Summery: Nutmegmania or Looney Locus

Yawn, stretch, rub eyes, shiver out many many weeks of psycho-cobwebs*, blink hard and dare to take up the e-quill once more for the next Hellerish chapter of our illusionary quest for the illusive concept of home here in the dimming of our first-world heydays.
 
Or should it be the illusive quest for the illusionary concept? Shit. If there was any doubt about the power of entropy in the Newtonian universe we inhabit, just try refraining from any slightly strenuous reflective mental activity for three months or so and see how the little grey cells atrophy, time grinds and the keyboard turns to quicksand. I cannot tell you, those few left of my unexplainably patient reader friends and fam, how often I’ve pledged myself, lo, these past spring and summer months, to re-visit the previous baker’s dozen-plus-another-one blog posts from Mexico with a mind to “cleaning them up” for continuity and self-respect, forget about possible posthumous publication. Well, I guess I could tell you, but that would be a ludicrous digression, even for me. Suffice it say that each almost daily pledge of a pick-up the story back in Nuro re-start summoned the equally ubiquitous and almost instantaneous “nah”. Oddly enough, much the same self-rejoinder sprung to mind when pledging to use the rowing machine, open the Duolingo app, avoid carbs, and look for paid employment. Ah, it's a seductive apple of procrastination that the clement seasons and a second home cultivate for our temptation for we are, after all, slaves to our chemistry. And we landed just as spring/summer turned the corner of the hemisphere, when the path of least resistance is pretty much the immutable warm-weather law, right? Thus, I come to the almost legal conclusion that it’s better to just dive back into the silly blogpool, ignoring its shallow depth warning, thumbing a nose at past effort, scoffing at continuity, laughing at grammar to wallow effortlessly in its easy, run-on waters till the fall chill and proto-homelessness sober me up. Plus, the quantum end of physics says things can be in many places at the same time, and the same time can be in many places, so really I’m writing this almost four months ago and the past stuff is all cleaned-up somewhere/sometime, so stop judging!     
 
Right, so much for the strained re-entry, where were we? Ah, yes. Coming home to the disappointing northeastern spring and leaving behind a still not quite finished Casa 9! (Spoiler alert, it’s still not absolutely done, but more on that in later installments, I promise.) There’s that pesky concept, home, which I could pretend future scholars of this oeuvre (ha, ha, ha) would no doubt identify as its central organizing theme, if only it had one, which it doesn’t. Yes, I know it’s just a self-indulgent exercise in trying to ennoble the crass buying and selling of houses by blogging the experience as if it were a literary trope when we should be honing our do-not-resuscitate codicils. But, truth be told, we have indeed spent these spring and summer months back in the northeast US wrestling with the meta-idea of two homes, which would be “the” home and where will the second one be, if there really needs to, can be a second one. Yes, dear blogophile, displacement angst is in the house or houses! Agggghhh! 

How did this come to be, you stubborn chrono-addicts are no doubt asking. Ok, ok, you see, returning the ides of April, in time to file our taxes, also necessitated our meeting with that seminal figure in the waning lives of first world geezers, the money-management guy. In our case, the ever-genial and always re-assuring Tom Huvane. He’s the aging baby-boomer version of the oracle of delphi who, as the fiscal fumes of one's financial future begin to make heads swim, drops the not so subtle incantation of “the plan is in great shape as long as you sell the house in New Rochelle” with a further chant of “with a recession just around the corner” presumably of the start of the second of Trump’s FDR-besting 4 terms, “better sell sooner than later!” And, so, my dear whoever’s left, the real estate gauntlet was once again thrown at Jackie’s super-broker’s feet and the narrative die was cast for the epic poem that has been our spring/summer of ’19 back “home”.

​We were to spend every waking and sleepless hour, every bit of what’s left of our drowsy intellect, every plant an animal-based calorie of waning psychic energy to the selling of our beloved dream house in Nuro followed by the acquisition of a smaller, cheaper, less taxed, please-just-not-a-nightmare-of-a-mouseburger house as our northeast US somewhere within visiting distance of AJ & Oliver home. All before the tilt of October starts the leaves to question their dependency on chlorophyll and the Yankees on their starting pitching.  

Thus Easter, Pawley's, Mom’s 95th birthday, The lifting of  the Reserva de Dominio after we paid the final installment on Casa 9 even though the damn pergola wasn’t even started yet, Season 3 of Stranger Things, 50th Anniv of Moon Landing, the Democratic Debates, 3 feet of hail in SMA that leaked water into Casa 9 from badly caulked skylights, 9 inches of rain in the Marigny, Getting the solar pool heat finally installed at Casa 9, and Mueller’s Missed Opp all marched along these last 4 months, but all paled in comparison to the earth-shifting implications of JC & MK’s Suffocating Summer of Sucky Real Estate Options.

And you thought tales of the Rincon were scary. 

​Connecticut, you say? Oh, Stay-tuned!

 *(has the ring of some malevolent Marvel mega-weapon, no?)