Letter of Recommendation
I asked the recently former chair of our board if he would write a letter of recommendation for the graduate program I'm applying to. He gave me the letter in a sealed envelope yesterday, but then sent it to me via email today stating that he thought I might like to see what I'd passed on: He lauded me well, and then I came across this statement that caused (for the 2nd time today) tea to fly out of my nose:
Randomonium
The following are not necessarily related.
Ghosts from the Past (from most recent Ghost to oldest Ghost):
My kissing cousin was at the Pig and Whistle on Saturday. I didn't immediately recognize him--in fact, I didn't recognize him at all until a half hour or so after I arrived, he asked if I still hung out at Nothin' More than Phelan's. However, as soon as I walked in, he said, "What are you reading? A book." I looked at him and replied, "You've heard that one before, I guess."
Yesterday, when Tom and I went to Dobbs to get my car, I saw the Stranger sitting in the waiting area just inside the door. I didn't say anything, because I mean, what would have been the point. Tom is especially sensitive to the topic of the Stranger since I was involved with him just prior to dating Tom, and because Tom was at the Pig on Mardi Gras when I met the Stranger and his friend. He felt like he'd been ditched, so he left. And, also, Tom had already taken a shine to me by that time, and was insanely jealous that I was involved with someone else. Insanely jealous. I will say, though, that it seemed a little fitting that on the day of my promotion at Mario I would see the Stranger, with whom I had just become involved when I started with Mario.
Celebrations
Tonight Tom is taking me to The Shaved Duck to celebrate my promotion. On August 11, we have reservations at Niche to celebrate our 1st Anniversary. (We can afford stuff like this again).
New initiatives
I should be starting the Certificate in Healthcare Ethics program this fall. I'm excited to be doing something academic again.
We're having a staff retreat in the fall, and my activity is a half-day Urban-Challenge, Amazing-Race-like scavenger hunt (The Campus Challenge, Nearly-Amazing Race, I think I'll call it. I need to come up with checkpoints and checkpoint clues. For those of you who know where I work, any suggestions and clue-writing would be appreciated.
Old Business
My trip with Ashley to Key West begins in less than 2 weeks. Since the trip begins with a road trip, I thought maybe we could bring appropriate Driving-thru-the-Keys Road Trip Music. I thought I'd make a mix. Any suggestions? Or, again, if anyone wanted to make a mix for us, that would be appreciated also.
Over due
(Taking a cue from The Queen, I have named my former employer Eliot -- my current employer is Mario. Her former employer I think she has referred to as Elliot, but they, I believe, are different Eliot/Elliots.) So back when I was working at Eliot, I had a friend who told me the story of how for 7 months, she was a mail carrier in Mt. Olive, IL. She was responsible for delivering the mail to half the town. She hated it. One thing that struck me in her story was how she began to despise her neighbors because they subscribed to magazines, which apparently, are the bane of mail carriers' existences.
Today, Payroll hates me. Last Thursday I received a raise, effective July 1; today I received a promotion, which carries with it another raise. Effective today. The payroll deadline is tomorrow. That, I'm sure, is way too much paperwork for one person to generate without payroll grumbling.
But, you know what? I don't really give a damn. I earned this. For the first time ever I actually feel like I've been rewarded and acknowledge for my work and my knowledge base. This has been a really big year; I nailed three things in the last year that I wanted but never thought I'd have: a husband, a house and my boss' job.
I can't wait for my former boss and my former co-worker from hell to find out...
4 Things, all unrelated
Got the notification about my raise for my current position. Much sweeter than previous year's raises. Administrative details and HR are holding up the process on the other, way sweet, sweet deal, but it is a certainty, I was told this morning while receiving my current raise.
When I'm done with this post, I'm going to head east on Sidney and see if Veruca is serving lunch yet. I read that this was supposed to begin this week. I could call, but I really need to get out of the office, and if I know they are not, I'll continue to sit here. There's a hot, humid day out there that I need to enjoy!
I've made appearances in the Post Dispatch and the RFT over the years, but last night presented me with an opportunity to appear in the Belgian press! as a taste-tester of InBev's Belgian beers. A reporter for a Belgian newspaper brought a passel of beers to the Pig and Whistle last night (accompanied by a photographer who is a native of Kirkwood, but lives in Columbia). I tried the Hoegaarden. (BTW: the Belgians say "Who-garden" but that's not as much fun to drink as "Ho-garden." Also, Flemish Belgians speak Dutch). I gave sound bites. Great ones like "This tastes, I don't know, European" and when further pressed said, "You know, this is a wheat beer. The local AB products use corn and rice as adjuncts." I should have sent him my short essay on living near the brewery. Anyway, we all had our pictures taken and I think Little N wrote down the website.
