C and I will be wrapping up 2007 in Montréal. Then for the first, it's down to Brooklyn to hang out with Mitch and his sister for an evening. Then it's the Basking Ridge Marriott for a couple of nights before heading back . . . where? home? . . . to Baltimore. Not that I'd really call the place we occasionally inhabit in Baltimore "home" anymore. These days, home is a word that doesn't seem to apply to anywhere. Or maybe the problem is that it applies to everywhere. And so we need to find other words and phrases to describe the places where we happen to be. For instance, there's "the place we're selling" and "the place we're buying." These are also known as "the place we're leaving" and "the place we're going to." Then there are many other places which are simply referred to as "the place where we're sleeping." And I can tell when the place where we're sleeping one night is different from the night before because the bed feels different against my body. The dips and the bumps touch me in different spots. And sometimes the mattress is too short and my feet hang off the end and they get cold. And so I've taken to wearing wool socks to bed. Because I'm just too tall for some blankets. And sometimes it seems like everybody other than me is an Oompa-Loompa.

And you're probably getting a little sick of this refrain, aren't you? The moving. The driving. I'm sorry, but I can't seem to find language to talk about much of anything else. It's getting old, I know. Believe me, nobody feels it more than me. But the writing never comes easy for me while I'm en route. I've never been able to properly explain myself under these circumstances (Thanks, Hunter). Which is why I usually leave it up to photos.

But it is the last day of 2007, dammit, and that calls for a toast. (As if I haven't done enough drinking over the last week.) So I raise my flask to ya'll and I drink to the year ahead and to Home, wherever that may be. Have a safe and happy New Year's Eve. May you find yourself next to somebody kissable tonight. And may you be too intoxicated to read this post for at least a couple of days.

And because today is a day of looking back and "best of" lists, here's a Nicolasix Recap, 2007:

January: I switched to a Mac and Catherine dropped some science.

February: We started a bathroom remodel and I learned that I am, in fact, the type of person that pees on his scarf.

March: C and I began our life as nomads. Went to Austin for SXSWi, then spent a few weeks in Japan.

April: I found use for a Winter coat in spring. Our bathroom remodel ended with a visit from The Wolf.

May: We closed on a house.

June: We moved to Baltimore and I lost a ring.

July: I fixed a wall, invented a new recipe for turkey burgers. Oh, and we decided to move again.

August: Went to Dallas.

September: I came to the fearful conclusion that my neighbor might be a werewolf.

October: Toured the lingerie section, struggled with a bit of fact and fiction. And what was once lost became found.

November: I wore my heart on my sleeve and discovered I am the zen caramel filling.

December: I wrote the greatest post in the world and got Hoshi a new set of tires.

And that about covers the last year.

Now on to 2008.

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Hoshi has gotten the royal treatment this week. And she really deserves it. Because for weeks now, C and I have kind of taken her for granted. Driving her up and down the I-95. Asking her to take us here and there and back again, sometimes without the proper attire. And so last week, I wasn't surprised when during a white-knuckle ride in a New Jersey snowstorm, she decided she'd had enough and nearly slid off an I-287 on-ramp.

But she didn't. She held on. And I'm proud of her. For making up for my lack of preparation. Because I knew better. And if I had been paying better attention to the news, I would have realized that this was about to happen and I would have either stayed in Baltimore or left for Jersey the night before.

It's already been well established that Hoshi doesn't do snow. Or ice. Or slush. It's not her fault. She just needs a set of tires that are rated for something besides "racing on hot summer pavement." So, this year I had fully intended to get her a nice set of Winter tires. In fact, just one day before the sleigh ride through New Jersey, I had actually purchased a lovely wheel/tire ensemble from this extremely helpful Quebecois at The Tire Rack. (I love the Quebecois, which is a good thing since I married into a whole family of them.) And just for the record, I'm never buying tires any other way than through Tire Rack. They are great. The guys that work there are really knowledgeable. And once you've made a decision, you can have the tires shipped to any tire store or auto shop near you for mounting and/or installation.

