Settling into the Cold War Dream House

I can honestly say that remodeling a house to sell, remodeling a house to move into, moving 15 years of marital bliss and 23 bicycles is probably not much different than the effort it took to put a man on the moon. Rest in peace Neil Armstrong.

Speaking of Space Race, while the new place was being worked on I had a dream that I neglected to check the basement cabinets for a portal into a backyard bomb shelter. I woke in a sweat, heart racing at 3 a.m. figuring how it would totally make sense given the slope of the lawn, the patio cement slab and access from said floor to ceiling cabinets. I raced over to the new house the next morning to check, but alas there was no subterranean survival center. The contractors, (a great group of guys that felt more like friends helping with my project, only better, as they showed up on time, finished on time, didn't eat all our food, but wanted to be paid with more than beer. Go figure.) all laughed when I explained my dream. They agreed with the logic that it would have been a great place for a bomb shelter and offered to bid the job.

So we're mostly moved in and getting a feel for the neighborhood. At the old place when G and I would ride to Thunder-dome there was an occasional homeless guy sleeping under a tree but never any other signs of degradation. It was never a problem. I expect so much from a Portland City Park that resembles a campground with the soft ground, tall old trees and such.

At the new place, the park doesn't quite compare, so G has taken to making a "race course" around the surrounding blocks. On the backside descent to the tight, off-camber corner near the retirement home, we've already found used condoms in the street. I guess it makes sense that these old guys are popping Viagra like PEZ and taking Grandma on a walk up the hill to the gazebo that looks out over the community garden. Just the other night the retirement home had a Luau that went well past 9 p.m.

With the Luau in full swing and G and I watching his favorite movie, A decided to hit the grocery store alone in hopes of some peace and quiet while shopping. Turns out, after dinner Friday night at the Fred Meyer's is as much as a meat market as the retirement home.
She got back just as G and I were walking upstairs to get ready for bed. I had the living room windows open and the house smelled of smoke. The neighbors have consistently been partying on weekends and have a fire pit so I gave it no thought. In fact, a week after we moved in, the retired neighbor lady came over to tell us of her parties and apologize if they get too loud. Apparently backgammon after dark gets a little rowdy.

A was flustered and complained of the smoke just as I was processing that it smelled a little strong. I closed up the windows, looked out the kitchen window to see a glowing house a block away filtered by heavy smoke just as she asked if I hadn't heard the sirens.

She then went on to explain, in her animated way, her shopping experience and the guy in flip flops pushing a flatbed cart that she couldn't shake through the store amid the beer buying maze of party goers. In fact, her story was so intricate that she had to sit at the kitchen table and draw a diagram of how it all went down while barely able to contain herself.

The guy left the store about the same time as A and, as chance would have it, they were parked right by each other. By now his cart was loaded with a way-too-big-to-fit-into-his-car, boxed bistro table set. A loaded her groceries and watched puzzlingly as he opened all the doors of his Crown Vic and tried to jam the box unsuccessfully into each portal one at a time.

He got it jammed partially into the trunk, took the cart to the cart corral, walked back, jumped on the box some more, swore, tried to stomp his frustrations but was emasculated by his own flip flops. He then brought the cart back, held it from rolling down the slope, pinning him against his car with a fully extended leg and his big toe against the handle of the cart while now standing on one leg and attempting to pick up the large box, pivot and set it back on the cart behind him. I think she said he swore some more.

As sweet a soul as A is, she decided that 10'oclock at night was no time to offer to help or tell the guy to just take the table and chairs out of the box.

"It was so obvious the thing wouldn't fit! He didn't even need to measure anything to know the box wasn't going into that car. He was so angry, he finally stomped his flip flops and pushed the beat up box back into the store, presumably to return the thing, and I just threw it in reverse and floored it to get away from the guy."

Now, standing in the middle of the kitchen surrounded by empty grocery bags, eyes ablaze with her story, she turned casually to see out the window at the glowing house a block away, "old people are having sex, houses are burning, what's next: pets' heads falling off!?"