I received a summons for Grand Jury duty last night. But, I have friends in high places, and hopefully, I won't have to serve past the selection afternoon.
Monday Blues
I am feeling very out of sorts today. Partly because I'm so far behind with work; partly because the thing at work isn't FINAL, and I must continue not to count my chickens. If that piece were just settled finally, Tom and I could break out the Veuve Clicquot. I'm going to remain nervous that something is going to fuck up the deal until it's done.
According to the AVP, during a meeting on the state of the budget with me and the other manager: "We're closing the position today (the minimum 3 days) so we'll be talking next week." The other manager thinks I'm crazy to be nervous about this, but I can't help but think it's too good to be true.
It's been a big year.
In other news: I saw the Man on Saturday night, with his girls. I haven't seen the girls in several years. The first thing I said to the oldest: "Oh my god! You have breasts!" (and no, I did not follow this with "And they are so perky!")
The first thing I said to the Man when he walked into the Pig: "Oh my god! What happened to your hair?! Do you have cancer?!" No-neck nearly choked on his beer. I'm very sensitive after a day of Jack Daniels. (Now that I think about it, he never did answer me. Uh-oh).
I'm going to go put my nose to the grindstone, now, and hope that isn't too painful.
Bang
The weekend started this way:
I celebrated. In the middle of this celebration, the POB walks in the Pig with Bird. I spend a rollicking evening with the two of them (the POB was already 3 sheets gone and telling exaggerated stories of our past). They talked me into paying homage to Epps at the PrintShop. This was my first time there since it opened and when I walked in the PhormerPhilandering Irishman did a double-take and was very kind to me.
So was the POB. Until.
I opened my mouth without thinking, and out spewed one of the POB's "secrets". It was in context. Think about it. You're standing there at the bar, talking to two of your ex-boyfriends friends, people he's known, been drunk with, whose sofas he's lived on for longer than you've known him. These guys are giving you a ribbing, because you're the ex-girlfriend and suddenly after a lot of years you are around to give ribbing to. They start making ribald comments about your ex-boyfriend's balls, and in your celebratory (and okay, drunken) stupor (but that's the POB's own fault) you realize that something about that statement isn't right. "Wait" you say, "What balls? The POB only has one." At this point, something tips you off that perhaps these people didn't know this (like, say, one of them saying "Really?").
Well, whoops. But, you don't know what the big deal is. The guy is giant-sized. EVERYwhere (which may have been where the conversation initiated). He has a kid. He made you, his ex-girlfriend, cry because of his manhood (and you mean that in more than just a physical way). So, what's the big deal? Your tits are not the same size. In fact, once upon a time, you had one reduced (the one that now, is the smaller of the two). It doesn't mean anything.
Unfortunately, the POB didn't see things the same way. Based on his follow-up phone calls (6 of them between 1:59 and 2:08 in the morning) he probably will not darken the doorstep of the Pig and Whistle and ask me to feel his muscles anytime soon (much to the joy of my husband).
So that was Thursday.
The weekend progressed into Saturday. Saturday night, we went all Fellini on the neighborhood, and rode the scooter to Berkeley's house, where we joined her and the Little Irishman in the pool. Berkeley lives a block away, but that didn't keep me from wearing the leather beanie helmet that Harley gave me last week. We were so fucking cool, everyone on my block wanted suddenly to be a fat, white chick with a scooter.
I was so fucking cool, in fact, that when I went inside, all soaking wet and dripping, to find the Little Irishman (who was passed out), I slipped on the short flight of stairs leading to the side door. The pain was nearly unbearable; much like when I broke my ankle 5 years ago. I called for Kathy. I called for Tom. I simultaneously called for the Little Irishman. Whatever. Eventually, I had to limp and crawl back to the pool, where I whined about my injury. In fact, my foot, at the time, had a weird bruise that looked as if a shark tried to take a bite out of the side.
Sunday morning I could not walk. Sunday morning I could not execute the stairs. Sunday morning I felt much like I did Labor Day 2003 only this time the problem was my knee. Unlike Labor Day 2003, I have a trip scheduled to Key West in 3 weeks. So, instead of opting immediately for the Emergency Room, I opted for denial. Unfortunately, denial lost out to paranoia of broken knee things, and so I asked Tom to drive me.
An agonizing 2 hours later, the PA returned to my isolation booth and said only, "Nothing's broken. But, do you maybe want crutches?" A few minutes later crutches appeared, but no one else. A half hour later I was about 34.928 seconds (or so) from discharging myself. Fortunately, I held out for that extra .928 second, because the nurse strolled in with not only a 3-day doctor's note, but a scrip for Vicodin. "Ooh, package deal," I thought.
