CatDog

This is Piper's way of being a Problem Child, I suppose; probably because Toby is around and He Doesn't Feel Loved Any more (the little liar), or so the Jerry Springer show would go. But what on earth is going on here, oh great Pet Psychic? It's kind of like that weird cartoon, CatDog, or something. Or maybe not, since Piper doesn't have a cat head growing out his butt (a cat head growing out his butt that talks to him in English, to clarify the cartoon, or as much of it as I can stand to make out).

Uh.

And also, we originally set up the kennel for Toby ,who made it clear that it reminded him of being at the shelter, and hasn't gone in it since. Whereas Piper is now playing King of The Castle/Dog Crate, because What's Yours is Mine and What's Mine is Mine in Piperworld, I guess).

The Thing

Okay, so sue me, I'm no Martha Stewart and I don't know what the hell to call this piece of the dining room set (and thank God about not being M.S. by the way, because I don't think spending time in federal prison is quite my thing) but here's the other piece of furniture I got for a song:


 

China Girl

I must be the world's Most Clueless Shopper, or something, because when I purchased our solid oak, name brand table, I thought I was just getting, you know, the table.

Lo and behold, I also got a china cabinet and a server-thingie (I told you I was clueless; I don't know the proper name for dining room set furniture). It's even got showcase lighting (for showcasing our one, no wait, two! plates, that aren't even real antiques or anything).

Ohmigawd. We must be real, grown up adults now. Not only is our front "yard" landscaped, we also have solid oak furniture that not only looks like something our parents might own (say it ain't so!) but also requires us to purchase actual accoutrements and accessories of greater-or-equal-to taste.

Scary.

Not that we aren't above IKEA particleboard any more--because Lord knows our budget on some days barely gets us out of the Walmart particleboard realm of furniture deathtraps--but I think I'd previously developed an allergy to that three level, concentric Homemaker Hell, any way.

 

The Tobster!

Meet our pal, Toby (aka "The Tobster" or "Tobage") our canine friend who is apparently Halloween-friendly what with black fur and the day-glow satanic eyes and everything (ed note: Dog not really satanic, we promise). He's superfriendly, LOVES Ibrahim, and is just as kicked back as Piper. Note the not-so-subtle doggy-passive-agressiveness in the picture below; it's kind of like having kids. If one gets a pat on the head from one of us, the other dog (most notably Piper, who normally would blow us off for a long nap or something) has to hurry over and get his allotted pat on the head, too.
One rainy day we'll share Toby's story with you (nota bene: it's a sad one!). But for today, we'd prefer to show you the spoils of war (or moving, as it were). See above for The Goods. 

No Exit

So we're moving today. And of course, it's pretty much crappy. I liked the poetry/metaphor of dog-cum-fire-exit, though. For more geeky Satre humor, go here. This shot was taken in our "old" building ("old" if we ever get the hell out of here, which I'm beginning to doubt. Geez. All of our worldly belongings fill up half of a 14 foot Uhaul and three hours later, we're still filling up that bad boy.)
Piper's saying "I can't wait to unpack." (Jamie's saying, "I can't wait to have a beer." )
Or six.

Oh, Sandra!

Okay, so one more Wurk related thing, which is kind of funny, actually, and I'm only being half serious when I get all bent-out-shape and upset in this entry.

So, like, nine of ten little elderly patients think I look like Sandra Oh, or Dr. Yang as she's known on the horribly inaccurate but maddingly catchy drama Grey's Anatomy:

Alright, so I wanna know what the hell is it that makes us so darn spittin'-image twin-twin-twiny in the minds of the octagenarian and nonagenarian crowd? The fact that her t.v. show character and I both like to wear ceil-blue scrubs to work? The fact that her hair is permed, and mine is naturally curly? The fact that we're both Asian and Ming Na was sensible enough to leave the cast of ER before it gets the old heave-ho, leaving a gap in the Asian Actresses Who Play Doctors on T.V. Market that Sandra conveniently filled this season?

Because, uhhhh... can I point out how like, I'm a nurse and Ming Na and Sandra Oh play(ed) doctors on t.v.? Dude, I don't even wear the white lab coat, for that would be The Kiss of Death in the unwritten, unspoken rules of Nursing Dress Etiquette. (Yeah, every once in awhile I get mistaken for a doc by these little old folks and bewildered housestaff I 've never met before. Must be the vague, useless look about me, or something; I haven't figured it out.) Nota bene: Just kidding! Just kidding! Group hug! I love docs; they are good, hardworking people! At least the ones that don't blow off my pages, or answer them out-of-house when they are supposed to be on in-house call).

