The other thing I did lately was quit my job of nearly eleven years.  I quickly learned to sympathize with Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart: everyone asks you the same questions, all the time.  So I can be forgiven for making things up.  I just didn’t expect anyone to believe me.

HUMAN RESOURCES (calling my cell): I can’t believe it!  I just heard the news! Where are you going next? What’s your plan?

ME: Well, I never meant for this company to be my entire life. I want to get back to my real love--the thing I was doing before I took this job. And that’s what I’m doing.  I’m going back to porn.

HR: ....

ME: But I don’t want to call it ‘acting.’ I think that’s crude. I think of it more as performance art.  And there’s a lot I’ve learned here that I can take with me. For example, when you do a marketing campaign, there’s a point that I like to think of as ‘the money shot.’ Now, it’s not an apples to apples comparison, but I think the money shot of business-to-business marketing can be very applicable to a literal money shot.

HR: ...

ME: ....

HR: ....Ohhh.

ME: I’M KIDDING, KAREN.

HR: Oh!  Okay.  I take it very seriously when people tell me where they plan to go next, so I thought, well maybe that’s what Greg is planning to--

ME: Even if I wanted to, in what alternate universe do I actually have the qualifications?

Moving into a new neighborhood is like stepping into a face full of cobwebs.  You blink your eyes and realize that you weren’t the first living thing to be here, and it almost feels as though your presence disrupts the natural order.

When I pull into my driveway, I sometimes look up and see that the people on the hilltop across the street--whom I haven’t had a chance to meet yet--go to their window and peer down at me, apparently making sure that I’m supposed to be there. They recognize my car and retreat back into their living room to watch TV.

“Oh, we look out for each other here,” said a woman whom I did get a chance to meet.  “We’re all in the neighborhood watch and we make sure that we’re all okay.  Why, just last year I helped run off a burglar. They were about to break through the glass at Janey’s house!”

How this waif-like mother helped run off a burglar remains explained.  Perhaps she’s tougher than she looks. I take a step back.

Of course, you always have to explain yourself as well. “I’m in marketing and I work in the city,” I say.  “I have never killed anyone, although sometimes I like to put underwear on tiny dogs.  I am also available for babysitting at a nominal fee.” I haven’t said this last bit, but I’m often tempted.

“You mean you haven’t been approached by Tom yet?” Another neighbor exclaimed.  “He always talks to the new residents. He’s sort of the caretaker around here.” There’s always one of those everywhere, isn’t there?  The self-appointed guardian.  Someone with too much time on their hands who hasn’t discovered either embroidery or the Internet.

“Do you want me to give him your e-mail address?” The neighbor continued. “He has a mailing list for the neighborhood.”

“...and what kinds of things are discussed on this mailing list for this entire, expansive block?” I asked.

“Oh, you know.  Whether the nearby school is making too much noise, when we’re having a block party. That sort of thing.”

I gave him my e-mail address.  Because I’d like to be on that mailing list. I’d like to know what’s going on.  A neighborhood street is a lot like a big, cement life raft in the middle of an ocean...people jump on at random times, look at each other warily, and then relax and take comfort in the fact that other people decided to join the exact same raft.  We float through time for a while--some jump off, but generally speaking, we all expect to be with each other for the long haul, so let’s make sure we recognize the cars that pull into our driveways, and for God’s sake let’s make sure we’re on the same page about that next block party.

Oh hey, I have a blog? Why didn’t anyone tell me? I had no idea.

Yeah, so, I’ve been a little busy lately. First, I sold my condo.  When I got the paperwork back on the sale, I noted that the buyers were two women. Now, this doesn’t necessarily mean that my place was bought by two women in a relationship, but it does kind of point in that direction.  And I have to say that I’m a little annoyed.  I used to spend practically every weekend in bars trying to get two lesbians to come back to my place, and as soon as I move out they make a beeline for it?  Real classy, ladies, real classy.

Then I bought a house. I spent a lot of time trying to find one I liked.  It wasn’t easy.  But I found a nice little house and it felt like the right fit.  I decided to make an offer on it.  When I came back to look at it more carefully, I found an omen: in the back yard was a little Ben Kenobi action figure with its feet planted into the foundation:

I came over to it and knelt down.  Ben seemed to be meditating.

I said, “Should I buy this house, Ben?”

Trust your feelings.

“Right, but what I’m saying is, is it a good idea to go ahead and get this house?”

Trust your feelings.

“Do you say anything else besides ‘trust your feelings’?”

‘Get my feet out of this damn cement’ comes to mind. I’m a Jedi master, not a 1930s gangster.

The place has some problems.  It’s perched on a hill, and to say that the floors are sloping is like saying that Chris Brown has anger management issues. The hardwood floors squeak like a pack of mice.  But it’s big, quiet, and the from the deck relaxes me.  I may need to be relaxed in the months ahead due to work and some other matters, so I’m going to hope that Ben didn’t lead me astray.

Parental units in front of new house.