You know what's really funny? We are moving. Well, the moving part isn't funny...it's everything that goes with it that is funny. You see...my family has lived in this neighborhood for 16 years. We've remodeled two houses.

I've had babies. Dogs. Dwarf hamsters.  Deocrated. Made cakes.

Ridden bikes. Redecorated. Cried. Laughed. Redecorated. 

So, it isn't easy to leave. It's not easy for my neighbors to see me go, either.

A lot of things have happened on this hill. It all started with an epic New Year's party made up of a young band of proud professors and...us...fueled mostly by French Chardonnay with a little stolen Ritalin thrown in. Fast forward to now.

We're moving, I nervously tell them. I can sense my shiftiness. My friends were immediately grief stricken at the thought. You can't. You musn't. The neighborhood will be devastated. I was flattered. Then their sadness quickly turned to anger. My two best pals on the hill stopped speaking to me. How could you, they spat? Which quickly turned to...who can we get to buy your house? Which led to that conversation...WHO is looking at it? You can't possibly sell it to THEM! "they don't drink!" or "she doesn't give her kids SUGAR?"or "they'll put raised beds on the parking strip!". In all honesty, these are excellent points. Let's just hope the highest offer comes in from a pre-rehab family of four who still believes in the Oreo reward system and still buys their vegetables at the market. In Eugene...that's a stretch.

Neighbor A. My Chloe clad reiki master is finally beginning to speak to me again but I'm sure it's only due to the fact that she is trying to accumulate pencils and papers to give to the kids on her pilgrammage to Africa. She has promised me a house cleanse but who knows what is really up her Chloe puffed sleeve? She could plant evil spirits. Spirits who rattle chains when I pour the Lillet or wilt my new hydrangeas with their evil breath.

Neighbor B. She sniffs that she isn't mad and will certainly come visit...when I put in a pool. That said, she takes her Gucci bag and goes home. Let me say that she can't stay mad. It seems to expire at 8:00 sharp when her son goes to bed when she continues to rendezvous with me on the rock wall between our houses at 9:00 for a late night greyhound and a French import.