Even though Fuzzy’s been told we’re not going to have to relocate to Florida in the immediate future, every so often I look at Florida real estate, to try and gauge what kind of money we’re looking at, and how far from the water we’d have to live to make Fuzzy happy and keep the dogs safe.

The thing is, I’m spoiled because California real estate listings had a public version of mls that was a lot more current and accurate than sites like realtor.com, and even the local mls here in Texas was available (sort of) through a couple of realtor sites (I’m not sure if they were supposed to make as much info available as they did, but it was helpful.

Most mls though, especially things like this Miami flat fee mls service that I’ve looked at, are geared for sellers. These services are great, and if I weren’t a proponent of using realtors, I’d totally find the Texas equivalent of this, because it allows you to a FSBO (for sale by owner) relatively inexpensively, and use it. But, I don’t have patience for negotiating, and I would never deny my realtor-friends their crack at a commission.

Still, if you live in Florida, and are planning to sell your home, this is definitely worth checking out. It’s pretty intuitive, and a much smarter choice than trying to do a FSBO without an mls listing.

You expect a neighborhood to be silent in the depths of night, when only the moon is awake, and even the birds and feral cats are either roosting or curled up behind a shrub, safely asleep. It’s a bit odd for a neighborhood to be silent at 10:00 in the morning, but that’s how my neighborhood was this morning, as the dogs and I took our morning constitutional.

We began, as we always do, at our own mailbox, which each dog marked, making sure all the other animals in the neighborhood know who lives there. We turned left at the end of the driveway, and walked a few feet to the corner, then turned left again. It was already almost 90, and there was no wind, so I had chosen the shorter of our two main walking routes.

We walked along the fence separating our back neighbor’s side yard from the street, and Miss Cleo’s warbling was the only discernible sound. No basso profundo barking emanated from that yard – their dogs must have been inside. We crossed the street a bit up from the corner because those neighbors have rose bushes flanking the kneeling curb, and don’t keep them well pruned. Technically since they’re in the curb strip, they should be pruned, but no one bothers.

We walked up the grassy tree-covered slope of hill into the park. It’s a nice park, more a village green with a slide and a play structure. There are no swings. I don’t understand how kids tolerate the lack of swings. Swings are essential to a happy childhood. Really.

We follow the curving sidewalk through the park, along the green space, past the gazebo. We pause at one of the benches so I can re-tie my sneaker. Miss Cleo jumps up on the bench with me. Zorro simply stares pointedly at my feet.

We cross the street at the far end of the park, and walk along that neighbor’s recently installed, unstained, unpainted fence. I can still smell sawdust as we pass by. The dogs leave “messages” on anything relatively vertical that we pass, and certain sections of grass. We reach the next corner, the farthest end of our own street, and turn left once more.

I notice many cars in driveways, but no signs of life, save for one SUV pulling out just as we get to that driveway. Two houses up, a garage door is open. A fan sits in the middle, and a table. I know that during the summer it’s left open so the kids who live there can get in and out, but there are no kids evident on the streets today. I suspect school started last week.

We cross the street again, the midpoint of the block, and we are three-quarters of the way home. Zorro wants to chase a scent across the street, but Miss Cleo is hot and wilting quickly, so we stay on the sidewalk I’ve chosen. It’s still quiet; the only sound punctuating the sunny morning is the panting of the dogs and the jingling of the tags on their collars.

We get back home, and they wait patiently (for them) while I punch in the code to the garage door. I like this keypad thing. I like not having to carry keys. They duck into the garage before the door has risen enough for me, but this is normal for us.

Back inside, the air conditioning is blissfully cool, and the bubble of silence breaks. I hear computer fans, a/c fans, and the whirring of the refrigerator. Welcome to life in the 21st century, where we can handle the dark, but the quiet freaks us out.

Fuzzy and I visited a new-ish comic book store in Cedar Hill after our trip to Panera today. Panera, by the way, which is usually one of my favorite lunch stops, was disappointing. The chai wasn’t right – it wasn’t BAD, just not right – and it was cold, and everything felt off-kilter.

Anyway, the comic book store was all very bright and clean, with clearly labeled shelves, and a table and comfy chairs (for reading, or playing games, no doubt) was off in one section, and one of the X-Men movies was playing on a wide-screen TV. Fuzzy stopped to watch it and immediately got sucked into the kind of TV trance that only ever seems to affect men. You know, the one where no matter what is on, even if it’s something they would normally hate, they gaze, slack-jawed and unblinking until something comes between their eyes and the screen – generally a wife?

It was like that.

Oddly, I found myself remembering how there would always be groups of guys abandoned at those home theater stores in malls when I was a kid, two or three on each couch, watching whatever happened to be on while their wives went shopping. It was sort of like the adult male equivalent of drop-in day care, and oh, so much better than the two tiny man-chairs outside the fitting rooms in women’s clothing stores.