I spent Sunday RICE-ing on the back porch, and yesterday, when the pain was still too great in my knee, I took advantage of one of my doctor days, and spent most of the day on the sofa with Tom watching movie after movie after movie, and reading book after book.
Today, I'm back at work; I've already made an executive decision (or gave an executive opinion, anyway) and I'm still as behind as I was last week. At least it's a four-day week, only.
Woo. Hoo.
I had a meeting today, that resulted in some very good, very welcome, very good news. Drinks tonight will be celebratory.
Way Out Way After
After the Tom Waits show on Thursday, Berkeley and I went back to the Pig (despite the fact that we, um, live a block away from each other, we drove separately to the Pig and Whistle. Don't ask, it made sense.) I wasn't really feeling the Pig and Whistle vibe and suggested that we go have one -- just one -- at the Way Out Club, since its not far from our respective houses and on the way, anyway. Plus, Berk knows Bob and Sherri. Plus, where better to go than the Way Out Club after seeing Tom Waits?
I negotiated a group discount on the cover charge, and in we went. Side note: two weeks ago, after a drunken evening with Ashley (on the night we decided to go to Key West), I decided to get a tattoo, as I passed by Trader Bob's. Unfortunately it was 10:10 and Bob's closes at 10. Who knew of such a thing? A tattoo parlor (why do they call 'em parlors, anyway) closing at 10 pm. On a Monday night, I could maybe understand this, but on a Friday? Who gets a tattoo during the day, anyway? I digress. So, as long as I was on the block, or rather on the sidewalk in front, I decided to have a drink at the Way Out. I had to pay an 8 dollar cover. Then I bought a 4 dollar Jack and Diet. And then, feeling all out of place wearing a pastel T-shirt, carrying a Burberry plaid bag, and reading a Maeve Binchy novel, I left. I had a similar feeling at the Chuck Palahniuk reading with my pastel T-shirt, khaki skirt and Burberry bag. That night at The Way Out, I kicked myself for not bringing in a Chuck Palahniuk novel -- I had one in the car. So, like I said, I left. But not after watching the weirdest film short I'd ever seen, involving a man with a large studio apartment containing a glass cage in which a girl is go-go dancing. He lets her out of the cage and she goes a little nuts, so he puts her back in the cage where she dances endlessly. It ends with the guy covering the cage with a dark sheet. In the context of the Way Out, it made a certain kind of sense.
Back to Thursday. Kathy chatted up the bartender who I came to understand was Sherri, the owner. And then, as I stared drunkenly at the bar, I noticed a sticker that said "Dangerous Curves." My synapses fire differently when I'm toasted, apparently, because I called Sherri over and asked, "Do you double as Sherri Danger on Friday afternoons?" Who knew? (Yes, I'm sure that lots of you knew. But, I didn't. And I'm not sure how I didn't. But, whatever). And then, as more synapses began firing, I asked, "Do you ever play the Pipettes?" (I listen every Friday). She not only confirmed that she did, but complimented me on my correct pronunciation of their name (apparently, some people call them the Pipe - ettes). So, that was my second A-HA moment. (Recall that when the Pipettes showed up in my mailbox, I had no idea what had inspired me to put them in my music queue). Last night, when I related this story to Ashley, I said "I was solving mysteries all over the place!" and she drolled, "You're a regular Nancy Drew."
My bizarre film short played again, preceded by and followed by others. The video is some kind of anthology called "Real Strange Video" or something. I think Bob told me he'd make me a copy. It pays to have certain friends, I guess. If someone now would only provide me with a copy of Hide and Creep, I'd be the happiest woman alive. Which is funny if you think about it. (If you follow that link, please note that Horror movies are buy one, get one, and that Hide and Creep would bundle nicely with Shaun of the Dead.)
A month from today, Ashley and I will be getting ready to drive back up the Keys, ending our long weekend in paradise. That has nothing to do with The Way Out Club, except that coupled with a Tom Waits show, a night at The Way Out Club is sort of a paradise of its own.
Tom Waits
I'm not a reviewer, so this will be brief. Tom Waits was awesome. He played some things I didn't expect; some things I did; and didn't play a lot of things I didn't expect. But really, it wasn't really about the music. It was a culmination of 10 years of becoming a Rain Dog.
