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Just over 12 years and 2 months ago, Christopher Jones was having a lie down on this couch, waiting for me to show up. He didn’t have any pants on; he quickly threw a blanket over him when I poked my head in the cracked open front door, surprising him. I stepped away quickly, blushing while he grabbed his jeans and made himself presentable.

This couch is in the same place it was then. Even though it’s been rearranged a few times in the living room, it’s back against the NE corner of the living room.

I’m having my own lie down on the couch right now (with pants on, thankyouverymuch) as this is, like the former owner of the house was experiencing, the last time I’ll be enjoying this piece of furniture.

It’s been here for more than 12 years under my ownership, part of the grand package of furniture I inherited when I bought this house, and who knows how long before that. The tags don’t give any indication of a production date.

It has a subtle texture, small rectangles patterned on the khaki upholstery. It has tall side arms and just the right amount of depth for sitting.

It’s seen ski movie nights, boyfriends, post-first date emotions, lonely holidays, knee surgery recovery, family visits, a baby shower, Christmas cookie parties, swipes on Tinder with two of my best guy friends next to me, parties for no reason other than my tenant and I were in our early 30s and single, been a host of the Snowpoclypse House of Refugees parties, a crash pad for city friends before we headed west to the Olympics, glitter under the cushions when tutus were sewn, squeezed 5 people on there for a movie, snuggled a small 2.5 YO while we watched cars for the 87th time, some hard line editing, where I tried not to die of heat exhaustion, home of accent cushions made by my mother, where I was nearly proposed to, late nights where I turned on some pretty terrible off-cable TV, where I decided to gamble everything last summer and move forward even though I wasn’t sure if my heart was ready to but knew that this was a chance I needed to take…

It is also a fantastic napping couch. You don’t sink into it like some overstuffed couches, but it is hard to get off it after a long evening of binge-watching Parks and Rec.

It still holds its shape and feels like it was purchased yesterday.

And, in 10 minutes, it will move on to its next chapter, with my tenant downstairs. There is a weird comfort in knowing it will stay on the property, at least for now, giving another woman a place of comfort and feeling of safety, much like it did for me the past 12 years.

Thank god for the office.

I felt the familiar pending sense of dread this morning as I laid half awake in bed, listening to the faint sounds of a boat horn or a fog horn that was growing increasingly annoying.

It was the sense of “Oh boy. Work from home is getting to me I think. It may be an office day.”

(I’ve been trying to balance WFH and going to the office to minimize exposure since the building where I work re-opened in July.)

Yesterday was what I called a half-Pandemic Blues Day. It wasn’t quite as mentally debilitating as last week’s Pandemic Blues Day, in which I sat in front of my computer with tears streaming down my face at 10 a.m. in the backyard, trying write something for work. That’s when I called it and took a Mental Health Day, which took the form of getting a coffee and a cookie, writing for 3 hours in my journal in the morning and then picking blackberries all afternoon.

Yesterday was a functional Pandemic Blues Day. I managed to work, but still felt angsty about life. The angst didn’t clear up until the afternoon when I threw as much energy as I could muster into a newsletter deadline and actually felt productive about something.

Thank god for deadlines. I have been living by them for the past 20 years. They make me move forward in life.

I was hoping this morning I’d wake up feeling rested and ready to jump into a day (and night) of lot of editing and writing (yay for two massive deadlines at once for work right now during the day, plus a personal project deadline in the evening).

But no. Again, a pending sense of dread. I thought, “I have to go into the office. I need a change of scenery.”

Don’t get me wrong – my work from home setup is pretty good. I tend to work well on the couch in the living room and the couch in one of the kid’s rooms, sometimes the cafe table in the backyard. I’m still adjusting to the latest version of my desk setup, which has a lovely view of trees, lots of light, an absurdly high-tech two-monitor and high speed GPU setup thanks to the fancy pants computer boyfriend, but frankly, it’s not comfortable and I think I finally figured out why.

My desk is just too damn big for me. After 20 years of working at generically, standard-sized desks, I’m EXHAUSTED from trying to make them work ergonomically for my small frame and short legs. Or maybe it’s not the desk as it is the chair. I’m about ready to slam down absurd amounts of money for one of those fancy Herman Miller Aeron chairs that I hear about all the time on NPR. (Or a knock-off, holy crap those things are expensive.)

I also love the 5-second commute to the desk. I feel like I get more done at home because I’m fresh in the head and do best diving into editing and writing first thing in the morning. The commute tends to chip away at that feeling by the time I get to the office.