Okay. So back to debunking the Sandra-Oh-Look-Alike Myth.

For the record: I SO DO NOT LOOK LIKE SANDRA OH, PEOPLE. For one, she's about five feet taller than I am, and all skinny and stuff. Plus, well... (exasperated sigh) LOOK AT HER FACE, FOR CRIPE'S SAKE. It's like saying Britney Spears looks like Gywneth Paltrow because they're both blonde. I mean, GAWD.

Oh well. Uh, at least we're both Korean?

Naw. That still doesn't make it any better. WE DON'T LOOK ALIKE.

I forgive the little old people, because they are cute enough to mention it at all, but seriously, for the rest of you people with eye goo in your peepers who for some reason think all Asian people a) are Chinese b) look alike: SHAME ON YOU. And this is my blog, and I can say whatever I want about people without basic facial recognizition skills.

So there.

Would you like fries with that order?

So, you are probably wondering why I never talk about work, (or Wurk, as Loz, my favorite death match superstar IP lawyer and friend in Sydney, Australia, has dubbed it).

1) I like my job, and I like being a nurse, but I like to come home, forget about work, and hug my dog and contemplate stuff like why they don't make kids study Latin anymore, because declensions are cool, man, or if Kant was really right about time and space being the two a priori conditions of all human understanding and, hey(!), who's gonna win The Amazing Race, the snippy gay couple or the token black engaged couple? (Oh no! Mass media alert! But wait! I can explain! It's all Ibrahim's fault for sucking me in. Actually, we both work evening shifts, and come home wired but tired, and syndicated reruns of The Amazing Race has become our wind-down programming of choice. Oh no. We are officially The Couple Who Watches T.V. All Night Instead of Talking to One Another.)

(Actually, the latent theology student in me aches to deconstruct and critique the latent Orientalism inherent in exploiting indigenous cultures for nothing more than the commerical, self entitled and no-doubt nefarious purposes of a fucking gameshow, not to mention the spending of million of dollars in pursuit of said goals. Money that could have been allocated towards something altruistic and meaningful, like international medical relief or funding literacy programs for tots so that instead of kicking and screaming in the middle of your local Barnes and Noble about wanting this that and the other thing RIGHT NOW MOMMY they would actually shut the fuck up and read already, and stop disturbing the other nice, childless patrons in the shop.)

I digress.

2) An addendum to number one above. Okay, seriously, some days my job isn't all that. Can you believe it? No really. I know you're thinking nursing is all fast-talking ER sexiness and drama (sexiness and drama that has totally gone off in the last say, five seasons, but whatever). Or maybe you're not.

Still.

Newsflash: not that we wouldn't love to have a glamorous job as portrayed in those glossy, souped-up t.v. versions of hospital life (too bad doctors don't universally look like Goran Visjinc, while we're at it). I'd wager we nurses would love it if every day at Hospital Soup Land [insert name of regional community hospital here] was full of Redeeming Moments, Last Minute Saves, and Morality Plays That Work Out Alright in the End, So Group Hug, Kids! (Okay, so there's usually at least .0004% of something that happens on even the worst day in the nursing that Make It Alright, Yo. And that .0004% = cold hard cash paid out bimonthly in the form of our paychecks).

But folks, seriously. The reality is that inspite of all myriad of misconceptions related to our profession, it seems sometimes like we spend most of our days cleaning up poop (literally and figuratively) and making sure Mr. Two- Hours-Post-Cardiac-Cath-Right-Groin--Six-French-Manual-Compression-Held-For-35-Minutes-With-Reducible-But-Oozing-Hematoma-Man doesn't decide to forgo his 6 hours of ordered bedrest and leave AMA, because QUOTE "the customer service here has been lousy!" at the same time we're making sure Mr. Small-Bowel-Obstruction-Guy doesn't pull out his NG tube and perforate/infarct his bowel for similar stated reasons.

