Water, baby

To understand the story, you must know of my intensive work in prayer and cultivation of faith with supreme beings, guides and angels.

A few days ago, and as I was preparing for the viewings two studios, I wondered how I might decide if I like them both equally.

I heard in my wide-open intuitive self that a phone would ring, a bell would chime, to signal the right space when present in it.

It might be that phone of the landlord showing the apartments would ring. Or mine. Or I might overhear a ringing phone from the street. Or a siren.

I acknowledged the information and let it flow without attachment or expectation.

I viewed the first studio and liked it immediately, its energy, location, cleanliness and privacy. Even the Asian artifacts and that the current tenant is with the military -- repeatedly my good fortune arrives with a connection to the military -- resonated as positive signs.

Keeping all options open, I viewed the second studio. Its presence on a noisy road was the first indicator that it was not a good fit; the interior did not win me over either.

There was no contest; I said to D. that I liked the first one.

I could have left at then after receiving the application, Instead, I requested to return to the first apartment for a closer look at the kitchen.

We did so. As I inspected the room, a telephone rang. His cell phone with a ringtone like chimes.

I smiled inside.

I did not need the sign. There it was, in accordance with divine premonition.

Because we were in a lower-level apartment, the connection was poor and lost. And the caller rang again.

I couldn't help smiling a second time.

The angels smiled radiant smiles with me. This is how and why I know this move is blessed and protected.

 

 

I had to bid farewell to the house that has been my sanctuary and refuge, place of comfort and safety for the past three nights.

The new tenants -- who are also friends and are transferring from another of the family's properties so it's all good -- move in this evening.

I've been in the house -- just me and my bedding and makings for coffee and baths, beverages and a change of clothes -- since Saturday. I did not sleep especially well due to the road noise and early light of dawn that awakened me. The thin old futon  also caused tossing and turning.

Those, however, are minor inconveniences for what was offered in return: a space without abuse. A space of safety.

With futon roped and wrapped in plastic, the last vestige of my time there,  I took these final moments of just me and house to step through drying patches of  wetted-and-cleaned hardwood floor to return upstairs, and with Berr Symon tucked under my arm I spoke aloud my gratitude and thank you's to the house for having me as a guest.

I expressed acknowledgement of the beautiful spirit of the house and the goodness of the tenants who have lived there past and will live there presently.

Parting is such sweet sorrow -- I heard those words -- yet the house is not mine, which does not diminish my gratitude.

The hard part is not in the leaving this lighted house but in returning to the house of pain. Fortunately my stay will be short-lived; until my exit, I shall keep this good house in my vision and heart.

Again, house, thank you for having me as a guest. Your spirit is beautiful. And thank you also to the family, my employer, for allowing me to be present there. Your generosity and kindness and ultra-coolness bless me over and over and over ...

I was stopped dead in my tracks this morning when a glance into the bathroom mirror at my mini-vacation refuge returned this:

The face looking back wasn't Pete Doherty. Or the malnourishment and ravages of drug addiction. Or even the pasty complexion, even though another year in the gray Pacific Northwest weather will leave me looking like I'm from across the pond.

Looking back were the thick sunken dark circles. I'd like to attribute them to heroin addiction. Alas, that would be lying.

I've blogged on the matter previous but it can withstand iteration: I was born with these. Through my life, folks from the closest to complete strangers have commented on them, expressing concern about absence of sleep or extreme fatigue. Even when I'm perfectly rested and fine.

Once a cosmetics-counter lady pursued hotly touting concealer.

And I don't wear makeup. Was not shopping for it. I was on my way to tools and hardware.

Friends come to recognize the difference between normal dark and dark deserving of comment -- which is how it should be. Myself, I see none of it until extreme exhaustion and fatigue, bearing a burden, insomnia or efforts to remain afloat in an undertow draw the color from my skin and paint circles black.

I saw them this morning and I wanted to weep.

No good comes of lving under the thumb and control of a roommate. Unless one has a heroin addiction to soften the blows. An appealing option about now.

No good comes of being Petra Doherty. Even if it is just around the eyes.

By working the extra day Saturday, I reaped good fortune past that of staying atop large projects, extra income and escape from the living nightmare that is the house.

I begin yesterday cleaning the small house just vacated by a loving and wonderful family. The house is so filled with positive energies.

I feel safe, which I immediately recognize is a quality and feeling I've not had in the home for quite a long while.

