Helga's Big Adventure

Forgive me Blogger, for I have sinned

2008-06-30T11:54:00.002-04:00

It's been nearly 3 months since my last post.

I know. All 3 people who read this have been wondering what happened. And if I were a more motivated person, I would probably have posted something to say that I wouldn't be posting for a while. But I've really not felt like it. And so, the avoidance.

I've been thinking about what, if anything, I want to keep doing with this blog. In some ways, the idea of "Helga's Big Adventure" doesn't seem applicable anymore. It's not like I'm going anywhere. I recently started a new job (which really cuts into my blogging time, let me tell you). This means that I don't really have any vacation accrued. So Todd and I have no vacation plans in the near future. No travel adventures there. Also, in my line of work, I spend all day talking to people and, with the new job, a whole lot of time on the computer. So the last thing I want to do in my spare time is spend more time on the computer having to come up with something witty to write.

Also, my life in general doesn't seem all that adventurous. I work at either Job 1 or Job 2, neither of which I can really blog about. I've been somewhat out of running commission because of my injured leg. But this is changing -- I just did a 5K yesterday and, although I was slower than before I was injured, I was not in pain. So, good stuff. But still, I guess I've lately been feeling like I've got nothing blogworthy to say. I guess I could re-title my blog and take the adventure out of it. But my blogging avoidance is beyond just a title issue.

Several months ago, my mother asked me how Kjerste was doing, and I realized I didn't know because she hadn't blogged in a while. And I felt lame. Sometimes I think I rely too much on blogs and don't pick up the damn phone. I think it might be better to spend time really catching up with the people I care about.

So stay tuned. I may keep on blogging or I may not. You'll figure it out if you read another post any time soon.

The first nice day

2008-04-10T17:44:00.002-04:00

Today was the first really nice day of spring. It was about 70 degrees and it felt delicious. All the light and heat made me feel kind of giddy and crazed, and it makes me realize just how much more I appreciate the seasons living here than in California. I spent the day reigning in the desire to raise my arms to the sky in thanks. Well, mostly reigning it in. And looking at my pale, pale, PALE arms makes me think that I probably have some kind of Vitamin D deficiency. Don't shine a black light on me!

I'm not the only one who is made manic by the sun. The streets are filled with people coming out of hibernation and enjoying this one nice day. Its like a colony of ant-people broke open and released its contents onto the streets. It's supposed to be 20 degrees cooler tomorrow. Better enjoy it now.

Yeah, this post is all about the weather. I'd apologize for my lack of imagination, but I don't feel like it. I got to wear flip-flops today.

Cohasset 10K

2008-04-07T15:07:00.007-04:00

This is a race I had signed up to do and intended to run yesterday. But it never happened. Sadly, I seem to have pulled a muscle in my right leg (maybe my hamstring?) and I've been in pain over the last several weeks. I still try to run though, which really just means I'm reinjuring myself all the time. I do stop to walk or take some days off when I experience stabbing, shooting pain.

One of the things I had been looking forward to with this race was the location: Cohasset is the town where The Witches of Eastwick was filmed. And nobody likes a Cher reference better than me. Except maybe for Jack McFarland. Dr. Bombay (who actually did run this race) and I had toyed with the idea of running the race dressed up as different versions of Cher. You know, one of us could have been the Bob Mackie version:

And the other could have been the blonde plastic surgery version:

The possibilities were endless. Instead, Dr. Bombay ran with my timing chip in his pocket. So I was there in spirit, if not in costume.

In an attempt to cope with my pain over the last several weeks, I've rested, been massaged, seen my chiropractor and seen my general practitioner. Now I have a referral to a physical therapist, who I'll see tomorrow. I've been told to bring some shorts so he can look at my legs. Of course, I don't own any shorts. It's the Bay Area in me that refuses to believe that I need them or that the world needs to see my pasty legs. And capris are just so much more flattering. Which is what I'll tell him when he asks me to don my shorts: "Really, doctor, capris are just so much more flattering."

Show and Tell

2008-03-25T14:28:00.003-04:00

I just discovered a fabulous blog called Stuff White People Like. It's hilarious! Here's a recent Boston Globe story about it. And here's my favorite posting, which is a postcard from the homeland.

Who knew that examining white privilege could be so darn fun! And let me confess: I am the sort of white person who this blog pokes fun at. And I lllllove it!

Also, please note that I am aware that calling this entry "Show and Tell" is really just a fancy way of me saying that I'm calling this one in. But I did spend several minutes finding links, so I feel good. You should too.

Ras na hEireann 5K

2008-03-20T16:09:00.004-04:00

Do you have any idea about how to pronounce this? Because I certainly don't. But I (along with Dr. Bombay, of course) ran this race last Sunday. Along with something like 2700 other runners who were all squeezed into the narrow streets of my neighborhood for this Saint Patrick's Day run. That's a whole lotta people. Here we all are:

(Though it's hard to tell, I'm in there. I'm wearing blue and I look like I'm about to push a woman with a green shirt out of my way. In fact, that may have been what I was thinking about at that moment.) (Actually, on second thought, I don't think I'm in this picture. Oops. I guess it was crowded. But I was probably still thinking about pushing someone out of my way.)

Because of the huge crowd, I found it difficult to navigate my way through, even though the start was supposedly organized by estimated mile time. I imagine that some people think they are faster than they actually are. Which is funny, because I also thought I would be slower than I actually was. After the race, I had a sense that I hadn't gone very fast. My hamstring that's been hurting was complaining and I figured it must have slowed me down. And the clock at the finish line wasn't much help, since it took me a while to even get to the starting line. But then it turned out I ran it with 7:18 miles, which made me very pleased.

You know, I realize that this may be a somewhat boring post, especially to those who aren't into running. So let me spice it up a bit: I narrowly avoided getting spat on during the race. Now, I can understand having some phlegm build up when you're running fast. But what I don't understand is why one would necessarily need to spit on the street. Especially given the aforementioned crowd. Really, there is no place for the spit to land except on another person. And why is it almost always men who seem to feel the need to do this? Hey Boys! Spitting in public and on others doesn't make you more of a man!

