This tour started in Madison with plenty of time to make a futile attempt to find an ATM that would accept a deposit for Anne. Ten banks along in the process I started to make helpful suggestions involving overnight mail service that did not go over too well.

The Inevitable Banking Emergency always happens when I travel, but usually because I’ve done something trenchantly weird with my money. I felt rather pleased that it wasn’t my deposit going so seriously awry.

We arrived early to help set up. Lisa had everything well in hand so we ended up hanging out with Dan Sinker, who just started a line of books with Akashic, and Joe Meno, the author of the first in the series, a novel titled Hairstyles of the Damned.

Beth, Lisa, and Joe read interesting and good stuff and then it was my turn to go up. As I walked toward the stage I decided to read a piece called Fighting. I’ve been performing this essay for about a year now and the audiences have always been rather twitchy about the whole thing.

I mean that to be taken literally; they recoil and shudder. But for whatever reason, the Madison crowd laughed at the right places

The next day we headed to Chicago for BEA. Trade shows are always . . . interesting.

The best part of the whole event was hanging out in the Soft Skull booth with Richard Nash, Ammi Emergency, and other SSP writers. I’ve spent significant and lamentable amounts of time with PR professionals and was completely amazed to find that Richard is in fact a world class gladhander. It was extremely amusing to see our raggedy crew being marketed and sold, each of us taking turns nodding solemnly and answering questions as best we could.

Before the event I knew that SSP was good but now that I’ve met more people I am honored to be associated with this group of writers. Those who showed up for the Expo included Daphne Gottlieb, Matthew Sharpe, Josh MacPhee, Jared Maher (Justin begged off sick), Derek McCormack, Billy Wimsatt, One Ring Zero (with instruments), and possibly others I should list but failed to write in my notebook.

The AK, Akashic, Arsenal, and other small presses were all staffed by people who were so much fun it was hard to drag myself away, but I but ventured outside of SSP land and managed to see Michelle Tea, Lawrence Schimel, Gayle Brandeis, and Jim Monroe. It was rather unbelievable… not to make too much of a generalization, but it was like finding that mythical peer group I always wanted to have in high school. Like being a band geek without having to actually play an instrument, or something.

Though when I mentioned this to Matt he replied that he was first chair flute in high school.

The sense of camaraderie between the writers and the publishers I spent time with is probably at least in part because we were all marooned in the midst of a massive commercial trade show; it could have been grim and grinding but instead it was great.

On Friday the Quimby’s audience was even more receptive than the crowd in Madison. They even laughed at what I see as the funniest line in the whole performance: I was a bleeder.

After the reading we went out with Daphne, Ammi, Jared, and scads of other interesting people. Just as the party broke up Dan Sinker paused in front of me and asked Is that piece part of a book?

I shrugged an indifferent yes.

He said I would like to publish it.

I blinked at him and said Okay.

My house is empty.

I have no amusing anecdotes, except the fact that one of the movers was almost certainly my cousin by marriage (although I did not inquire to verify). I was able to woo him with my proletariat charms when he threw a tantrum toward the end of the day.

Now that the furnishings are gone I cannot avoid the fact that the house needs to be painted.

Luckily Gabriel arrived to save the day – he always turns up when I need help. We toodled around town trying to match paint colors for the better part of the available daylight hours, and chose all the wrong things, but at least the kitchen is well under way.

I’m making a pasta dinner and hoping the paint brush doesn’t fall in the water. I suppose I could have cooked in the other kitchen but during the move it acted as the repository of important papers and assorted items we cannot take to the UK.

Every single time I walk in the room I jump in fright at the sight of an animal on the counter, even though I know perfectly well it is just my taxidermy deer head.

I have no choice in this process; the company will only pay for professional movers. It would be better for me if I could do all the work myself, but that is not how it has been organized.

There is nothing quite like the experience of having strangers sort your possessions. Not that I’m complaining; no, I worry about the strangers.

They arrive imagining that we are a respectable sort of family and quickly uncover the degenerate truth… from the assortment of cracked Madonna statues to the santeria candles, the dental prostheses collection to the taxidermy, the punk posters to glass eyeballs — we make a poor showing.

These nice men do not know what to say and I just hope they will not be offended.

I lurk around feeling awkward because I think that I should be doing the work, not standing here with a clipboard.

My house is full of boxes and the container arrives any minute to whisk it all away across the ocean.

Weeks before we can even apply for the visas.

This is alarming.

I’ve been to England for the first time. Cambridge was brilliant.

However: my friends weren’t joking when they warned me that most houses have carpeting everywhere. Even in the kitchen and bathroom.

Fathom.

Home now for a brief respite before heading off to Chicago. We might have found a place to live but we won’t be sure until we have a signed lease in hand.

Now I need to find someone to rent this place and sell the cars (aside from finishing the visa process and etc.).

Sunday morning we had arranged to visit Stella and Al and when we arrived we were surprised to learn that it was their twelfth anniversary. We were honored to spend the day with them, eating a picnic feast of salmon and champagne on the beach where they were married.

I held up my skirt and waded out in the salt water of the Sound, with tiny crabs and jellyfish all around. Later we stretched out in the shade under an alder tree and talked.

Stella told us about the flowers people donated to decorate the cabin, about the friends who brought food and cake and gifts.

The day was perfect – lovely in every possible way.

A couple of weeks ago my son wanted to go to the toy store but I said no.

He stared up at me in a charming fashion, and said I’ll make a deal with you. If you take me to the toy store I promise that I will be nice about our move to England. Forever.