Anyway, back to the start of the day.

I got out of bed with a defeated sigh from a poor night’s sleep, grabbed work clothes, scrubbed face, put on makeup, went downstairs to my sweet man of a boyfriend who suddenly realized his girlfriend was a distraught mess and tried to do what he could to help, packed up my computer, camera, lunch and flew out the door.

I thought I could make it to Poulsbo, 53 minutes away, without coffee and breakfast, but alas, I only made it to Chimacum and pulled into the Farm’s Reach, ordering an americano and breakfast burrito. After a few sips of coffee, the fog in my brain started to lift, as did the fog in the Chimacum Valley.

KEXP was playing Morrisey or the Smiths or some absurd nonsense like that which I despise, so I switched over to NPR, which was all politics. That was grating at first, but the Massachusetts primary results were interesting. A Kennedy, for the first time ever, lost an election.

Eventually I got tired of that and switched back over to KEXP, where the DJ was playing a song from one of the best albums of the year, “Untitled” by Sault.

Life started to feel a little more manageable.

Then the DJ announced requests for songs about getting through the first day of remote learning (boy, I feel for all those parents having to do double duty, as well as kids not being able to get the social interactions that are vital to their livelihood and development), one of them being Erasure.

Oh, Erasure. The band that introduced me to Brit pop in the 80s. Judge me all you want,, they were my first love for British music.

So, I’m heading down Highway 104, crossing over the fog-enveloped Hood Canal Bridge, stuck behind a semi, with a coffee in hand, belting out to Erasure’s “Respect” and suddenly feel OK with the world. For a second, life felt normal.

I thought about how pre-COVID, this scene was likely dreaded by most. Day in, day out, the drive, eating/drinking breakfast while driving, stuck behind slow vehicles, stressed about home life, work life, thinking about what to do about dinner that night, what’s the plan for this weekend, I need to make that doctor’s appointment, what did we do this summer, when was the last time I talked to my parents, I need to text back my sister …

But today, I embraced it. As sadistic as it may be, for a second, all the stresses taken for granted before March were felt and thought about and enjoyed.

Then the sky got a little brighter. And the fog started to lift.

 

For the first time in a while, I’m by myself in a functional house, revisiting what it’s like to be solo for a night.

Read: the boys are out camping and I can eat whatever I want and don’t have to share.

While the Bremerton house is torn up (so it feels), the Port Townsend house is quite settled and cozy.

But mostly what I’m interested in remembering what it’s like to only be responsible for myself for an evening.

I got to work as late as I wanted (well, I was on a major deadline today but that seemed to soften as 5 p.m. approached, so I relished in the luxury of tweaking the project as much as I could until 6 p.m.).

I already had my meal planned – I’d been looking forward to it for a week – portobello mushroom and chicken sausage cooked in a tomato sauce with spinach, topped with very strong parmesan cheese. And I didn’t have to share it with anyone! But I wanted to make rice to go with it. Which meant I had to figure out the rice cooker.

Note: I can barely cook rice on the stove to save my life. I’ve barely been successful with the oven method. Tonight though, I figured if I couldn’t cook rice in that stupid lidded pot with a few buttons, there would be no hope for me.

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Right now, my life is broken down into jumbled piles all over my living room.

Books in the corner by the TV, blocking the Roomba. All my chairs, side tables, lamps and accent pillows stacked on top of each other along the east wall. All my important adulting life documents on the dining room table. A growing pile of Goodwill items next to the cast iron fireplace. A broken down desk and an empty wooden IKEA shelving unit in the middle of the room. Boxes of office supplies, crafting supplies, old magazine and newspaper clips from my early years of my career, floppy discs, cassette tapes, and memories in various forms sitting precariously on top of each other by the front door.

I have to go through each of these piles of boxes and textiles over the next few months. I’m combining my single life of 20 years from a 2-bedroom, 1-bath house into a 3-bedroom, 2-bath house with another person this fall.

I’ve never done this before. And I’m totally OK with it.

Right now though, it’s overwhelming walking into the living room when I come home after being away for a few days or a week. It takes me two days to just “Be” in the house before I can bring myself to do anything remotely domesticated or even broach the thought of sorting my life into Keep and Discard piles.

Tonight, though, after a day of about 5 hours of driving and another 3 hours of staring at my computer, I had to do something involving movement and tangible objects.

So, I started with the closest pile to me – old gift boxes and shoeboxes.

