in my element

That was the most fun I've had since we got here.

I went to Dream Project to watch the music class and get a feel for it.

Getting there was entertaining enough.

Our damn jalopy over heated.

I wanted to get there early, so I left an hour early.  They said to be there at 9, but being the eager beaver I am, I wanted to be there at 8.

Damn am I grateful that people start work so early here.

When the car overheated, I basically coasted for half an hour, then pulled into a garage that was open to get more water to add to our coolant.

That did the trick and I was off again.

I got there 20 minutes early.

I still looked like I was rarin' to go.

Then when I was there, the teacher saw me and was so happy, because not only did it mean that I could possibly drive down the road to get him a keyboard at a local bar, but it also meant I could help him teach.

There is one teacher for 5 guitars, a bass, 2 drummers and 2 keyboard players.

He was so happy that I could take over for the keyboards and teach them while he went and taught the rest.

I was so happy, because it was the first sheet music I've played in a year.

A year!

A year ago, we started into the mania of the gramma dramma and there was no time for me to make music.

Then it was all about prepping the house, selling it and moving into Our Closet.

There was no sheet music.

No piano.

So, today my brain had to work overtime to get back into the swing.

And swing it was.

These kids were learning jazz for crying out loud!

I was so incredibly impressed at their talent and ability to just copy what I played them.

My heart pounded with the excitement of a challenge, and the joy of seeing how I could help those wee, short people.

Then I looked around and realized, I was in my element.

I was back to me.

Of course, being a keener, I also have low self-esteem and didn't know if I did a good enough job.

Afterward, the teacher asked me how I like it and I told him I love it, then said I wanted to know if I did a good enough job.

I asked him, "I don't know how much you wanted from me, but was it good enough?"

He was happy with what I did and more than pleased for me being there to help him make his job easier.

We thanked each other about 20 times back and forth.

I guess I did good.

I go back on Wednesday to work for free, but fill my heart with glee.

Then when I arrived home, some of the sweet children in the village stopped me to give me a flower, a mango and a frozen treat that I'll give Papi.  It looks too deliciously sugared for my body.

However, it was then that it occurred to me that I said I would teach music to them in July.

We're getting awfully close to July and I haven't started to prepare for the kidlets!

So, I asked one of the older girls if she would help me.

As soon as I'm finished with this blog and finished my salad, off I go to count heads, and spread the word that on Saturday, we start our choir.

I also realized, that damn, I'm going to have to spend money on a keyboard that I can practise on.

I didn't anticipate this opportunity at Dream Project, so the keyboard I bought was strictly for programming music on my computer.

Wow.

This was my kinda day.

It reminded me of who I was before the motorcycle accident.

The vibrant girl who is eager and ready for the joy and challenge of music.

when i believe in myself, so do others

i was his hero.

It's that busy time of year, where people aren't relaxed enough to be civil.

While everyone is out freaking about the 'best' gift to buy their child to prove to the kid they're loved, Papi and I have other plans.

The Countdown.  27 days.

Personally, I'm doing a little bit of research to try to find musicians and film companies, but Papi?  He's making plans for his pool.

People say, "Why do you need a pool when you're on the ocean?!?"  Well, Papi wants a nice cool place to jump in without the hassle of seaweed and salty skin.

So, he contacted a company and they say they can have that thing built in 2 weeks!!!  2 weeks man!!!

I guess this means that when we get there, within 2 weeks we'll have a super duper splendid poolside relaxing area.

I don't mind the fact that my love wants to build me a hot tub as well.

That will shut my bitch of a back up in a hurry!  Pain be gone, or at least lessened.

It really is paradise found, and we are so, so grateful that we can have this little haven of a better life, unlike here in the city.

27 more days of living in Our Closet and noisy neighbours, cranky stress-mobiles and drunken knobs strolling the streets yelling.

Last night, as Papi and I were trying to relax and have a quiet hang out, the floor was shaking from music.  It was the same noise that woke me the night before at 3:30 a.m.

We were trying to find out where it was coming from, but couldn't pinpoint it.  It was more than a little nerve racking.

Papi was wandering around outside like a madman, and I was strolling the halls.

Initially, we thought it was a band in the house behind us.  I've been invited to their 'kegger' before.

Yeah.  Thanks, but no thanks.  I'm still enjoying my sobriety, and the hangovers I get from the pills are enough.  I don't need to add alcohol to the mix.

Anyway, we couldn't find the source.  Anywhere.

Until I realized that meant it was coming from beneath us.

We deduced that our sweet neighbours must have received a new stereo system.

Papi was my hero in the past, and now he asked me to be his, or he'd start popping the clonazepam because he couldn't handle the thumping anymore.  He was going to pop.

Down I went in my very fancy winter pj's, with nasty tacky slippers to hit home that I was definitely in for the night and ready to sleep.

I knocked.

No answer.

I knocked again.

My sweet neighbour answered and when she opened the door, it really didn't sound like the noise could be coming from her suite!!

I asked, "Hey, SO sorry to bother you," big smile, trying to seem as nice as possible, "but did you happen to get a new stereo system?" as meekly as possible not to seem like the worst bad neighbour ever.

"Um, yeah," she said as her face looked like she was not going to enjoy what I said next.

"Ah, well, it's sorta making our floor shake, the bass is a little loud."

"Oh, ok, I'll turn off the sub-woofer."

I was so grateful they were respectful, yet felt so bad for ruining their fun.

But seriously.  A sub-woofer in an apartment suite?  What's the fucking point?  You could never have that baby up loud enough to enjoy it's full potential!!

Dudes, you need to go get your own Casa Paraíso.  You can turn it up real loud there.

Your neighbours will not be disturbed.

They're going to be too busy listening to the sound of the waves.

27 more days of inter-city dwelling.

i am surrounded by good, respectful, loving people

squirmy shudders!!!!

Oh, but the Tom Cat Operetta was in full swing.

We needed to get the Fuzzy Family cats their microchips for traveling.

We had 2 cats in one cage, one in another.

Not to mention, we brought along 2 dogs for the trip, if you can call a Chihuahua a dog.

And by 2 dogs I don't mean we had the ashes of our dead dog.  We have a visitor to Our Closet.

Remember The Galloping Gazelle?  He's back!

Actually, lives in our building.

Actually, his mom is our landlord, who lives in the building.

She's away and The Galloping Gazelle is staying with us.

The cats are NOT impressed.  At all.  Psycho Kitty is losing more hair.

Anyway, we had to get their microchips.

The needle man!  I've never seen anything thicker in my life.

I was wondering how Dr. Bob was going to put that chip in there.  I thought at least they'd have a numbing agent before he went to town.

