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. 

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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.

How I spent my summer vacation

Well.

Hello there.

I seem to recall something about this blog.

Oh. That's right. It's MINE.

Welcome back, me.

With this, my 500th post, let me catch you up on summer in Bermtopia.

It all started with a trip to the emergency room with the Mom Unit the first weekend in June.

And Le Grande Macaron Tour. (There will be more about that over at the also-sadly-neglected Because I Said So Kitchen later.)

Annnndddd ANOTHER trip to the emergency room with the Mom Unit.

This go-round resulted in her hanging in a skilled nursing facility for two weeks. The Mom Unit was not impressed.

But we did watch a lot of World Cup. And she's back to fighting form.

Take THAT, Disturbance in the Force.

I seem to recall our purchasing a single-family attached home condo just outside Portland right around the Fourth of July.

And selling the Nine One Four last week.

This is the cleanest eff-ing house in Bermtopia.

This all in between 1,483 trips to Goodwill.

And. Oh. By the way. I retire in 25 days. . .

Move to Portland. . .

And await the arrival our first grandson in September.

But other than that, it's been a pretty quiet summer in Bermtopia.

Please tell me there are Milk Bones in Portland.

Off the grid

Yes, I've been off the grid for a few days. I sit here in the Alaska/Horizon terminal at the Portland Airport, heading back to Bermtopia after a weekend in the Rose City. I was visiting The Mom Unit.

We are packed in Terminal A like refugees waiting for the last boat out of Shanghai. And somewhere, amongst this teeming traveling collection of humanity, I can hear a cat protesting LOUDLY at his/her current situation. It is truly amazing.

But that's not the point of this post.

I love Portland. Aside from being the city of my childhood, it is Cool and Hip. Each time I visit, I vow I will take the light rail into town and explore art galleries, re-energize at moody little coffee shops, discover amazing food trucks (yes, I am still leading the charge on food trucks), sample the trendy bars and bistros I read about in my foodie mags like "Food and Wine" and just generally bask in the general awesomeness that is Portlandia.

But inevitably, The Mom Unit and I start talking books, food, gardening and family and I DON'T take the light rail into Portland -- instead, settling into the wonderfully comforting routine of hanging out with my mom, making runs to Trader Joe's, visiting with her friends and neighbors, and maybe taking in a movie or two.

I'll get around to that light rail trip one of these days.

A visit with The Mom Unit is not COMPLETE without a pilgrimage to Al's Garden Center. It is fait accompli no matter the time of year. In the fall, we've GOT to check out Al's holiday decorating ideas -- and in the spring, there's the small matter of scoping out new plants and yard art for the MU's little patio garden, which we re-landscaped a couple Mother's Days ago.


























I love visiting Portland this time of year. Portland in February is yet another affirmation that spring is just around the corner for this Bermtopian. Bright green lawns; bulging rhododendron buds; multi-hued heavenly bamboo; and bright red-berried pachysandra more than hint that a change of seasons is at hand.

That's not to say there aren't still plenty of reminders that remnants of winter still litter the streets and lawns of Portland-- a light dusting of frost coated roofs and vegetation the last two mornings.














And a this poor little cherubim won't be flying off anytime soon, frozen up to his chubby knee caps in the bird bath he adorns.

But still.







Spring has arrived in Portland.

Or so this little upstart tells me.

But, now would you please excuse me? I feel the need to put a bird on something.