I love my house! I moved here a couple of years ago from the apartment I lived in for 5 years. That apartment never felt like home and every year I was telling myself that it is time to move on. It was a beautiful apartment: a top-floor corner unit with tons of big windows. Anyone would be happy to have it. Not me. I moved there from Alaska where I had a small independent cabin in the woods where you don’t see your neighbors, only woods. No noise except for an occasional howl of sled dog team nearby and hooting of the owls. Otherwise pure silence. How can you like living in an apartment after that? But lo and behold I had to move to a city. Granted it’s suburbs but still tons of people and highway noise. Not to mention the noise that came from one shared wall with my neighbors. You would be surprised just how loud it gets. After all, these apartments are cardboard and the sound seeps in. I knew who my neighbor slept with. Not a good thought. So, now I have a townhouse with a garage.

To tell you the truth garage is what sold it to me. In the rainy Northwest, it is detrimental that you remain dry as much as possible. No more wet grocery bags, no more rainy coats for the trip to a store. Life is dry and I love it. The only downside is that the rent goes high by a significant number every year and I know that someday I won’t be able to afford my beautiful townhouse in a second swanky neighborhood of Portland suburbs and will have to move. I am dreading this day. Granted it is probably a couple of years away but already I experience the stress of living without a garage and a ginormous bedroom where I sleep like a baby because it is facing south (which is the fang-Shui way to orient your furniture accordingly for maximum peace) already. Silly. I know. But this is what happens when you live in a high-rent situation in Portland and in the vicinity and in a good neighborhood although the numbers of the homeless population are slowly creeping in. Because I walk my doggo so much in different areas and parks we always find at least a couple of homeless people camping under huge conifers that are everywhere. They always come out once they see my dog and ask me what breed he is because he looks like a purebred exotic doggo. I say he is a “mystery breed” and then offer them a sleeping bag — the spare I have. They always decline even though some of them need it. I think it is a dignity thing. Nevertheless, I keep offering and keep meeting the resistance. So, I collect plastic bottles and then patiently wait for a homeless person to show up in the trash site for my beautiful townhouse. Yes, I am privileged and have different reminders throughout the day of it.

I can write more about it and about equity that is a red button today. It took national unrest and BLM movement to finally use that word in regards to anything except homeless. Makes me sick because it is hypocritical bullshit of “good-doers.” They don’t really care. It’s just a word that makes them feel good.

So on that note, I am going to end my rant. Life right now is weird and is suspended in weird shit we are all rolling in it one way or another. I’ll stick to offering sleeping bags and drinking copious amounts of wine (red is the preference) to deal with it.


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