In the late 80s, I first saw Tom Waits on the David Letterman show, probably a repeat, performing "Downtown Train" -- the Rod Stewart version had recently been released and was a favorite of mine. He stayed under my radar, though, for another 10 years, when I decided one late fall afternoon in Chapel Hill that I absolutely needed to buy a Tom Waits album. I pulled The Essential off the shelf, paid Chapel Hill Phil and went home only to discover that in my haste, I'd purchased a John Waite greatest hits album instead. So much for being hip.
I tried again on my next CD shopping jaunt (which happened every other weekend, coinciding with payday week). After lunch at Mama Dips, I scooted over to Chapel Hill Phil's. I grabbed Rain Dogs because that's the one with "Downtown Train" and then asked Chapel Hill Phil to recommend a second album. He suggested Swordfishtrombones, and after the John Waites debacle, who was I to question. I took them home; popped them in the Aiwa, opened a beer, sat out on the porch which over looked the creek, behind which I could make out the Budweiser distributorship (which always assuaged my homesickness and settled in).
The first thing I realized: I was not hip enough for Tom Waits. The CDs were promptly shelved and forgotten until SmartBrian Redux the following January. I knew that Brian was a fan and I shared my dismay with him. I even told him that I loved Shawn Colvin's cover of "Heart of Saturday Night" but couldn't imagine Tom Waits singing this song. After trivia and dinner, I went back to SmartBri's, ostensibly to listen to the Tom Waits version. Which we did, but ultimately this led to the end of a year and a half of self-imposed celibacy.
Tom Waits now had a special place in my heart. I bought some Tom Waits training wheels in the form of Closing Time and Heart of Saturday Night. Later that year, Mule Variations was released. I bought it, of course, and it played continuously in my car. It was in my car, in fact, the weekend I drove up to Berwyn, IL to see Steve Forbert at Fitzgerald's. I had plans to stay the night with my friend Bill who lived in Willowbrook, and driving through Berwyn on my way to the Expressway, listening to Mule Variations, I finally, finally GOT IT. I was hip enough for Tom Waits, I was. I'd just driven alone to an area of Chicago I'd never been, met up with people I'd only known through discussion boards and email, and now I was driving through a strange part of town in the middle of the night. It all made sense.
From that point on, I waited and waited and waited for an opportunity to see Tom Waits live.
So, imagine my chagrin, when a half hour before the show began, Bob Matonis* sits in the seat directly in front of mine. I looked at Berk and the guy sitting next to her. I'd just uttered mere moments before "I hate the Bob Matonis."
"You have to be fucking kidding me," I said.
I poked Bob on the shoulder. "Bob," I warned, "If you dare stand up in front of me and do your stupid dancing thing, I will KICK. YOUR. ASS. And, I'm not even fucking kidding. You will not ruin this show for me."
He said, "You must not be familiar with the Bob Matonis etiquette."
"That must be like military intelligence."
He ignored me, and explained that at shows like this (where, I guess, there are seats) he stays seated and "grooves to himself." But, he warned me, if people in front of him are standing then he will stand and at that point all bets are off.
For the most part, he was well behaved. During the encore, he stood, just as he said he would and began to do the lateral version of the Bob special. Fortunately, my view wasn't hindered (although, I did find it distracting). However, the poor girl to his left nearly missed several elbows to her face. I poked him again. "Dude, you really need to get out of her personal space." And I poked him again for good measure.
The End.
*You can figure this one out. I refuse to be a hit on a google search for his better known name.
Next up: The Aftershow Show
Fauna
Sonny the Cat is adjusting to his new neighborhood. It's harder for him than the other cats, because he has the whole of the outdoors to contend with. Currently, he's keen on doing his duty in my plant pots (which could explain the growth and blooming of these plants), and bird hunting. I don't recall Sonny taking much interest in the birds in Soulard, but he did much of his catting farther afield; he tends to stick within a yard or two of the house at the new place.
He's a hell of a birder, too. He takes a particular interest in a bird I'm going to refer to as a "sperling" simply because no one can tell me exactly what these birds are. Some people, when I describe them, insist they are starlings. Some insist that no, they are, in fact, sparrows. Others, yet, think they are swallows. I, myself, the great ornithologist that I am, thought they were finches. So, from now on I will call them sperlings.
The sperlings have lost several of their brethren to Sonny's boredom. Last week, he caught one, brought it into the back yard, where two other sperlings followed, and began to play with it to death. The sperlings were alarmed and one of them did its very best trying to distract Sonny, by going so far as to land on the ground near Sonny and flap his wings. Sonny remained oblivious.
The captured sperling still lived and managed to show a little spirit, while the sperlings were joined by a few more sperlings, all of whom tweeted and screeched..
