Whoa, better publish more often

Ah jeez. I have been writing, er, typing more often than this blog reflects. And believe it or not, it's not all doom and gloom and chemical-emotional fluctuations in Calvin's world; on the contrary things are more up than down, yet somehow the words and descriptions never make it to a state worth publishing on this here blog.

February 28 2010 is the date I first rolled into Santa Rosa. Newly purchased Saab 900 packed to its two-door-gills, new job to commence in three days, Lauren almost half way through her final semester of grad school at BSU, and yours truly couch surfing and investigating rooms to rent in the Bay Area. I have a hard time accepting that nearly two years have passed since then... as cleverly stated in a song by The Shins: the years have been short but the days are long.

The situation is more or less the same as it was two years ago. I am working full time, Lauren is parenting full time, and Emma is being a baby full time and a half. We are settling into a routine, as a family. Routines may or may not lead to general contentment and satisfaction (I'll keep you posted on that one). The day, today, has been very satisfying and I am content. Despite the fact the mom and dad didn't go to sleep until about 11 last night, Emma chose to wake us up around 6:45 a.m. (we get no respect, I tell ya). Although equipped with several dozen speak-able words and several hundred words she understands (if not thousands of words), her chosen method of communication, especially at such early hours, is a mix between squawking and barking. Lauren and I both hit full-stride of sleep quality around 5a.m.-8a.m... Emma's waking hour can be a bit taxing on us.

Here is where it gets wacky. You are sound, SOUND asleep. The house is that perfect ambient temperature for hibernation, you're buried under your favorite pile of textiles, you're full-stride into pleasant sorts of dreams (having survived the hallucinogenic anxiety-ridden dreams of fleeing boogeymen while running through what feels like molasses at midnight types of dreams)... BAM. You're awake. You're not happy about it. You step out of bed with an extra-audible thud on the floor, not wanting yet sort of wanting to let that little critter know that she's roused the beast from its slumber and let her fear what just what is going to fling the door open, back-lit in blinding hallway energy-efficient light and casting a malevolent penumbra over her entire body.... but instead you tread normally, maybe lightly down the hall. Between your cocoon of unequivocal comfort and her bedroom door the irritation has waned if not morphed into this overwhelming excitement and desire to see her.

You are no longer in control. You are incapable of any sort of ire-fueled door-flinging. You instead crack the door a few inches. Light is bent and funneled down from the hallway and through the door's slight opening into a rectangular block of brilliance that cuts across the pitch-black room and reveals whichever of the critter's features happen to land in the caliper of radiance. What ends up illuminated is what melts your heart: usually a bright-blue eye, a few curls of yellow-golden blonde hair, a partial pattern repeated on fleece pajamas (monkeys, flowers), and two or three baby teeth displayed by a mouth spreading impossibly wide into a smile. That's it, you are toast.

That is how it works, every morning. Then the day begins. We get up and stumble around the kitchen. I usually hold her in my arms while I make coffee, she pointing me to the next step in the process and insisting on smelling the steam as the coffee filters down through its cone. At some point she expresses the desire to get down from my arms and walks over to the door separating the kitchen from our bedroom; she will either open the door or, if it's shut, begin banging on the glass and yelling "Mama!". The timing here is interesting. She is either bored of me already, has finally figured out mom is missing, or notes that the coffee is made and prepped and ready for mom to consume. Coffee gives way to the news on TV, which Emma usually enjoys. News gives way to breakfast, to reading and playing... eventually we are all out of our pajamas and ready for departure.

I mentioned routines. Saturday's routine may as well be cast in tungsten, so seldom do we deviate. Which is a wonderful thing. We load into the car and head to the Santa Rosa farmer's market near the Fairgrounds. Rain or shine we hit the market, sometimes coming home with bags and bags of fruits and veggies, sometimes only a muffin or two. Lauren is on this huge Kale kick right now, which between the kale and cumin and even olives reinforces my theory that pregnancy somehow scrambled her brain and made her start tolerating even enjoying things she never would have touched previously. We do a big loop through the market, starting with our favorite farm-stand, heading over to the $1 bran muffins, allowing Emma to sniff the bouquets of flowers in the adjacent stand, waddling past the morning string band (and donating a buck or two depending on how much Emma decides to dance). The fish stand is located at the apex of the loop - Lauren hates it but I love it when Emma (per my goading and also holding her up to better reach) prods at the eyeballs and innumerable teeth of freshly-caught salmon, flounder, and trout. I usually grab a lower jaw and start puppeteer-ing in time with a little ditty so the fish sings to Emma. She squeals. I melt.

