apparently tantalizing piece of furniture, we are greeted with a guilty canine slinking off the sofa. Sometimes he looks faintly annoyed that we dared return to the house.

This is a dog we now have to lift into the car. And who often labors up the front steps returning from a walk (more likely because he doesn't want to the walk to end). And who looks like he may never get up from his blanket because it's "so hard."

But when he hears the siren song of the sofa, it's game over.

This is a dog who apparently believes the command "Down!" now applies to his head.

Holidog

Like most of his canine cousins, I think Ben is perpetually perplexed by the holidays.

Walking schedules are kaput. . . favorite nap spots usurped by odd structures that faintly resemble trees but smell like Tupperware. . . and there are houseguests, whose random comings and goings are simply unacceptable for a herding dog who needs his flock present and accounted at all hours -- day and night.

His Royal Highness is perhaps the biggest game changer for Ben this year. They met briefly in Everett earlier in December, but Ben was too busy being petrified of Kitty Pants, the Number One Son's cat, to take much notice of our little bundle of human joy.

Ben's has had more time to study the the little munchkin this week -- and digest the sudden paradigm shift where he is no longer the rock star of family gatherings.

Ummm. Excuse me?

I actually think he's okay with this -- as long as there is a morning and evening walk and portions of our holiday meals are regularly deposited on the kitchen floor.

However, Ben's still getting around the fact we all think it's cute HRH pees and poops in his pants.

Dude. That's what parks are for.

And, good herding dog that he is, Ben decided he must supervise any HRH proceedings that involve the living room floor. As a result, he's become our holiday photo bomber extraordinaire:

He also was not above nicking one of His Royal Highness' Christmas presents.

Sorry, little one. This one's staying in The Beav.

Whee-eee-eee!

Yes, whee-eeee-eeee! Somehow we did it.

Somehow in the matter of about 12 weeks, we bought a single-family attached home condo, sold a 73-year-old house in 9 days with no conditions or major repairs, divested ourselves of almost all our furniture; arrived in Portland armed with Ben, a bedroom set, antique chest of drawers, wooden rocking horse (priorities!), some random bookshelves and approximately 1.5 billion cardboard boxes;

and, oh by the way, our first grandson arrived on the scene.

Somewhere in there, I also up and retired, bidding a fond farewell to a 37-year career in marketing and public relations. At least I think I did. Otherwise, we have a somewhat awkward situation in that I'm sitting here in The Beav, working on my 7th cup of coffee, while a sad community college cubicle sits empty somewhere in Bermtopia.

Needless to say His Royal Highness The Grandson trumps all.

My name means "bright, insightful and wise" in Japanese. Got it?

Kei (pronounced "Kay") is perfect. (Of course, I realize all grandchildren are perfect. Isn't that why they're called "grand"?) I cannot describe the joy of gathering up that 6 pounds of love for the first time and realizing you're his grandmother, fully licensed to spoil, coddle and indulge. . . before returning to his parents. There will be many Kei stories to come.

Disclaimer: I did not push Kei down the steepest hill in Everett, Wash., to achieve the "action photo" above. I accidentally clicked the shutter as I was putting away my cell phone after taking my 804th photo of the little peanut. 

###

We are gradually settling into life in Portland. After three weeks of sitting on the living room floor, we have a sofa and chair. We have a kitchen table and chairs. We have a new washer and dryer that serenade us each time a load is done. Still getting used to that one.

And I have a dedicated writing desk. "Bermtopia" now resumes.

Folks have asked me about this -- how can I write about Bermtopia since we don't physically live there any more? But, of course, I can: In its essence, Bermtopia is a state of mind. There are still seasons, dogs, kitchens and gardens (wait till you see what I have to contend with out back!) to navigate here in Portland -- along with The Beav (a little corner of suburbia that My Date and I are vaguely surprised to be enjoying), homeowner associations, the aforementioned musical home appliances and The Mom Unit, who now lives about 6 minutes away instead of 6 hours. And so much more.

So, yes, we're back. And ready to rock and roll. With Bermtopia: The Portland Edition.

I have my very own creek.
And I am happy to report there are squirrels in Portland.

Wordless Wednesday

Lights out.

Shifting the trash can paradigm

We dog walkers are such creatures of habit.

We walk at the same time every day. Our dogs play with the same dogs. We fret if some one is missing. We fret if there's someone new. And, most of all, we fret about our trash cans at the park.

