I’ve been in constant touch with my folks since our home fell in the path of danger. I can’t do anything to help, and that makes me completly neurotic. I’ve been able to keep busy, but this evening when I ran out of things to do I went out to the yard and started killing the crap out of crab grass encroaching on my violet bed while I had a long conversation with my grandma about food storage and Netbooks. I’ve now moved on to a Kevin Smith marathon while I reload Web pages with updates about the fire.

I spoke to them while they were clearing out of the house, loading up the cars with anything they couldn’t bear to part with. Usually it’s just a hypothetical question when you think about what you would take if you could only one carload with you. But my family had to do that. My mom packed up the photos, a few family heirlooms, and the computers. There wasn’t room for our Christmas box, the china, the paintings . . . or any of the other beautiful things that make home home.

I asked Bubbles what she was bringing. She left behind most of her artwork (“I’m just going to make new stuff and it will be better”) and most of her clothes (“This was a great way for me to see how much of my wardrobe just needs to go to Goodwill. Can we go shopping soon?”), but what did my girl decide to pack in her doomsday kit? Her cheerleading uniform, her Chuck Taylors and her iPod. Awesome.

At that point I didn’t feel too shallow asking her to remember to pack my brand new totally awesome sexy librarian pencil skirt, which I’ve only wore once and forgot at the house last time I visited. She told me that it was one of the first things she grabbed for The Great Evacuation because “that skirt is too cute to die.” That’s my girl.

Humor has mainly been how the family’s been able to handle this situation. But I still wish we didn’t have to handle it.

I literally made it to the gate as the door to the plane was shutting. They couldn’t get me on — it’s policy. Once the door shuts, nobody gets on. Oops, except for when they re-open the door so the crew can board. Meh.

I tried to get onto the 8:51, but it was full of much crankier people who came in from Hawaii last night, had to find a place to stay and a way to schlep up to Burbank from LAX, and then managed to get a janky itinerary back to Denver or wherever the heck they are trying to get to. As crappy as my situation was, I get why theirs took precedence.

This is why I hate flying. 400 miles isn’t worth the aggravation, inconvenience, and risk of air travel. Add to it that I leave on vacation tomorrow evening. I wanted to spend the whole day in the office. I can only get so much done remote, even if I start at 6:45 a.m., especially if I have to keep interrupting what I’m doing to try to get on another frakkin’ plane.

Anyway . . . today’s life lesson learned is when life hands you lemons, you go buy a decaf soy latte. Then you head into the airport bathroom and put on your Maddens and deal with it:

If I have to be stressed out, hungry, cranky, and tired, I should at least have awesome shoes on.

The short version:

1. My neighbors smoke so much pot I actually got worried about getting contact high
2. A fire lane is not what I would call a parking space worth $50 a month
3. I’m not down with using child labor to keep the property clean

So I’m bailing. This sucks for a lot of reasons. I’ve really loved riding my bike to work. There’s something so stinking wholesome about riding a bike, and the fresh air and exercise has had a perk I couldn’t have anticipated; I actually have a tan. I can never get a tan, and often hiss at the sun “nasty sun . . . it burnsss usss.” But the half hour trip done in the early morning and late afternoon have slowly brought back bronze that I haven’t seen since high school.

Worse, I equate moving with chaos, unhappiness, and stress in my life. For a long time I’ve wanted to be able to unpack everything I own and finally ditch the plastic tubs that have held my life for the last two years. I don’t know where I’m going next, and the thought of apartment hunting — AGAIN — wearies me. But I’m staying hopeful that I’ll finally find a place that I know won’t vanish from under my feet once I’ve kicked my shoes off and gotten comfortable . . .