Eventually we make it back to the car. This morning, after the market, we jetted out to our favorite bakery in the area, Freestone's Wild Flour Bakery (http://www.wildflourbread.com/), where true to routine we each bought a large coffee and a loaf of their Superseed bread, then went outdoors to let Emma explore the garden. Thanks to the 2.75" of rainfall yesterday the garden was a sloppy mess, which in baby vocabulary sloppy mess means totally awesome. Equipped with hand-me-down yellow rubber rain boots and infinite energy she successfully stomped the water out of every puddle in Freestone. She hit all her typical must-sees at the garden: the wind chimes, the strawberry patch, the sawdust paths, the creepy Mayan-esque stone sculpture that she feeds rotten tomatoes and raspberries.

We took a few back roads on the way home, opting to drive North through Occidental and winding along Graton Road and Occidental Road heading East towards Santa Rosa. The sun was shining full-bore, punching up the contrast between crisp winter blue skies and partial cumulus cloud cover. Apple orchards, vineyards, emerald-green undergrowth... definition of bucolic beauty. We stopped to see some horses near Occidental; Emma cried when we finally had to drive away in interest of time. We are back at home now. The critter is down for a nap (and logging some good z's, thank goodness) and Lauren left to run some errands. Great chance for me to type up some thoughts and let you all know that life, for me, is effing wonderful overall and despite the trials and tribulations we're all going to be just fine.

Thoughts.

Well here we are. Rather, here I am, speaking to myself in some weirded-out form of the plural to sound more erudite. I'm a bit of a mess today and would like to journal down some thoughts and feelings. Life is good overall, however I am battling a combination of fatigue, loneliness, and perhaps chemical withdrawal. Good time to write.

My thoughts are running crazy. I find random memories hitting me, evoking an image of icicles sporadically detaching from late-winter thawing gutters at unexpected moments and smashing (some rather significantly, some not so much) to the ground below. Never knowing when or from what cause each stalactite chose to take flight. Some thoughts, in real-time:

1. Trampolines in summertime. Laying on my back, dressed in an aqua-blue ribbed tank top and board shorts of poor taste, feeling/smelling/damn-near-tasting the heat reflecting the hard Nevada sun off the black nylon surface and drilling into/onto my senses. I am somewhere around twelve years old, sporting a flattop with a six-inch rattail in the back and also sporting a sizable gap in my top teeth. I am mastering the front flip, front flip with full twist, back flip, then the back flip with a half twist... then trying the double back and nearly killing myself and deciding to call it good. I can see the linear, sweeping pattern the sprinkler makes, passing back and forth underneath the canvas; and I can see the instantaneous layer of precipitation formed a few inches above this canvas given a hard, quick jump to displace it downward – an immediate layer of atomized water, like catching a rainstorm in freeze frame. I see myself doing this over and over again. I see the emerald green clumps and strands of crested wheat underneath the trampoline, growing tall enough to brush the underside thanks to the partial shade and copious (otherwise unseasonal) amounts of water. I feel them touch my feet when the trampoline displaces downward.

2. I see hunting trips, particularly the last time I hunted with my father and his father; the three of us tracking deer and bunking in a fifth-wheel trailer that, ironically, my father would later call home the final few months of his unraveling marriage with my mother. It had faded letters across the front and sides denoting the model, something along the lines of Golden Eagle. I smell the stale and strangely comforting blend of particle wood, polyurethane foam cushions, and dust-covered packages of dated sandwich cookies; but also the sickening, gravy-thick offense of cigarettes; my bed positioned me about fifteen inches from the ceiling and my father and grandfather chain-smoked without regard to this fact. I remember not wanting to say anything, trying to be one of the dudes and not ruin the moment. This trip was also the first time I had a New York steak; my dad must have made a comment at the store regarding it being a great steak to grill, 'specially for the money; for years I thought (hell I still think, I guess) this to be true. I remember shooting my first deer, actually blowing the right rear leg off as the buck sprinted up and away on the hillside across from us. Rear leg flapping and finally detaching in full three-legged sprint. I remember my dad learning that, for some reason, I had chosen not to wear my contact lenses that day. I remember feeling bad when we tracked, killed, and gutted the deer; staring into his eyes and whispering an apology in my mind. I did not want to say anything out loud about this, either.