So here's what went down: I was coming up alongside some guy in the race in preparation to pass him. Then he spat and I narrowly avoided the loogie. I yelled out and he said nothing, though he had a smug little smile on his face.

And then I passed his dumb ass.

Helga's Life Lessons

2008-03-11T18:41:00.006-04:00

The following are important life lessons that I have learned over the last several months. Feel free to submit some of your own in the comments. (And please note that I am not intending for "Asking people for comments guarantees that nobody will leave any" to be a Life Lesson. Ahem.)

1. When suffering from a sinus headache, it is not wise to look for something under the bed by dangling upside-down off of it.

2. If ice frozen on the sidewalk is clear, it is very slippery; if it is whitish, it is less so. Also, ice seems less slippery when you run over it than when you walk over it. And if the ice is covered with a layer of water from a recent rain, you will slip no matter what.

3. No matter how much "leather protector" you spray on a beat-up pair of shoes, they will still look bad.

4. Wearing a pair of corduroy pants while sitting in a velvet chair creates a lot of friction.

5. When you happen to see your bare arms in the mirror and almost don't recognize them because they are so pale, it means that you are ready for spring.

6. When leaving a voicemail for somebody, never, ever use the word "awesome."

7. It hurts to look directly into a laser pointer.

8. Daylight savings time is a cruel joke.

9. A fuzzy, white hoodie sweater is never a good idea.

10. You know you have watched too much HGTV when you reflexively say "Added value!" every time you see granite countertops.

11. If you avoid wearing mascara in part because it makes your lashes look too long, you're not a make-up person.

12. If homeless people compliment you on your haircut, it means you've got a good stylist. It could also mean that you are in Harvard Square a lot.

13. The best way to deter those people who want you to sign a petition and try to pique your interest by asking "Do you care about the environment?" is to answer "Actually, no." And walk quickly away to go buy your soymilk.

14. The best way to shock somebody in the Boston area is to be courteous to them while on public transit or while driving.

15. The second-best way is to tell them that you don't like baseball and that you routinely root for the Red Sox NOT to make it to the World Series just so the season will end sooner. Or maybe this is actually the best way to shock a Bostonian. Hmmm.

16. If a cop is waving his arms at you in a construction zone, it means he wants you to stop, even if he's on his cell phone, is not wearing any reflective gear, and generally looks disinterested.

17. If you decide that you "don't need" your gloves while running on a cold day, your hands may temporarily become unresponsive lumps.

18. It is really difficult to peel a parking permit sticker off your window by shredding it into a thousand pieces with an Exacto knife.

19. When running, the best way to get a large clump of people who are coming toward you to make room for you on the sidewalk is to just keep running toward them.

20. A good way to kill fruit flies is with a trap made of water, dish soap, and balsamic vinegar. Unfortunately, the gnats that sometimes take up residence in houseplants are immune to the lure of this concoction.

The Hyannis Half Marathon

2008-02-27T15:55:00.005-05:00

You know what's a really good way to distract yourself from grieving? Run 13.1 miles!

On Sunday, I did just that in Hyannis, MA. Since my grandfather's funeral happened on the day he died, there was no way I could get out to California for it. So I figured that since I stayed here, I might as well do the race I'd been preparing for. I decided it would be a memorial run for him. He wasn't a runner. He was damn stubborn, though, and wasn't one to be deterred from doing what he wanted. So I channeled this energy and ran with Dr. Bombay.

The race didn't seem particularly well-organized in that there weren't really enough Port-o-lets. The race started when we were still waiting in line to pee. Which meant that by the time we crossed the starting line, we were all the way at the back of the pack. This led to passing lots of people and sometimes getting stuck behind particularly large, slow-moving herds. I did not push anyone out of my way, though it occurred to me. I will say that there is something very, very satisfying about passing so many people. Mwahahaha!

Luckily, the weather was nice: Clear, in the mid-30s, and with only a light breeze. I know, my definition of "nice" has changed since moving to Massachusetts. I ended up running faster than I thought I would (8:13 miles). I found this especially surprising because of how slow and crowded the start and first few miles were. But, hey, in a race that long, I guess you've got plenty of time to make it up. Dr. Bombay also ran faster than he anticipated and we both ended up finishing long before Todd, our official photographer for the event, made it to the finish line. Sorry -- no pictures of me sweaty and half-dead. But here's a picture of us waiting in line for the Port-o-let:

I think channeling my grandfather's stubbornness helped propel me. Every time I wanted to stop and stretch in somebody's front yard (because, damn, were my legs tired), I just told myself (yelled internally, actually) to keep going, @#$! So that's what I did.

Thanks, G-pa.

G-pa

2008-02-26T17:28:00.003-05:00

On Friday, February 22nd, my grandfather died. He was 93.

I didn't get to say goodbye. Though, in some ways, I've been saying goodbye for years. His health had been declining and each time I saw him, I knew it could be the last.

At some point during my childhood -- I'm not sure when, exactly -- I began to call him "G-pa." And it was the same for my grandmother, who became G-ma. I guess I thought it was important to dispense with formalities and get right down to business.

Some memories:

Once, on a family vacation to Hawaii, I discovered a gigantic cockroach in the house we were renting. Being a 5th grader, I ran down the stairs to get an adult to deal with it. (Okay, I would probably do this now. No way am I getting near a cockroach.) My G-pa came to the rescue with his pocket knife and ended up lopping off a couple of the thing's legs before it scampered away. It was like he suddenly became Crocodile Dundee. My family and I have been laughing about it ever since.

He was always an avid, loud nose-blower. When I was little, each time he blew his nose I would tell him that he "scared the wits out of me." He would laugh. It was our thing.

Whenever visiting my grandparents' house, G-pa would usually be watching some sporting event on television. But if you sat down to watch with him, he would courteously hand over the remote, the way others might pass a tray of food. And, stubborn as he was, he wouldn't usually let you get away with passing the remote back to him. I think there has been significant time spent at family gatherings passing the remote around the room because nobody really wanted it. Nobody wanted to be the one to just shut off the TV, either. It was my family's version of hot potato.

