I wrote to a friend:
Life continues to be extraordinarily good to me. I sometimes wonder whether I'm Job in reverse: if God and Satan have a bet going about what will happen if they shower me with undeserved blessings. If so, I'm surely pursuing the optimal strategy: giving them no conclusive results, so that the contest has to go on. I wonder how long I can keep it up?
The house is sold, and we'll probably make an offer on a tiny place in an iffy part of town. "Small, dark, far, and cheap," is how I sum it up. But we've met a couple neighbors and they're enthusiastic about the neighborhood. It's just a few blocks from the intersection of 82nd Avenue, the boulevard whose name is a Portland euphemism for "prostitution," and Burnside Street, which is the local name for "skid row." But really neither street lives up to its reputation, where they intersect, and the houses round about are well kept up.
This is not the bad-boy boyfriend house. Martha calls this one the nerdy boyfriend house: not much to look at, maybe, but easy to love and (possibly) a surprisingly good financial bet. It's tucked way back from the street, and the front yard is a riot of trees: not a single drop of sunlight gets through to it at this time of year.