Anyway, after researching all the different options, I finally decided on a set of 18-in Pirelli 240 Sottozero's. The other option was to drop down a wheel size to the 17-in Blizzaks. I think the Sottozero was the right choice for us. The Blizzak is kind of the "standard" in Winter tire, but I figured I was going to be living in New Jersey, not Alaska. A tire like that might be a little overkill when C and I are mostly going to be driving on cold, dry pavement with a few days of slush, ice, and snow. The Sottozero, while not quite the Winter workhorse that is the Blizzak, had received some excellent reviews for ice and snow performance, so we would still be getting peace of mind.

The next morning I set off for New Jersey, still riding on Hoshi's "summer performance" ice-skates, one of which now had a plug in it because, coincidentally, I had wound up with a nail in my front driver's-side tire while in DC for a holiday party the night before. Ironic, yes? It rained all the way to NYC, at which point the rain became ice. Soon, it was everywhere. Snow. Ice. Whiteness. I was caught smack-dab in the middle of the one thing I had hoped to avoid this winter at all costs. Unbelievable. So I kept Hoshi at a brisk 15-30 miles per hour over in the right lane of the yet-to-be-salted-or-plowed turnpike, 24, and 287. At some point I realized that I was heading for the above-mentioned 360-degree-turn on-ramp from hell. A slight panic took hold. Cold sweating, muscle tensing, slow motioning. It's never good when you turn your wheel and your car continues straight. Which is what happened at first. But then somehow the wheels caught just enough pavement to keep us arching to the right. And luckily, the on-ramp was down-hill. I coasted/slid my way through the curve, heart-pounding, the line of cars behind me impatiently riding my ass with their happy, happy Winters and All-seasons. Their fancy all-wheel drive. Fuck them. Hoshi, you're doing fine. Don't mind them.

When we arrived at the hotel, I was mentally and physically exhausted. My muscles had that weak, post workout feeling. And poor Hoshi was cold, wet, and dirty. And kind of pissed off at me. So I vowed to take care of her this week. And I have. Tuesday, I took her for an oil change and a full-service car wash. Then yesterday I took her to get her new Winters put on. So she's happy now. And looking all sexy and shit. And she can't wait to drive up to Montréal this weekend. And neither can I.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Hoshi 

One of the only times it's acceptable to look in a stranger's closet is when you're in the market to purchase their house. I've looked inside a lot of people's closets over the last several months. And since trading in tits and tats is way up against the weakening U.S. dollar, a lot of people have looked inside mine. But I've always been taught that if somebody is coming to look inside your closets, it's common courtesy to get out of the house while they do it. I mean it's just good manners. Otherwise it leads to all kinds of awkwardness. Those? No, those aren't my handcuffs . . . unless you want them to be, Love. And look, about those . . . all I can say is it takes a lot of jars of mayonnaise to fill up a bathtub, okay? But people in Essex County, New Jersey — Montclair and the surrounding townships — just aren't up on their house-selling etiquette. They stay home. And it's a bit weird — and not just because of the closet thing. It's difficult to be objective about a house — to really see it as "yours" — when the owner is sitting in the kitchen reading the paper. Or worse, when the owner is actually showing you around their house, explaining the history of everything in it. When you're in that kind of situation, you aren't free to say what you really think about a place. And even if you know the minute you step through the front door that this is not the house, you feel somewhat obligated to at least do the walk-through. And you find yourself saying the most incredible things, like, "Oh, I love what you've done with this room." When you most definitely do not love what they've done to it, or any other room in the house. And you have to stop yourself from saying things like, "Does it always smell this way in here?" Or, "You do realize that Walmart is not an art gallery, don't you?" Or, "Wow, this bathroom brings back great memories of my Freshman dorm." Because if you did, well, it might come across the wrong way.

These people just don't understand. They are not in sales. And they have no business being in their house if they actually want somebody to buy it. Because buyers have to be able to tear apart the house in their minds. They have to be blunt and say, "This room is terrible this way. I hate it. But it does have potential." And that kind of honesty doesn't work when the nice elderly couple who've lived in this place for 50 years and are on their way into a retirement community are telling you how proud they are of their 1980's-era "remodeled" kitchen. And just for the record, the MLS listings refer to that sort of kitchen as "newer." Because it's not exactly "new." And it's not exactly "old." Ergo: "new-er." Meaning "newer than old." You can do great things with the English language in an MLS listing.