A blackbird showed up and was joined by a second blackbird. All of the birds, by now, had amassed either on the fence or the electric wire above. More blackbirds, more sperlings arrived, making reconnaissance passes over the yard.
And then, the robins arrived. At this point, I said to Sonny, who by now seemed a little concern with what was going on above, his quarry forgotten, "I think they're gunning for you, Dude." Birds continued to arrive. I'd never seen anything like it.
Neither had Sonny. He skulked off to the safety of the porch. The captured sperling, however, died.
I've not seen any more dead birds since last week.
Possum told me that he had a record number of hummingbirds this year (and we are talking flocks and flocks of hummingbirds). He started to tell me what I could do to attract hummingbirds to my house. I declined.
It'd be like attracting them to the house solely for the purpose of sending them to their deaths.
I may be a lot of things, but I'm not into avecide.
Flora
As a wedding gift from my co-workers, I received an AeroGarden. At the time, you know, I was living in a 2nd and 3rd story apartment in Soulard, with no yard and little convenient room for an herb garden. I also realized, after receiving this gift, that I really had no room for the AeroGarden in my apartment, so it stayed boxed until the week after we closed on the new house.
The box was missing the most important equipment, though -- the grow bulbs, but I called customer service and they shipped two more out right away. One day at lunch I "planted" the seven herbs that came with the Garden: mint, Italian basil, dill, thyme, parsley, purple basil and chives. And since the AeroGarden is aeroponic, planting is a relative term. Essentially, you fill the reservoir with water, place the seed capsules (which come in little plastic ramekins, covered with a cardboard cutout that indicates which herb it is) into the proper hole (as they were laid out in the carton), drop the right nutrient packet in the reservoir, cap the capsules with more little ramekins and wait. Once the seeds have sprouted, you remove the lids and watch them grow. I wish I had a picture.
By far, Guido the Italian Basil, is the muscle of the group. He's bolstered by his buddy Krishna, the Purple Basil. The Chives have their own basketball team, the Jives. Father Thyme recently had, along with Sowa, the Dill plant, a misadventure with a rogue grow bulb. He's coming back though. Crisp, the Parsley and Piperita, the Mint are laying low under the broad reach of Guido, who towers above them all. I think Guido needs to be taken down a notch. I see a margherita pizza in Guido's future.
Those are the inside plants.
Outside, my little container garden consists of two heirloom tomato plants and an hibiscus bush that were given to me by my father and all replanted in 18-in containers given to me by my mother. I was certain they'd all be dead by now, but, in fact, they are THRIVING. My hibiscus has approximately 10-11 blooms, which is 8-9 more than it had when I took it home. My father's hibiscus is not blooming at all. My tomato plants are getting taller and fuller (they were wimpy looking when I planted them, and I was sure I'd killed the one even before I got it in the dirt. Interestingly, the runt plant has been joined by some other plant. I'm not sure whether it's an unexpected tomato plant, or a weed, but it's growing at the same rate as the tomato, and it's stem is about as woody as the tomato plant, so I'm leaving it for now. If it's a week, it's a big damn weed.
I hammered all my geckos into the fence posts near my makeshift garden, so it's a colorful little spot in the otherwise bland, generic green grassed and concrete patioed yard.
Next: the story of the birds.
Some Days Are Diamonds
Ashley and I met at The Stables yesterday after work. Actually, she picked me up from work and then took me home so that I could get my car (because I walked to work yesterday) and then I met her at The Stables. JO was not kidding, the chandelier is amazing. I won't bother to describe it either; I couldn't.
Anyway, Ashley and I met to discuss my annual trip to Key West, which will not feature my husband this year (although I will miss him terribly), but instead will feature Ashley. She said at one point "What kinds of activities do you want to do, so I can plan financially." I looked at her, screwed my eyes, and said, "I'm not really into activities." The relief on her face was visible. "We're going to get along just fine on this trip." Ashley is very aware of how vacations can make or break relationships, but since she pointed out that we're like the same person (inside, people, inside. believe me when I say to those of you who know me but not her, she's NOTHING like me on the outside. of course, she's only 27; there's still time).
So, I'm supposed to be researching flights when I'm not working, rather than writing about what I'm supposed to be doing, but whatever.
My next post is going to be all about the plant life at CasaChristy.
Bet you all can't wait.
New Favorite
Probably due to my radio habits, I don't have many new "favorite songs", but I'm in love with John Hiatt's "Love You Again". I haven't decided whether I'm going to get tickets for his show next month, though.
My other current music obsession (which means that the CD is on constant repeat in my car) is The Pipette's We Are the Pipettes. I'm not sure why I added this album to my music queue at yourmusic.com, but I did, and it arrived in May. They sound like The Ronettes married The Waitresses, and affected British accents.