I asked if it was going to hurt, not knowing how it was done.  He just laughed at me.  I wish I didn't go in there.

The entry point of this long needle was extremely visible.

You know how the needles we get, you'll have to squint to see the entry point?

Oh, not this one.  Big.  Not to mention, the gizmo to push it into their skin.

Poor Psycho Kitty.

He has thick skin and Dr. Bob couldn't get it in there!

He had to push a few times to get it to go in.  I asked him if the needle was sharp enough!!  Maybe it was flawed!!  Good g*d man!!!

Of course, he just rolled his eyes at me, because I was being 'dramatic'.

I was almost sick to my stomach.

In the other two, the needle just went in like a knife through butter that's been left on the counter for the day.

They were brave.  That was of course, until they had to go back into the cage.

I would hate to share a kennel with The Bastard Prince.  He gets scared and craps himself.  Then The Mrs. has to hang out with that stench until we get home.

Imagine how much fun she'll have being stuck in there for a plane ride?

Overall, I do have to say the cats did very well.  I'd be squirming all over the place with that thing stuck in my shoulder blades.

The singing in the car though?  That was something.

So there they are, all 3 of the cats are squealing and along comes a siren.

Now we've got 2 small dogs howling and 3 cats squawking.

Well, the Fuzzy Family is being tracked by big brother.  Except our visitor, The Galloping Gazelle.  We didn't get him a chip.  I'm sure mom will be happy about that.

Hey!  How about you bring your pets to Andréa and Papi's house!  The visit comes with a free microchip and trauma to go along with it!

But seriously.  The amount of paperwork they need to go visit another country is crazy!

There are a gazillion strays there and they want to know every single thing about our animals.

I'm surprised they didn't ask for a stool sample or a DNA swab.

Do they have that for animals?  DNA swabs?

Anyway, I'm still shuddering from the experience.

i am pleased with how i handle my emotions

chemo cat & cake

G*d I love peanut butter on toast.  It's gotta be the best treat out there.  I sometimes go to bed anticipating my morning glory, peanut butter celebration.

Just had to share that.

Don't worry.  This is not a blog about peanut butter toast.

Nor will it be a blog about complaining of how little sleep I've been getting this week, yet last night was the first night I slept all the way through without drugs to help me.

I will also spare you the details about how I'm suffering through the weather erupting my bitch of a back.

So what's left to talk about?

Cat's on harnesses and Papi's birthday.

Let's start with Papi's birthday.

Every year, I buy him his favourite cake.  Of course, it's very difficult for me to keep in mind which is the flavour he likes, because it's only once a year I buy it for him.  My brain injury does not do me justice in the memory department.

There I was staring at Safeway cake, ...

... just fyi, it's the only one he ever asked for ... i would never buy him this by choice ...

... trying to recall which vanilla cake he prefers.  Is it the one with the filling of vanilla icing?  Or the one with custard filling?

I banked on the custard, because he has such strange taste buds.

Only one problem; there were no 'single' slices of the vanilla custard cake.

Only one thing left to do!  Buy a whole cake!  Yeah!

I proudly took the bus with his cake, with onlooking passengers drooling at the sight of a flat of sugar.  I prayed my brain injury didn't give me balance issues, as I limped with the weight of the package.

I waited patiently until Papi slept off the Graveyard Coma, and, "Happy birthday!" I screamed at him while he was still wiping the sleep from his eyes.

Oh, I got the right cake!  I was so pleased.

Alas, there was one 'wee' issue.  I forgot that last year, he asked me not to buy him the cake anymore because his tastebuds have changed since starting on hormones.  He doesn't eat sweets anymore.

Well, I hope the ladies at his job enjoy it.

Let's move on to cats in harnesses.

We have to train them to be on harnesses so that we can bring them outside for their piddling.  This is how they'll be traveling on planes.

Pee breaks on leashes.

Well, I got the harnesses on the cats, but the cats were not impressed, to say the least.  I can't tell you how many bite marks I'm nursing, but I did it.

Now picture this: Cats walking with their belly so low to the ground you'd think they were hover cats with legs 1/4 the size of a normal feline.

It was odd to witness our cats not moving from one spot for hours at a time.

Oh!  But when they did move, it was in reverse, as they were trying to back out of the nylon, pseudo straight jackets they were in.

Then there was Psycho Kitty.  He was so distraught with the prospect that he started to lick his fur off his body.

He already has a kitty version of male pattern baldness from the stress of being trapped in Our Closet of 454 sq. ft with The Bastard Prince.

Now?  His loss of hair has extended all the way to losing some of his tail fur.

Good thing we never made it onto Psycho Kitty TV.  This hair issue just won't do for his national debut.  He would need a toupée.

Normally, he's such a pretty kitty with all that long grey fur.  However, he now resembles a cat on chemotherapy.

I figure he'll look really good with a shaved lion cut.

Silver miniature lion!  A rare breed.

So there ya go.  Papi's birthday and cats on harnesses.

Aren't you glad you stopped by?

everything i do turns into success

a day in the life ...

The game is, whomever gets to The Countdown first in the morning gets to rip a tab off.  Sometimes it's Papi coming home from a Graveyard shift, sometimes it's me waking up from slumberland.

 

I usually piddle a little from joy when I get to look at this:

 

Papi gets a boner when he looks at this:

 

Then, before I hit the washroom to clean up the mess I made from excitement of getting my braces off, I light The Golden's candle to say good morning and stare at the love we've given him over the past 2 weeks.

 

I've been writing him love notes and begging him to come show me he is OK.  He finally did last night.

He came bounding through the door of my dream, jumped all over me and I told him I love him so many times.  He kissed me over and over and I woke up with a healed heart.

He's happy, youthful and very, very well.

Then I went back to playing in a band with Keith Urban.  I'm not sure why I dream about that guy so much, but I do.

Anyway, then I stagger to the kitchen to make my coffee, and this is the first thing I see:

 

Chaos of preparation.

However, there is one cute thing to look at.

 

You'll have to look really close to see it, but in the depths of this darkness, there is a kitten that goes by the name of The Mrs.  She's decided this is her new home.

She's gonna be pissed when she finds out she has to share it for 8 hours with The Bastard Prince.

After I've fed all the Fuzzy Family, a certain member doesn't want to go outside for his morning tinkle.

This is where he hides, because he actually thinks he's invisible here:

 

Don't ask me why.

But dammit!  It would sure be nice if the li'l puto used it for it's purpose, instead of me walking him outside in my worst outfits possible and skanky hair to go along with it!

A femme should never have to look that horrible in public!

So, there ya go.

Our Closet.

Our life.

i feel radiantly full of abundant energy and health

i'm trying ...