But despite the people with poor house-showing etiquette, we really like Montclair. And it's a good thing, too. Because I was beginning to get deeply depressed by the thought that we might be doomed to an all-out suburban hell in New Jersey. But then we discovered Montclair and we were pleasantly surprised to find that people still do a thing called "walking" there. It feels a little bit like Takoma Park in DC, or the NDG area of Montreal, only with a bigger "downtown" strip. It's got much more of a "city" feel than any of the other NJ townships we've looked at. And there's even this thing called "diversity" there, too, which is always good and necessary. Like many of the townships we've looked at, the majority of households have children and the schools are good, and that's great in case things ever lead that way for C and me. But unlike a lot of the other townships we looked at, there is also a good percentage of the population that don't have kids. And that's nice too, because it means that the local coffee shops aren't crawling with teens and tweens and the restaurants have less in the way of crying babies. The commute is good too. It's only a 35-minute drive to C's office further west. And only a 30-minute bus or train to Manhattan.

So things are looking up. We've come close to extending an offer on a few houses. But in this market we have the luxury of being picky, and so we have been. We're playing tug-o-war with two opposing inclinations. It's the usual dilemma when you're trying to stay within a certain price range: 1) find the place with the best possible location but which still needs work done to it, or 2) find the house in the best possible condition, even if it means not being exactly where you'd like to be. But we're going to have to make a decision soon, or else find some temporary housing, which isn't appealing because it means two moves instead of one.

So later this week, like last week, and the week before, it'll be back up the I-95 to open some more closet doors. And hopefully this will all be coming to an end soon. Along with the relentless back and forth. And once we're settled, you're welcome to come visit — and open the closet doors — anytime you like. Just ignore the jars of mayonnaise.

link to this | comments (5) | File:  House  Montclair  Moving 

I didn't participate in NaNoWriMo this year, nor have I for any of the years since it began. I'm not sure if I ever will, actually. It just seems like I might wind up horribly maimed in some way or, worst case scenario, dead. I think the underlying idea is a good one though: work like hell on your novel. This is Xtreme Novel Writing, man. It's rad and kewl and stuff. But is novel writing really supposed to be any of those things? I kind of think not. Then again maybe it should be, dammit.

For those of you who don't know, the gist of NaNoWriMo is to write a 50,000-page novel in the 30-day window also known as "November." And for this marathon of writing it's all about how much you produce, and not how well you produce it. From their Web site: "Because of the limited writing window, the ONLY thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is output. It's all about quantity, not quality. The kamikaze approach forces you to lower your expectations, take risks, and write on the fly."

I have mixed feelings about the approach. There's definitely something to be said for automatic writing. It helps free up the mind and can take you in some interesting directions. But I'm not sure doing it every day for thirty days is a valuable exercise, particularly when it comes to writing a novel. Any long-form writing needs some kind of cohesion and requires a bit of analytical, left-brained thought mixed in with the intuitive, right-brained free-for-all. So if you go into NaNoWriMo with the idea that you'll have "a novel" at the end of it, I think it can only lead to disappointment. But if you approach it with the idea that at the end of it you'll have a huge pile of raw text — some of it good, most of it crap, but all of it a "launching pad" — then I can see how this could be a really great thing, particularly if you're just starting a new project. And I definitely respect those people who put their fears and reservations aside and committed themselves to this grand display of self-torture, like Lara.

