Fantastic spring weather will lift anyone’s mood and mine has been no exception. The whole internet is atwitter with people shouting the glories of sunshine, bikerides, sunburns, flowers and greenery. In our little corner of world things appear to be just peachy. In my head and in the next room on endless loop: “Oooooooour house… is a veryveryvery fine house…”

Open house today. An enormous white sign has been erected next to the garage. BY APPOINTMENT ONLY. As I drove up with the groceries, a young couple walking dogs stopped to take a flier. It took everything I had not to scream out, “BEWARE YE! BEWARE!!! ‘Tis curséd, this place! ‘Twill claim ye very souuuul!!!!” Anything to keep the vultures away. Inside everything is labeled. As I put the eggs away, “BUILT IN FULL SIZE REFRIGERATOR.” Head downstairs for laundry, “NEW AIR CONDITIONER INSTALLED ’06” and “GAS GENERATOR AT THE READY!” “ORIGINAL WINDOW MOLDINGS” frame the front door. This is your life on sale. With sunlight streaming through every window of a house cleaned to the nines, though, it’s hard to be bitter. More than anything, I just feel stunned by the idea that my whole childhood is about to be auctioned off. It’s surreal rather than upsetting, somehow. Maybe I’ve just had so much time to prepare, maybe it’s the weather. I sat in my chair looking out over the lawn today, thinking how this place is everything that growing up in Portland ever meant to me. It’s not just the house, either. The furniture, the garden. the pictures, the rugs, the fishtank. Everything must go. I wonder where exactly… just where will it all go when this big brown box is no longer ours to contain it.

I read the flyer today at lunch with ま. Very flattering. “FOUR huge climbers? There are more than four in that yard!” She exclaims. Then she sighs and looks at it again. “They did a good job.” If I were to say she’s been “a little on edge” about this whole thing, it would be something like saying, “I guess a few people died in WWII.” A friend and I joked that we should throw a net over her and shoot her with a tranq. dart. I wont lie, I considered it. I don’t think I’ve seen her sit down for more than 10 minutes all week. I hear her at 4 am, vacuming. Tonight, glass in hand once again, she gave me a big speech about how tired she was and how much sleep she was going to get. Why does she always yell these things down 2 flights? Is it all that difficult to just come talk to me in the kitchen? “So fine, go sleep. Don’t tell me about it.” I said. And hey, what do you know, for once she actually did.

And me, hell, I’m beat too. お. and I hauled thousands of pounds in dirt. じぇ. and I mopped and scrubbed every inch of molding and ceiling we could. So what am I doing blogging when there’s a big sunny day at the mountain waiting for me in the morning? Why do I yell these things down into the abyss? Is it all that difficult to just accept a mundane evening, early to bed? Well, what do you know, for once, I actually will.