She hasn't had time to really find out how I am, so she said what everyone else thinks, "Sorry you're so sad about losing him."  She, as does everyone, thinks I'm only mourning.  I wish that were all it was.

I know in the past, writing has helped.  It's just that I haven't been coherent enough to write.  However, today, this little page called to me from my bed.  I felt I needed to purge my words of all I've felt since Saturday.

After our ridiculous fight, I tried to go to the synagogue to find some healing.

I play a hand drum they have there.  I play because I don't know all the songs, and sometimes, it's nice just to play to be a musical addition to their energy, even if I don't use my words.

The problem is, I was told it was the wrong thing to do.  Apparently, I made The Guardkeeper spirit angry at my Rabbi, because way back when, there was a rule about nobody playing drums while people are singing.  Good g*d!  I make trouble everywhere I go.

Anyway, because I was in a place of weakness, in my embarrassment, I cried.  Everyone there thought I was only crying because I was told not to play the drum.

I had to explain that my dog just died, I had a fight with my spouse about me being 'wrong', then I came to the synagogue for healing, but was told I was 'wrong' again.  All of this, with the compounding stress of the disappearing days on The Countdown has me in a bit of a tizzy.

I told them, "If this had have been any other time in my life, I would have blushed about the whole 'drum thing' and gone on singing."  Not this time.

That evening, Papi dealt with his grieving about The Golden, and witnessing his way of dealing with pain broke me.

I went into a physical meltdown, whispering through my drooling, hyperventilating tears to the 'g*d' that doesn't exist to 'please help me get off the floor!'  I was begging to The Golden, to my Dearly Departed Gypsy and to my Great Grandmother to please help me.

Anybody!  Please!  Help me?

With shaking limbs, I was stranded on the floor in fetal position.  It was over for me, I was sure.  I was going to die from emotional pain, just like I thought I would when I was a tiny little girl when my P.T.S.D. first arose.

When I was that child, I was afraid to go to sleep.  If I were to sleep, I may never wake up, because my debilitated heart would stop beating, and I would die.

In this adult moment of a mental collapse, every single horrid experience life handed me flooded my mind in one massive tsunami of P.T.S.D.  Since that moment, I've had 6 days of not being able to find my breath, fearing I may choke.  Not to mention, pass out from the lack of oxygen I'm pulling in.

I've had 6 days, where every time I close my eyes, everything comes rushing towards me; my motorcycle smashing into that car ... a fork aimed at my head as it sliced through air, because I wasn't home in time for dinner ... the fist of a former lover smashing my chest in anger, because I said something wrong.  You name it, it came straight toward me, re-injuring my fragile mind with fresh wounds.

Sometimes, there is nothing I can even identify coming at me.  These 'things' come so fast and frantic I don't even see them, but every single time something rushes towards me, it sends bolts of electricity through my body and I flinch.

My breathing won't calm.  You know when kids have those after shocks from crying?  That breathing in short choppy spurts?  I'm getting it all day long.

All ... Day ... Long.  Long.  So very long.

I'm moving through quicksand.  Even as I try to pick up a glass of water from the side table, it feels like lifting a 25 lb weight.  It then takes all my strength and I'm down again.

I can barely keep my eyes open, yet I don't sleep.  I just stare at the little silver rings.  They're strong enough to hold the white, floor length curtains on brushed nickel rods in Our Closet.  I wish they could hold me.

I shouldn't say I don't sleep.  I lost a day there.  I slept a cool 17 hours from Tuesday to Wednesday evening.  Papi came in to wake me up, afraid that it was true; that I could die from emotional pain.  I ate a few bites, listened to Papi's history of the day and went back to bed, sleeping a full night again.

Still, here I am, staring at the mock silver rings that can't hold my weight.  Here I am.  Speaking words, that come out of my mouth even though they don't sound like they're mine.

I'm on another plain right now.  This is not sadness, nor is it grief.  This isn't even Hurricane Andréa.  I'm much too silent for that.  This is one mother fucking spate of P.T.S.D. that hunts me like prey.  I have to stop running and allow it to take me down and swallow me whole.

This Pit of Doom is nothing I've ever experienced.  This is physical.  I don't move from the La-Z-Boy, lest I collapse from weakness.

None-the-less, I must be getting better.  I'm writing.

i am willing to release all fear

THIS is fucking ridiculous

I'm hiding in the bedroom, doing my best to write to you today.  This is one of the days I wish I was already video blogging.  You really would have enjoyed Papi's baboon-like behaviour.

Seriously.  Arms were flailing.

I have to remember, we both have a lot of emotion around losing The Golden, but for fucks sakes!  He pissed me off enough to have me lose my sleep last night, and then I get up to more of his antics this morning when he came home.

He's on a rant about what I'm bringing to Casa Paraíso.  He says it's ridiculous.  Let me tell you what ridiculous is.  I couldn't even make my coffee without him trying to tell me how ridiculous my reverse osmosis water system is.

I need to drink water.  I can't drink their water.  Water heals me.  I'm bringing a system so I can drink the water.

So there I was trying to put my coffee into my urn and he was actually body blocking me, as if we were in a basketball game, "I won't let it go until you admit how ridiculous it is to bring this system," while I was grinding beans for my 2nd round of coffee, because he distracted me so bad on the first round, I fucked up the process.

Round 2: Pivot, water.  Pivot, beans.  Pivot, cinnamon.

Yes, he had me cornered in the very small of Our Closet, with his peacock tail fluffed, puffed out chest body, like a fucking dude in a bar showing who's boss.

To appease his nonsense, I tried to test the 'I'll let it go, if you admit how ridiculous this is' theory, so I told him, "OK.  I can admit that it's a bit large."  But do you think that was enough for him to now 'let it go'?

Oh, no.  He moved on to acting like a girl in that bar fight, snapping his fingers with, that 'bitch, I told you' attitude, all the whilst, spilling my coffee as he pranced about with every single thing I want to bring.

What's ridiculous?  Dragging it all out into the living room so that I could put it on my blog, in hopes that everyone would tell me I'm being ridiculous in wanting to bring things I can't buy there along with me.

I honestly can't even convey the act that's going on right now.

I can't even write without the feeling that he IS the Papirazzi.  The camera bulb is flashing, Papi's stomping around like an anger gnome, and the cats are nowhere to be found.  He's one step short of running to the mountain tops to scream out, "This is ridiculous!!!!!" in hopes that his bellowing echo could be heard all the way to the Dominican Republic.

Oh, here's the newest one he's brought out.  He's telling me they're going to think I'm bringing a bomb, which has quickly gone into him telling me it's just going to get wrecked.

THIS?  Is letting it go?