My own writing project, which saw some pretty good progress in 2006 and early 2007 has since stalled. There's smoke coming from under the hood. It's making a hissing sound. And now it also has a flat tire. Damn. There are many reasons I could cite as to why. One is that I got completely side-tracked on a really big Web project this summer and that pretty much consumed all of my creative brain cycles. Then there has been the small matter of selling our newly-purchased home and looking for a new place to live — the second time in six months. But these are just excuses. I have to say that, despite my reservations and multiple reasons why I couldn't do it this year, I'm realizing now that NaNoWriMo probably would have been a pretty good exercise for me at this point in my project and might have helped me out of my dry spell, assuming of course that I managed to stay alive during it. Maybe I can begin my own personal writing month after we move, because after reading these two "Pep Talks," one from Neil Gaiman and the other from one of my all-time favorites, Tom Robbins, I'm feeling kind of, well . . . pepped.

link to this | comments (7) | File:  Writing  NaNoWriMo 

You've had this happen. I know you have. You wake up in the dark of night. Or morning. And your head is buzzing with this great idea for something. A story. A business idea. A song. No . . . it's more than that. This is the story. The business idea. This is the song, dammit. And there you are with the knowledge that . . . Well, I'll be damned. Here it is. By God, I've found it. Finally. But you're in that in-between state — not quite asleep, not quite awake. And in the hyper-clarity of that moment, you forget that you can forget. You have absolute trust in your own memory. And so you smile away the thought of getting up and writing this thing down. Because the bed is warm. And the air outside is cold. And you don't even want to get out of bed to pee, much less find pen and paper. There's no need . . . because you'll remember. And in the morning it will be glorious. Like walking around naked in cowboy boots. Yeah, that kind of glorious. And you'll get up and out of bed and have coffee and maybe some grits. And you'll find your notebook. And you'll use ink to jot it down. Because when it's all real and electric like that, you use ink. And all will be right in the world. And you'll listen to Renee Montagne and Steve Inskeep through the mono speaker in your kitchen. And the news will be good. And the dishes will clean themselves. And your work will be fun. And the only phone calls you will get will be from people who want to pay you to be funny. And you'll feel young and strong. And maybe your chest will puff a little. And your shit won't stink.

So you close your eyes. And you mull over the idea a little more, burning it firmly in the grooves of this think wax you're spinning, laying down the track of this fucking great thought, before fading back inside the envelope of your easy slumber.

But then you wake. Daylight. And the urge to pee is still there, only more pressing. And when you roll out of bed the cowboy boots don't seem to fit right. Renee and Steve insist on giving you all bad news. The dishes get dirty just by looking at them. And your work is not fun. And people only pay you to do excruciatingly boring chores. And, holy God, it's impossible to mistake it, your shit most definitely stinks. But worst of all, you realize that the thought is gone. And you feel kind of cheated. And like an idiot for being so stupid and letting it slip by. For succumbing to sleep. Again.

But sometimes it's not even the fault of sleep. Sometimes, you're driving North of Newark toward Essex County. And you're in the middle of saying something to the person next to you. And it occurs to you: this would be a great post. Maybe the greatest post. And you pause a moment and file it somewhere in that steel trap of yours. And then you go on talking about some shit that happened to you the day before. And the person you're talking to, well she felt it too, that thing that just slipped by. But she doesn't interrupt, even though she wants to. She just puts it away. Because it's Saturday morning and there's all the time in the world to go back and recall and discuss. And just like that, the day is gone. And you've looked at a million houses. And they blur together at the edges of your mind. And it's not until you're driving back to Baltimore that you remember that moment from this morning. And you're squinting your eyes and you're trying to remember what it was that you thought would make such a great post. You turn to her and you say, "You know I had this idea for a post earlier. Something that happened this morning." And she says, "Yeah, I remember it. I felt it too." And now you have corroboration that yes, there had been this moment. And it was a good one. And you say, "Please, for the love of God, can you help me remember? Because I think I might have to scratch my eyeballs out." And she says, "Me too, I will do it too. And I will also gnash my teeth and wave my fists and curse the gods." And this does make you feel better for a little while. And after you both have done that all the way to Delaware, you begin to throw volleys at one another, hoping something will jar the thing loose. You re-hash all the conversations you had, the houses you saw, the miles you covered.

And at the end of it all, what you have is a bunch of possibilities but no absolutes. It is gone. It has escaped. But I'm telling you people — it was there. You'll just have to believe us. Because this, friends, is not the greatest post in the world. This is a tribute.

Tenacious D would be proud.

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