Frustration

Oh tiny little group of readers, I am wrestling with the nomadic nesting syndrome again.

Sometimes I just want to scream about the RUT I'm in.

A part of me deep down is adventurous, spontaneous, brave, and bold - the beserker, the warriorpoet.

There used to be more of that when I was younger. The person who climbed up the face of this mountain (Old Woman) one fine summer day by herself, just because:

See the line of trees above the yellow building? That was my route.

This site says it's 2,563 ft to the top; 3-8 miles. But that's referring to the trail on the back side of the mountain. The trail-less face may be more or less than that.

No water bottle, no food, no bear spray; I didn't even tell anyone I was going. Just did it.

The person who lived in a tent in Alaska; washed her hair in a steam, in the coldest water you ever felt. Who clambered over rocks and climbed up cliffs to get to the perfect ocean vista, praying I would see an orca pod. (Never did.)

What happened to her?!

On the other stupid damn hand, I love routine. I love my creatures and my creature comforts. I love my own bed, my jalapeno jelly green wall, my wood floors, my art, my friends.

I had a light bulb moment late last year when The Boy was talking about buying a dog boarding business.
He was always jumping from restaurant to restaurant when he was a chef. It made my stomach hurt. I've worked for the same company since 1999 (minus the "sabbatical" year of 2010-2011).

Then it dawned on me - he is a risk taker. And I am not in this stage of my life.

What's brought all this on (again)?
A friend from the past contacted me on Facebook last week. He's in SE Alaska salmon fishing. He sends me these fantastic pictures of the water and the mountains and I can smell the brine and the fireweed and the alders and the spruce.

Photos - JP

I MISS it. I miss the magnificent breathtaking adventure of the place.

Somewhere near Sitka, AK. Photo - JP

Once again my nomadic Viking blood is stirred up. Hell, those Spanish, Portuguese, and Italians got around as well. 98% of my blessed DNA is composed of sailors, explorers, risk takers.

So what the bloody hell is the matter with me?!

I want to have my cake and eat it too.

More to come...

Bleh

Yeah, that's right. Bleh. I have been in this Crabby MacCrabberston state for what seems like weeks.
And kind of don't care.

Don't you hate it when chirpy people tell you that you shouldn't have a bad attitude? As if that's going to make a difference. Oh, golly gosh, you're right - I'll stop right now. Thanks chipper pal, you're the best!

ugh.

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What's been happening?
Let's start with the cracked fuel line on the car.

Pros:
Happened during the day
Discovered it before all the gas drained out of my tank
No-one threw a lit cigarette at me
It wasn't a hole in the gas tank
Work close to the Toyota dealer who could fix it
Know people who have an extra car and let me borrow extra car overnight

Cons:
Unexpected expense of $231
Found out my power steering is also leaking

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Saw the Cat Lady again last week. I hadn't seen her in awhile, so you know, I made up stuff like maybe she got an apartment. But there she was, on the street behind Home Depot. The cat had just jumped out of the car onto the grass. I wondered if I should stop. But then what? What in the world would I say? She intrigues me and horrifies me at the same time.
Horrifies me in the way homeless and/or sick people do sometimes - where I don't know what to say or where to look or what to do with the fear that threatens to choke me, because maybe it is contagious. (please feel free to insert "I" where appropriate, unless of course you never experience that feeling. If you don't, you are a fantastic person. And are probably now wondering why we're friends.)

In the end I just felt depressed as I drove on past. From my house. To work.

Thought about her the rest of the day.

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We'll end this post with a happy Beach Boys-eque song.