No, like I told him at the very beginning of his rant, "Even if I DO say it's ridiculous, you'll probably go on about it for the rest  of our 56 days."

Don't worry, I have ammo.  I'll just bring up the hissy fit about me wanting me to stop the medicinal cannabis because we're going somewhere they won't accept me using it, but then he goes on taking HIS medicinal cannabis for another fucking 3 weeks!!!

Yup, I'll be hearing about this until my dying day.  There I will be lying in my bed, all wrinkled and old, trying to gasp out my last breaths, with Papi telling me, "I won't let you die until you tell me how ridiculous it was."

Ridiculous is him purposely trying to get me to get pissed off.

He worked his magic of trying to piss me off all night last night and all morning today.  He just can't accept that when he goes into an anger rant, I shut down and don't say much, because I need to keep myself from showing my anger.

However, onward Papi went to test the theory.  Right down to, every time I poured myself a glass of water, he'd drink it.

Well, now I've locked myself in the bedroom to escape his shenanigans and enjoy my cup of coffee without it being spilled all over the floor every time he stomped by, ranting about how ridiculous this all is. 

This was seriously nothing you could ever capture in a few words.  Oh, how I wish I had a video blog up and running.  You'd understand my pain.

Here's his ridiculous photo:

 

You see that pink spot on the very right of this photo?

That was me trying to enjoy my mother fucking coffee.  You don't mess with my mother fucking coffee.

 i drink plenty of water to keep myself healthy

let's make a deal.

So, Papi comes home, bright and early from a long graveyard shift, and announces, "Ok.  We need to make a will."

Fair enough.

We now own property together, and I've been given the green light to start a retirement savings plan that is for people with disabilities.

It's really cool!

I'll tell ya, it isn't too often the government will actually give us money, so I jumped on it.  They will actually match up to $3,500 I put in.

So we did some wrangling with our finances and got'er did!

Not to mention, Papi has the nest egg from his partial early inheritance.

Oh, and the fact that we're taking some big risks soon is another reason we perhaps should be thinking about it.

So, I agreed, "Yeah, we need a will."

But then he continued, "If you cheat on me or leave me, I get The Mrs."

Not the house.

Not the RRSP, or the nest egg.

The Mrs.

He believes that he loves that cat more than I do.

Let me tell you, with the fucking animal kingdom we have to deal with in Our Closet of 454 sq. ft, she really is the only good one.

Perhaps, it's because she's the only girl and the rest of the orangutans are boys?

... like we need to ponder the nurture vs. nature theory ...

It's just her and I in this male soup.

Anyway, he really only wants to make a will because he wants The Mrs.

Now, the other half that made me giggle, was the 'fooling around' or 'leaving him' part.

People just don't get the depth of my monogamy.

I am probably the most monogamous person on the planet.

Honestly.

Once I fall in love, there is only one person my heart is given to and with all the P.T.S.D. this femme has to deal with, 'fooling around' isn't taken lightly in my books.

No, there has to be trust in my bed.

I'm lucky in the fact that even though I've had numerous partners cheat on me, I've never been jaded by it and turned into a cheater myself.

I just kept on keepin' on until I found the one that wouldn't cheat.

So, Papi, you're safe there, and I trust you like nobody else.

As for the leaving thing.

Did you not hear the first part?  I mate for life.  I've only left because I wasn't treated like I deserve to be, or I haven't found what I want in a relationship.

Seriously.

Do you not see how much we've endured since the beginning of our relationship, not to mention the past few years of all we've toughed out?

Oh, I think you know I'm not going anywhere.

I'm pretty sure it was only a joke about the will.

Besides, this isn't a will we're talking about here.

We're talking about a contract or a post-nup.

Ok.

Here it is in black and white for the world to witness.

"I, Andréa Hector-Brown, do attest that if I ever leave or cheat on my dearest Papi, I will relinquish all rights to The Mrs."

There ya go baby.

Oh how I love you, Papi.

i am loved

what doesn't kill ya, stinks.

How is it, that when we get sick, we smell like something died?

Seriously.  I can't stand myself right now.  If I had a hot tub, I'd jump in and make femme stew.

Well, maybe not.  I actually don't have the strength for more than sitting here on the La-Z-Boy in my pseudo solitary state.

I'm sure Papi can smell me from the couch while he sleeps off the Graveyard Coma.  That may account for the mumbling I don't understand.  "Maxc, mvrvfjfjlkhg! Kajlkhaoiudrknha!" could be translated to, "Please, stop the smell!  I can't take it!"

I'm sure the animals love it.  You know.  They like stinks.  Dogs roll around in miscellaneous odours they find in the grass, and the cats like to stink things up as fast as they can on any surface, especially beds.

Speaking of stinks, The Bastard Prince has a reeky, kitty poo box right behind the La-Z-Boy, which is beside his cat tree pedestal, which is crammed in front of the crates the Fuzzy Family will be in for their flight to the Dominican Republic, that are in the corner of Our Closet of 454 sq. ft.

This placement is so that he can get into the biz box, work his magic turds out, then scoot out and up the tree faster than Psycho Kitty can get to him.  I can also protect him with a spray bottle as I lie here like death.

You see, this is because Psycho Kitty has decided that ALL the stink boxes are HIS and he will protect HIS property to the death.

So, there's more than just my putrid stench that emanates, as I listen to The Bastard Prince scratch at the sides of his very own fetid bin.

I'm just too weak to go mining for gold in the stink box.

I also don't feel like getting into the shower.  I don't have the strength to get up, never mind the energy to de-stink-ify myself.

I'm very grateful for Papi, who was sweet enough to go buy me a soy latte.

When I slithered out of bed at a weak noon hour, I asked him to make me a coffee so I didn't have to suffer a caffeine headache on top of a flu.

He's always too uncomfortable to make my Dominican coffee, so he decided he'd go stand in line on a Sunday morning instead.  Off he went in his pajamas, hanging with all the hipsters waiting for their fix, so they can commence being 'seen' on the wooden patio at the Main Street JJ Bean.

I guess it's still warm enough for most people to sit outside.

Not for me.  I'm in flannel pajamas, wrapped in a flannel housecoat, with a blanket covering all my layers.  I'm seriously making my own sauna.

I suppose that could explain me winning the stench puppy award.  However, there's no point in taking off any layers.  I'll just complain about being too cold, and the stink.

We all know what comes next; boredom.

We're too sick to get up and do anything, but we're finally tired of bad T.V. and wish we could partake in any kind of activity that makes us feel alive.

We stand up in a delirious huff of, "Fuck this shit," and head down the hall to the washroom.