When my dad died, my G-pa and G-ma stayed with us for a little while. I remember them both taking over the running of the house while the rest of us took to our beds and cried. For some reason, I especially remember my G-pa vacuuming. It made an impression on me, I think, because I realized just how much he and my G-ma were willing to do to take care of us -- even the crappy chores. It seemed especially thoughtful that they were taking care of even little things that most others would have forgotten when they were busy bringing us casseroles and sending stupid cards full of platitudes.

Many of my G-pa memories are also G-ma memories. They would have been married 69 years this August. They were "G-ma 'n' G-pa," almost a single word. And whenever I think about how bereft I am, I think about my G-ma, alone now, counting the breaths until she can join him.

Are you gonna eat that?

2008-02-18T12:30:00.004-05:00

The other night, Todd and I were watching Fast Food Nation, a film adaptation of Eric Schlosser's fantastic book by the same name. The movie was a little weird -- it made fiction of non-fiction and, as is often the case, was not nearly as good as the book. The last scene is a graphic depiction of a "kill room" of a slaughterhouse that I could barely watch.

Then, in a strange confluence of events, it turns out that there is a huge beef recall. What, did I forget to turn the movie off? Every time I turn on the news, I see footage of poor, sick cattle being abused by the workers at the slaughterhouse. More horrifying stuff that I can barely stand to watch. The best part is that most of the meat from this place has probably already been eaten by children in school programs.

What kind of a country/world do we live in that we feed ourselves and our children this shit? And what kind of a country/world do we live in that it is okay to treat animals this way? Yes, the plant was shut down because of the animal abuse. But this was just one place that happened to be sloppy and get caught. You'd better believe that this goes on at other slaughterhouses -- maybe not on such a drastic, horrible scale, but the lives the animals live until their deaths can't be exactly pleasant. And don't even get me started on how the workers are treated.

I fear that most people who see the news coverage of all this will be grossed out but probably not do anything about it. Maybe they still like their burgers too much. But you know what you can do? STOP EATING MEAT. Or, please, at least eat less of it*. Is your momentary pleasure in that rib-eye really worth all the pain and suffering to workers and animals and the environmental impact of it all? Go ahead and read Fast Food Nation, and watch the movie too. And be sure to keep your eyes open during that kill room scene.

Be sure to keep your eyes open, period.

*I'd like to say that I'm aware of the class issues involved in consuming less meat or being vegan/vegetarian. It really costs money to be able to choose something other than fast food or meat, and it horrifies me that the poorest people get stuck eating the worst food and not having other options. Which is why those who have money and choices should make good ones, and support programs that help feed the poor nutritionally sound food. Like this one.

The Great White North

2008-02-13T17:31:00.003-05:00

Isn't this what they call Canada? I think it applies to Massachusetts as well.

Earlier today, Dr. Bombay and I were discussing the weather. This is not as trivial as it seems. You see, the weather here today is pretty awful. I know, Boston in February. Who could have guessed? Let it be known that I've decided that several inches of snow topped with several inches of rain is one of my least favorite weather situations.

As the conversation then moved to warmer places that we would like to be or perhaps live (all aboard for Auckland, New Zealand!), Dr. Bombay wondered why on earth I left the Bay Area, home of vegetarian restaurants, 60-degree winter weather, and cultural diversity. Good question.

Normally, when asked these kinds of questions (which, incidentally, usually come up in the winter), I feel a pang for the weather. I felt that today as well, but I also have been really noticing lately how white it is in my neighborhood. And it's not just because people are February-pale. When I lived in Oakland, I was fortunate to be surrounded by an amazing amount of cultural diversity. I just took for granted that I would hear languages other than English on a regular basis and that there were thriving communities of color. Davis Square? Not so much.

The whiteness of where I live has often struck me while riding on the T. There seems to be a line that is drawn at about the JFK stop on the red line. North of that stop, there are mostly white people. South of that stop, there are way more people of color. This is the line that seems to extend throughout the city and it seems pretty segregated to me. Of course, this usually happens to some degree in cities -- I think about the differences between certain neighborhoods in Oakland, for instance -- but there is something about it that seems especially pronounced in Boston.

People who have lived here longer than me (and there are a bunch of 'em) might accuse me of stating the obvious, especially given Boston's history. But just because this is how it's been for a while doesn't mean that it's okay with me.

I'm just saying.

The (not so) Frigid Fiver

2008-02-03T19:07:00.000-05:00

Today Dr. Bombay and I thought it would be fun to do a little something called the Frigid Fiver, a five-mile race through Newburyport. Given that it is February in Massachusetts, this race could have lived up to its name and we really could have frozen our asses off. Luckily, the temperatures were in the 40s, which was not very frigid at all.

Unfortunately, I've had a cold for the last couple of days, so in order to actually do this run, I resorted to drugs. (Ooh, it's the Frigid Fiver doping scandal!) I must say that pseudoephedrine is a miracle drug. It makes it so I can breathe no matter how sick I am. It also puts me in a dry-mouthed dissociated fog and for some reason makes my lips turn bluish. I suppose this really isn't what one might desire for a race, but being able to breathe seemed like a top priority.

I managed to breathe throughout the whole race, though really loud and hard, which I think contributed to a major stomach cramp. I think I must have sounded like I was on the verge of an asthma attack. (Notice that I'm alone in that picture. I scared people away.) In spite of my infirmity, I managed to run faster than I was expecting under the circumstances (7:34 miles). The problem is that the cold air on my scratchy throat has made me lose my voice and now I am barely able to speak. I feel like I should take advantage of this temporary impairment and use my scary voice to my advantage, by, say, cackling at small children or impersonating Little Richard.

But I won't.

The fattest squirrel in the world

2008-01-31T20:55:00.001-05:00

Here's a squirrel we met last month in the Common. Squirrels there are very, um, friendly, and this one must be particularly forward, as evidenced by its gut. Note that you can barely see its little feet. Note also that it is eating. We gave it that nut. We're enablers.

