Settling in

As you can see, we now have internet access. Life is good again . . . we have tossed aside our mental crutches and can now bound blithely through the interwebs.

Here are some early observations from Week #1.

In the past, my mind punctuated major changes with a single vivid dream — my subconscious packing its bags and moving on, or that’s what I’ve always assumed. Not so this time. I’m troubled by half-remembered dreams that delve deeper than the Crescent City/Brookings decade, mining the residency years, med school, even college.

I don’t like it.

The horse poop smell persists, but we’ve identified the source: the Augean Stables, AKA the Sonoma County Fairgrounds. Festivities persist through the October Harvest Festival; we’re hoping the aromas will settle down thereafter.

We live at least two miles south of the Fairgrounds. Yesterday, we went to Lowe’s Hardware in Rohnert Park some ten miles from the Fairgrounds, and we could still catch a faint whiff of whinny. Why do people tolerate this? Why isn’t there a public outcry?

Santa Rosa restaurants rock. We’ve only had one mediocre meal (at a randomly chosen Mexican restaurant) and several superb meals. Sea Thai Bistro stands out for special acclaim. We’ve had some fine Thai food over the years, and this place certainly vies for the top spot.

I hate moving. Have I mentioned that lately? And to think I had been looking forward to this as a “no call” vacation. Right!

I’m tired of living and breathing cardboard boxes. Even after throwing out literally a ton of junk, then having our huge garage sale, then giving away what I couldn’t sell, then having our big office sale, then giving away what I couldn’t sell there, even after all of that, we still have too much crap. Unpacking, I found a pair of door knobs still cased in plastic. How did that happen?

I’ve decided I can only take the full measure of my crap upon unpacking.

We’ll be renting storage space for all the boxes that can wait until . . . well, until. Until we sell our house in Brookings and buy one down here, I guess. It’s still so very unreal.

I’m depressed. Or anxious. Something. My stomach churns, my sleep is disturbed, my libido is in the basement (good thing, too, since with all of this heat, skin and cleavage are omnipresent. And fine cleavage, too), my back aches, I’ve joined a gym but haven’t found time to get over there yet. I’m worried about Jake’s schooling and my practice.

Jake’s schooling: he’s technically an 8th grader but the 8th grade counselor sent us to the high school. The high school VP was leery for a couple of reasons. First, Jake is small. (Well, we knew that. But he’ll still be small next year.) Second, we’ve been doing a seat-of-our-pants curriculum, so they have no idea if he’s as advanced as we claim he is. In any case, they’re going to have Jake shadow another 9th grader through his or her classes this coming Monday. I suspect I’m at least as nervous about this as Jake . . . I don’t want it to be a horrible experience for him.

My practice: I’m going to have to work to build this one. When I came to Crescent City, I had Instant Practice (Just Add Doctor!) It didn’t take much effort. Here, they already have several ENTs, and I suspect they’re not altogether delighted to add another to their numbers.

That’s enough kvetching for today.

Last night, I used our kitchen for the first time and made pasta puttanesca. In Brookings, I set aside all of the essentials and asked the packers to label those boxes appropriately. They did. Mostly. I figure there’s still one box which did not get the magic asterisk; that means we’re missing a few things, but nothing that can’t be replaced. We bought some new silverware, and I still need to buy measuring spoons and an electric mixer. And maybe some mixing bowls, too. This is not a crisis.

The frightening thing is how many boxes labeled “kitchen” I don’t need to unpack.

***
I can hear the ferrets knocking stuff around in their cage. They want food. They always want food.

The cats are happier here; we let them upstairs, so they get to hang with us more than they used to. By the same token, though, the ferrets are unhappier. They used to live in the master bedroom with us, but in these postage stamp bedrooms, such is impossible. I think I’ll be able to move them up to “the office” (home office, that is) eventually, but the place is still a bit of a mess.

I think I’m kvetching again.

D.