THE PRICE OF PLAYING

It is apparent to me at this particular waypoint -- having quite successfully planned the disposal of a lifetime of belongings and stepped across the water onto a boat -- that I maybe failed a little bit at projecting the emotional impact of removing my entire foundation, of willfully flinging the carpet out from under my life. I thought doing it on purpose would make it all fun and lighthearted.

And, god knows, there have been happy moments and those dividends will be paying us back for years.

But there's the proverbial moment when the Pink Panther steps off a cliff but has not yet begun to fall. No amount of jaunty in-air paddling can stave off the inevitable. Where's the fun in planning that?

So, on this emotional plunge, I plummet through the emotional spectrum, anger then giddiness, then intense stress, then utter frustration. Chip and I go from hand-in-hand camaraderie at the sheer joy of accomplishing our goals to sniping at each other like siblings in the backseat.

We both feel scattered, shattered, fragmented, not in a tragic way but in an I-can't-find-my-pillow-and-I-want-to-cry and an I'm-falling-off-the-edge-of-the-world-holy-shit-oh-no-but-this-is-really-freaking-cool sort of way.

But doesn't that make sense when you think about it? Someone else lives in our house. Our old boat is now with new owners. Our belongings have been scattered far and wide, like little bits of us sprinkled all across the country.

I recognize that this sounds whiny and ungrateful, but what I'm leaving here is a blueprint for those who want to reboot their lives. Doing great things, making life-altering changes comes with sacrifice. It would be disingenuous not to acknowledge that.

When the stakes are high, so is the price of playing the game.

BELLY FLOP

QUESTION #2: How did Isabella get a big-ass dent in her belly?

a. What??!?!! There's a dent?
b. By running over a giant sea squid
c. By doing a big belly flop in shallow water
d. By a badly placed jack on a long road trip from Florida.
e. Any of the above.

If you answered any of these, you could be right. We don't know for sure, but when we first got the call it was definitely a. Then after throwing around about 29 possibilities, we decided it must be d. We bought Isabella in Fort Lauderdale and trucked her to North Carolina. Was there a jack in that spot? Maybe.

I would show you a photo of the indentation, which sounded much worse on the phone, but you can't really see it. It's a shallow indentation that none of us even noticed until they went to prop her up on jacks.

This is not good news, but we just keep saying, "at least we didn't have a prospective buyer in tow." That would have been a real deal killer. A surveyor is going to look at the hull tomorrow, and then we'll regroup.

Life is interesting. Stay tuned. This could be expensive.

CLOSING IN

We walked to the beach after dinner tonight. As we approached the Atlantic access, we walked straight into a rainbow.

The photo would have shown you the brighter, more full rainbow, but when we went back for the camera we found we had locked ourselves out of the apartment. By the time that was resolved, the rainbow had dissolved. Still seemed like a good omen, locked door aside.

The closing didn't go down today either. They think it will be tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Or is it Somewhere Over the Rainbow? We need a good "today" song.

Our life's movie soundtrack is a work in progress.

JUST SAY NO

Some days come with labels. Today's was NO.

Have you ever watched a dog run full tilt to the end of his lead and get yanked to a painful halt? That was Sunday. From the very first thing I attempted until I stopped trying, I kept hitting the end of the lead. I've made a chiropractor appointment to repair the damage.

First thing, I tried to print out a simple document for the business prospects we were meeting at 11. The document wouldn't open. Then no matter how or where or what computer I tried, the damn thing would NOT print.

At one point, Chip walked into the office to find me crouched under the desk holding the laptop at arm's length.

"What are you DOING?"

"Don't ask!" I snarled ungraciously. "STOP TALKING TO ME."

No. Never did get it printed.

Despite the pall of the day, we met with our realtor late in the afternoon to ponder the offer on the house. It has a contingency on their house closing in a few weeks, which also has a contingency. The domino effect. Should we sign? While we were debating, the phone rang. Someone wants to see the house tomorrow at 11.

Really? Someone's calling on Sunday at 5 p.m. to look at our house on a Monday morning? Really?

Okay, LOUD answer. NO.

That's good. We don't like subtlety.

MAD HOUSE

Well, apparently the house is reading this blog -- and it's pissed off.

Yesterday I staged the house for a 1 o'clock appointment, turned on all the lights, primped, preened and arranged. I even postponed eating lunch so my tincture of cloves and spices would waft through the air rather than greasy hamburger. About 2 o'clock I got a call from our realtor saying, "Please go let them in, they can't get the door open." Fine. It sticks sometimes.

