Argh!

This has been a stressful week at work. And its only Wednesday. Everybody seems to have a crisis. To add to my stress this morning there were train issues. I waited on the platform for half an hour, due to some track switching problem that was causing delays. Stupid commuter rail. When the train finally came (right as I was about to give up and walk back home to get the car to drive to work) I jumped on and waded my way through the irate masses. Then, I heard the conductor announce that this was an express train. Which means that it wouldn't be stopping where I needed to go. Bastards! They must have made it an express train to try to get closer to "on schedule" (as if they are ever truly on schedule). Luckily, I was standing near the door when I heard the announcement, so I hopped off in a sprightly manner and raced home to get the car and drive to work. I only ended up being about 20 minutes late.

When I arrived at work, people needed to talk to me about all sorts of pressing issues as soon as I walked in. Somebody's mom called! Somebody needs meds! Is so-and-so suicidal?! Somehow, I managed not to scream, and this may be because I got some screaming out of my system by listening to (and badly singing along with) the Gossip in the car.

I made it through the day, and at the end, I realized a benefit to having driven to work: I could leave when I was actually ready to leave, without waiting for the train. The office closes at 4:30. Normally, I catch the 5:07 train, and end up at home at around 5:20 (yeah, it's a short ride and walk from the station. I shouldn't complain). Today, I got home before 5pm. And you know what I did? I got into my pajamas and poured a glass of wine. Because it is never too early for pj's. And although there are times when it is too early for a glass of wine, this was so not one of them.

Purple Moon

The other night in Trader Joe's, Todd and I came across something very strange in the wine section: A $4 Shiraz made by the Purple Moon winery. Never heard of Purple Moon? Me either. The strange part is that the winery is located in Manteca, CA. A winery in Manteca? Of course, we bought it, and I expected it to have an aroma of cow or something. But it didn't, at least not to my unrefined tongue.

The best part is that I get to snicker to myself when I think about how people here might buy that wine, thinking that because it's from California, it must be from the wine country or at least from some idyllic and beautiful place. Hah! Manteca means lard in Spanish, people! You're drinking lard wine! Okay, and so am I, but I know what I'm getting into. And I'm from the lard, so I'm immune to being seduced by it. Is it really possible that the place where I grew up, the place where one of the only entertainment activities was to go to Wal-Mart, is now producing wine? Strange indeed.

Maybe the winery is located in the Wal-Mart. Now that would be a trip.

Spinach

I'm going through spinach withdrawal. Because of the apparent poo-fest occurring in bagged spinach land, I can't find it anywhere in stores. Of course, neither can anyone else, but who cares about them? I'm talking about me. I need spinach. I eat it almost daily. If there was still bagged spinach on the shelves, I would buy it even if there was a chance that it could have E.Coli. I don't care! I like a little adventure! I want my spinach! Plus, I figure I would have enough iron in my system from all the spinach that I could fight off any E.Coli that tried to take hold. Look at Popeye! Popeye could take out anyone! Did you ever hear Popeye complaining about E.Coli? Hell no.

Good thing it looks like some spinach will be coming back soon. Otherwise, I'd have to get ugly. And we wouldn't want that, would we?

On Homesickness

I've experienced homesickness before: I remember in 6th grade, during a week-long science camp, missing home badly during the beginning of my stay. I remember hating having to share a cabin and becoming tearful when I thought about how I was away from my mother. But as the week wore on, my homesickness dissipated, and I was okay. Plus, I knew I would be going home shortly.

In college, when my mom and brother dropped me off for the first time, I nearly begged my mother to not leave me there and to just take me home and enroll me in junior college. Everything was so unfamiliar and scary at the same time that it was exciting. My fears and the homesickness wore off, though, as I made friends and got into my routine. And I was about a 2 hour drive from home, so I could return whenever I needed a fix. And I was so lucky to have Kjerste at a neighboring college so we could run amok whenever the mood struck us. Home, and the people who remind me of who I am, have never been that far away.

Until now. I don't live near the place that has been my home for so long, and with the exception of Todd, I'm in the place where nobody knows my name. So where is home? It's not Boston yet -- I just got here. I'm not even fully unpacked. And it's not the Bay Area either; I don't live there anymore.

Previous bouts of homesickness have been sharp and acutely painful -- an emotional stubbed toe. And like a stubbed toe, the pain has faded quickly, and I could almost forget that it hurt in the first place. The homesickness I've got now is a dull, full-body ache that I always carry with me, and that I notice more at some times than others. Like when I'm running. That's when I notice that the scenery of my daily existence is so different than it was before. All the landmarks by which I navigated aren't here. Or I notice it when I'd like to hear the voice of one of my friends, but realize that because of the time difference, they are likely out/at work/asleep, etc. So I don't pick up the phone, but instead try to imagine what they might be doing. Are they missing me too?