The closest we get to doing any activities is checking out our new hair style in the bathroom mirror, then peeing out the virus we've watered down with orange juice, water and ginger tea.

Well, maybe YOU don't drink ginger tea when you're sick, but you should.  That's the only preaching I'll do.

Come on!  It feels good on the throat!  And builds your immune system!

OK.  That's definitely the last preach, I promise.

So, as I watch another free, bad movie and try to figure out how Papi can snore in tandem with The Golden through all my shows, not to mention, as I have to listen the whining of Psycho Kitty wanting dinner, I wonder, "Why do we stink so much when we get sick?"

More than anything, I await the energy that finally helps me arise from my Pit of Doom and walks me into the shower to cease the smell.

For now, I'll just cuddle with The Bastard Prince.

He likes l'Aroma d'Andréa.

every day i'm getting better and better

Shit kickin' boots.

I channeled my inner redneck for Ladies Night.

I dressed for the part, right down to my dog tag I wear every day with utter pride.  It's the one I received from the Queer Arts Festival this summer.  You remember the one?  The Queer As Fuck award!

One this day, I felt it was the perfect accessory for my power suit.

Every day, I dress in my prettiest clothing, sometimes wackiest colours, to make my femme presence known.

This time, I didn't want to wear it for shooting guns.

I did the last few times.  It's fine to wear a skirt, but from this point forward, I feel that I must don my jeans and boots.

I pulled every little eyelet of my 'Sidekick' Dayton Boots taut.  I exerted myself, as I wrapped that stout leather around my ankles and shins.

That of course was after I'd slithered into my tightest, most badass jeans I have.

This was not a night for my Dominican jeans with rhinestones on the ass pockets.

No, this was a night for Diesel Indian, Bootcut jeans.

They pull my figure into a tiny little package of strength and 'don't mess with me' attitude.

You could never pull the femme from me, so I still felt pretty with my locks hanging down around my shoulders.

In order to fit in the with the bio-boys, I especially chose my camo sweatshirt to wear nice and snug under my riding leather.

Of course, I no longer have a license to ride my motorcycle, or any other vehicle for that matter.  Even if I did, my dearly departed bike was killed in the motorocycle accident.

Still, I kept my leather jacket.  Only problem is, as I went into the closet in Our Closet, I realized it's in storage!

I had to settle for my black jean jacket with a few lacy bits behind the buttons.

No matter, because all together, they give me a certain amount of strength.

My boots hold my feet firm on the ground, with their sturdy heels.

Not to mention their pointy tips, that are seriously good for the off-chance that I may need to kick someone in the balls.

Strength.  I'm searching for my strength.

It's my power suit.

She means business.

When we arrived at the shooting range, I walked in with confidence.  Every boot step sounded as I crossed the floor.

It was like I was wearing a red dress.

It was my space.

My night.

When I shot those tiny silver bullets from my .22, the gun ranger realized he didn't need to help me, saying, "you're really doing good!" then turned his focus on My Gratitude Buddy and my friend I got to know a little better.

They're another member of the Pariah Club.  They fit in just fine.

The only thing I needed the gun ranger to do for me, was load me another cartridge so it was ready for my next round.

Of course, my two buddies were in it for the fun, as they shot their 357 Magnum.  I stuck to my .22 and 9mm.

If you didn't see the outcome of my new shooting expedition, you have to take a peek at it from yesterday.

I'm getting better.

I'm finding my strength.

I'm finding more confidence.

I'm finding that I WILL be protecting myself without any hesitation.

With that, I'm finding more peace.

I'm also finding a new bond with my shit kickin' boots.

i have only positive mental pictures

bloody knuckles

With the trickery of salmon, I lured them out of their hiding places.

It was an instant hide-and-go seek game with the cats, just add crates. 

As soon as those metal doors were opened, there were no cats to be found.  Thank god we only live in 454 sq. ft. of Our Closet.  It wasn't too hard to find them.

But the salmon did the trick.  It would do it for me as well.

Once in their miniature jail cells, it was time to bring all 5 of the Fuzzy Family to the vet for their Dominican Republic shots.

We got a sneak preview of what the hell will be like on the moving day.

From the pure terror these little buggers experienced, within the moments of us putting them in, there was piss and shit in one of the cages.

We'll have to bring along a lot of borax.  Or maybe a million towels that we can just lay down and throw away once the panic has set in for ~ ahem ~ certain cats.  I won't name the offender, so that this fluff ball won't be embarrassed by having their name spread in the interwebs for life.

There seemed to be a well choreographed, "I'll take this, you take that," and "I'll get the doors, and you take this."

Sometimes, Papi and I have communication troubles, but not yesterday.  We were totally in synch.

And today I am totally in pain.  I kinda knew my bitch of a back would give me grief after everything I did to it yesterday.

Oh, it wasn't just the animal kingdom we had to deal with.

I've never had so many things on a to-do list in my life.

Then came the Halloween fireworks.  The Golden was under the bed when I first woke up today.

Well, 'woke up' is not quite right.  I do say 'first' woke up because there are 3 layers to my 'wake up'.

1. Move my body from the bed to upright position, and follow my feet through to feeding the Fuzzy Family to shut those cats up before there is a murder.

2. Shove my body into whatever is handy and brave the piss pouring rain with the dogs so they can have their comfort before I do.

3. Drink my mother fucking coffee.

I am still nursing my coffee, begging it to bring me to life.

The new pills are kicking me in the ass.  There will be no more appointments made before 1 p.m. if I can help it.

Anyway, I'm scattered, tired, aching and really am just putting one foot down after another.

Well, there was one thing we did that wasn't on the to-do list.

Remember how Papi is a bull in a china shop?  He found a shop en route that would take him in on a whim, and he now has knuckle tattoos.

This is going to narrow down the job search options.

 

He likes to think it makes him look like he's been boxing.

Of course, I reminded Papi that if he gets tattoos, then so do I,  Hence, there will be another appointment added to the list for me.

i deserve health, energy and calmness

85 days.

Well, here it is!

It may not look like anything other than a bunch of tags on the wall, but each one is a day to pull off and recycle.

It's The Countdown!

Today I took off number 86.  We're down to 85 days!

Ripping that little tag off the wall gave me a happy dance!!

It wasn't quite as good as The Happy Papi Dance, but it was happy.

It's my contribution to the excitement of our departure.

Wanna see Papi's contribution?

He likes to make piles of dirty socks around the house.

Can you say hoarder?

I envision one day where we can't walk down the halls because there are socks up to the roof.

Oh, did I tell you we still don't have any heat?

My Gratitude Buddy lent me a space heater, so I finally got to wash my hair.

Yes, it's all about my hair.