The first CD played in the new house? Surprisingly, not Tom Waits. Ryan Adams' Heartbreaker. There is a reason. I listened to this album over and over during the summer of '01, when I was unemployed, worried about finding a new job, worried about needing to find a new apartment at the end of the year, adjusting to a new relationship, a new lifestyle (the transition from WestCo Girl to Urban Chick was harder than it might seem) and generally anxious as hell (that was the summer I couldn't leave the 'hood). I listen to this album a lot during times of positive change. Coincidentally, the first CD I played in the old place was Gold.
Speaking of Tom Waits (and I was, wasn't I?), that show is less than one week from today. I can't tell you how fucking excited I am. So excited, that I'm taking next Friday off. I received a letter from the Fox explaining the rules for picking up these tickets from Will Call, and the documentation required. I'm still looking for my birth certificate to prove that, you know, I was actually born.
Now that I think about it, Heartbreaker is the only CD that's been played in the house. I will need to remedy that this weekend.
Sometimes you're the bug
As easy as BUYING the house was, moving into it is proving much more difficult. The furniture store is sending me a gift card since they failed to deliver my sofa yesterday. I've tried with two jacks to set up my DSL modem, but it appears there's no connection. This is strange since ATT was supposed to establish service last Friday. The automated system tells me that my order was completed today, the little geek on the phone tells me the order was completed yesterday. It is completely lost on him that the order was supposed to have been completed a week ago. I even had a call last Friday to confirm that I would have service by 8 pm.
I'm not moving again and you can't make me.
Tom sent me flowers yesterday, because I'm his BFF. At least that's what the card says. He also sent me a pot with live gerberas, orange ones. Our secretary is so funny. Every time I get flowers, she calls me and says "Can you please come up to the front" as if I'm being summoned to the principal's office (for some reason, Firefox does not like the possessive form of principal -- it's redlined -- I can understand redlining principle's, which oddly is not redlined, although readlined is).
Tom and I really need to do something fun this weekend.
We haven't had any fun in a very long time. In fact, we've been having
negative fun. I still can't shake the feeling that I need to be
packing boxes. I had the weight of the move on my shoulders for so
long, I still feel like I'm slumping. Granted, there's still boxes to
unpack, shelving to be assembled, etc. but none of that is as pressing
or depressing as packing was. We were going take a float trip tomorrow, but it looks like it might rain. I need to come up with an alternate plan...
Yesterday's Over
Yesterday kicked my ass. My body is not used to such things like exercise. I took the long way home yesterday, which pushed my total mileage well over 3 for the day. I took pictures of pretty houses with my phone. If I can figure it out, I'll post them to flckr, at some point. The next time I walk to work, I'll take pictures of the contrasting route.
In return for the punishment of exercise, my body revolted last night, and decided that a bottle of wine was too much wine. As a result, I'm feeling a little bit like hammered shit this morning.
It was a long day yesterday; in addition to walking to and from work, I also went to the grocery store. In the car, to an actual grocery store, and not the little market across the street (mostly, because it isn't across the street any more). I also spent some time in the back yard, reading. And then. THEN. I met Blocker at the Artist Bar to play trivia (we won). That's where I killed the bottle of wine (fruit of the vine). We also saw s00zi, who was playing cards (and trivia).
I went home around 10, took a shower, and crashed.
I don't normally have this amount of activity on a weeknight.
Communing with nature (and exhaust)
I walked to work today; by the time I hit my office, it's 1.5 miles. It was a nice walk and I made it to work in a half hour, with a stop at the Artist Bar for an iced tea. I hope to do this as often as the weather will allow. 3 miles a day is more exercise than, shamefully, I've had in a very long time (the move excepted).
I can feel my ways changing already.
We need a rule
Growing up, I had a friend, whose mother had a "sewing room" where ostensibly she sewed; her sewing machine did in fact sometimes turn out clothing (much to my friend's consternation, preferring, as we all did back then, brand name clothes). This room, though, also served as a catch-all room for items that otherwise had no place in the house. "Where should I put this thing you bought at the garage sale." Answer: Oh, I thought I could paint this and turn it into a centerpiece for the dining room; just put it in the sewing room for now. What about these Life magazines from the 50s? "They'll be worth money some day; for now, just stack them in the sewing room." Etc.
My parents had no such room, nor would have allowed such a room (except for possibly certain garages). Our homes (and there were many) were always very "put together" -- ensemble furniture, no clutter, decorative accessorizing, etc. My mother insisted that this order be maintained even in our rooms, and I spent many a Friday night during my teen years contemplating the sin of not having cleaned my room for the cleaning lady on Thursday.