Sometimes I fall asleep at night imagining my old apartment. Remembering what it was like to live there. But I know that the apartment is just a symbol of my old life, my old routines, and the people that I miss. It always comforts me to think about it. Who knew that O-town could be my happy place? And then, in the morning, when my alarm goes off, I stumble past boxes and into the kitchen for coffee. I rummage through the wrong cabinet for a cup and I face the fact of all this newness alone in the early-morning darkness. And that is when I ache the most.

Suburban Entertainment and the Power of the Stash

I've often been fortunate to have entertaining neighbors and live in entertaining neighborhoods. In Santa Cruz, there were my next door neighbors who grew pot in their closet and showed their setup proudly to my roommate and me (I think they were trying to impress us, but they were too high to notice us rolling our eyes). When I moved in with Todd to his place in Berkeley that was behind a Taco Bell, we got to look out the window at the goings-on there. And there were plenty of goings-on because what happens behind the Taco Bell rarely stays behind the Taco Bell. Once, we had the idea of singing the Cops theme out the window when some woman was screaming at the Berkeley PD. We didn't of course, but we thought we were clever. The manager of that apartment building was also a trip. First of all, he had no last name that we know of. And he was a bit floopy. Maybe he had been smoking what my Santa Cruz neighbors were growing.

Then, in our last apartment in Oakland, our downstairs neighbor had to be threatened with eviction by the property manager because he played his music so loudly. Once this threat happened, he calmed down and proceeded to be hilariously crazy -- smoking pot night and day for "medicinal purposes" and occasionally selling it out his window. (Hmm. Are we noticing a theme here?) He would also invent dramatic break-ins to his apartment when his "friends" would steal his stash or something. Additionally, his personal volume control appeared to be broken, so you could hear him talking/yelling all the time. And he liked to tonelessly sing along with his music. Opera, George Michael, and the occasional Barbra Streisand seemed to be his faves. Or at least these are the highlights that I remember. So there was never a dull moment in O-town.

Given all this, one of my big fears about living in the 'burbs was that I would miss out on all this hilarious strangeness. Luckily, however, it looks like one of our neighbors is going to deliver. He is a kid who looks to be about 17 years old. He often sits around outside, smoking and basically doing nothing. He does like to talk loudly and angrily on his cell phone. I never see him go anywhere, so I have wondered if he is in school or has a job or anything. Last week, from what I overheard, he was served with papers from the Juvenile court. And then, last night, we heard a ruckus outside. So we turned off the TV to have a good listen. And yeah, we went to the windows to observe. (What else are we gonna do -- it's the 'burbs). There we saw our neighbor shirtless and yelling at a "friend" about how this guy is always takin' his stuff and he's going to have to kick his ass down the driveway. Todd and I wondered if this friend had also stolen our neighbor's shirt in addition to whatever other stuff he allegedly took. And we figured that the neighbor boy was really angry because his stash had been stolen (and he looks like someone who would have a stash). I don't think people get that mad over, say, office supplies. It seemed like the fight got resolved fairly quickly, however, since the yelling was over soon and nobody's ass got kicked.

This incident has a couple of implications: First, we will not have to worry about our neighbors being boring. Second, our original thought that we would invite our neighbors to our housewarming party (if we ever have one) is probably not such a good idea after all.

Communing with the Animals

There are several farms near where I live, complete with idyllic-looking barns and green fields in which animals graze. When I go running, I will often run past grazing cattle and horses. The fact that I think this is pretty cool must be my inner Manteca rearing it's head.

Last week, as I ran past one of these farms, I saw something strange out of the corner of my eye. Something running toward me. I stopped and looked. It was a llama. Running up to the fence, presumably to greet me. The funny thing is that I was across the street from it. It saw me running from across the street and decided to run too (am I really this inspiring?). When it got to the fence, it stood there and stared at me. I figured it was a come-hither stare, so I crossed the street and went to the fence. Of course, I was hoping it would let me pet it. But when I got close, it got shy. It turned its head away and backed away from the fence, even as it was still staring at me. I guess the llama didn't know what to do once it got my attention.

So I continued my run, with plans to offer it a snack next time. Because offering food to strange animals is what I do.

On Account of the Trees

Fall is here. The calendar may not say so, but the trees tell another story. Slowly but surely, they are going through the change. A few golden leaves here. A flame-colored branch there. Now the sun has taken on a more golden hue and the air has a crispness that smells like ice and campfires. When I think of fall, I think of trees. And lately, when I think of trees, the phrase "on account of the trees" pops into my head.

No, I am not hearing voices. I'm remembering a conversation overheard in the ladies room this summer at a rest stop in Wisconsin. I was in my stall, minding my own business, when I realized that 2 other women in the bathroom were having a very interesting conversation. I don't think they knew each other, except maybe from a tour bus that they were sharing. We'll call them Matilda and Becky. They were talking about crickets. Apparently there were some in the bathroom. Matilda, in a thick Missouri accent (I know it was Missouri because she told the other woman where she was from) was telling Becky about the many crickets she encounters when at home. Becky, who sounded like she was probably somewhere from the Midwest, thought this was unusual. Apparently she is not the cricket aficionado that Matilda is. She gave a nervous laugh when Matilda, from her stall, mentioned that there were 3 big crickets in there with her. Matilda pointed out that the crickets in the area were probably prevalent (and infiltrating the bathroom, no less) "on account of the trees."

