In three weeks, I will be a resident of Tacoma, city of reknown aroma and one of the nation's up and coming urban areas. At least that's what the brochure tells me.

Ahh, the poetry that springs to mind. Was it Walt Whitman who penned the lines, "aroma, that springs to life under my wriggling nose/arise! awake! quiver! quake!/I hold my arms about you in the morning's splendor/inhaling that scent which imbues my limbs with life/and love you, arms outstretched!"? Maybe not, but he should have.

Thursday is measure-for-curtains day. This is real. Good thing I have ample pharmaceuticals for when it all gets too real. (There is ample irony in that sentence; I'm not an addict.)

"My lord, I am afflicted with a bald patch!"

And, with that line from 'Life of Brian' ringing in my head, I am going to lie down with a Tom Robbins book and doze.