I wonder if this squirrel is even able to haul itself up trees, or if it has become a ground squirrel due to its heft.

Maybe we should have fed it a rice cake instead.

The perils of being hardcore

2008-01-28T19:25:00.000-05:00

Last month, I decided that I had made the transition from mediumcore to Hard. Core. It happened one day when I was running. It had been snowing all week and the sidewalks were icy and slushy and generally a mess. But I just couldn't run on the treadmill one more time without losing my mind, so I strapped some traction on my feet and hit the streets.

There I was, running down Mass. Ave. and Aretha Franklin's Respect came on my iPod. As this happened, a woman drove by and gave me a thumbs up with an amazed look on her face, like "You go girl!" And while I was waiting for a stoplight to change, some guy told me how incredible he thought it was that I was out running. The weather sucked, but I felt like a rock star. Take that, New England winter! California Girl is in the hizzouse!

So yesterday, I thought it would be fine to go for a 10 to 11 mile run in the snow. I woke up in the morning to find that a light coating had fallen over night. The forecast called for "snow showers," which to me means light, pretty, intermittent snow. Snow was falling gently as I left the house and I figured that it would probably stop soon.

When I got outside, I realized that things weren't as pretty as they had looked from my window. The wind was blowing the snow into my eyes and that nice light layer of snow made the ruts in the sidewalk hard to see, so I kept falling all over myself. And the snow that was supposed to stop just got heavier. So there I was, trudging along, half-blind, when a dumbass driver zoomed by and splashed me with muddy water. I won't write what I said as the car obliviously drove away, but it wasn't very polite.

Around mile 5, I decided to call it quits and go home. Unfortunately, I was still about a mile and a half from my house, but I figured I could stick it out. As I turned and headed in the general direction of defeat, I realized that the snow had changed yet again and was like tiny ice-pellets of death being shot directly into my eyes by the increasing wind. My eyes were burning and I was running (shuffling, really) down the street with one eye closed and the other only partly open. As my eyes watered profusely, I wondered if they could actually freeze shut. I must have looked like I was having a stroke or something. Good thing I didn't see any young children because I'm sure I would have scared them.

The good news is that I finally made it home, though I was cranky, wet and the top of my head was encased in ice. The bad news is that when I went to take a scaldingly hot shower, there was only lukewarm water. Evidently, everyone in the building had already taken a shower in boiling water and was doing their laundry at exactly that moment. Bollocks!

After my third-world shower, I looked out the window again and saw that the snow had stopped and a happy-looking group of runners was going by. They are really lucky that I didn't throw any snowballs at them.

After all this, I'm not so sure I'm hardcore anymore. Or that I necessarily want to be. It's a lot of work and it messes up my hair. Maybe I should be in the hizzouse by just staying indoors.

I'm ready for spring now.

Pajamas and the end of an era

2008-01-27T16:11:00.000-05:00

Beginning in college, I became something of a pajama connoisseur. I think this was because I needed to have something presentable in which to lounge about the dorm. (Funny how I defined "presentable" back then.) So I happily collected many a novelty pajama pant over the years. That's right, just the pants -- for me, PJs are generally flannel pants paired with a t-shirt and a sweatshirt if needed.

During the course of approximately the last 10 years, I've collected flannel pants with the following patterns: plaid (at least 2 different kinds), cows, clouds, penguins and leaves. In addition, I have owned several PJ sets, which I would wear when I had the urge to match. One of the sets was "silky" (polyester) and gold and had a cheetah-print trim. Kjerste also owned this same set of PJs (we shop at the same stores, namely, Target) and we would wear them at the same time while we drank cheap alcohol together. Which is often what we would do: While the other college girls might have been out at a party, we were always more the "let's put on the PJs and have a drink" types. The cheetah-print ones just happened to be our "dressy" pajamas.

At one point in college, I may have actually owned all these different pajama options at the same time. Which is good, because I would wear them all sorts of places nobody should really be wearing pajamas, such as the grocery store, the dining hall, and class. But given that I was a college student at Santa Cruz, one of the most casual places on earth, I suppose it didn't really matter what I was wearing as long as I was clothed. At least, this is what I told myself.

After several moves, however, my pajama collection dwindled by necessity. Who wants to haul around 20 pairs of flannel pants? And I haven't bought any additional pants since shortly after college -- I clearly have not needed them. After the move from California, the only flannel pants I had left were the ones with the leaves, the cows, and the penguins, which died last year due to a large hole.

Yesterday, something very, very bad happened. I went to put on my leaf pants and the 7-year- old drawstring broke. And there is no way to fix it. I tried. I even was wondering if there might be a way to substitute a shoe lace, but there wasn't. I'm also not sure if the desire to try to hold up my pants with a shoe lace was industrious or just sad. In spite of my incredible loss, I remained hopeful that my cow pants, which looked comfortingly at me from my drawer, might save the day. But when I went to put them on, the 10-year-old elastic in the waistband let out a great snap and gave way. The final moo.

Well, not entirely, as it turns out. You see, I have no other pajama pants to wear. So the cows are currently being held up by an enormous pleat I created in the front with a large safety pin. Please do not call the fashion police. I know that this is only a temporary resuscitation and not an episode of Project Runway. I will need to find my way to a store and buy some decent night wear.

This is all very sad. After all, I have a history of growing attached to textiles. As a child, I had a "favorite blankie" that I chewed on. The only way my mom could wean my off of it was by clipping it into smaller and smaller bits. This was made easier by the fact that I was chewing holes through it.

This truly is the end of a pajama-wearing era. In honor of this, I encourage all my reader(s) to wear their pajamas while having a drink. Do it for the cows.

"I'll keep your resume on file."

2008-01-21T17:27:00.001-05:00

What job-seeker hasn't heard that one before? It's like someone telling you that they hope you can "still be friends" after a breakup. You know what it means. It's a lie that's supposed to soften a rejection and it doesn't. You know what? I'm not friends with any of my ex-boyfriends. In the event of a break up, I wanted to kick their asses, not go out for coffee and a chat. And the resume file? That would be a recycling bin. (And hopefully not a garbage can. At least reject me in an environmentally sensitive way.)