The annual park clean-up has been progressed fitfully the last few weeks. I say "fitfully" only because we've had one of the most beautiful, becalmed autumns that I can remember in my 26-years-and-counting (aka, WHAT have I gotten myself into?) here in Bermtopia. We've dodged the occasional mower and leaf blower with relative equanimity -- BUT are totally abuzz with daily reports about the gradual, but relentless, removal of trash cans in the park.

"They took two from the picnic tables!"

"The one by the tennis courts is gone!"

"They've always left the one by the rest rooms, but now it's gone!"

(Sidebar: Interestingly enough, there is a science to trash can placement in city parks. Or so I was informed by a summer park worker several years ago. He should know: He had a master's degree in parks and recreation and took the temporary park gig while his wife was a visiting professor at one of our fine local universities. His master's thesis was on the very topic of the optimum trash can placement in city parks.

Imagine that.

He also was a pipe organist of some renown.)

But anyway. Back to musical trash cans. It's all okay. Change is good. We'll muddle through. We always do this time of year.

Or so I thought until Monday.

Until. . . . at the top of the park, I discovered the "nice" baseball backstop trash can was g.o.n.e. This is my go-to trash can -- one of the few constants in the park: A stalwart, year-round shrine to poop bags, beer cans and depleted bags of sunflower seeds. And it was gone. Vanished. Kaput.

** Imagine a photo here -- one that I just accidentally deleted from my call phone about 10 minutes ago. No memory card. Lesson learned.

Image: It's the "nice" baseball backstop sans trash can. However, some park visitor left their trash -- a Starbucks cup and couple of poop bags (the in-use variety) -- on the equipment bin, no doubt in the hopes that the trash can would return and clean up after them. **

I thought, very possibly, my head was going to explode.

Ben and I quickly hoofed it up to the Hoopfest basketball court trash can.

Phew. Still there.

** Imagine a photo here -- the second accidentally deleted from my cell phone. Do not let me near home electronics without at least one cup of coffee in the morning.

Image: The Hoopfest court trash can chained to the Hoopfest court bench with a Hoopfest hoop towering majestically in the background. Caption: "Chains help." **

My nerves settled just a bit.

But just a bit. When we got to the "tacky" "neglected" back stop on the far side of the park. There. was. a. trash. can. where. a. trash. can. had. never. been. before.

This time my head really did explode.

Ben: Your brain is over there to the right, next to chestnut tree.
I think a squirrel is trying it on for size.
Interloper trash can: * sound of crickets *

And then I realized this was all okay. The seasons change. Trash cans change. It's all part of the great messy rhythms in life, right? Right.

We can navigate peripatetic trash cans this winter. You bet we can.

But don't mess with the swing sets, damn it.

(Mostly) Wordless Wednesday

Snow? What snow?

Wordless Wednesday

Walk, please.

Reading the signs

I admit it. I've got a thing for signs. And I post about it now and then.

Here's a few from the summer collection:

Alcohol. breathalyzers. for. fun. This is so very scari on, oh, so many levels. Spelling being just one of them. The par-tay continues over on the website:

So if you just had a beer you would be reading the alcohol on your Tung not in your lungs.  The 20 minutes allows all the Alcohol to evaporate off your tung.

Tung. Duly noted.

As seen in Seattle's Pioneer Square. Wonder if breakfast is included. And the turn-down 
service has to be pretty special. . . 

And, still in Seattle, a treasure found on the street on Capitol Hill. Yay, Washington. You done right. 

Of course. Display your fresh produce on. a. utility. box. The merchandising genius of this is simply staggering. 

And finally -- my own little four-legged scofflaw. Visiting what has to be the most god-for-saken rest area in the state Washington. 

Aptly named: 

May your week be filled with good signs!

Stealth and cunning

The target

Ben has a crazy large stash of balls in the Back Forty, usually stored on one of our faux ratan patio chairs to reduce the risk of being eaten by lawn mowers. How they are retrieved each evening, as Ben and my date relax before dinner, requires great stealth and cunning.

Ben retreats to the shady middle of the Back Forty, seemingly content to doze, snap at yellow jackets and study summer's newest scents and sounds as the shadows lengthen. BUT he's ever aware of the chair and its contents, casting increasingly surreptitious (so he thinks) but calculating looks toward his desired booty.