As I continue working, a thought strikes like the proverbial thunderbolt: Why not stay here a couple nights? The new tenants aren't moving in until midweek. I could throw an old futon on the floor. Pack an overnight-plus bag. No Internet but I can get around that with the nearby cafes and taverns. Get some much-needed safety as well as respite and relief from the abuse.

I run the idea past my boss. Sure, he says, with a possible hint of puzzlement at the inquiry. I need a safe space, I offer, and leave it at that. I am so blessed to be working with this family, so cool, kind, generous, authentic and wonderfully eccentric.

I dash after work to the house from hell, finding fortunately no one home, to retrieve bedding, bath goodies, change of clothing, beverages, a jar of peanut butter, jam and stale crackers, and return to the little house with profound relief and gratitude and anticipation of sanctuary for a few days.

There are two bedrooms. I select the larger one, which has, not visible in the picture, a skylight above the futon:

Here’s the other room; that bright blob (cell-phone camera, ya know) too is a skylight:

Here’s the second floor of the 2-story house:

Off the hallway there is a bathroom whose window looks into a sweep of maple branches and leaves; it also has a clawfoot tub ... a slice of paradise!

Down some stairs to the first floor:

and into the main entry hall:

into the living room:

into the dining room:

down ultra-steep stairs into the basement where there's a washer-dryer so I can do my weekend laundry (work clothes) after all and not have to send it to LOIL:

Back up the ladder-like stairs to the kitchen; those mismatched white cabinets left by the tenants are going:

through double glass doors that open into arguably the home's best feature, outside of the positive energies, a fenced back yard:

with a babbling pond that, yes, hosts fish:

and dancing reflections:

and a Berr Symon who is sunning himself amongst the waltzing shadows of maples upon his favorite seat, rock:

and a brilliant-green canopy from two majestic maples:

Also from the bad house the makings for the all-important morning coffee ...
paper filters, spoon and java:

my favorite coffee mug (the only one I own, in fact) and a sippy cup, borrowed from the house, containing half-and-half (that’s Korean writing, btw):

Pyrex for the water I'll boil in the built-in microwave:

Shoot! I forgot the plastic filter! It resembles this one but is smaller and designed for brewing a single cup ... very handy and surprisingly hard to find anymore ...

And I ain't gonna go back to get it; in fact, I don't plan on returning to that house until I have to on Tuesday.

I’m nothing if not resourceful so I search around the emptied house and my minimal possessions and find this in a bag of trash left neatly in the basement by the former tenants:

I could puncture a hole in it with my Swiss army knife. Might work.

I continue looking around. Ah! From my things, an even better idea!

Will the boiling water melt it? Will find out. If it does, I've got a backup plan, the Swiffer box.

I arrange the paper and grounds and slowly pour over the boiling water, keeping close watch. Tap here, jiggle gently here. Voila! Works like a charm ... not only for one cup but two and more tomorrow and day next.

Praises be to the humble Slurpee lid.

I'm blessed because I love my job.  And because right now's a very busy time with  large-rental turns and an office move, which means plenty of work this weekend if I desire it. And I do. In part because I'm in full-on Avoid the House In Any Way I Can mode.

I've been on this road so many times before. What differentiates the present abode from others is that there's a female (and a secondary sidekick) creating the misery. Only time I'm at the house is to sleep. I stopped cooking there  a month or more ago after an acerbic 6-page letter, left on the bathroom vanity and riddled with unfounded accusations and charges, included the dictate: There's no reason to be cooking after 10 p.m.

Evidently, there is no hunger after 10 p.m. No schedule that differs from hers. No need to heat up nourishing chicken noodle soup to heal a cold at bedime. Cooking, which I looooove, came to an abrupt halt.

The demise of the roommate situation has been sharp and severe, the woman abusive and dangerous. If I wrote what's been going on these past months, your jaws would drop. And I don't want that ... to write the painful details OR your jaws to drop.

Which circles back to the entry point. My job is my place of relief, my salve, my pleasure and enjoyment. My place of interaction with human beings who are kind  rather than hurtful. Caring rather than critical. Generous rather than controlling. Altruistic rather than selfish.

My job, along with assorted taverns and cafes in town, provides the safety that is absolutely lacking at the house. When I leave work each day, I never think: "I'm gonna go home and relax!" I think: "Where can I spend the next four hours until it's dark and approaching bedtime?" And I find those places.