I hate to say it, but somedays, nursing feels like 10% intellectual challenge, 90% glorified babysitting. (And if any nursing students are reading this blog, which they probably aren't, but just in case they are, replace the above with: NURSING IS A GREAT PROFESSION. WE NEED YOU, FOLKS! WE NURSES LOVE YOU. LOVE YOU. YOU ARE OUR FUTURE/RETIREMENT REPLACEMENTS, HEAR? SO HANG IN THERE! )

3) As it is the way of the world, some days you just can't walk away from work feeling like it was ultimately worth it to have spent EIGHT YEARS slave to post-secondary education (bitter?! who's bitter?!), four of them in graduate school, with a master degree in theology under your belt and a license to practice nursing, only to be called "the waitress" by your alert and oriented X3 youngish patient when you walk in the room. Or to have docs you've paged for a telemetry strip showing a six second pause/complete heart block grumble indifferently, "Yeah, I suppose so," when you politely ask if they are, indeed, the doc on call. Or surgery demands to know "why you've paged them" when they haven't come up to see your stable-but-needing-a-consult patient all day long and it's now nine o'clock in the evening and said patient is now threatening to leave AMA if she doesn't see someone stat, dammit. Or dietary never pages you back when half of the patients on your floor never got dinner trays. Or [insert maddening nursing conundrum here].

4) There's the whole bodily fluid thing. I'm used to talking about GI bleeds while eating oatmeal, but I've found most people don't consider chatting about bloody, foul smelling stool oozing continually per rectum, polite table talk. (Why on earth not?) Ergo, I've tried to keep the gore to a minimum on the blog.

5) And there's the whole HIPPA thing, which has basically made us deathly afraid (perhaps with good reason) to give a concerned family member their loved one's room number on our unit without a court-signed affadavit stating that the poor little eighty-nine-year-old on the phone really is Patient X's great-grandmother Edna.

Oh geez, I guess I did end up talking about Wurk this blog entry.

Look Ma! New Furniture!

Here's the dining room table; shown in the new place. Yeah yeah, the picture isn't cropped right, but one gets the general idea, yes?

Rabbitat (or "The House that Ibrahim Built")

Ask and ye shall receive:

So. I asked Ibrahim this weekend if he would build me a custom-madebunny cage, because we're moving into a nice new condo this weekend (well, new to us, any way) and having random small animal cages all over the living room floor isn't exactly aesthetically pleasing.

I've been dreaming about The Bunny Condo for awhile, and delved through numerous internet sources to find the Perfect Bunny Space: a roomy furniture-quality space with mesh doors that would swing open for easy access and cleaning. I wanted something that would be practical, attractive enough to be part of the furniture, and spacious enough for my little furchildren. It's even got wheels so I don't have to break my back moving it and forth for daily cleaning.

I drew a picture of my Dream House (dream house for the bunns any way), showed it to Ibrahim and three days later, and several hundred dollars poorer, I have a gorgeous bunny condo, replete with a hopping-up shelf for my aerially-inclined lapine companions, a large litterpan, and a second floor loft exclusively for Neimur, the baby guinea pig who seems content enough to sit in a square foot litterpan and sleep all day despite his spacious accomadations. Ellie, a five year old rescue cavy who we dubbed "the cranky old lady with a cane" doesn't like the little one afoot, but seems to coexist peacefully with rabbits down on the first floor of the condo, and spends most of her time dozing in the litterpan as well. The bunnies have litter trained her in a matter of a few hours too; magic bunnies!

Ibrahim is busy finalizing the finishing touches: a nice stain to match my new solid oak dining room table (see above picture).

Mmmm. Real furniture.

I hate moving, but it is soooooo worth it in this case.

Stoned Love

Remember that Adam Sandler movie, The Wedding Singer? Of course you don't, and may I serve an intellectual penance of not more than 50 pages of Hegel's Phenomenology of Spirit for mentioning same. (Hmm, does this mean I am going to have to spend an extra century or so in Academic Purgatory, privy to condescending lectures about my sinful "comma misusage" from snotty theology professors who think a good time is a Kierkegaard conference in Finland?

Oh wait!

Dude, I forgot, that was like, divinity school, land of the aggregiously petty, as in it's been nearly three damn years and those essay comments still sting, Herr Doktor Luther-Freudian-Faux-Pas Man.) And yes, dear readership of three, no wait, four blighted souls, that last bit was an inside joke all one of you probably get. (But you're snickering now, aren't you Katy? Ah yes, indeed, I go back, like Kenny Chesney's song of the same ilk, except without painful memories of Renee Zellwegger's sniping insinuations re: his manhood, and so forth.)

