Quick post to summarize where things are:
— put together the Thuma bed. Slats were warped. They sent new ones right away. Still minor warping, but that went away once the queen-sized mattress was on the frame.
— dog took over the bed. She’s a sheppie. She used one of the shams as a kind of nursing toy. Love the mattress. Nice looking bed. My back screamed thank you.
— BIG NEWS: my lawyer up in NY is finalizing hush hush developments. Should all go as planned, I will be flying on the QT up to Westchester, NY in late March or April to finalize things.
— BIGGER NEWS: my wife is over the COVID isolation protocol. She caught it last week; took her to the emergency service clinic. She seems fine now. Amazingly, I did not get infected.
— going shopping with her tomorrow in West Palm to get furniture for the main bedroom. (Update: the delivery is set for around the first of April; hope it does not conflict with the NY trip. Later, we bought a box spring and mattress. Lots of money being spent last 2 days. Not used to doing that any more, not since the dot com days, and I am queezy about it. When you have been burned as badly financially as we were, you become super cautious, for the rest of your life — even after the stormy skies appear to clear.)
The new house is starting to come together.
I love it here.
As a confirmed misanthrope — with [vile <==> evil] humanoid behavior in abundance everywhere one looks — I value the privacy of living in a house at the edge of a large and protected pine scrub forest preserve (albeit, in jammed south Florida).
As a bonus, the weather has been stunning this month.
Picture postcard perfect.
Cool temps; nice breeze always coming in, thanks to being pleasantly close to the Atlantic ocean; the rustling of leaves in the mysterious forest; the bobcats, boar, Eastern box turtles, pileated woodpeckers, cardinals and sand cranes; the occasional deer sightings; the hawks patrolling lazily overhead — all unfortunately diminished by our living in a gated HOA overflowing with escarous geezers who stick ridiculous flag brackets in their car windows, their gratingly bumptious Christian nationalist “patriotism” aflutter for all-to-see, the sort of bony-chest-beating tools who drive around with puerile bumper stickers that read “Buck Fiden.”
Mercifully the house is located at the end of a dead-end street. There’s only one other house directly next to it, unseen because we are the last house on a twisty block, and our entrance and driveway face the forest, not other houses.
Who could ask for anything less?
Leaving Amerika 