Today, while most were itching for the start of the weekend, I turned to my my boss 30 minutes before quitting time and asked: "Can I work this weekend?"

Yes.

I'm so blessed to have a job I love. And a ready-made escape from the house from hell. I cannot wait wait wait to get the heck outta there and put a LOUD period at the end of this experience. Hell, I'd hand-carry my stuff 5 miles item by item just to be out and done.

Soon. Very soon.

I'm a fan of online interactive divination, tarot cards and the like. And one of my fav sites is this one, with five packs of healing cards by various well-known folks in the New Age field. (I recommend decks by Doreen Virtue; skip Sylvia Browne's).

So last night I popped in and selected the Messages from Your Angels deck. And ... I'm not making this up ... I got this:

Angel Celeste

"A happy move to a new home or place of employment is in the works. This movement will usher in positive new energy.

Additional Message: Yes, it is time for a move. I am working with your other angels to keep your spirit and energy high during this move.

Although it may seem as if moving requires a lot of effort, when you work with me and the other angels, it can actually be a time of great joy. I will help you to find a new location, and then I will assist you with the necessary details. I will also help your other family members to adjust to the move. Just ask!

All I request is your trust. Trust that God and the angels are capable of finding just the right place for you. If you decide on one certain place and it doesn't work out, it is because we are bringing you something that's even better. Expect miracles to occur that allow you to afford this change. Stay positive and don't buy into illusions or scarcity thinking. We will smooth the way, and we will also help you meet new people who can illuminate your path."

Wowie zowie, too right on for words!

See pink. And grab your shades.

'Specially you, Shark (whose pink-car pic inspired this).

This is parked outside an apartment complex down the street from where I camp. That building's dingy ghetto but the wheels certainly are not.

The seat covers carry on the hot-pink theme. The steering wheel's dressed in a matching outfit; unfortunately that snapshot didn't turn out (reflections).

Wonder how many cops pull over this car for some silly thing just to check out the (presumably) chick who'd drive this.

... this meme is ... and what the hell, it's cheap entertainment on a hot summer night.

Incidentally, in keeping with this meme's spirit, I entered "It's going around" into the Google box and went with the first choice. If you've got issues with the hed, bring it up with them.

Procedure: Type the following into the Google search box and choose the first choice:

1. Type in "[your name] needs" - WB needs a new pair of SuSE’s. (SuSE = Linux distribution; named after Software-und-System Entwicklung.)

2. Type in "[your name] looks like" - WB looks like she’s sticking with a bad idea.

3. Type in "[your name] does" - WB does DC body shot.

4. Type in "[your name] hates" - WB hates us.

5. Type in "[your name] goes" - WB goes into hiding.

6. Type in "[your name] loves" - WB loves “Valentine.”

7. Type in "[your name] eats" - WB eats with students.

8. Type in "[your name] has" - WB has key to female market.

9. Type in "[your name] gives" - WB gives Nancy extra pop on VOD. (Nancy = Nancy Drew; VOD = video-on-demand)

10. Type in "[your name] takes" - WB takes franchise turn with Akira.

11. Type in "[your name] won't" - WB won’t take (Mark) Millar for Superman.

12. Type in "[your name] can't" - WB can’t see true potential DC (Comics) has.

13. Type in "[your name] wants" - WB wants Freud’s interpretation of murder.

14. Type in "[your name] makes" - WB makes unusual deal.

15. Type in "[your name] killed" - WB killed Smallville?

Spread it around like ... well, never mind.

... your mother has been involved in a fistfight at a high school sporting event.

Just because, and particularly after a trying day, low-brow humor has its place. (Thanks H-san for brightening my day!)

Redneck gingerbread house

Redneck palm pilot

Redneck Powerball winner

Powerball winner on vacation

Redneck grill

You may be a redneck if your wife's quoted saying this in the paper:

There is in the female psyche an aspect that is deeply frightening, and more scary than any aspect of the male psyche.

Not all women have it; those who do create a harm, destruction and damage beyond my own comprehension or measure. These are the women to walk away from at any cost. (I know a couple of my female readers truly understand and for them this message will convey special meaning.)

They, the female backstabbers, need forgiveness.
They need to be left with the consequences of their actions.
They need to be left, period.

When these steps are accomplished, the healing begins.