Wednesday, September 03, 2003

Dog...barking...incessantly...for hours...I need coffee (too bad I drink only decaf anymore). It's not a PET. It's a wild dog, a feral animal. And it's bugging the hell out of us with its yapping. How dare this creature disturb our quiet solitude in our tiny, gated enclave? Yes, it's true. I have found myself not only living in a condo...but on a golf a gated community. Appalling, I know, for someone who's led the wacky, transient life I have. I'll blame it on my boyfriend...the performing artist...the passionate golfer. He's the one who said, "Yes, we'll take it." He's also the one who said, "If we live here I won't worry about your safety when you're home alone while I'm out late at a gig." And when you live in a place that has one of the highest per capita murder rates under the U.S. flag--and when your previous home featured a soundtrack of almost nightly gunshots--that's not a small consideration. So this is where we find ourselves. And I confess: I love it. I love the privacy. I love the perfect quiet at night. I'll take a natural soundtrack over the pop-pop-pop-pop of a gun any day.

Funk-R-Us. We've been in a funk, the two of us. We spent way too much time over Labor Day weekend moping around the house and being generally morose. And not toward each other, just in general. Then yesterday it dawned on me what's been bothering us. In about 4 weeks we leave for the West Coast. It'll be our first trip back to the States in 3+ years (so I wasn't joking when I named this blog.) And I think we're both so anxious to go back to "civilization" for 10 see his see our respective families...that the DRAG of having to go through our regular, workaday lives here for another month finally sunk in. It's been great when our families have traveled to our little island to visit us, but what we're in dire need of right now is not just a family "hit," we're starved for some stimulation. And it should be a good mix, since we'll be spending time both in small towns and urban areas.

My hairdresser (who's lived here for 20 years but makes frequent trips to the States or Europe) tells me that we're going to be struck by how FAST everything will seem. She said that after two days we'll probably be ready to come back to our slow island pace. I don't know. I didn't want to move here in the first place, so I've been READY to go back the whole time I've lived here. We're going to get there and either think that we can't wait to move back...or that we've got it made where we are. One thing's clear though: if we stay much longer, I have to find an alternative way to generate some income.

I find myself lying awake at night and thinking of things I could say at my father's roast marking his 75th birthday. Then I think: no matter what I say, he'll probably take offense. Beware of he who can dish it out by the truckload, because he usually is not one to take it well when he's on the receiving end. This I know. But it should be funny. I can be funny when I want to be, but my brother is freaking hilarious. To this day, I still consider him one of the funniest people on the planet. Let me open, he can be the closer. He can take us out in grand style.