Do you see the socks in the bottom left corner of the floor.

Maybe posting this for the world to see ...

... hello russia! ...

... he'll start cleaning up his socks.

Anyway, part of the reason I need a space heater is not just because the building is neglecting our rights to heat, but because my dearest Papi likes to leave the balcony door open.

Don't judge me for the mess.  You would have the same issue if you lived in Our Closet of 454 sq. ft.

However, this was supposed to be about The Countdown!

85 days.

85 days.

i have an enthusiastic outlook on life

no reality here.

Aaaarrrrgggghhhh!!!!

Foiled by Our Closet!

The Psycho Kitty TV show was going to come by for our pre-taping interview, until they found out that we only live in 454 sq. ft.

They said the producer couldn't come film, because it's just too small.  They filmed in a place 800 sq. ft. and it was too small for them, so 454 won't do.

My poor li'l putos won't be television stars.

Now what will we do?!?!

It was our only hope to making it big!!

OK.

I'm removing my tongue from my cheek now, but damn, I was really hoping for the kitty psychologist to come on in and help us with our kitty issues.

I guess I'll just have to keep drugging them with Rescue Remedy until we reach the great open land for them to chase bugs, instead of the real Psycho Kitty obsessively guarding the litter box so that The Bastard Prince and The Mrs. can't use it.

I did however, ask them if they'd like to do a reality show about two city slickers who are moving to a 3rd world country with not a fucking clue what we're doing.

I'm sure people would enjoy that insanity in our lives.

For now, you'll have to read about it, unless I actually figure out how the hell to make a video blog to reach people with A.D.H.D. and brain injury.

Example: people like me.

As much as I can write a blog, it sure takes me forever to read one.  Not to mention, read emails and navigate websites.  I read things without really knowing what the hell I'm reading, and wires are crossed in no time, all the time.

Anyway, I'm going to practise making our video blog of our journey, so that people can really get the gist of what a crazy adventure this will be.

I'm sooooo not technology savvy, unless it is my composing program.

Mind you, I taught myself the composing program without any classes, so perhaps I can teach myself a video editing program as well?

Speaking of adventures in reality, I didn't tell you about the word we got from My Boifriend about the adventure he had while house sitting our Fuzzy Family here.

You see, someone scaled the wall of our apartment.  My Boifriend startled him and he took off, but this is really troubling to me.

Here in Canada, if we try to defend ourselves, we'll wind up with an assault charge.

We're not allowed to take things into our own hands.  We can only call the police after the fact and wait for them to arrive long after the happening, then file a report.

Filing a report does not give me as much satisfaction as the thought of sticking a gun in someone's rancid mouth for trying to endanger my life.

But never mind a gun, if I was here and kicked the guy off causing him physical damage, it is I who would be charged for endangering someone's life.

I was getting very heated about the neighbourhood Spiderman, so I decided to distract myself from the anger, and go do my recycling.

Only, when I went down to do so, I found the thieves in the neighbourhood stole our goddam recycling bins.

Mother fuckers.

We came home from the land of smiling faces, to find out about a gay bashing in our hood, a border guard shot in the neck, a child committed suicide because of online bullying and someone scaling our apartment walls.

I know that a recycling bin is only a mere inconvenience for my paper that is overflowing, but when you put it all together with the scum of the earth we're surrounded by in this 1st world country, it makes me want to move to the DR TODAY.

Well, we're one day closer to getting the hell out.

Not to mention, today's the day I get to go do target shooting.

We really do need our own reality show.

However, it's not going to happen in Our Closet.

i strive to improve myself

Goodbye.

Today is the official day where Papi has to say goodbye to the house.

I can't imagine how he feels, because I've been so transient all my life.  It seems I'm constantly saying goodbye and starting anew.

I really don't know what it's like to have that kind of stability torn from me, but I can say, that even as I think about the home I was in with my love, g'ma and all the critters, that my tummy ripples a bit with loss.

I suppose it's because I have to say goodbye the home my love created for me and it's the longest I've ever lived somewhere.

Papi, you showed me love I've never experienced before in that house.  It's so sad to say goodbye to that, even if we have amazing dreams for the future.

I can't imagine how it feels to leave the castle you were born in, not to mention the never ending memory of loss of your mother at the tender age of 10.  I'm sure that's more than a flutter of sadness.

Somehow though, I know that the spirit of your mother, Mr. Moustache, g'pa, and all the other critters I never got to meet, including the hamster buried under the cherry tree in the back yard, are all coming with us to the Dominican Republic.

I feel them with us even in Our Closet.  I swear to god I see movement out of the corner of my eye in this space.  Maybe there's another spirit, but I swear it's Mr. Moustache jumping from desk to chair occasionally.

I sense them, and I know it's because they love you so much, they would follow you anywhere you go.  So would I.

Goodbye, house.

Goodbye to all your growth that brought you to this point, Papi!

Goodbye to everything you learned from your elders.

Goodbye to the tangible feeling of cool doorknobs on your hands and a solid oak floor beneath your feet.

Goodbye to the water everywhere no matter how hard we tried to keep things dry.

Goodbye to the flowers you lovingly planted for our wedding.

Goodbye to the memories of everyone, including the Mariachi band who helped celebrate our lives coming together as one, the wedding cake on the floor, and the silver hearts that we found in the carport and house right up to the last sweep we did on Monday.

Goodbye to the birds, who trusted us enough to eat from our bird feeders, allowing us to witness their beautiful life every day.

Goodbye to our bedroom, which we had to build our kingsize bed into, taking up the entire room.  We didn't care.  It was a true bedroom.

Goodbye to the carport g'pa lovingly built with his own two, hard working hands.

Goodbye to the freezing pipes we had to use a blow dryer on in the winter.

Goodbye to the ceilings so low, that when my brain injured body couldn't walk, the ceilings were my cane.

Goodbye to the oak trees that line the streets, giving us gifts of acorns, falling leaves like confetti, and sap that you have to chisel off your car.

Goodbye to all the house modifications you made, which gave you practise for the home of our future.

Our first home together now has to leave, and our second home together is a proud moment of the first step to moving on.

Our third is the charm, and hopefully, we get to live there until we're grey and wrinkled from the loving, healing sun.

'goodbye' is an opportunity for a beautiful memory

psycho kitty.

Phew!  That feels a little better.

We got to talk about a little more of how each of us are feeling, plus got to have a less stressful day.

Much better.  Back on track.

I suppose it was just the finality of everything getting settled, meaning it's time to prepare for the next step, which is really quite scary.

The fear won't stop us from following our dream we've been preparing for for years, we just need to communicate more.

I've never had such great communication in my life that is outlined by the worst communication.  I don't know how to explain it, but it's odd.