In many ways, then, it is not surprising that age 38 found me living like those ladies with 85 cats, nor is it surprising that living that way depressed me and that I have no desire to go back to that. I don't want to live with mismatched furniture, just because it was free. I don't want to live with crap piled on every available surface; I don't want to live with boxes that haven't been unpacked since the last century.
I do not. And I will not. To that end, I rid myself of a half ton of crap that had been cluttering my apartment and my life. Except for books, the majority of what made the cut were kitchen items, clothes (which I'd also pared down significantly; I mean, am I really ever going to fit into that size 1 shirt again?)
Today, Tom said something that nearly made me cry. "I'm waiting for you to get your stuff out of the way so that I can bring over my 45 boxes from my mom's." Seriously, even thinking about it now depresses me. Damn it. I want boxes emptied, so that we can live in a nice, clean, relatively clutter-free house, and he wants to bring over stuff that we don't need, and he hasn't even used in years, like "little, tiny screwdrivers." We don't NEED little, tiny screwdrivers. In fact, I think the whole of Lowe's and Home Depot exists in the house. "I'm not just going to get rid of it," he said. To which I replied, "Why not?"
All I want is a rule. Or two. 1) No redundant systems or solutions. If we already have one, we don't need another. 2) If it isn't a utilitarian or entertaining object that will be employed or enjoyed, it gets tossed (or proactively, it never makes it in). This was the logic I applied to my own purge (and continues to be applied as I continue to unpack); I see no reason why this logic cannot be applied globally. The exceptions to either of these rules is if something is irreplaceable, and it isn't immediately clear if it will be utilized or enjoyed. I would expect these exceptions to be minimal, and that their entertainment and utilitarian value is re-assessed at a point in the mid-future. Exceptions can also be made for items with true sentimental value. Little tiny screwdrivers, therefore, would not make the cut.
This isn't about control. This isn't about being in charge. This is about order. This is about stamping out uncontrolled chaos. This is about our home being a haven.
Is that such a bad thing?
Undun
As we talked about Jake’s trip,
I was reminded of the the trip Chris and I took from
In fact, I've been known to say that Kingman, AZ might very well be the most
horrible place I've ever been, and I once spent the night in
Surprisingly, the Orchard Inn still exists on
In any case, in 1991, Kingman was desolate, and had a strange vibe. I
seriously felt like we were trapped in some kind of vortex and might never get
out. This feeling would persist long after we did leave and into late
1993 when I nearly stayed in Los Angeles, rather than move back to the Midwest
at the time my mom did, simply because she planned that our caravan would leave
late in the morning and that we would stay overnight in Kingman. Although
she did convince me, I think Kingman is where I left the clock I'd planned to
give my friend Jill as a wedding gift. I
imagine it is still on the shelf in that closet, ticking and ticking, because
that’s the weird kind of place
So, many of the places that
Jake rode through this last month or two, I’ve encountered as well. We told Ashley the legend of Tucumcari,
although, since it was fresher in his mind, Jake told it better. Jake did not remember Grants, but then why
the hell would you? I swear to god I
remember tumbleweeds in that place, although I know that’s probably my mind
filling in scenic gaps.
My mother and I stopped a
second day in
By the time my mother and I
had been through
My fascination with Rte. 66
began during those trips; I have a small collection of Rte. 66 merchandise that
I’ve collected over the years and have driven all of the
I’ve got the bug now. I need to convince Tom (and my employer) that
we need a month long road trip into the desert.
On the Road
I am completely and totally envious of this guy. (Also, here). Ashley and I met him last night at the Pig and Whistle (and because I've had a serious lack of content that didn't revolve around the house or the move and because she has funny material involving life-sized bananas and apples, I'm the one that gets to post about this). So, Young Jake (as I'll call him) took a sabbatical from his job in Seattle, bought a bike (named Billie, I think), and set out on the road. He followed/paralleled Rte. 66 on his trip east.
(Unfortunately, I had a little too much to drink last night so this post isn't going to be as interesting or as brilliant as composed in my head last night while talking to this guy -- but that's okay, later today, maybe, you'll get to read Ashley's post about bananas and apples, and I believe there should be at least one picture to go with this. Don't be surprised if the post begins or ends with "This is what my life has come to" or something like that. Also, Jake's Tweets and Myspace entries capture his adventure much better than I could).
Anyway, Young Jake is traveling across the country via motorcycle, staying with friends where he has them, hostels when available, camping when its nice, motel-ing it when there's no other choice. He's picking local spots over chains (although he did have one of the best burgers ever at the Denny's in Tucumcari) and spent yesterday in Soulard (in part, I suppose, because that's where the hostel is) touring the brewery, and hanging out at the Pig (among other places).