The gift boxes were overflowing with old tissue paper and gift bags. My instinct is to keep them because recycling; my gut is like, WHY? THEY ARE RATTY AND WRINKLED PIECES OF PAPER THAT YOU PLAN TO REGIFT? You’re a terrible and gross gift giver! (I KNOW. SHUT. UP.)

I just ignored the screaming, feeling like this was just a warm up exercise for the harder stuff.

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Saturday, April 4, 2020

9:22 a.m.

There are so many birds in my neighborhood.

So much chirping and flying and flittering about.

I never really noticed it until this morning. Or rather, I recognized how much I’ve noticed it lately. Especially when I saw that bluejay on my front porch an hour ago. I never see bluejays around here.

While there is still some traffic in Bremerton, given I live on one of the busiest streets, it is significantly quieter in the morning and evening. Hence, I can hear the birds more. It’s odd to hear nothing in Bremerton but birds.

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Day 5. Monday, March 23, 2020

Today starts the first full week of telecommuting, as directed by my office.

Given the nature of my job in real time and my opportunities to work from home when I have field work in the morning or afternoon, I feel I’m fairly equipped mentally to deal with the Work From Home situation. I can make myself pretty comfortable anywhere and be productive. Some days I need complete silence, so the house is great; some days I need some background noise, so the office or a coffeeshop works well.

Jeremy and I are essentially WFH together now – he works from home primarily anyway, so he’s set up. I just take over his dining room table when I’m in Port Townsend. He’ll likely camp out on my couch in Bremerton, or my dining room table.

I had successful “hangouts” with my mountain rescue team and friends over Zoom the past few days, which has made this self-imposed Shelter In Place more bearable. However, I haven’t quite felt the insolation or pent up feelings that it seems others are anticipating. My attitude about this whole thing has been “Well, OK, here we are. One day at a time. It is what it is. I will adapt and move on.”

Granted, I may feel differently in a week.

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Thursday morning. Bremerton. March 19, 2020.

It’s Day 2 of my sorta self-quarantine.

I’m not sick, save for the sniffles I’ve had for two weeks now. But no other symptoms, just sniffles. Maybe allergies? Low grade cold? (been feeling run down too but have been traveling extensively lately and on deadline for work).

The office space I work in has closed for the next two weeks for safety’s sake. I’m glad for it – it was stressful being in the office. Even though I have an office with a door, it was nerve wracking trying to make sure I didn’t touch all the things and then making sure I cleaned them when I did.

I have a CenturyLink chat box open on my laptop to try and upgrade my Internet. The current minimum wait time started at 182 minutes and has been bouncing back and forth between 40-ish minutes and 12-ish minutes. My internet is terribly slow, as I’m a cheapskate but even I’m tired of the spinning rainbow ball on my computer and dragging response times.

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So, I don’t know how to start this trip report.

Do I explain what led to Lana and I trail running 50+ miles in the Olympic Mountains?

Do I exude endless amounts of gratitude for our amazing Sherpas, Chris and Jeremy, who supported this idea?

Do I take my father’s advice and undergo psychological analysis to check my mental state?

Let’s start from the beginning.

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Saturday, 6:37 a.m., Aug 31.

Brain is on overdrive these days. It’s been like this since Monday morning, when I dove deep into the photography captions finally, letting my old school journalism procrastination take over. As per protocol, I spent Monday panicking while working through the first set of captions. By Tuesday I felt better and somewhat in a groove, although still intimidated by what I’m writing because I don’t know ANYTHING about sailing and the terminology. At the same time, that’s not completely true. I’m a year and a half into exploring this world and I learn something new with every conversation and outing. I’m currently working my way through the last set of interviews today, this time with sailmakers and there are tabs open to study the definitions and look at images: sailmakers thimbles, storm staysails and jib tack pennant.

Writing overdrive has been nice but a struggle, again, as is per writing protocol but I’m finally mature enough to recognize this. I’m used to having a boss and editor expecting a certain format and style. For this project though, which is a completely volunteer side gig, I can do whatever I damn well please and write however I want. Jeremy wanted my journalism angle, which is easy, but also likes my writing style, so I finally relaxed and let it fly. All that matters is what he thinks and what the tradespeople think. So far, I’ve received feedback just enough to tweak the captions but not enough to derail my style, so that’s good.

As I was sitting in my writing chair last night, I could hear the music blaring from my tenant downstairs, which didn’t bother me. I thought about asking her to turn it down but then I thought, wait, I’m enjoying this.