We both take our turns at being the loon in the house.

Problem is, since the beginning of The Great DR Purge, the sale of the house, g'ma being put into the home, The Uncle helping us out, moving to Our Closet and preparing for our trial, we both took our turns at being the crazy one at the same time.

That's no good.

We usually swap, therefore, the one is able to calm the other down.

But when we're BOTH wacked?  No good.

Anyway, speaking of wacked, I've been trying to give the cats less and less Rescue Remedy in hopes that maybe they'll just be sane.

Wrong.  The Tom Cat Operetta is back in full swing.

I contacted a TV show, where they come in to see your psycho kitty and try to get them to be calm and stable.

It's appropriately called Psycho Kitty.

They loved the idea of filming our demented fuzzballs.  Who wouldn't?

A close loss of an eye, screaming cats and great wads of fur being torn from their bodies makes for good drama. 

Especially when they're trapped in Our Closet of 454 sq. ft.

She said of all the applicants who wrote in, we were the first they called, because it sounded 'so funny'.

I sent them pics of all of us, including me holding my gun to show how desperate I am for harmony in the home.

The good part about the show is the free cat behaviourist who comes to help you and your critters.

It's kinda like The Dog Whisperer, only it's for psycho kitties.

When the Rescue Remedy worked, it was great, but I think leaving them on so much medicine for so long is not good for their tiny fuzzy bodies.

Mind you, that's better than blood and guts flying everywhere.

This kitty filming adventure will be a month after we've actually bought a home in the Dominican Republic!!!

We were instructed to go on line and choose a few to see, so we gave her our top 10, then gave her another 25 that we were interested in.

She said, "Well, that's quite a few.  Perhaps you could choose only 3 for the first day."

I think we need a reality show to follow us around there too.

Mind you, we won't need the publicity, considering the cats are going to make us super duper famous!  Don't you think?

People will swarm us and ask for autographs saying, "Hey!  You're the people who have psycho kitties!!"

We'll be more famous than The Beibs!

The whole, entire world will know us for our psychotic cats, screaming femme armed with water bottles, and a tranny with the Rescue Remedy chasing them around to get the goods in their ears.

Ok.  Maybe that's just a bit silly.

I can't even imagine how many people would tune in to a show called Psycho Kitty.

Well, I know I would, but I'm crazy that way.

everything is going to be alright

welcome to the jungle

Alright.

So, I know it's a little different living in the condensed area of the city, but damn.

We've got this building next door to Our Closet that is half of our view.

The other half of our view is a school yard.

Damn those brats are loud!!

However, it really is sweet to hear the screams and giggles.

Anyway, the building to the west of us is not so sweet.

It's got a lovely area of brick, which is nice, but then there's this aluminum siding.

Not like the pretty aluminum siding you buy from the fancy stores.

Nope.

Aluminum, as in great gads of sheets of it, plastered on the exterior walls.

Then there's the windows.

I assumed those windows were for the washrooms, considering they were so small and skinny.

I was validated yesterday.

There I was writing my blog, and I instantly had the topic for today.

At first, all I saw was his male pattern baldness to confirm it was a dude.

Then he stood up.

Creepy, naked guy in the bathroom.

The window was wide fucking open.

Seriously?  I'm neurotic about never being even HALF clothed by windows!

Papi always reminds me that nobody cares to look at my nakedness through our windows. 

I know that I've matured a little since my days of constantly being donned with stalkers and voyeurs, but I still have the P.T.S.D. from it.

I'm actually quite happy having a few wrinkles and a little more age showing.  It really cuts down on the predators.  It's really quite awesome.

Most women can't stand aging.  I like it.

It's a bit like I now have freedom to wear my skirts as short as I want, because the predators are too busy watching the teens.

It's also a little like when I was younger, I shaved my head for the first time and was INSTANTLY rid of the gawking creeps who would assume that just because I unintentionally looked like a bit of a Barbie Doll with my long blonde hair, I was asking for them to prey on me.

... shudders at the man who masturbated on the bus while stroking my hair ...

Anyway.  Dude next door.

As much as he's completely comfortable with letting it all hang out for the world to see, I'm not so comfortable with seeing him and his 'man zone'.

Seriously!  Do you have no shame, man!?!?

Ok.  Maybe he's a nudist and is so used to it that he assumes that everyone else is good with it too.

Nope.  Not this femme.  Not comfortable at all.

I've moved my seat for blogging now.

Now I watch the screaming children as I write each tippity-tappity on this 4 year old, little laptop that is slowly hinting at it's departure from my world.

However, when I'm sitting in this spot, I'm not able to see the cats that are circling our balcony down below.

They're trying to figure out how to get up here and kill our cats.

You can see it in their eyes.

Anyway, my view of screaming children are better than the nudist next door.

Welcome to the jungle.

i have inner peace

please be specific.

When we ALL said, "It won't fit," we weren't very specific.

Seriously.  You have to be specific.

My love is used to his prize possessions, one being his couch, the other being his TV.

The TV isn't here yet, but shortly, it's gazillion inches of screen will be right up front, literally in our faces.

The couch is here though, and like I said, we weren't precise.  We should have said, "It's not going to fit, because it's going to stick out the side of the wall and into the hall and that's just wrong."

I had already expressed my fear of this, stating that I wasn't too keen on my usual, 'bounce off the walls like a pinball' mornings.

My brain injury still has me wonky in the morning.  So, imagine staggering around like a drunk first thing to go make my coffee.

Once, I torn a knee ligament tripping over a couch.

I didn't want that to happen again, but my love wants his couch and considering the fact that he moved practically everything alone on this move, I suppose he can have his couch any damn place he pleases.

The Mrs. likes it, because she can see everything in Our Closet from this spot. 

The Golden could care less, as long as he can fit through to get his attention.

 

Anyway, the couch is in and all it means is we have a little bit of a bottleneck leading into our living room/kitchen/office.

Oh, there should also be a 'slash dining room' as well.

Our dining room is pretty much anywhere we place our little wooden TV trays.

Which we'll use while we watch Papi's gargantuan TV from.

But hey!

He also fit in his La-Z-Boy.  Can you see it in the upper right corner there?

It's good thing it's here, because he's having a case of the Pit of Doom.  This whole journey has been a bit rough for him.

G'ma in the care facility with Alzheimer's, moving from his home he's been in since birth, his old one eyed Golden showing his age and having troubles getting up the stairs, fighting to keep his sanity after a very recent relapse, and the stress from moving for the first time.

Papi is in the Pit of Doom and those demons are nipping at his heels.

Still, his couch and La-Z-Boy are here and that's all that matters.