Not fine. The house would have none of it. Nope, the door wouldn't budge. It was pouring rain, the wind was pounding me with a 35 degree wind chill. Sopping wet, hungry and shivering, I peered like a Charles Dickens moppet into my beautiful, toasty warm house, that "respite, a sanctuary from whatever is buffeting the four walls."

What the heck?

An hour later, our realtor picked the lock on the back door, just as the house lookers came back by. Soon thereafter I returned, still wet, freezing and a little contrite.

Nice house. Nice house.

In the meantime, we spoke to someone at the wine shop about an interesting wine bar venture. More on that later.

Nice house.

A TIME IN SEPTEMBER

One of my favorite belongings went away last Saturday, and I'm very sad that I don't know whether someone bought it at the garage sale or it got donated to charity. Why didn't I give it to someone who would care for it?

The 'it' was a palm-sized wooden box with delicate inlaid wood on the lid, a gift to me when I left my first grown-up job at Texas Tech University. When you opened the lid, it played "Try to Remember the Time of September," a lovely, bittersweet song I've listened to for 24 years.

The whole point of this blog is to remember. As I look back at my entries, they're mostly light and sweet, not so much bitter. The truth is, I've been reluctant to record the times I don't really want to remember.

But let us not forget August, a record breaking sales month at the wine shop. We were getting up at 7:00 a.m., working for two hours on the boat -- in the boiling sun -- then going to that crazy treadmill at the store, short-staffed, open late, answering stupid questions (yes, there are stupid questions). After the store closed at 9:00 p.m., we would work into the night putting stuff on Ebay, clearing out closets, sorting through belongings, copying CDs onto the iPod, shopping online for boats. I've never been a crier, but twice in August I was reduced to tears. Not those attractive soap opera tears that pool up and delicately spill down a gently blushed cheek. No, this was full-on, ugly face, Holly-Hunter-in-Broadcast-News bawling.

What could be worse? September. Once we got August out of the way, it was time to get serious about putting the house, boat and business on the market, which unfortunately meant hard labor, some of which is documented in this blog. Our days "off" were so labor intensive that "work" at the store felt like a vacation. September also launched the countdown to our beer festival, a many pronged event that requires a lot of time and coordination. And to stir it up, let's just throw in economic Armageddon and a couple of hurricanes. Tears would have been welcome, but in September the stress settled in my stomach. On two separate occasions, my stomach hurt so bad that I spent several hours throwing up.

Try to remember THAT time in September.

TODAY:
--had the packing gland fixed on the boat (it's an engine thing and if it fails, the boat sinks)
--finished the port side stanchions
--emptied and cleaned several cabinets in the kitchen
--gave away a few treasures to friends
--going to watch the debate between Sarah Palin and Joe Biden. do you think that will be memorable?

SOME DAYS

"Were you waiting for me to clean the grill?" Chip asked.

"I thought you were cleaning it. I cooked."

"I cleaned it the last three times I cooked."

I rolled my eyes. He hates it when I roll my eyes. I hate it when he keeps track of who did what. It got ugly.

We unearthed the whole thing again later until it escalated into cheap shots and door slamming.

My friend Dan thinks our sailing blog should be titled, "Who will survive?" He's not only convinced that two people on a small boat will resort to murder, but he thinks it would hold the attention of the reader to know someone will die at the end.

But surely life at sea won't be this stressful. (Remind me later that I said this.) When I think about all we're trying to accomplish, I wonder that we don't resort to more than door slamming.

Any one of the things on our list would probably make me edgy. Chip says it's like having four jobs.

Job one: fix up the house to sell.
Job two: fix up the boat to sell
Job three: run a thriving business with five employees
Job four: find a boat and prepare to live aboard

I would add job five: plan a beer festival

One of the stressful things about those jobs is which one will we get fired from first? For instance, if the house sells before anything else, what the heck do we do then? That would mean getting rid of the last household belongings that were kept only to sell the house, find a place to live, move, find a place to keep Isabella, all while running the business. Technically we could live on the boat and still keep the land life operating, but that's difficult, especially since isabella has no heating or cooling. Definitely, the house selling first would be the hardest scenario, but one we could manage -- somehow.

What if the business sells first? Do we pay off the mortgage? Do we rent the house and leave? Getting on the water as soon as possible will be the most economic option. Land ties are expensive: cars, gas, car insurance, house payments, mortgage insurance, taxes, utilities, etc.

Another insightful friend told me those are high class problems. Yeah, and I'm a high class whiner.

Oh, yeah?

Yeah!

TODAY'S ACCOMPLISHMENTS:
--whining
--fighting