God, what I wouldn't do to be able to do what he's doing. My contingency plan should Tom die and leave me high and dry and alone has always been to spend my mourning months in Key West; now I'm thinking that a road trip across the country, my old dream of driving Rte. 66, might replace Key West as the Widow Plan. I could scatter pieces of Tom from Chicago to Santa Monica. (The reality of the situation is there's no way I could ever convince Tom to make this trip with me unless he were dead).
Big dreams for someone who leaves the 63104 zip code approximately twice a month.
Chill Out Weekend
This was the first weekend since early spring where I didn't wake up and feel obligated to pack things. In fact, since I really need the furniture in place before I can continue with much of the unpacking (for a variety of logistics reasons), I didn't feel obligated to do anything.
Saturday, I drove up to the Tower Grove Farmer's Market, and maybe I missed something, but there really wasn't much too it. Does it get bigger as the summer progresses? I did run into an old high school friend that I haven't seen in probably 20 years. I have shared a few emails, though, and despite the years (however many -- maybe it hasn't really been 20) I recognized her right away.
After that, I met Blocker for breakfast at Hammerstone's and then we drove to Ashely to pick up the tables for the living room, which I paid $24 to have assembled. I had a firm conversation with the customer service person regarding the delivery of the bedroom furniture this week. The person I talked to on Wednesday told me that it would be delivered between 8 and 12. I rearranged my schedule to accommodate that, but this woman told me that they would let me know the day before if I'd have the morning or afternoon window. I explained that this was not an option, and regardless of whether the Wednesday person should have or should not have given me a window already, the fact is she did and I made arrangements that I could not change. This second girl then wrote "8-12 Delivery" on the top of the pick sheet and highlighted it. Good girl.
Blocker and I waited in the warehouse for my tables; when the guy finally called my name, he was wheeling a BOX. I must have looked at him strangely, for he checked his sheet and said, "Oh. We were supposed to assemble these." He told me it would take 10-15 minutes "20 minutes, tops" to assemble all three. While he set to doing that, I walked back into the customer service office and explained calmly and firmly that I wanted my $24 dollars refunded. While she was handling the paperwork, a guy from the warehouse walked in and told me "He said he'll be done in only another 30 minutes." What the fuck. I calmly and firmly explained that he told me that it would take 20 minutes max and that we'd just eaten up 10 of those minutes. (And, I should note, like I did for the customer service people, originally I was scheduled to pick these tables up on Thursday). The customer service chick told the warehouse guy that they needed more guys on the job, so my tables were done pretty quickly after that. I was happy to see customer service do its best to serve customers, considering the amount of money I'd spent there.
I have only 3 outstanding move issues that involve outside companies: the bedroom furniture delivery, the delivery of the sofa and connecting my internet. I don't anticipate issues with the latter two, anyway: the loveseat and bedframe delivery went off without any difficulty and the last time ATT connected the gizmo for my wireless internet access (I don't have a land line) they didn't even require my presence.
I'm learning that calm and firm are maybe better ways to handle problems than my fallback method: scream and holler.
After that, I headed to the Island, where I hooked up with Dunkin' and the Real Estate Agent. They talked me into going to a party at a warehouse near my house; at first I demurred since I wasn't wearing my "party clothes" and I hate going to parties where I don't know anyone. However.
It was a true Soulardian do, on the rooftop of this warehouse (where incidentally, Tom's brother used to have office and warehouse space), with live music, food and drink, and dear god, something like a hundred people that I know, mostly from my Molly's, Shanti, 60's days (with a healthy dose of 55 Bar folks). I saw a couple of people I hadn't seen in several years. A black man in a pink tutu was running the freight elevator.
I had called Tom, who met me there, but we didn't stay long, since Ashley had called a little earlier, so we met her and B at the Artist Bar, and then I called it a night (although Tom did not).
Sunday, I took a very, very long bath in my awesome bathtub; Tom joined me for a few minutes as I was getting ready to get out, and I swear, as big as we both are, there was still room for a third person. Then we did a bunch of house stuff. I planted the hibiscus and tomato plants my dad gave me and after that I hit Schnucks to get the makings for daiquiris, which in the heat of the afternoon, and in anticipation of the re-assembly of the patio furniture (which Tom was doing), sounded like just the thing.
And, it was. I closed the evening sitting on my own patio in my own yard drinking frozen lime daiquiris, reading a new book. Until the cat killed a bird and began to eat it.
