Moving is a pain.

Without a doubt, moving is one of the most stressful things you can do in your life. And it doesn't matter how many times you do it, each iteration presents its own unique challenges.

This time around, we had the luxury of professional movers. How professional, though, is really just luck of the draw. We caught the short end of it when one of our two "packers," the guys who come to box everything up, was on his first day at work. What should have taken 6-8 hours of packing lasted almost 12 hours. Watching him count our CDs and DVDs one by one was like watching paint dry, when he could have counted in multiples of 8 as they were all organized in a CD/DVD book. A third guy had to come and help them finish at about 6 pm, otherwise, they would have been there till midnight.

We hit more snags: an unwanted lawnmover ended up in the moving truck, but not a much needed handheld vac; a $150 memory foam mattress topper was unproperly packed and arrived in a dirty heap on the floor; another vacuum never made it to the new house, lost somewhere along the way; and I'm still looking for little odds and ends that ended up in who knows what box.

While packing was a relative breeze, since I didn't really have to do anything but supervise, unpacking is another story altogether. Two weeks in, there are still boxes in the garage, waiting for my attention. The house is still a mess, though progress is being made everyday.

And though this house still doesn't feel quite like home, we're getting there. The chemical-y smell left by the cleaning crew who prepped this house for us is slowly being replaced by our own unique scents: coffee brewing in the morning, V's shaving balm, and Briscoe's BO. On another positive note, she now knows how to "go to bed."

It's that time again.

It's been almost a year now since my last post. Nothing like life to get in the way of writing about life. But it's that time again. V & I are relocating to the central coast of the Golden State. So as we wrap up our five odd years in the greater Tacoma area, I find myself feeling retrospective.

Thus the attempted return to this blog.

This place has been home to me for longer than any other in this country. Yet I feel too much like a stranger here still. There are lots of things about the Evergreen State I won't miss--the infamous Tacoma aroma, the seemingly constant drizzle of rain, the ice cold beaches, my mossy backyard. And there are things I don't get--hiking boots to work in an office and pale, largely unkempt Northwest men. (Sorry, I don't get it!)

But here too is where I nurtured my green side, where nature and the environment is daily business to many and not just a trendy catchphrase.

This place also bore witness to many firsts--our first home, our first dog, my first museum job (which I hate to leave). This is where V & I grew as a couple, then grew older as a married one. I turned 30 here. He became a major here. In all, it's a place we will never forget, and probably come back to again.

So thanks for the memories Tacoma/Dupont/Washington! I leave with good thoughts and a new mountain bike from REI.

PS. Post about Briscoe's birthday to follow. She just turned 1!

And that makes three.

Meet the newest member of the Klosinski family: Briscoe.

A Labrador/German Shepherd mix (a mutt, really), she came to us by way of a dog shelter. She's nine weeks old now, still very much a baby. Her first night home, she cried and cried and kept V and I up all night. But she's settling in quickly, or at least we think so. She didn't cry at all last night.
She's named after Law & Order's Det. Lenny Briscoe, played by the late Jerry Orbach. Obviously, we thought we would get a boy.

Favorite past time: scratching her collar and sniffing the lawn.

The summer of Potter is on!

The fifth Harry Potter movie opened today. Can't wait to see it. Fighting not to blow off all work and head to the theatre right now.

FYI, early reports are predicting record-breaking box office numbers. He's got Spidey in his sight!

Get out there! (Part 1)

I'm ashamed to admit that after 2+ years of living in Washington, I still know very little of this state. I have not ventured far from my stretch of the I-5 corridor and with no real good reason why.

With this possibly being our last 12 months here, I've decided to make a concerted effort to get out there.

Our first foray took us on a route around the Olympic Peninsula, courtesy of Budget Travel Magazine. I like the mag because it more closely reflects the way we actually travel. I'd love to roll Conde Nast Traveller-style, but who's got the budget for a Greek villa rental? Not me.

I was also interested in seeing how our experience will compare to the author's, how magazine prose will translate to real life.

First stop: Ocean Shores, WA (Photo courtesy of the City of Ocean Shores)

A slow start had us driving to Ocean Shores as fast as we can, speeding past the City of Aberdeen, hometown of the late Kurt Cobain. Try as I might, I completely missed the "Come As You Are" sign that welcomes visitors to the city.

It was a sunny April day but that did little to counter the cold brought on by strong winds in Ocean Shores. It was "blustery," all right. We check in and immediately head to the beach.

To tropical island dwellers like me, going to the beach means chilling with a Mai-Tai (or a cold San Mig Light) while splayed out on warm (to scorching hot) powdery sand. This was far from it.

Imagine a vast, flat, gray expanse bordered on one side by an angry Pacific, a band of sea grass and a row of hotels on the other. In between is a scene that I can only describe as a beachfront parking lot, minus the painted strips.

People don't walk on this beach. They drive on it. Compact and hard, the beach was littered with all sorts of cars and SUVs, as well as about half a dozen horses taking tourists on quick jaunts up and down the shore.

I found it weird and interesting at the same time. I asked V to park as close to the water as he could, curious to see how the sand will hold up under the weight of our Jeep. (And if we sank into the sand and got stuck, what then? I didn't stop to think about that.)

The surf looked as flat as the shore, as the ocean loudly churned white frothy waves at my feet. The water was cold, as expected. And as the wind cut through my supposedly windproof jacket, I kicked myself for not taking the author's fleece-and-base-layer advise.

We intended to follow BT's itinerary to a tee. We went to the Ocean Shores Interpretive Center, which was closed; strolled around Damon Point State Park, but couldn't find the Catala (some boat buried in the sand); and attempted to have dinner at Emily's, only to be turned away for lack of a reservation.

We tooled around the small town for a bit, ogling at rustic beach houses lining this narrow peninsula. With nothing else to do, we headed back to the hotel where we suffered through a 15-minute dip in the chlorine-dense hot tub.

All in all, Ocean Shores was a bit of a bust. But I'll give it another shot if the opportunity arises. For now, it's one check off my list.