Anyway, I had time to circulate through the store twice, and almost bought a Spike doll, but didn’t, and Fuzzy was still watching the movie. Then, when I told him I was ready to go, he said, “But I’m not done looking.”

Men! Honestly!

I say … And you think …

1. Uneven :: Bars
2. Wonder :: Woman
3. Spider :: Web
4. Emma :: Thompson
5. Swing :: Low, Sweet Chariot
6. Orbit :: Low Earth
7. Flirt :: Tease
8. Donation :: Generosity
9. Veil :: Shroud
10. Atmosphere :: Pressure

Like this meme? Play along here.

There’s a reason they call it “falling” asleep, and it’s not because my eyelids flutter closed, blocking out the light, and the view of my darkened bedroom.

Sleep has never been something I’m particularly fond of, largely because there are so many things to do, read, try, write about, and also because my mind tends to race at the times when most people are turning out their lights, and cocooning themselves in soft blankets, but lately, I’ve been craving sleep more, and getting better rest than I remember getting for most of my life, and while sometimes I still have a hard time giving up the night, I’ve developed a bit of a routine to help myself along.

First, I make sure Fuzzy is in bed first. He, like many men, falls asleep anywhere, and easily. If he is already wrapped in sleep’s embrace, I can close my eyes, curl up against him, and match my breathing to his.

Then, I make sure the dogs are in the right places. Miss Cleo sleeps either under the covers at our feet, or in the cavity in the headboard where we’ve stuffed a bolster so that the pillows don’t disappear. She likes to burrow. Zorro generally curls up against my side, in my armpit, or against my abdomen (the latter is preferred during certain times of the month), on top of the covers, while I’m under them.

Once everyone is in position, I close my eyes, and slowly clench and unclench every muscle in my body, beginning with my toes, and working up to my eyebrows. Most of the time, I’m asleep before I get past my buttocks, but sometimes my mind refuses to find a quiet place, and I have to bring out the big guns.

For me, that means counting. I begin at the number 100, and count backwards, making sure I’m focusing my entire attention on each number, spending an entire breath on it, visualizing it. If I allow a stray thought into my conscious mind, I start over, increasing the number by 25 (so round three would start at 150). Most nights, I’m out before I get to seventy-five. Some nights, my starting number goes over 300. This is rare.

What never changes though, is the mental and physical letting go I do as I get that sinking feeling, the one that means sleep is rising up to greet me, and will guide me into its murkiest depths, only to push me back toward the surface as morning approaches.

Some people fall asleep.
Me? I dive into it.

I’ve done so many memes by other people that I thought it was time to create my own. I therefore offer Alliterative Saturday, in which I pick a theme letter and summarize my day. Today’s entry is brought to you by the letter S.

Sleep:
I’ve been getting up with Fuzzy for the past few days, and taking the dogs out while he does his morning thing. This way, by the time we’re back, he’s done with the shower. Today, since we had no where to be before 7:00 PM, I still got up around seven, because nature was calling, but then I went back to bed, and fell into dreamland. I must have needed the rest, because when I finally woke up enough to get out of bed, it was nearly one.

Strolls:
Despite sleeping into the afternoon, the dogs and I still took our stroll around the neighborhood today. They’d been so good about letting us sleep, and they asked so nicely: Zorro sat on my lap and looked at the door, then looked at me, several times, until I got the point, and Cleo turned in happy circles when I asked her to find her leash.

Storms:
I wasn’t expecting any rain today, but as we were driving into Dallas a sudden storm made its appearance. At one point, there was so much water on the road that our Forester was hydroplaning, but I was so excited about rain, that I didn’t care. I LOVE RAIN!!!

Salsa:
Fuzzy took me to Mia’s for Mexican food today, and the salsa was so spicy it did that thing where it whites out my taste buds and all I can taste is soap. I like salsa, but I prefer it to be savory, not spicier than hell. The carne asada was great, though, even if I did only eat half of it.

Smiles:
We went and helped out at CSz tonight, and I shadowed Mr. Voice. It was nice to watch from the sound booth, and also get a better flow for how sound should work. We opted not to go to dinner with everyone, partly because I’m tired, and partly because I really don’t ever want to go to Spaghetti Warehouse again. Ever.

Serenity:
While I never much cared for Firefly when it was on, and while I didn’t watch it when Fuzzy borrowed the DVDs from friends, and while I still never watched it when we acquired our own copies, I finally got into it a couple weeks ago, and so we’ve been slowly working our way through the series. It helps that I liked the movie, without having much cared for the series.

I’ve long been a fan of “Coastal Living” magazine, even though I don’t live on the coast. I like to read about beach houses and bungalows, find out how people decorate in such a fashion that tracked-in sand won’t hurt the carpet or furniture, and see how they allow for weather.

Condo Hotels have intrigued me ever since I was introduced to the concept one summer on the Jersey Shore. I remember that we’d drive by this towering building every day on the way to or from the beach, and that my mother referred to it as The Monstrosity. (Monstrosity would become my first “big” word – I was all of two.)