It was a delightful mix of modern female soul one minute and classic black and white film soundtrack the next. For some reason, I felt like I was in a scene of an old movie (film noir?), in some 2nd floor apartment in France, as the young are blasting away music but it’s slightly muffled, while the landlord/writer is upstairs tucked away in the corner of her tiny messy office that is lined with books, old racing medals, maps, artwork to be hung, stacks of important life papers, the “war corner” for a house remodel, piles of clothing for Goodwill and a drying rack of delicates, but only focused on what is coming out of the fingers and onto the computer screen late into the night.

I was kinda sad when she turned it off and left.

I woke up today at 515 to continue the photography writing. I walked by my backdoor and a swath of white caught my eye, looking like snow had fallen. Nope, just a big white Ithaca RV sneaking an overnight spot on my side street.

2 more minutes.

I realized last night that at 40, I’m much more content pounding out words in a quiet corner of my house on a Friday night, in an IKEA chair that needs upholstering, under an old lamp that was left behind by previous homeowner than being in a loud noisy bar. Last night at least. It feels like a big creative art weekend anyway, with work on next weekend’s photography show and this weekend’s Wayzgoose printmakers festival, which I’m very excited to visit later today.

I wouldn’t have minded a glass of wine to celebrate the end of the week but that would have put me out. Tonight, after I get this last set of captions done, I will be able to dig into that glass of wine. Maybe even that chardonnay from Switzerland with J …

6:52 a.m.

7:28 p.m.

It’s my last night “living” in Port Townsend. I’m out for the 3rd night in a row, by choice, sitting at Chetzemoka Park, which is a five minute walk from the house. It has peek-a-boo views of the water and Whidbey Island. I can see the stage (and hear the actors practicing) where Shakespeare In The Park will be performed in a few weeks and I’m happy to report, I’ll be attending.

I was here last night too, around the same time. My sailing outing was cancelled and I took advantage of the time for more transcribing interviews. Turns out sitting in a park has been the most productive work space in town for me, and so I am here again, transcribing. I am so happy here.

I’m pretty sure I’m used to the quiet at night now, and can sleep pretty soundly, waking up just before my 6 a.m. alarm. (Although a beer or glass of wine has helped. Tonight will be the last one until Saturday night, in prep for a big run that day.).

At Jeremy’s suggestion, I finally sat on the back porch this morning with my breakfast and mug of tea. Of course, I lingered out there way longer than I should have. Wondering where Beth and I will put our tent when we’re here in a month for The Thing Music Festival, during which Jeremy is graciously letting us crash in his backyard. It’ll be like Doe Bay, in a way, but on a smaller scale.

This town is like living in a bubble. Kinda like the suburbs, but definitely not like the suburbs. There’s a different aura here than anywhere else I’ve experienced. It’s like living on a Hollywood set, where everything is just where it should be – every unkept garden, every perfectly laid out stone pathway, each community space with open doors and music floating out, quirky shop, or happy chatter of people gathering. People walk everywhere here. They say hi when passing each other on the sidewalk. You may get a wave when passing in cars.

Even if they don’t say hi, they’ll smile. And not a shy passive aggressive PNW I-kinda-sorta-will-maybe-give-you-eye contact smile. Like a legit, bright smile. It happens while running too.

It’s delightful and refreshing.

There’s a group of middle school kids running around the park this evening. I was annoyed for a second because they’re loud but then they started yelling at each other:

“What’s the border? Is the water the border? Where’s the jail? It’s the picnic table! TO THE JAIL!!!”

This is cracking me up. It must be a camp. And I’d love to completely forget about everything I should be doing right now and join. It reminds me of playing Freeze Tag and Ghosts in the Graveyard on Heatherwood during humid Ohio summers.

To forget about having to go back to the house and gather all my triptrap I’ve strewn about the house. To toss my clothes into my duffle bag except for what I’ll wear tomorrow. To do a quick wipe down and sweep. To stuff four pairs of dress shoes, two pairs of running shoes, and two pairs of sandals into bags. To reorganize all the camping gear. To load it all up in Bertha The VW Battlewagen.

To not think about the weeds in my gardens at home. The mail stacking up on my front porch. The house next door that is in a significant state of demo. The empty dry erase board that will soon be filled up quotes equating to tens of thousand of dollars for a house remodel.

“Can we call a quick truce, I need you to take my shirt to the table.”

“Can we shake on it?”

7:43 p.m.

—–

Post-edit: I just got a glimpse of myself in my computer screen reflection. Total pretentious brat here with the real life running around me. Floppy hat, big hot pink sunglasses and scarf with a damn computer and headphones in the middle of a park.