Ah, no... I suspect the Academic Ghosts Who Will Decide My Fate in the Afterworld (as no doubt they will, the miserable harpies) will have me instead write a dissertation linking Menudo, Chuck Woolery, and Milbank's obtuse little tome, Truth in Aquinas which, by the way, if you are daring enough to click on the link, is not "provacative" as the little blurb claims. Not provacative as in Sarah Jessica Parker, any way, unless things like radical orthodoxy get you all hot and bothered. Which, considering the readership of this blog, I suppose radical orthodoxy might indeed make one want to get all medieval on someone else's Summa Theologica, so maybe I'd better shut up and mumble my mea culpas now.

Any way, I digress. For those of you have seen the movie, remember that scene when Adam Sandler's character, apparently suffering Post Traumatic Stress Disorder related to a wedding-altar-jilting, has a break down at Drew Barrymore's wedding singer tryouts and starts wailing a song which is probably entitled something along the lines of "Somebody F---ing Kill Me (Somebody Kill Me Please)"? (Why yes indeed, that was a run-on sentence, Herr Doktor. Please sir, may I have some more?)

Yeah, well.

That song is a reccurent theme for my many shades of simmering rage (i.e. the "change of shift ED admission" variation) and is my current anthem for my pre-moving histrionic state, which I've discovered is roughly one part sheer annoyance and three parts indifferent denial. Not a pretty mix, people.

Ah well. One supposes having an abode in a place where the guns-to-people ratio is significantly lower on the former end of the equation can't be a bad thing. Besides, we're getting real furniture and stuff as part of the deal. Window treatments and curtains even, not to mention the biggest turn-on of all time, a washer and dryer in the house.

Oh yeah, baby.

Meanwhile, the dog seems to have been hitting the Mary Jane while we're not looking, or something, as evidenced by the following photographic proof:

Peace, Flower Dawg. Peace.

Snuggle bunnies.

At the risk of sounding like one of those people who can't shut their yap trap about their precious children/pets, I had to share an update and photo chronicling the fast friendship forming between Flipflop, my 10 month old lopeared rabbit and her new foster sister Ruby:

Awwwwww....

Now before you go thinking the beginning of their friendship has been all joy and rapture, it hasn't. Rabbits are a lot like we suburbanites with our gated communities and vanity license plates. They have strong likes and dislikes about companions of their own kind. I mean, think about it: would you want some random person show up at your doorstep one fine October with all her stuff in tow and proceed to unpack,then flop down down on your couch, and, swiping the remote control to the t.v. out of your hands, casually ask, "Hey, what's for supper?" Yeah, I didn't think so, either.)

But as bunny friendships go, Flip and Ruby have transitioned remarkably well and sans any bunny boxing championships. In a span of twenty four hours, they have gone from tacit tolerance and occasional outbursts of outright annoyance manifested in thumping competitions and mad chases around the cage , to complacently grooming each other and going on marathon snugglefests like true long lost lapine pals. Not that the two don't get into a decidely tart sibling rivalry spat from time to time, but the adjustment has been relatively mild all things considered. (Note: Flip may be farsighted, for she tends to groom Ruby's behind rather than her head, but Ruby at least now graciously presents her face to be groomed when ever Flip makes an error in grooming judgment.)

All right, all right, I'll shut about the damn rabbits now.

Banarama

These fine lads greeted us with in Northampton with fine humor, silly costumes, and all-around potassium rich banana goodness. What more could you ask for when you visit a place?

 

Piper on the Move

All right, here I go again, publishing photos all out-of-order, again. This is a shot of Piper and me in on Mt Tom Resevoir Trail (I think we screwed up and missed the actual park and wound up getting kind of lost on some scary, closed trail). Piper looks happy, doesn't he? Not to mention ready to go deer hunting in that bright orange track suit.

 

Northampton redux

Because the stars are not aligned properly (or whatnot) I'm having to post these pictures one-by-one, and somewhat out of order until further notice. Here's Ibrahim and me in Northhampton. Note I look like I've got a stone fountain growing out of the top of my head.

 

Pied Piper

For some damned annoying, but as-of-yet unknown reason, none of the pictures I posted in my first three blog entries seem to have ever published properly. So, I felt a need to post some additional pictures of The Dog because Hey, This Is My Blog, And Go Away and Look at Someone Else's Blog Picutres If This Bores You Terribly. Piper never wants to be photographed; I think he doesn't like the flash, or something. But isn't he cute? I think so. Now, if I can figure out how to post multiple pictures in a single blog entry without my photos being mysteriously deepsixed minutes after posting the website, I'll be all set...