I was astonished but thought to clarify: Do you mean that you will be happy and excited about the move?

He said Yes.

I quickly replied Okay! It’s a deal!

Later as we drove toward a bribe that would surely cost less than ten dollars we talked more and it came out that he wasn’t offering to lie. He was in fact offering to reveal his true feelings about the move.

Yesterday he said I can’t stand the suspense. I wish we could move tomorrow!

Yesterday three different people whistled at me; a couple of drunk guys at the bus stop wanted to discuss my putative beauty; a man wandering down the street with a mop leered up close to ask after my health; and an indie rocker tried to strike up a conversation in line at the grocery store.

I’ve never had to deal with this kind of nonsense. Even when I was young and cute people left me alone. I’ve gone through various phases of wandering about in lingerie or dresses that unravel without soliciting the comment of strangers. I do not look like someone who will suffer the attentions – I look like someone who will punch you in the face if you bother me.

People have never had the impression that they could approach me for any reason (with the exception of scared children and lost tourists, who sense that I can help).

I keep the tattoo covered and lately my preference is for dark sensible clothing. The only possible explanation for all of this new attention is my hair. Nine months ago, when it was six different colors, people left me alone. Now it seems that bleached blond hair is some kind of universal please harass mesign.

Who knew that such an ordinary color would be so annoying.

I am sitting here suffering with the effort to get our documented life in order before the move, interspersed with mad drives back and forth across the county for various kid activities.

Byron is lounging around a castle in the Alps having stimulating intellectual conversations.

But then again, I didn’t have to eat pigs knuckles for lunch. So we’re square.

We started our grand migration away from Portland in May of 2002 and before we reach the second anniversary of what seemed to be a permanent decision we will be in Cambridge looking for a place to live.

I have essentially been in the middle of packing and unpacking for two years now, and it will not end until later this summer.

I feel burdened by these possessions, yet when I make a decision to rid our lives of a whole category (say, of stuffed animals) I get caught up in nostalgia. The League of Animals helped both of the children feel better in our temporary accommodation; how can I consign them to the thrift boxes?

Looking through my journal I realized that other than wrestling with boxes and working on the new anthology I haven’t really been in town much since we moved here. It seems like my suitcase is never unpacked; certainly that is true for Byron.

He is off to meetings in Portland and Olympia the rest of this week, then to DC, and then to Germany twice before we go to Cambridge next month. He will be so busy during these trips he won’t even have time to see the friends in the various cities.

If I had known that we would only be here for eighteen months I would have made an effort to see the people who will not visit us overseas. I definitely would have visited my grandmother more often.

Perhaps life on another continent will be less encumbered with material goods and responsibilities and I can have a regular sort of existence.

Though somehow I doubt it.

Several years ago I purchased a bag made of red craft fur. It was too fuzzy for me but also too odd to pass up. After contemplating the problem I decided the purse surely belonged to Ayun and sent it along as a congratulatory gift for some major event (baby? book? I cannot recall).

Every time we’ve visited since I’ve been mildly surprised to see the thing still dangling from her shoulder. The mail today included the new East Village Inky and I was amazed to learn that the bag went along on vacation to Tokyo. I had no idea the present would be so durable and handy.

My kids are still upset that I didn’t take them to see Urinetown in New York before it closed so I had to shell out for the touring show that will hit Seattle next month. It was either that or Germany – and I don’t think that the children would be amused to see the performance in a language other than the one they memorized the songs in.

I must be serious about this move – I just put all five of my square dancing crinolines in a box marked sell.

Last night I sorted the last of the castoff clothing. My son has outgrown all of what he calls handy-downs; I know for sure that I will not have another baby so these small things are going away forever.

I’ll keep a couple of his blazers and ties but the small black turtlenecks and assorted overalls will move on to a new home. Looking through the photographs I am glad that I had these children so young – I am too old now to even consider taking on the rigorous challenge of tending an infant. Especially the eccentric sort that I produced.

Going through the papers I discovered some treats, like Byron’s high school transcripts (they expected him to be a novelist!) and a few remnants of half-forgotten horror. I still have the x-rays from my car accident. I still have paper copies documenting various scandals with the magazine – proof at least that my memory of what happened is accurate and precise.

Strange that we live in a world where it is necessary to maintain records of ephemeral internet conversations. If it were just my reputation at stake I would burn it all right now; I have no desire to defend my decisions by revealing the true character of those who chatter and gossip. But since law enforcement was involved twice, I should keep these files for the time being. I’m going to save them with my tax records and assume that the seven-year rule is wise.

Now my hand and neck are too sore to do much of anything. I suppose that I should just go take a bath and stop fretting.

When we lived in Portland I whiled away many days at the bins – a huge warehouse full of random junk, mostly bought by the pound. The furniture was usually priced erratically, but every so often I found really great stuff.

Two of the best were a massive industrial desk with a rubber work surface, and a white vinyl couch with a fold out bed. They cost $1.00 each and I could not possibly resist, even though they were unwieldy and heavy.

When we moved here both objects had been loved to the edge of annihilation. The couch was too torn up to use any longer and we put it in the garage. The desk went down to the teenager zone, where it languished as a stereo and television stand.

Yesterday Erin Scarum and Shugs moved both out of these massive objects out of our lives.

This involved taking doors off hinges and much extreme wrangling. Goodwill wouldn’t take them so they went to the dump, where we were informed that the couch weighed 300 pounds, the desk 200.

I’m still awfully impressed with my $1.00 bargains. Even though it was more than slightly foolish to drag them from one state to another.