I have heard the "we'll keep your resume on file" bit a handful of times over the last several months as I have been looking (and looking, and looking) for a job. I heard it last summer from somebody who I happened to have a phone conversation with last week about some other issue. She wondered why my name was familiar and I told her that she knows me because she's an idiot and rejected me. Well, not really. I said something that sounded very professional and imminently employable. Then I heard her shuffle some papers and behold! She read me a line from my resume.

She had apparently actually kept it on file.

Now I find myself wondering just what her resume file looks like. When I was in high school and would encounter the "resume on file" bit in my attempts at low-paying jobs, I at first naively thought that people kept file folders with resumes that they paged through occasionally. Can't you see it? A manager of a video store sips coffee on her break and needs something to read. So she goes to the resume file. And of course, she sees mine and wonders why she didn't hire me.

I got over that fantasy quickly. Especially when I realized that the manager of a video store may not be the type to spontaneously read pages that are not mostly pictures. Ooh, I'm such a snob! But it's okay. When they handed me my graduate school diploma, it also came with a Certificate of Entitlement to Snobbery in a lovely pleather case.

But back to the woman who actually has a resume file. Clearly, I will have to get hired by her so I can sneak into her office and try to find the file. Perhaps I should ingratiate myself to her by sending her a gift of some manila folders imprinted with a picture of me. I won't just be in the file. I'll be the file.

In other news: This is my 100th post. It seems significant. Just thought I'd mention it in case you want to send gifts. Don't worry: Registry information will be forthcoming.

Housekeeping

2008-01-15T17:11:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I know that I just said that I don't make New Year's Resolutions. But I do like to start the new year with a clean house and a clear head (to the extent possible, at least). To that end, I have reorganized the links over there to the left. At last, I have alphabetized them. Please try to contain your excitement. I've also removed from my blogroll any blogs that seem to have died (like those with no new posts for a year). Hopefully, nobody is offended by this. To offset this loss, I've added a couple of new ones. So have a read and enjoy. I know I will.

Bad Blogger

2008-01-14T16:59:00.000-05:00

It seems that I've been a neglectful blogger of late. I'm not really sure how almost a month has passed since my last post. I haven't been insanely busy or anything. I guess I just haven't been living a very blog-worthy life of late.

It seems particularly sad that it's 2 weeks into the new year and I haven't blogged. Perhaps this is because I find New Year's to be a somewhat depressing holiday. All it does for me is mark the end of the holiday season and the beginning of a month that has very little going for it. Oh boy! Nothing to look forward to! All January is to me is an endless slog of more winter. At least with February, March is coming next, which means you can delude yourself about spring being just around the corner. In January, there is no delusion. Also, as has been the case for Kjerste, many of my New Year's Eves of yore have not been very inspiring. Furthermore, I refuse to make resolutions because I am convinced that they are only setups for disappointment. And I do hate to be disappointed, especially by myself. Maybe this is all really just a roundabout way of saying that I'm kind of cranky.

The high point of January so far has been our trip last week to San Francisco. Todd had to go for business (or "bidness" -- whichever you prefer) so I tagged along and got to see some friends, enjoy a wide expanse of non-icy sidewalks and relish not having to work very hard to find vegetarian food. Unfortunately for us, our flight there was first canceled and then delayed (due to mechanical problems and weather, respectively). And then on the way back, we sat on the runway for an hour while they fixed a problem with the landing gear. Which I'm glad they did, by the way. I just wished the mechanics had figured out that there was a problem before everyone got on the plane.

Frankly, I think having all of these "mechanical problems" seems a bit far-fetched. You know what I really think was going on? I think there were snakes on the plane and they just didn't want to tell us. I've never seen that movie, but I've decided that "snakes on a plane" is a good metaphor for all manner of air travel problems. I can see the conversations now:

"How was your flight?"

"Oh, you know. We got in late. Snakes on the plane."

Or:

"What is taking the flight attendants so long to bring out drinks?"

"There are probably snakes on the plane."

I think this metaphor works particularly well since half the time you don't really know what's going on with your flight anyway. So it might as well be snakes. At the very least, snakes would be more interesting than problems with a sensor on the landing gear.

And in the interest of adding to my litany of complaints, I'd also like to say that I got a cold immediately upon returning to Boston. Clearly, some of the snakes on the plane were germy little buggers.

Apparently, it's going to be a very good year.

Parallel Parking Girl to the Rescue!

2007-12-23T15:15:00.000-05:00

For those of you who are not aware of my superhero powers, let me break it down for you: I am Parallel Parking Girl. I fly over the city and look for people who have parking, ahem, issues and I save the day by parking their cars for them. No need to thank me folks! All in a day's work!

I became aware of my superpower one day several years ago. I was living in Oakland and had driven to the gym. As I parallel-parked myself into a spot, I noticed the car in front of me was all crooked and crazy, like O.J. Simpson had parked it or something. I didn't think too much about this until the woman who was driving the car got out and, seeing my stellar parking job, asked me to park her car for her. I thought about this for a minute, and asked her if she was sure she trusted a complete stranger. She said yes. I asked her if car was an automatic. It was. (Sidenote: All superheroes have a weakness. Superman's was Kryptonite. Mine is manual transmissions). And so I parked her car quite nicely (if I do say so myself) and went on my merry way.

And Parallel Parking Girl was born.

Today I realized that I may have developed a second superpower: Sure-footedness. Allow me to explain.

It has recently snowed something like 26 inches 'round these parts. Poor sidewalk shoveling has left the sidewalks fairly treacherous, and curb cuts at intersections are virtually nonexistent. Going outside has become an adventure. Today while I was running (10 miles!) I came across an elderly woman who was standing at the corner of a busy street. She couldn't get over the snowbank between her and the sidewalk and she was afraid of falling. So I (and another person, briefly) helped her onto the sidewalk. And then she asked me plaintively to help her get to church, which was just up the street. I guess I looked sure-footed and helpful. So I decided to be sure-footed and helpful.