Bunny Luv

We are proud to announce our newest arrival to what has increasingly become Planet Pets around here. We so enjoyed our first housebunny, a smallish lopeared named Flipflop that we decided to foster Ruby, a one year old New Zealand rabbit who, according to the rabbit rescue organization who originally fostered her, was found wandering around with two other rabbits in someone's back yard. Despite being abandoned in her earlier years, she has a lovely disposition and is almost serene in her mellow, slightly shy demeanor. She's practically regal in bearing and sweet as can be.

Weighing a goodly seven pounds or more, Ruby dwarfs our little Flipflop, but is the more submissive and laidback bunny of the two. Ruby enjoys being cradled in one's arms much like a baby and, unlike her foster sister Flip, who is constantly on the go, exploring and being slightly mischievous (and we thought she was mellow!) Ruby is content to sit on the couch by my side for hours on end, leaving me to wonder "Don't you ever have to go to the bathroom?" (Yes, both bunnies are littertrained. Yes bunnies can be littertrained, much like a cat, and make lovely housepets, provided you bunnyproof your home.)

Our bunnies don't get unsupervised house time because, well, we dread the thought of coming home an Extreme Makeover House Edition courtesy our household lagomorphs (their species having been called, with good reason, "teeth with life support systems." ) I'm wondering about Ruby, though, who seems pretty content to hang out on the couch and less apt than most of her lapine counterparts to go foraging for that ever important t.v. cable/electrical cord/baseboard foodgroup). Being that both ladies are well-mannered and housebroken, we do let them out for supervised evening runs/couch naps, and spend the rest of the day lounging around like princesses in the confines of their roomy indoor cage.

Behold: Miss Ruby.

I know, I know. We're like, Those Crazy Pet People. But who can resist seven pounds of doe-eyed, soft white, sweet cuddly bunniness? We certaintly couldn't. Public service message, though: for those of you wanting a companion animal, please consider adoption through your local shelter or rescue agency, and please spay and neuter your pets to reduce the number of unwanted companion animals who are relinquished yearly and consigned to often overcrowded animal shelters with little chance of a good life. There are literally thousands of wonderful pets abandoned each year, many of whom would make lovely housepets with very little effort, and all of whom deserve a loving home.

I'm sure all one reader currently browsing this site is chomping at the bit to ask what Piper thinks of all this lapine goodwill and cheer. Anamoly of the terrier world that he is, he'd much rather nap off his anaesthesia (he had a dental cleaning today. Why is it the dog's dental cleaning costs more than mine, by the way? And why is it that I've spent more money on my dog in the last month than I have on myself in the past five?) Seriously, on any given day, a lackidasical glance towards the bunnies is about as much latent hunting instinct as he bothers to muster, slacker urbanite canine that he is. (Ed. note: I am much more partial to squirrels, thank you very much. --Piper).

(See, I told you. We are Crazy Pet People.)

Morning Shot

I got a haircut yesterday. That's the news. Really. Once I figure out where the hell my pictures go (kinda like socks in the washer) I'll post more pictures. Otherwise this one is all you get for now.  

Onward, (No)Ho!

So, Ibrahim and I got bored this weekend (yes, even with the dog clothing shopping madness, what can we say?) and decided to take a daytrip. Ostensibly, we were going to Mt. Tom in southcentral Massachussettes, but by the time got there, the old gustatory juices were kicking in and the wee-beasties in our tummies were demanding their food ransom. So hucka-pucka-hucka-pucka down the road and back again we went, stopping off in Northhampton, MA , home of venerable Smith College , for a little nosh (which turned out to be a generic Bruegger's bagel and coffee, but whatever) and delightful tour of downtown, including fine ambassadors of goodwill and potassium rich food sources (see above picture).

We found the townsfolk superfriendly and despite the distinctly New England architecture and brisk weather, I had more than a twinge of nostalgia for my fellow Novo Collegians . I realized I miss the warmth and friendliness of the undergrad population; maybe it's just me, but my current college town just doesn't have the same kick-backed, offbeat happy-go-lucky gestalt as I remember we had back in our heady salad days of ISPs, contracts, walls, and more than a few youthful indiscretions (if reading all three of Kant's Critiques qualifies as "youthful indiscretion" that is). Then again, one supposes Ivy League students wouldn't be Ivy League students if they possessed too much of any one of the above qualities (though it's hard to say why they shouldn't have them in abundance).