3. I remember the first “epic” mountain bike ride I went on, tagging along with cohort Mark Murphy on a six-hour ride through the valley and up into the Ruby Mountain range. We overestimated our abilities and underestimated the distance. We drank from streams for the final three hours of the ride and should have gotten sick, but we didn't. We cut through ranchers' property and in our fatigue ended up with some barbwire lacerations. At the midway point I remember Mark pulled out the lunch he had packed for both of us – sardines, anchovies, some form of crackers, and some jelly beans. We sat on a huge rock overlooking a brook and ate our lunch, noting that everything around us was radically skewed to the right in the wheel of primary colors; all yellow, oranges, reds, no blues or purples. Mark told me about the different tastes of the various flavors of Powerbait (fishing bait), and how the glitter sticks between your teeth. I miss Mark.

4. I see myself squatting in a fort Jason D. and I fashioned from sage brush, oak and aspen limbs, located in a grove of trees between holes One and Eighteen of the Spring Creek Golf Course. I remember feeling so tucked away and unnoticed, comfortable, making plans and dragging provisions there one backpack load at a time in preparation to stay a night or week if so desired. I remember squatting in the 'main room' of this fort and hearing the rain fall, smelling the pungent stab of wet sage, and wondering whether it was time to pedal my Invader BMX bike back to my real home.

Yeah, so... where are all these coming from? If my brain where a laptop, I would ALT+CTRL+DELETE and check out the task manager, killing all of the idling processes that seem to run automatically on system start-up... always running, always running, taking up any slack in processing capabilities. Such slack is nonexistent right now, so these memories feel viral and malignant. I am tired, and also detoxing from anti-depressants. Both facts are interrelated.

I left Santa Rosa at 5:30 a.m. Monday, driving two hours to Fremont, California to begin a four-day training seminar in Abaqus FEA software. In a nutshell, the training is necessary for my job (heck, I even volunteered for it) but four-days away from Lauren and Emma is a substantial challenge. L and I are doing exceptionally well in our relationship, mostly due to a break-through conversation (after several, several frustrating/paralyzing/dead-end marathon conversations) the week prior. Nice change. I feel like we are finally able to enjoy this California experience for what it is... an adventure. So not such a great time to leave, right when L and I are really clicking. On top of that Emma has been out of sorts for nearly two weeks' time; her last round of immunizations coincided not-so-suspiciously with a serious fever and general crankiness... throw in the fact that she's cutting two molars and one incisor and you have a pretty volatile fifteen-month-old girl.

Knowing Emma is a handful right now adds to my personal pressure, being away from home for the full week. Fremont is just far enough away that I opted to rent a hotel room. What a miserable place to have to squat for an extended period.... it is marginally better than San Jose or Santa Clara, but shares the same infinite soulless strings of industrial parks, strip malls, and freeways. On day two, I realized that I'd forgotten my Zoloft back in Santa Rosa.

I started taking 50 mg of Zoloft per day sometime back in December of last year. Things had reached a point where my anxiety and nerves were wrecking my life and marriage. I began seeing a psychiatrist once a week and, for the most part, have maintained this 1x per week routine for the past nine months. The therapy has been incredible, and the uber-low dosage of Zoloft has been enough to take the edge off, helping me slow down auto-destruct anxiety loops that can wreck my days. I have no desire to stop taking it yet, especially not cold-turkey. Even at the low-dosage I felt nauseous and spacey for a few days back in December when I started. Lauren was going to come visit me in Fremont on Wednesday, but considering my class was running from 8:00 to 5:45 each day, Emma's sleep/eat schedule and the soulless nature of the Bay Area, we decided this was not a good idea. Hence Lauren was not able to bring down the meds. Wasn't a big deal for the first few days.

