Even though Fuzzy’s been told we’re not going to have to relocate to Florida in the immediate future, every so often I look at Florida real estate, to try and gauge what kind of money we’re looking at, and how far from the water we’d have to live to make Fuzzy happy and keep the dogs safe.

The thing is, I’m spoiled because California real estate listings had a public version of mls that was a lot more current and accurate than sites like realtor.com, and even the local mls here in Texas was available (sort of) through a couple of realtor sites (I’m not sure if they were supposed to make as much info available as they did, but it was helpful.

Most mls though, especially things like this Miami flat fee mls service that I’ve looked at, are geared for sellers. These services are great, and if I weren’t a proponent of using realtors, I’d totally find the Texas equivalent of this, because it allows you to a FSBO (for sale by owner) relatively inexpensively, and use it. But, I don’t have patience for negotiating, and I would never deny my realtor-friends their crack at a commission.

Still, if you live in Florida, and are planning to sell your home, this is definitely worth checking out. It’s pretty intuitive, and a much smarter choice than trying to do a FSBO without an mls listing.

You expect a neighborhood to be silent in the depths of night, when only the moon is awake, and even the birds and feral cats are either roosting or curled up behind a shrub, safely asleep. It’s a bit odd for a neighborhood to be silent at 10:00 in the morning, but that’s how my neighborhood was this morning, as the dogs and I took our morning constitutional.

We began, as we always do, at our own mailbox, which each dog marked, making sure all the other animals in the neighborhood know who lives there. We turned left at the end of the driveway, and walked a few feet to the corner, then turned left again. It was already almost 90, and there was no wind, so I had chosen the shorter of our two main walking routes.

We walked along the fence separating our back neighbor’s side yard from the street, and Miss Cleo’s warbling was the only discernible sound. No basso profundo barking emanated from that yard – their dogs must have been inside. We crossed the street a bit up from the corner because those neighbors have rose bushes flanking the kneeling curb, and don’t keep them well pruned. Technically since they’re in the curb strip, they should be pruned, but no one bothers.

We walked up the grassy tree-covered slope of hill into the park. It’s a nice park, more a village green with a slide and a play structure. There are no swings. I don’t understand how kids tolerate the lack of swings. Swings are essential to a happy childhood. Really.

We follow the curving sidewalk through the park, along the green space, past the gazebo. We pause at one of the benches so I can re-tie my sneaker. Miss Cleo jumps up on the bench with me. Zorro simply stares pointedly at my feet.

We cross the street at the far end of the park, and walk along that neighbor’s recently installed, unstained, unpainted fence. I can still smell sawdust as we pass by. The dogs leave “messages” on anything relatively vertical that we pass, and certain sections of grass. We reach the next corner, the farthest end of our own street, and turn left once more.

I notice many cars in driveways, but no signs of life, save for one SUV pulling out just as we get to that driveway. Two houses up, a garage door is open. A fan sits in the middle, and a table. I know that during the summer it’s left open so the kids who live there can get in and out, but there are no kids evident on the streets today. I suspect school started last week.

We cross the street again, the midpoint of the block, and we are three-quarters of the way home. Zorro wants to chase a scent across the street, but Miss Cleo is hot and wilting quickly, so we stay on the sidewalk I’ve chosen. It’s still quiet; the only sound punctuating the sunny morning is the panting of the dogs and the jingling of the tags on their collars.

We get back home, and they wait patiently (for them) while I punch in the code to the garage door. I like this keypad thing. I like not having to carry keys. They duck into the garage before the door has risen enough for me, but this is normal for us.

Back inside, the air conditioning is blissfully cool, and the bubble of silence breaks. I hear computer fans, a/c fans, and the whirring of the refrigerator. Welcome to life in the 21st century, where we can handle the dark, but the quiet freaks us out.

Fuzzy and I visited a new-ish comic book store in Cedar Hill after our trip to Panera today. Panera, by the way, which is usually one of my favorite lunch stops, was disappointing. The chai wasn’t right – it wasn’t BAD, just not right – and it was cold, and everything felt off-kilter.

Anyway, the comic book store was all very bright and clean, with clearly labeled shelves, and a table and comfy chairs (for reading, or playing games, no doubt) was off in one section, and one of the X-Men movies was playing on a wide-screen TV. Fuzzy stopped to watch it and immediately got sucked into the kind of TV trance that only ever seems to affect men. You know, the one where no matter what is on, even if it’s something they would normally hate, they gaze, slack-jawed and unblinking until something comes between their eyes and the screen – generally a wife?

It was like that.

Oddly, I found myself remembering how there would always be groups of guys abandoned at those home theater stores in malls when I was a kid, two or three on each couch, watching whatever happened to be on while their wives went shopping. It was sort of like the adult male equivalent of drop-in day care, and oh, so much better than the two tiny man-chairs outside the fitting rooms in women’s clothing stores.

Anyway, I had time to circulate through the store twice, and almost bought a Spike doll, but didn’t, and Fuzzy was still watching the movie. Then, when I told him I was ready to go, he said, “But I’m not done looking.”

Men! Honestly!