Otherwise, this HTML thing is getting tiring. I'll leave the morbidly curious (or terribly bored and seeking procrastinatory missives, as my friend Katy says) with few obligatory shots of Ibrahim and I playing Japanese tourists and Dog In Action (yes! We did use his reflective joggingsuit on the Mt. Tom resevoir trail today!). Note dog can officially go fowl and deer hunting too, what with the hunter orange color and all.

Check out the above posts for a spiffy shot of Piper in his orange track suit (looks happy, doesn't he?) It's Piper on the move!

Nihil novum sub sole est

After two weeks of wet, squalling weather that would have given Noah and his fabled ark a serious run for his money--the sun came out today! Such excitement!

Today being Another Glorious Day Off From Work, Ibrahim and I ran around town with Piper in tow and had a lot of fun (no doubt at the pooch's expense) purchasing gratuitous pret-a-porter for the dog (sorry, haven't mastered blogosphere HTMLing enough to figure out the fine art of adding snotty French circumflexes, etc, to foreign words), as evidenced by the photographic proof herein.

I know, I know. I've succumbed to anthropomorphizing the dog and buying him jogwear. I mean, since when do dogs jog?! And even if they did, since when do they need tracksuits with reflective stripes and pockets (for what? their keys and wallets?). We actually looked for a "real" raincoat for a slightly more waterproof and therefore practical outfit, like this one, but we only found an extra small.

We also chanced upon some extremely undignified Halloween costuming for the canine set. Check out the fashion faux paws foisted on these pooches. My favorite though, was this poor guy.

Oh Rachel, weep for thy children, for they are wearing pimp daddy dog costumes. Purple pimp daddy costumes as that.

(Don't worry, we didn't torture the dog with haute couture all day long; we actually took him to Yankeeland's idea of a public park, i.e. a crappy hill boasting at its summit a few badly weathered wooden picnic tables all bearing the earnest if none-too-original handiwork proclaiming such wildly inventive epithets as, "F--- yo momma!"). Yeah, baby.

Moving on up

Or out, or something.

For the past two year and half years, I've lived in the Northeast FOR GRADUATE SCHOOL PURPOSES ONLY might I amend, lest anyone think I'm actually living in this hell hole of my own freewill. And since I've been here, I've given the region I live in the not-so-fond moniker Yankeeland. Currently, I have the privilege (smirk) of residing in a city that shall *also* remain nameless (probably a completely silly precaution since my readership is all of one, wait no, two(!) close friends/family members).

Now, between roommate fiascos galore and the general scut of graduate school life, I've managed to move locally three times already. Naiively, I figured I would be at my current abode (downtown) until graduation, which was at that time projected to be May 2006. After, however, deciding that trimester-long sleeping marathons are noncontributory to society no matter how hard you push the envelope, I become a Graduate School Drop-Out, got a Real Job, Got Married (all in same month) and decided in the flurry of activity surronding the All New and Semi-Improved Grown Up Version of My Life to stay in Yankeeland for a little while longer than originally anticipated.

The half-baked idea behind it all, I suppose, was that being a new nurse, I had the unique opportunity to hone those nascent skills at my current job rather than try to carve out a professional identity in a brand new hospital in a different locale, all the while trying to remain innocous enough not to incur the wrath of G-d or bat-of-hell Yankee drivers during my extended-release stay.

So.

While I think I'm doing reasonably well on counts one and two (the marriage thing and the real job thing) something was, well, missing from my life, even after my merciful release from academic Danaidean drudgery straight into the ever loving arms of paid Danaidean drudgery (work). Recently, I had a chance to be reunited with my beloved ten-year-old dog, Piper and needed to find pet-friendly housing stat. While this has been accomplished (yey! we found one-bedroom condo one block from the beach = no more downtown hijinx) the ugly truth still remains: now we've got to move all our crap.

On the other hand, sure, having your car broken into and cd player stolen twice in two years, being accosted by prostitutes and panhandlers while out walking the dog not to mention the constant urban symphony of foul language, random gunfire and first responder vehicles has its dubious charm, but I doubt somehow we'll miss it.