That's right: I helped an elderly woman get to church today. When we got there, she gave me a hug in spite of my sweaty shirt and wished me a Merry Christmas. And you know what? I really did feel like a superhero.

The problem, of course, is that I shouldn't need to have this superpower. As I've mentioned before, if people would do a better job shoveling their walkways, we could all just get along. And elderly women could safely get to church. And people who occupy wheelchairs could get around too.

So: Shame on all of you who who don't shovel your sidewalks or who only shovel a narrow passageway. You're on my list. (But if you are physically unable to shovel, you're still okay. Maybe shoveling will be my next superpower and I will come help you.)

In the meantime, I will just fly over the city and look for drivers and elderly women in need.

Holiday Ramblings

2007-12-18T17:47:00.000-05:00

The last couple of days, Todd and I have been receiving holiday cards in the mail. I have no qualms with this, except that it reminds us of our own inadequacies in the card department. Year after year we promise that we really will send out cards. And then, all of a sudden, the holidays are over and we never got around to it.

Last year we even bought some cards in the post-holiday sales. We figured that it would help us get our butts in gear this year. Nope! The boxes sit unopened in a drawer, safely underneath address labels and envelopes. You know, the very things that we would use if we were actually sending them out.

It seems we have a block in the holiday card department. We can do birthday cards. We can do thank you cards. We even send cards congratulating people for things like giving birth. (Which certainly deserves congratulations. And strong drugs. Unfortunately, we are not authorized to send drugs in the mail. Sorry.) Maybe we are just becoming immune to the pressure of the holidays due to overexposure. After all, the Christmas decorations go up in stores around Halloween these days, so by the time Christmas actually rolls around, it feels like it's been going on for 2 months. And 2 months of red and green and glitter and Chia Pets is a long time.

So maybe we just need to stop trying to send holiday cards. Perhaps we should consider sending cards after the holidays, when the bleakness of January has set in. This card could be a little pick-me-up that says "Hey, I know January is hard. Please don't make any New Year's resolutions that will torture you because you cannot possibly keep them!"

And don't even try to tell me that January is not bleak and in need of some snazzing up (with a card from me). The festivities are over, you can't fit into your clothes, you get no more time off work and, depending on where you live, it's cold. And if you live somewhere that is not cold in January, I don't want to talk to you unless you are inviting me to your beach house in Australia.

And in this case, I will send you a card.

Dude, where's my car?

2007-12-14T15:05:00.001-05:00

There was a snowstorm yesterday. According to the Globe, it snowed 10 inches in 7 hours.

The car was actually a bit more buried earlier in the day, but by the time I got around to taking the picture this afternoon, melting had begun.

Digging it out actually wasn't so bad because of the soft, melty snow. Mmm. Sounds like ice cream.

And then when I got back from the grocery store (which is why I had to free the car), my beautifully dug-out spot was still there. The Parking Gods had looked upon me with kindness. Between the ice cream-like snow and my good parking fortune, I would say it was a good day.

Here's a picture of our street this morning from our window. It's pretty, isn't it? Don't lie: I know you're jealous.

I suppose this isn't the most exciting post in the world. But I'm really not a very exciting person, so there you go.

Winter Grievance List

2007-12-05T12:30:00.000-05:00

This time of year, some people create a wish list so you know exactly what to buy them for the holidays. Given that I don't do gifts these days, I feel that a grievance list would be more appropriate.

And let me say that the weather is not on my grievance list. Why bother complaining about the fact that it's cold? It's not like that'll make things warmer. That said, I do have to admit that I sent a few cranky weather reports to my girlz in California after I got back from my Thanksgiving trip there. It's amazing how just a few days of copious golden sunshine and temperatures in the 60s softened me right up. I spent the first few days back in Boston shivering, jetlagged, and light-starved. I'm better now, even though I miss my girlz.

My grievance list is actually based on my recent experiences running outside:

1. Dear drivers: SLOW DOWN. This Monday, I ran through the slushy rain/snow combo that vaguely resembled a Snoopy Snow-Cone. As I was waiting at a corner to cross the street, I got splashed by a driver who decided to take a corner too fast while driving straight into a puddle the size of a small lake. I was already wet up to my ankles, so this really just topped things off perfectly. I'm sure the driver must have seen me: I was wearing a bright pink shirt (that I wear specifically to be visible) and I looked like a desperate, uncomfortable drowned rat. This sort of thing happened to me less than a month ago when I was walking along my street after a rainstorm, minding my own business.

Dr. Bombay, my fellow runner, has suggested that I purchase a taser so that I can punish those who dare to splash me. This isn't a bad idea, although I fear that I might inadvertently electrocute myself since I would only be using it while soaked. And then I'd be really pissed.

2. Dear homeowners: SHOVEL YOUR SIDEWALK. You know, this is really not hard to do when there is only an inch or two of snow. Which may be why you don't think you need to do it. But you know what happens if you don't, and then it gets below freezing overnight? It turns to ice. And you know what happens to people who walk or run in front of your house? They either have to cross carefully, fall down, or go out into the street.

Yesterday during my run, I stayed primarily in the street (just call me Sally Safety!) and dodged buses by getting onto the sidewalk. Then there were other times when I carefully tiptoed across the ice. And several times when I almost slipped. I really loved it when I saw an elderly woman trying to walk on the sidewalk, but in order to cross an icy section, she had to hold on to a pole so as not to break her brittle bones. For the love of God, people. If you can't shovel your sidewalk to please your local runner, at least do it for Grandma.

Dr. Bombay and I may design a jogging stroller-like contraption that dispenses salt. Then you can push it in front of you as you run and de-slip the sidewalks as you go. I'm also thinking that some running shoes with battery-operated heated soles would be a nice touch.

3. Dear running clothes manufacturers: LOWER YOUR PRICES. Seriously. Why should I have to spend $80 on a pair of pants that probably cost a bunch of kids only a dollar to make? No, I don't want frostbite, and my legs work much better when encased in high-tech fabrics. But I really don't think avoiding gangrene should be so expensive. And yet, it is. You'd think I was climbing Mt. Everest.