Things have gotten progressively worse. By Thursday morning I was feeling extremely nauseous and floaty, digestion out of wack and in general just a freaking mess. I looked terrible, eyes all sunken in and lids heavy. Friday was worse and now, Saturday, I have come to expect an ever-present feeling of low-blood-sugar. That is the best way I can describe it. Being feint, floating. “But wait”, you ask, “I thought training was only through Thursday!?” Ah, that is correct, but my boss needed me to attend a critical design freeze/review meeting in Minneapolis on Friday. I left training early on Thursday, hopped an evening flight to Minneapolis, cabbed it to my hotel then ate some lobby food and fell into bed around 1:30a.m. Woke up the next day, cabbed it to the office, then attended (and presented part of) a 6-hour meeting. All the while feeling like my face was floating off my skull.

The unfortunate news is that, when I make it back home, I probably get to re-tox from this de-tox and feel poopy for another few days before my head comes back down from the clouds. As I said, I have no desire to stop taking Zoloft yet. I hate feeling dependent on something but it's not about that; it's about quality of life and stopping myself from sabotaging myself. Yesterday and today especially I can feel my brain latching on to anxiety points just like the old days and it scares me. So that's where I stand.

I am on a plane. Actually, it is worth mentioning that I (for the first time in my life) am riding up in first class with the big kids. I can tell you, it's nice but it's not twice-the-price-nice; I just happened to luck out and get bumped up do to frequent flier status and seat availability. If it makes you feel any better, the coffee is still shitty, whether you're in the front or the back of the bus. This very moment we are flying over Yosemite, the canyon sporting El Capitan is extremely discernible from this altitude. That also means we're only a few minutes from beginning the descent so I'll cut this off. To end it, then, here are a few more random sputterings from my junkie brain:

1. I am wearing my Doc Marten boots, the very same pair I bought back in 1996 while on vacation in Texas. Averaging what I calculate as three wearings per week for the last fifteen years, I have officially spent more time in contact with them than any other thing or person in my life. Lauren gives me flack about this, yet she should feel comforted to see me take such ridiculous anal-retentive care of the things I value.

2. Crap, nevermind, descending now... literally and figuratively.

-Calvin

Worth Not(h)ing

Since it has been so long since I have written anything, be it meaningful or pointless, I won't even attempt to backfill you in on the story of the last few months, year, whatever. Instead I'll jump right in and describe the present day happenings that are shaping my world. The point tonight is just to write. Write.

Today is the fourth day of October, the first Monday of the month, and also notably a month with five Fridays that will provide me with three paychecks. Tomorrow is my father-in-law's birthday, a fact just gleaned from witnessing a moment of near-hysterical panic between my wife and sister-in-law as neither one of them remembered to send a card. Emma is four months old. As I write this, at 7:55PM on a typically cool evening in Santa Rosa, she is starting to squawk from her yellow-pastel IKEA bedazzled bedroom letting us know that no, oh no, she is not quite ready to call it a night. Although we try to share the load as evenly as possible, at times I am simply less suited to soothing our daughter due to my lack of mammary glands. Such is life.

The weather is starting to shift, and although I realize this winter will not feel like a Boisean winter I am yet looking forward to the change. I am unsure if leaves even change here in Santa Rosa. I do know the rains begin and for the next month or so the ubiquitous oak forests will give birth to another wave of flora and fauna not yet seen by this Idaho transplant. The country/terrain here in Sonoma County is reminiscent of the Northern coast of Spain, and with Spanish suenos nearly a decade old yet still fresh in my mind I am scheduled to accompany some friends on mushroom foraging adventures near the coastal towns of Jenner and Stewart Point.

The dog sleeps beneath the desk, beneath me, snoring like a lumberjack; sprawled loose-boned and loose-jawed on her matted and flattened bedding. She has adjusted OK to Emma, warming up slowly though ever-conscious that this little creature is stealing time, attention, food, and love away from her. Give it a year; Emma and McKinley will be best friends. We envision Emma hurling bits of foodstuff like a rotary sprinkler while the dog darts around, circling the high chair like a ravenous piranha in the Amazon. Of course the proffering of food will be accompanied by hands eager to pinch and miniature teeth eager to chew on whatever bit of furry labrador they can grab... but they will still grow to be friends.

