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.

A baby haiku

His Royal Highness The Grandson recently penned this haiku and sent it to his grandma and grandpa. The child is a genius.

In my world, there are

Nose tickles, Bearsie and love.

I think you'd smile too.

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.