Flips, flops

And by these I don't mean the Crocs by the door, next to the conch shell we dug up in the yard last year, though there is symbolism in both of those to spare.

The flips by the door usually mean the owner is home, so ring the bell. The conch at the door is a petition for good fortune (legend here has it that a shell inside the house invites disaster).

No, the flips and flops I mean now are the little whupp sensations that panic brings from time to time, and the fastfast heartbeats in my neck and ears when I put my head on my pillow. I haven't written about it until now because I just didn't know what to say.

When I called to ask about our permanent Certificate of Occupancy, given the ruling in our favor by the Special Master hearing the case, I was referred to the city attorney. The licensing department wouldn't take my call. The Historic Commission wouldn't, either. Talk to the city attorney, they said.

He's been out of town for a family funeral, so perhaps I shouldn't read awful things into the silence (although he has several deputies, and one of them faced me before the magistrate).

But what I fear is that Judge Overby's ruling in our case has raised such a red flag against strict preservationists that the question may not be settled for months, at least.

I did some research into the Municipal Code and found that any person -- or group, or board, or anyone -- who is "aggrieved", may appeal a decision of the Special Master to Circuit Court. Which, I think, will entail us more time, energy and money than I am right now eager to commit. I have appeared on my own behalf until now, but I am reluctant beyond belief to go into court without a lawyer. Start the meter running, with the city pulling the flag.

Thus these few days of silence. Thus my sadness, here on the first day of summer. I just want the damn thing over with. And please let me live in my house.