Finally, he slowly rises and casually pads over to the patio. Cleverly camouflaged by the spiderwort (or so he thinks), Ben strikes, daintily lifting his ball of choice through the arm of the chair.

Skanky Ball always goes first. Always.

Yes, Skanky Ball is STILL with us -- with more skank than ever. If that is humanly possible.

This is Round 2, Skanky Ball having already been appropriated in Round 1,
which looked remarkably like Round 2.

But Ben loves that ball -- well,  really, now just barely the sad remnants of a ball -- and no matter where it is in the cache, he will find and collect it first.

Before long, it's time for another sortie. Ben makes his studied, but casual approach, more often than not with Skanky Ball in mouth for moral support, almost to the edge of the patio, then deer hops back to the center of the yard, snorting and muttering indignantly. That's HIS version of a d.i.v.e.r.s.i.o.n.

Within minutes, though, he returns again to The Edge, crosses over, skulks behind the spiderwort, and Ball #3 disappears through the arm of the chair.

Terribly out of focus Action shot

Ben's not above a frontal attack. But he much prefers going commando and sneaking up from the rear.

Ummm. Do you MIND not staring?
I'm here to use all my
Stealth and Cunning to steal a ball, damnit.

Finally, with his fleet of tennis and soccer balls gathered around him in the Back Forty, Ben regally surveys his minions. Us and his damn balls. And we are humbled.

It is good to be king. 

Of Stealth and Cunning.

The bubble over Ben's head

5:15 A.M.

Coffee? You're really going to have a cup of coffee before we go for a walk? 
Un - flippin' -- believable.

Daylight's burnin', sister.

* canine eye roll * 
Yeah, sure. I want to sit outside. Like I want my nails clipped, fool. 

While you have coffee, check your blogs, comment on Facebook and play Words with Friends?

Like yeah. I REALLY want to sit outside.

Maybe if I look sad and pathetic, hanging over the back door riser.

Good god, the things a dog must do for a walk around here. 

There MUST be another way.

Ummm. Just checking the weather stripping.

Unless you've got something else in mind?

I smell gas. Activate home evacuation plan.

To Comstock Park.

Wait. . .  wait. . . wait. I hear the rustle of poop bags. 

And she's getting those goddawful tennis shoes on. 

Must we always look like we just stepped out of "The Grapes of Wrath"?

* canine sigh *

I shall prance around and bark.

Bad idea. 

I look like a freakin' tribble.

Default to adorably desperate.

Time to rally the troops. Let's get this wagon train a' movin', little missy.

Note to self: Tongue photo bombs are so unbecoming.

I look like friggin' Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer.

ANN-NN-NNNNN-NNNND

I'm outta here.

See you in the Promised Land. Arrivederci, baby!

On looking up, looking down & a day at the office

On looking up. . .

Now into week 2 of the Great Foot Recovery, I can report that the crack in the TV room ceiling isn't getting any worse. It's been there for years -- one of the Nine-One-Fours many benign structural varicose veins if you will. Things you expect of a 71-year-old dowager.

The cobweb dallying in air the next to it -- not so much. Remind me to take care of that in the next decade or so.

On looking down. . . 

Sunday was beautiful -- a teaser that spring is just around the corner. The 40-degree temperatures? A reminder that we've still got several blocks to go before reaching that corner.

Nevertheless, sated with cabin fever, my date said, "Let's get out of here and go to lunch!" So off we dashed shuffled (I've upped my game to a shuffle since late last week, btw),  thinking we'd re-visit Chan's Dragon Inn. Sadly the Dragon didn't open till 4 p.m. so we made yet another Third Avenue discovery.

More on that later.

Let's just cut to chase and say lunch was a delicious success.








And so was a short reconnoiter around the Back Forty when we got home.

Tulips!

Hyacinthe!

Bleeding heart!

Hope sprouts eternal.


















And a day at the office. . .

You got the tour of  my mothership of working at home last week. Lest you think we just lay around all day doing nothing here at the Nine-One-Four, here's what productivity looks like:

My assistant: I'm worried about the Purina account.
Truth be told: This is the first morning he's taken
any interest in work.

Ear rubs were written into the master contract last year.
But on the minute!? WTF.

Pushin' paper at the Nine-One-Four.

And my assistant wonders why his computer skills are lacking.

My assistant: I don't think I was cut out for this type of work.
Could I get a transfer to the Parks Department?