You know the most exciting part?  We can watch his colossal TV from the bathroom!

No more missing a show because of a piddle emergency!  Good thing.  I wouldn't want to boogie as fast as I can down the hall and trip on a couch.

home is where the heart is

yes, i'm still alive.

We had no internet, and no internet means no blog.

Now, we're slowly getting back on track.

And now that we're gradually getting back on track, I need to tell the world how hard a worker my love is.

Other than when one friend who helped us for part of a day, with the really awkward, heavy stuff, Papi did the whole move on his own.

Seriously.

I tried to carry a few light things, but my bitch of a back wouldn't let me do the stairs with even the small stuff.

So, my love had to do it all, and do it all he did.

It really looked like we had nothing when we were in that big house, but now that we've taken that 'nothing' into 454 sq. ft. of animals, it's another story.

It's shown me that even more has to go.

If Papi has to be the one to move all my stuff, I'm going to get it as whittled as possible.

Our Closet is small, but so, so sweet.  I suppose because it's ours.

Once mi esposo and I get past the worst of settling in, we can enjoy ourselves.  Papi's not liking this whole game so far.

And the animals?

They're all on Rescue Remedy.

Oddly enough, we finally found something that works.

Everyone is calm and there hasn't been one fight.

Even Sir Bark-A-Lot only had one flip out.

However, Papi and I weren't so calm up until this point.

The humans were having issues that Rescue Remedy couldn't touch.

The last time I moved somewhere, which happened to be 4 months before the motorcycle accident, I could just about anything.

I was such a pack rat, and hence I had a lot of stuff.

A lot.

Well, back then, my love and I moved them, with only our two able bodies.

I was able enough to help huff our canoe up on top of the truck.

It's hard for a work-a-holic to not work sometimes.

I'm learning though.  Everything in moderation, including walking up stairs and whining.

Oh!

Papi had a finger cut emergency and had to use his Band-Aids.  What I found was, most of those boxes were pretty much empty.

Still, they were important enough to mi esposo, that he had them unpacked 1st.

Good thing!  You never know when you'll use them!

Well, now Papi can say he's moved like the rest of us.

Poor Papi.

He's exhausted.

I have the hardest working husband on the planet.

This has been a whirlwind of 5 days.

i learn from my mistakes

Move it!

Tomorrow, we start moving into Our Closet.

We don't have to move it all in one go, which is nice in terms of stress, but difficult in terms of chaos.

Having been a transient mover all my life, I've noticed that the 'easiest' moves can turn out to be the hardest.

Like moving 'across the hall'.

That seemed like a dream!

However, I realized I made more trips than if I had moved further away.

The worst 'easy' move was the one I did a floor above my apartment.

I did it all with a laundry basket.

That was awful and I had blisters.

For this one, Papi said, "Let's just throw it in garbage bags."

No fucking way.

Done that one too.

You get halfway up a flight of stairs and the bastard rips on ya!

No, we're doing it the right way.

I've packed up the majority of the kitchen and it only took a few minutes!  We have nothing!

Our clothes?

No sweat!  There's hardly any!

The only part that is going to be difficult is watching Papi carry everything by himself.

Being the stubborn burro that mi esposo is, he refuses to ask for help.

Imagine him trying to get a couch up a flight of stairs all by himself!

I'm not joking.

These are the things he does.

There's one box I can carry; his Band-Aids.

You heard me right.

He has an obsession with them.

Here are some in the upstairs closet.

 

There's more downstairs.

Seriously.

Right now, Papi is telling me he needs to buy more, because he uses them for different things.

Different sizes for different things.

Obsession.

With Band-Aids.

They'll need a box all their own. 

However, I think my bitch of a back can carry that one, while papi is struggling with a king size, massive mattress all alone.

I won't be putting my back out trying to lift heavy stuff.

I'll just carry the Band-Aids and wait for him to have an opportunity to use them.

Tomorrow!

454 sq. ft. with a 5 animal Fuzzy Family.

Papi has handcuffed himself and says he's not leaving his mansion.

i strive to improve myself

Papi and His House.

I'm not sure if I told you the Papi and his house story.

Well, my love has never moved.

Ok.  Once.  For a girlfriend.  However, he didn't really move, he just kinda moved in and left everything he owned at this here crib.

Really, that's more like a 6 month sleep over.

Anyway, mi esposo was born in this castle, and every other relationship he's had has moved in here with him, the G'ma & G'pa and the Fuzzy Family.

You see, at the ripe age of the double digit 10, my love's mother passed away from cancer.

It was at that point that G'ma and G'pa took care of the orphan, as Papi's father was not in the picture.

That's a long story that one.  No time to go there.  Having said that, my love is now 'sorta' in contact with his bio-father.

Never-the-less, Papi was an orphan at the age of 10.

That meant he wasn't moving out of this dwelling.  He was now staying put until it was time for him to leave the nest.

Yeah.  He flew for 6 months, then he was back.

It was shortly after that, that his G'pa got sick and Papi was a helper to take care of him.

Once G'pa passed away, he was here to help with G'ma, as G'ma didn't have a license anymore and needed the support.

Here he stayed. 

Then I came.

I said, "Ok.  Listen.  I vowed I would never live in a basement again, so I'm giving G'ma a few years of us taking care of her, then I have to move out of the black hole."

4 years and one Dungeon Syndrome later, here we are.

So, Papi has never moved.

It's pretty funny and a little hard for me to believe.  I've moved more times than I can even count anymore.

I could count them before the motorcycle accident, but now, well, it's sorta a blur of being a transient and considering it 'normal'.

Prior to this crash pad, the longest stability I ever had was from kindergarten to grade 5.

I'm a professional mover.

Nothing really stresses me out about moving, and I feel like this is my department.

My poor Papi has no idea what to do first.

Not to mention, he doesn't get the concept of a small space, because he's lived in quite the amazingly generous abode for his whole life.

He really believes that our full length leather couch is going to fit into Our Closet (aka temporary home #3) of 454 sq. ft.

He also believes that both his gargantuan televisions are going to fit.

Yeah, maybe in the tub!

One thing he hopped to quickly was getting our TV and internet set up in the new address PRONTO!!!!!!

He knew to do that.

But seriously.  He's never moved.

Have you ever heard of anything such as this?

Is it just me who thinks it's the craziest story I've ever heard?  Is it just because I moved SO MUCH that MY reality is all relative and I think it's nuts?

Maybe my life is the one that's a bit like a feral gypsy, but I can't help but think it's so bizarre that this is Papi's first move.

Yesterday, I just taught him about a change of address.

He thought it was a great idea, until he found out how much it costs.

Oh, it's a brave new world my love!

i have inner resources