We are pouring love into Emma. That is our mission right now, our life mission. During the work week I wake up at 6:30 and make coffee, iron my work clothes and when Emma starts cooing I head in, pick her up, give her the first hug of the day, change her diaper and take her in to Mom. I lay back in bed with them and stare in dumbstruck awe, taking in the tiny hands, feet, the hair that is growing so fast, the rotund arms that have tripled in size in just a few months. Then I head to work. It is extremely hard to pull out of the driveway. I work until 4:30 then race home, getting to play with her and Mom for about two hours before the wind-down begins and she's off to sleep once again. We read books and watch bicycle races on Universal Sports and I play all sorts of obscure music for her. I am proud to say she is a fan of several different music genres; she is also quite tolerant with our inability to sing in tune.

We went to see a concert on Saturday evening in Petaluma, an artist by the name of Jamie Lidell. Mr. Lidell has played to sold out crowds in much larger venues, but somehow no one "got the memo" about this show and it ended up being an intimate performance - maybe 30 of us listening to he and his four-person backup band in the quaint Mystic Theater. Goosebump music. Nice for Lauren and I to get away (Lauren's sister watched Emma that night). Lauren and I hadn't hit a concert in about a year... it almost feels like things are settling into some (gasp!) type of normal rhythm once again.

See? No real flow, no real point. Just a snap shot. Good night.

Worth writing down

I had a very good day today, and I'd like to scribble down a few notes so I can look back on days that aren't so good and remember why it's all worth it.

I got up about 7AM, had 2 very good cups of java and watched the morning news. The news was lame-o, but the rate of my awakening was perfect and by about 8:30 I was ready to begin the day in earnest. I drove around downtown for a while before deciding to head to Trader Joe's for a brunch of sorts. I bought a foot-long turkey/bacon/avocado wrap, devoured it immediately along with an uber-tasty Fuji apple, and hit the 101 South towards Novato.

I drove to the house of a coworker/friend who lives in Novato, hopped in his car, and continued on to the city. (Note: For all you non-Bay-Area folk, the city always means San Francisco. Always.). Don and I drove across the Golden Gate Bridge and hung a left soon thereafter, skirting along Lombard until hitting Van Ness. We jogged a few times and ended up parking on O'Farrell street, then hoofing it directly toward Chinatown.

Chinatown = China. Seriously. Don, despite being Asian, has never visited China. But I have been there 1/2 a dozen times now and let me tell you that the San Francisco Chinatown is about 98% the real thing. Gimmicky stores? Check. Crazy storefronts vending textiles and odd building materials? Check. Lots of Asians squatting and smoking? Yessir. The 2% un-authenticity is a good thing, as the real China doesn't feel so tourist-safe. This safety, in San Fran, is nice.

We found a hole-in-the-wall Dim Sum restaurant and gorged ourselves silly, imbibing a 12-oz Tsingtsao each because hey why not it's Sunday and sure it's only 11Am but let's live it live it! The Dim Sum was unreal. If you've never had it: do. Basically the Asian version of tapas. But with MSG instead of capers.

After that we walked back to the parking garage and headed towards "The Pier", which I learned later meant particularly Pier 39 in Fisherman's Wharf, which is basically the North Coast of San Francisco, overlooking the bay, the Golden Gate Bridge, and Le Isle de Alcatraz. Although that area is beautiful it's a bit too theme-parky for my taste. We hung out there for maybe another hour, long enough to have a glass of wine down by the water and get a dose of people-watching. We jumped back in Don's car, drove along the beach there then crossed the GGB on the way back to Novato.

By the time I drove back to my current abode it was almost 3:45, and although feeling tired and dim-sum-heavy the weather was too nice to ignore so I went out for a bike ride. AMAZING. One of the best rides yet. I headed out River Road through the town of Guerneville and on to Monte Rio. From there I hung a left on the Bohemian Highway, heading south all the way through quaint little Occidental and into Freestone. That stretch of road, specifically from Monte Rio to Occidental, is a blast to pedal. Dense redwood forests and eclectic cabins stuffed deep into the forest.

I hooked east through Sebastopol, exploring a wrangling bike path that dumped me out on the outskirts of town facing Santa Rosa. Said and done I rode maybe three hours but averaged over 21 mph which, given the undulating topography I was quite pleased with.

Now it's late and I am happy. I had an extra-large bottle of Ace Pear Cider waiting chilled in the fridge upon my return and will finish that off before hopping in the shower then off to bed. I discovered that Ace is brewed in Sebastopol, a realization which (not surprisingly) augments the taste in this moment.

later then.