Meanwhile, I was furiously scanning the floor for crickets that were just waiting to jump on me. At the same time, I loved that Matilda said "on account of" instead of "because of." This is not something I get to hear every day, and I thought is was hilarious. Thinking about crickets also led me to remember being traumatized by them as a child, which is hilarious now, but wasn't at the time. The family cat would bring them in the house to play with and they would get away from her. They would then proceed to hide until you forgot about them. Then, they would jump on you as you walked by. Screaming would ensue. Once, a cricket got under my closed bedroom door at night and chirped its way across my room. I lay frozen in my bed calling helplessly for my mother (who could not hear me through the closed door) to rescue me from the cricket. I was afraid to get out of bed, lest I step on the cricket with my bare foot or be otherwise attacked by it. Luckily, I wasn't, and I somehow managed to live through the experience.

But, I digress: Back to the trees. Ever since hearing Matilda say "on account of the trees," I realized that much does depend on the trees. When we hit Vermont this summer, which is known as the Green Mountain State, it was indeed very green and wonderful. You know why? On account of the trees. Then we entered Massachusetts and I almost didn't recognize it, having only been here in February and April. Know why I didn't recognize it? On account of the trees. In summer they are a lush green contrast to the naked trees of winter and early spring that I had seen before.

And now, it's fall. And I know this on account of the trees. Thank you, Matilda.

Trashy Neighbors

We have got some seriously trashy neighbors. Since we've lived here, they have had an assortment of Old Crap out on the curb. At various times, the collection has included a mattress, a couch, a minivan, an exercise bike, and a washer and dryer. And it has been rainy lately, so go ahead and picture the splendor.

Now, it looks like most of the Old Crap is gone, save the rusted remains of the washer and dryer. The weird thing is that they appeared to have had a yard sale on Labor Day....Does this mean that people actually bought the Old Crap? But then I noticed that someone else down the street had an exercise bike in their yard -- it appeared to be the very same bike from the Old Crap collection. I like to think that the people who live in this house had seen the bike sitting up the block for weeks, coveting it. Maybe without really being able to explain why. So, under cloak of darkness, they stole the Old Crap bike for their very own. But, after the thrill of the hunt wore off, they realized that it was, in fact, Old Crap. And so they left it in their yard, hoping someone else would spirit it away.

At least in my neighborhood in Oakland, the Old Crap was contained in the shopping carts of the people who lugged it around. Or it was out by the dumpster, but not for long. It was mobile Old Crap. But I guess that in suburbia (or at least my little corner of it), people have yards and their very own places on the curb for Old Crap. And it just stays and stays.

I wonder if that washer and dryer will ever disappear, or if winter will come and some small animal will make a den inside.

Lessons at Ikea

It started innocently enough: Todd and I thought we would just take a little jaunt to Ikea to get the dresser we wanted. We were there last weekend, but it was out of stock (we were also there the weekend before, because we are crazy). So we've been checking online and it looked like it was back on the shelves. I was prepared to spend an afternoon putting the thing together. We were willing to brave Labor Day and college-student crowds. We brought energy bars, in case things got dire. And so our journey began.

We knew we were in for a treat when we had to wait in line to even get into the parking structure. Luckily, the line of cars moved fast, and once inside, we knew exactly where we were going to get our loot. We bought the dresser quickly, and then proceeded to look around for some odds and ends. This went smoothly as well. The first hint that we might be in for trouble in the crazy Ikea crowd was when a woman on a cell phone tried to cut in line in front of us. We fought her back and she grumbled into her cell phone about it. She never did hang that thing up. And then we were ready to load our burden and mosey back to the FunkHouse.

Or so we thought. The parking lot was insane. You could feel the frantic energy as people zipped through the aisles, either looking for a spot or looking for a way out. You could almost see smoke coming out of people's ears and drool glazing the corners of their mouths. Perhaps there were even a few faces frozen in silent screams.

As we wound our way around the parking lot, we were having trouble finding a way to exit. As we started to go down one aisle, we realized we were going to wrong way, and Todd, who was driving, turned our car around. This apparently pissed off a jerk driving a giant red truck. You've seen this truck before: Extended cab. Body raised off the wheels in an attempt to make it more imposing. Freshly washed, as if to say: "That's right! I waste gas and water! Global Warming saves me money on heating costs!" As this guy (to whom I will henceforth refer as Binky, in an effort to diminish his false hypermasculinity) sped around us and cut us off, Todd honked. I guess this sent Binky over the edge. He stopped his truck, blocking our path. Then he got out and came up to our window (which, unfortunately, was rolled down) and began to yell. And yell. Apparently, we are Morons Who Don't Know How to Drive! And turning around in a parking lot is illegal! Good thing he was there to teach us.

Then, having said his piece, Binky stormed back to his Environmental Destroyer. Where his 2 small children were waiting. I guess Binky taught them a lesson too.