TODAY

marks the two-year anniversary of our arrival in North Carolina.  Stayed in the the big Victorian house with the step-mom(-in law) and tried to wrap brains around what to do next.  Got keys to the apartment and set the furbabies free with food, water, and litter box in the completely empty space (hung out with them a bit on the floor with all the travel blankets and tried to recreate the vehicular tenting, probably unsuccessfully).  Visited with all visitors; reunited with family; began the grieving process.

Over the course of the next few days, we did all the crap you do when a family member dies.  All the physical stuff you have to accomplish, like phone calls with funeral homes and hospitals and whatnot.  And the mental/emotional stuff you do, like laughing and crying and whatnot.  And for us, we had to establish our residency by setting up utilities and whatnot.  Into the dull roar of the hubbub of organizing and arranging things, I received a phone call (or was it an email? I forget)... would I be available later in the month for a Scripty gig?  Could I come into the office in the next week to interview?  IN LOS ANGELES?

Um, no, sorry, (DAMMIT) but I would love to send you samples of my work and maybe give you references to contact, and if you wanted to Skype the interview I'd be happy to do that, and if I book the gig, I'd be on the first available plane...

Nope.  Nada.  Nyet.  Thank you anyway.  Don't call us, we'll call you.

Two. Years. Ago.  Today-ish.

But don't worry, kids!  I managed to make it back, after some new adventures!