Break

Finally a little break in the weather! Since Lauren left (to return to Boise) on Sunday evening, the weather has been foul and dark and gloomy, obviously an outward projection of my feelings at her departure. For that reason it has been an exceptionally difficult week. The job is good and does a great job of keeping me busy from 7:30-5:00 each day, but that leaves me with far too many hours to kill before shutting my eyes for bed.

The trick is mental and physical exertion; exertion to exhaustion. The more I flog myself with work and exercise the quicker time passes, the less time I have to dwell on the remaining duration until this limbo situation is resolved. That quest for exertion, that need to remain busy 100% of the time, is serving me well at my new job. I am ramping up quickly and beginning to contribute in earnest. Now, if the weather would just remain decent, I'd feel as confident about my physical condition. I have no races or competitions of any sort coming up, but I hate letting myself soften. I know I'm neurotic, but there are much worse neuroses out there.

But oh boy, when the weather is nice here, it's the Garden of Eden. I hopped on my road bike this morning a smidge after 9AM and didn't get back home until 2:30PM, having logged just 80 miles in 5.5 hours. If you do the math, you realize that's a terrible average speed, but in those 5.5 hours the only flat land traversed was my driveway. Everything here is emerald green and lush, the grapevines are all in bloom and all manner of critters are out enjoying the weather. I can't count the number of turkeys I saw on my ride... There are innumerable single-lane roads that wind and undulate through the vineyards, allowing you to travel 50+ miles in any direction without pedaling on a major road.

I am beginning to get my arms around this city, Santa Rosa. The hardest thing to find was a coffee shop that isn't part of a chain/franchise. It took about three weeks, but here I am, blogging comfortably at a quaint (one-off) little cafe/roastery in the Old Railroad District near downtown. Now don't get me wrong, I do enjoy Starbucks coffee, or Peet's Coffee, I just hate the cookie-cutter decor and corporate rules enforced. Peet's at least offers free wifi, but just an hour's worth... turds.

Lauren and I swung into this very shop last weekend when she was in town. There was a live band playing, a trio of older gents rocking some decent blues-y tunes. Any time the bass player went off on a solo riff, little Emma (as we've chosen to call her) started kicking/rolling/punching inside L's belly. Lauren listens to music a lot, but I suspect that's the first time our little daughter-to-be has felt such bass reverberating through her cozy little world. I'd like to think Emma was rocking out, but for all we know she was beating on the "walls" in a plea for mercy. She just might hate jazz and love, say, Beyonce. Lord save us.

When you are alone in a new city, the largest inhibitor to integrating into the community is your pride and inhibitions. The best thing to do is throw yourself in head-first, wander around down town, sit alone at a bar and people-watch, go to shows and lectures, join new clubs. But lord no, we can't do that, that's too awkward. I'll look silly sitting alone at a bar. I'll look silly just showing up at a new group ride and sticking my hand out, introducing myself over and over again to total strangers that might or might not give a shit. But... that's how it's done, and that's the direction I need to head. Last night was a good start, as I finally dropped the cowardice and seated myself alone at the bar in a restaurant downtown, called Flavor. The people watching was great, and an older couple ended up sitting next to me and we completely hit it off. In fact, I'll likely be joining them for another meal sometime in the next week. You see? That's how it's done (he says, to himself, the quiet loner sitting in the corner... heh heh).

I have an idea: Let's change everything.

Sometime back in October, maybe November, I got a call out of the blue from an internal recruiter with a medical device company in California. One teeny little word on my resume - Nitinol - miraculously distinguished my CV from the ocean of others twinkling digitally on the world wide waste. The company was looking for an expert in Nitinol, which I most certainly was not, but the brief phone interview was enough to kick start my search-in-earnest for a new employment opportunity.

Fast forward about six weeks. It's two weeks before Christmas and I am preparing for a 10-day "vacation" in Songgang, China with my current employer. I get another call from the medical device company, stating that the job description/requirements have changed and I am now looking like a very good match for their needs. This leads to a phone interview with an engineering manager in Santa Rosa, California. One day before departing for China, the manager expresses interest in flying me out for the next phase, a face-to-face interview soon after New Year's Eve. I agree, say goodbye, fly to China and do my best not to freak out at the challenging possibility of relocating to California.