That's all I can think of right now to put on my list. As the season progresses, I'm sure I'll think of more, so stay tuned.

Yeah, I know....

2007-11-30T17:50:00.000-05:00

I've been silent for a while. You'd think I'd have more to say, given that I'm still unemployed and still have plenty of TV channels to watch when I am not frantically looking for jobs. But let me say that days spent in front of the computer, on the phone, or updating one's resume are just not that exciting. And they are surprisingly stressful for me, since I feel like I should have something all set up by now. And I really hate the word should.

But on to better things:

One bit of recent excitement was attending my 10th high school reunion. My girlz and I hemmed and hawed and shopped and stressed about what to wear as though we were actually still in high school. And then, when we got there, it was like we were, since everybody cliqued up the way they always did back then. Like, Kjerste, I was surprised by how few people outside of my own clique with whom I actually spoke. I was also surprised by the random former classmate who decided to sing along with a couple of songs. Why was he singing? Who let him in? I didn't hear anything about karaoke! It was a bit surreal. But hey, don't take my word for it: Take Kjerste's. Because one of the benefits of not blogging right away about the reunion is that somebody else will do it for you.

And that is all for now. I'm open to taking suggestions for blog topics, though, to moisten my dry spell. So suggest.

He's been at this before

2007-11-13T12:18:00.001-05:00

So, apparently my favorite subway performer likes his pop princesses. Here he is in action, singing some Pink, about a month ago. I think there's a little less avid dancing here than what I was lucky enough to see in person.

Thank you, YouTube.

I really do need a camera phone

2007-11-09T17:18:00.001-05:00

I saw something wonderful this evening in the Park Street station (that's a subway stop, for my non-Boston readers -- oh wait! That's nearly all of you!) It was a street performer of a special sort. Picture it: A middle-aged, paunchy, balding white guy. He's wearing a microphone headset (which reminds me of Madonna's Blond Ambition tour) and has a stereo. On it, he is playing this song:

He has the balance on his stereo set such that you can only barely hear Britney singing. Because he's singing. And shaking his ass. And flailing his arms a bit and gyrating his hips ("dancing"). He seems impervious to the laughter of the crowd on the platform around him.

I think this may be one of the funniest things I've ever seen. I was sad when my train came and even sadder that I don't have a camera phone so I could get a picture.

And that, kids, is the benefit of public transportation.

A Lifetime of Scholarship

2007-10-29T16:29:00.000-04:00

I began school around age 4, like most other preschoolers. I then proceeded to continue school until the age of 27, receiving assorted degrees. And then after I finally graduated, there was still the sticky issue of licensure. Not being licensed has relegated me to a not-yet-finished, student-like state of being. I must say I've been pretty good at studenthood: I know how to study, write, play nice, and use my inside voice. I also make excellent PB&J sandwiches.

I'm proud to say, however, that I am finally, finally done with all that. Today I passed my final licensing exam, which means that all that studying I've been doing all my life, and, in particular, for the last several months, paid off. Once I receive notice from the Board of Psychology and send them a fat check, I'll be licensed. Which means that I don't really need to study anything or go to classes for the rest of my life.

As God as my witness, I will never be graded again.

Unemployment Enjoyment

2007-10-22T18:05:00.000-04:00

I have a confession to make.

I have a new motto. It's "Work is for Suckers!" Go ahead. Say it a few times. Let it roll off your tongue. Doesn't that sound nice?

I find that it sounds even nicer when I say it while watching one of the hundreds of channels the Comcast guy installed on Friday. And it sounds even better when I'm watching something the DVR recorded for me while I was asleep.

And it sounds best of all when I say it when I roll out of bed in the morning, unhurried because I don't have to be to work like everyone else marching down the street toward the subway.

Yeah, I know that this will all have to come to an end. Eventually I'll join the working minions.

Especially because I just found out that I passed my big licensing exam. With flying colors. This is a picture of all my flashcards that I have been studying (to the detriment of my own mental health) for months.

Here's a picture of me stepping on them after gleefully throwing them on the floor. I was thinking a ritual burning was in order, but I was afraid of setting fire to the apartment. So I recycled them instead.

Now I have one more test before I can be licensed and highly employable. Sure, it'll be nice to have the money. And to use my fancy, expensive degree. But I'll miss watching HGTV in the middle of the day.

And yes, this is my second consecutive post involving television. Wipe that look off your face, sucker, and get yourself to work.

My TV

2007-10-09T19:14:00.000-04:00

When Todd and I moved to our new digs, we decided we were tired of the rabbit ears on our TV. So we sprung for cable, but only a little bit of it: The most basic, basic package. All it really seemed to get us is a bunch of Somerville and Cambridge public access channels (always entertaining), an extra PBS station, and NECN. And, best of all, My TV. This is the strangest channel: It features an odd collection of re-runs (right now I'm watching Frasier -- I'm not complaining) and what appear to be some "original" reality shows that I haven't yet dared watch. But the very best part is the weather man. During commercial breaks, he pops in to tell us all about the "stohms" approaching in his strange, squeaky voice. You can't really see his eyes for some reason -- maybe it's his bushy eyebrows. Or maybe it's a result of the poor lighting in this one-step-up from public access station. At any rate, it's hilarious. I look forward to the weather repoaht just so I can imitate his accent.

And I do love a good accent.

On Finishing

2007-10-07T19:02:00.001-04:00

Yesterday, Dr. Bombay and I ran the Applefest Half-Marathon. It was hot -- it must have been somewhere around 80 degrees when we began running at 10 AM. In spite of the heat and the hilly course (which was not nearly as frightening as the race website made it out to be), we did not ride on the loser van.