Years later, I’d see the same building, complete, no longer looking like a stack of cinder blocks and cavernous gaps where rooms should be, and wonder what it would be like to live in a luxury condo overlooking the beach or the yacht harbor. As much as I prefer the notion of a beach bungalow at sand level, there’s something attractive about being up near the stars, and having the whole coastline as a view.

It’s become our habit (Zorro’s, Cleo’s and mine) to do a daily walk before I settle at the computer to write. Generally, we do this between 9:30 and 10:30 in the morning, before it gets too hot. Today, we didn’t manage to do this until almost noon because I had other engagements.

Generally one turn around the long blog (one block over, through the park, up another short block, and down the long block home) is enough to keep both dogs tired out until supper, at which point their antics – the tricks they do do EARN said supper – tire them out enough to keep them from driving me crazy until the three of us retire to the bedroom. Once we’re in the bedroom, each of them selects one of my ankles as a chin rest, and I can read, write, watch television, or do all of the above, for hours, as long as no one (meaning me) has to move.

Tonight, about an hour ago, the routine changed.

I fed them around six, and let them out into the back yard to do their stuff (and so I could turn off the hose, which was in the pool, and had subsequently flooded the yard), around seven.

Just before eight, as I was about to write my second to last post for tonight (and I apologize for the over-abundance of posts – I had some ad-links that were due tonight, and even though one of my services doesn’t care if posts are back-to-back, I care), a small dog jumped up and braced their front paws on each of my thighs, and said, “We’d like another one of those walkies, please.”

At least, I thought that’s what they were asking. They might have been looking for Fuzzy, who isn’t yet home from work. So I asked, “Are you looking for Daddy?” and they gave me the look that means, “Who?” And then I asked (because they’ll often signal when it’s bedtime, “Do you want to go to bed?” But clearly they didn’t.

“What do you want?” I asked, and they raced for the door to the mud/laundry room/airlock between house and garage where their leashes are stored. Zorro pawed at the door, and Cleo sat in front of it and warbled, the way she generally does when begging for her special T-O-Y that we keep hidden so she won’t destroy it.

“Ok,” I said. And yes, I do speak aloud to the dogs. It amuses me, and they like the sound. “Let’s go for a WALK!”

This is a trigger phrase, and caused utter pandemonium, until leashes were snapped on, doors were opened and shut, and the street had been peed upon.

Meanwhile, I was trying to figure out what to do with my cell phone, for I’d grabbed it thinking it was unwise to wander around in the dark without something in case of emergency, even with two canine companions in a fairly safe neighborhood, but alas, didn’t have any pockets.

I ended up ducking behind my mailbox and shoving it into my bra. The edge of the bra touched a button, and the screen lit up, so I walked for a quarter of a block with a glowing rectangle of light on my left breast, but the dogs didn’t care.

And by the time we passed the neighbor out for his evening motorcycle ride, the light had gone off…really.

I’m going to have to get a fanny pack, because I suspect evening walkies are about to become a regular occurrence.

It’s interesting the way one word or phrase can trigger an entire memory. Here’s an example.

Surfing websites, I came across a site advertising Callaway golf equipment, and it immediately reminded me of an essay I’d once read by a man who had grown up listening to Danny Kaye’s version of the classic Cab Calloway song, “Minnie the Moocher,” had practiced it with his brother, and had gone to one of Kaye’s concerts to prove how good he, himself, could be. I don’t remember the author, but I remember the part about Danny Kaye challenging the audience to a string of “Hi de hi de hi de ho” choruses.

I have a special fondness for Danny Kaye. Obviously I never met him, but whenever I stayed home sick, my mother would bend the “no TV before five pm” rule, and since I hate cartoons, and never got into soap operas, that generally meant reruns of Star Trek or old movie musicals. Since there are far more musicals than TOS episodes, I saw a lot of Danny Kaye.

My two favorite Kaye performances are the “pellet with the poison” bit from The Court Jester and the “Russian Composer song” from one of his other movies, in which he played a prize fighter. I think it was The Kid from Brooklyn.

I had, as a small girl, and have still today, a rich internal fantasy life. I’m rarely lonely, rarely bored. Escaping into a world where Danny Kaye sang about a gazillion Russian composers in 28 seconds was exactly the sort of thing I used to do. While we all have voices in our heads from time to time, mine don’t belong to my mother or my grandmother, but one of them belongs to Danny Kaye.

The last performance of his that I ever saw was an episode of The Cosby Show in which he played the best dentist ever. He died when I was in high school. I always regretted never having written him fan mail, even though I don’t believe in writing fan mail, generally.

There was a point to this piece, really, but it’s gotten muddled, because in my head, all I can hear are strains of Danny Kaye singing “Minnie the Moocher.”

Folk’s here’s the story ’bout Minnie the Moocher
she was a red hot hoochie coocher
she was the roughest, toughest frail
but Minnie had a heart a big as a whale