During that trip, and in the month leading up to it, I was very active in pursuing a new job. This isn't the forum to discuss precisely why I wanted to leave... let's just compare it to one of the early chapters in Moby Dick; of course you know it's necessary for the forthcoming story, but it can be downright painful and difficult to see the point and you can't wait to move on. So yes, I had numerous irons in the fire for employment opportunities, and none of them would require a move out of Boise. I mean, why would we dream of relocating? Lauren is pregnant, due in June, and is in the final semester of her graduate degree program. She is teaching an undergraduate English course. We have a lovely home - just replaced all the linoleum with beautiful ten-inch tiles. I recently joined the most gregarious bunch of cycling yahoos I've ever met and can't wait for the upcoming race season.

Those irons in the fire, all the local ones, sort of smoldered out one by one; falling victim to the cold, damp and miserable January winter in Boise. Meanwhile, the iron in California was inciting a full-fledged conflagration of opportunity. I flew down for the interview on January 15th, fending off eight individual interviews in 8.5 hours, all while sitting in a room approximately five feet by seven feet with nothing more than a table, two chairs, and a Cisco phone. They served me a bagged lunch in that same room, and I got to interview while trying to rapidly choke down a mighty tasty though mighty sticky roast beef sandwich with Swiss. I called Lauren at the end of the day during my drive back down to San Francisco. I didn't let on too much, simply telling her the interview went well and I felt like a good match. The reality was much more terrifying; I knew I was a perfect match for the job, the company would present incredible opportunity - both long term and short term - and I fell in immediately and comfortably with every person I met during the interview.

The company flew Lauren and I out two weeks later, paying for flights, a rental car, hotel, and even a few hours with a real estate agent. At that point I had not been officially offered the job, but obviously the offer was imminent and they were providing the opportunity for us to get a feel for Santa Rosa without a 48-hour accept-or-decline clock ticking. That's when the reality really hit for Lauren and I. What would it mean to move? How would the timing work? Is there another option? Despite the lush landscape and gorgeous Santa Rosa wintertime weather, the weekend was filled with tears and heavy emotions. We returned late Sunday evening feeling beyond lost and afraid of the upcoming official offer.

In a nutshell: they did indeed make an offer. Lauren and I discussed, even fought. We turned the offer down. They made a counter-offer. I gave a verbal agreement, then recanted when Lauren decided we just couldn't leave Boise. They worked with us once more, a third time. We accepted and I start work in Santa Rosa next week.

Now... the fallout. This is such a great move if we look at one year down the road and twenty years down the road, but the next four months are going to be harder than anything Lauren and I have faced together. She can't leave her graduate program; can't. She will stay here and I'll rent a room for March, April, and May in Santa Rosa, flying back every couple weekends to visit. Wrapping up school in mid-May, she'll be a mere three or four weeks out from her due date and it doesn't make sense for her to relocate and try to find an OB/GYN she trusts in such short notice. So, at the beginning of June, I will come back to Boise for a few weeks, hopefully catching all of the action and providing the support we both want me to provide. I'll then head back to Santa Rosa and she'll fly down soon thereafter, at which point we'll be 100% moved away from Boise. At that point we'll be moved in to our own place, likely a rented house.

There are so many pros, so many cons, to this move. Fortunately most of the stressors have fallen off the radar and we are left to nerp-out and focus on our relationship. We wouldn't be willing to change everything so radically if not a wonderful opportunity, but that doesn't make the change any easier. Between the two of us, Lauren is a bit more tied to Boise, obviously, as most of her family is her and she is very ingrained in the community. I am excited about the change in scenery and lifestyle but also very sad to be leaving my friends and this home we've put so much love into. Along those lines, we have found a nice younger couple to rent to and don't plan to sell the house any time soon.

Well, I feel like this update started off coherent and well-composed and is losing focus as I ramble on. I think that covers most everything, for now. I look forward to sharing more details about our new town and my new job as we become immersed. Later, then.

I miss you, but hold on a sec

Blog, of course I remember you and of course I miss you. There is so much I want to tell you but the timing is just not right. You see blog, you can not keep a secret. Now don't get defensive, your gregarious and grandstanding behavior is what draws me to you; but at times I wish you were a little more discreet.

So no tears, Blog, this is not any sort of a goodbye. Quite the contrary, it is a promise for future interaction... just give me a week or two and I will bring you up to speed. You're still my go-to outlet for trumpeting success, failure, frustrations, and fears. No tears, I just need some time.