I daresay we even had fun. We developed a passing formation: When we passed another runner, we would go around opposite sides of the person and meet again in front of the person. It was very dramatic. We also sang and pranced a bit. And chit-chatted the whole way through, even when going up hills. Which may have been a bit annoying to the other runners, but it definitely made those 13.1 miles pass by a bit faster. I even yelled at a spectator. He had his head hanging out of his car window and he craned around to stare at some woman's ass as she ran by. So I yelled "Don't look at her ass!" That was early in the race, and I was feeling peppy.

We also had our very own entourage: Yeti, who was our handler, and Todd and Dr. Shoe, who were our support and cheerleading staff.

And now, as if completing a half-marathon wasn't enough excitement for one week, this Thursday I take my big licensing exam. Let's hope that my anxiety about doing well (enough) on this exam proves to be as unfounded as my anxiety about finishing the race. (Maybe I should wear my finisher's medal to the test!)

I think I have a massage in my near future.

Miscellaneous Updates

2007-09-24T18:37:00.000-04:00

Here's a bunch of stuff:

A couple of weekends ago, Todd and I trudged to Ikea and got, among other items, a lovely bed frame. As always, I was in charge of furniture assembly. Todd, for his part, had the unsavory job of obtaining the rental SUV, since we have a tiny car. We made the mistake of thinking it might be worth the $40 of savings over the cost of Ikea delivery to get the car from the airport. We were very wrong. It took forever and generally sucked. And then Todd had to drive that stupid SUV (I needed to save myself for assembly, of course). Next time -- and there always is a next time for us and Ikea -- we do delivery.

Here are some pictures of the bed in progress:

Body parts strewn about: Oh, the horror.

Malm takes shape.

The artist collapses, exhausted.

The parts of the overall assembly experience that these pictures leave out are me dropping the footboard on my big toe and my loud cursing at several points. Good thing those windows were open! And for those of you who might be wondering about funny camera tricks, wonder no longer: Our bedroom really is that small. Cozy, if you will. And now you know why our previous (sleigh) bed would not work.

In other news, we've lately been enjoying a weekly delivery of organic produce, courtesy of Boston Organics. When we lived in the 'burbs, we had wanted to get this service, but we were so distant from Boston that the trucks didn't come out to our area. Which tells you something about the lameness of our former town. This weekly delivery, combined with our propensity for recycling, the fact that every light bulb in our apartment is a compact fluorescent, and my rampant vegetarianism, makes me feel very good about myself (look, I need to have something). In addition to my increased self-esteem, I get the added benefit of the element of surprise when I open the box o' produce every week, not knowing what might lie within. Ahh, the drama of it all!

And finally, it is less than 2 weeks until the half-marathon that Dr. Bombay and I are running. (Our third runner, Dr. Shoe, has sustained a knee injury and will not be joining us). And I am happy to report that, barring any dramatic injury, we will be able to outrun the loser van that comes to pick off runners who are taking too long or otherwise don't look like they can finish. Avoiding humiliation is priority number one! And don't worry kids -- we will be signing autographs after the race!

Thank you, Rasta man

2007-09-19T14:45:00.000-04:00

Today while making a midday trip to Trader Joe's, I thought about how sick I am of studying for licensure, and how I would much prefer to sleep until 10 AM and spend the rest of the day shopping at Target. Yeah, like that'll ever happen. (And I'd get bored anyway -- I want what I don't have, and then once I have it, I don't want it anymore. Analyze that!)

Anyway, my checker at TJ's was a nice Rasta man, who seemed genuinely puzzled when I told him that the card reader wasn't working ("Really?!") and as I was leaving, he did so much more than wish me a good day. He said: "Stay focused, alright? Stay strong." And he sounded like he really meant it. I was so shocked as his timely suggestion that I looked dazedly at him and said "You too" the way you accidentally might to someone who wishes you a happy birthday. I wish I had had something deeper to say.

Or, if there was something good he had been smoking, I wish he would have at least shared. Though it probably wouldn't help me stay focused.

Helga Haus

2007-09-09T19:57:00.000-04:00

Here are some pictures of Helga Haus. It's a work in progress: We don't have any plants, we still need a bed frame and probably some other undiscovered treasures from Ikea. We haven't been quite able to bring ourselves to make the pilgrimage to Ikea yet, however, because we're afraid of all the college students who are probably there buying all the stuff we want. At least the ones with good taste are doing that. We'll go in a couple of weeks after those crazy kids are settled in and too busy drinking to buy any more furniture. Although I suppose they are probably already busy drinking, so maybe my logic doesn't hold up so well.

But that's why they pay me the big bucks.

What Would FloJo Do?

2007-09-09T09:31:00.000-04:00

In the sweltering heat of Friday afternoon, Dr. Bombay, Yeti and I went out for cupcakes (I highly recommend Kickass Cupcakes), ice cream, and generally stopped traffic in Davis Square. Though the cupcakes and ice cream may make us sound like a group of 11-year-old girls out for a birthday party, and the fact that it was the middle of the afternoon on a weekday may make it seem like we were doing nothing very serious, this was, in fact, a working "lunch."

We had to plan our outfits for the half-marathon that Dr. Bombay and I will be running, along with another friend, in October.

This is approximately what we decided on:

We were thinking that perhaps we could have some kind of patriotic theme, with the 3 of us running together and our costumes making a picture of an American Flag or Lady Liberty. FloJo often seemed to be wearing patriotic-themed running costumes. And if it was good enough for FloJo, it's certainly good enough for me.

We also imagined that we might wear capes, to increase the drama of our progression through the grueling race. The capes will, of course, be sparkly. Then we will look like superheroes. Or perhaps running drag queens. Or Superhero Drag Queens.

I think FloJo would have approved. Plus, we can blame our slowness on the weight of our costumes.

Rollin' with Helga

2007-09-04T18:00:00.000-04:00

This last Saturday, Todd and I decided to roam around the city and enjoy our new urban digs.

Our "tour" started in our own new neighborhood, Davis Square. Here's a picture of our new building and street. Pictures of the inside of Helga Haus will be forthcoming, contingent upon the process of nesting.

Then, after eating lunch in Central Square, we walked to the river. Usually when people walk to the river, they are searching for views like this one of the Boston skyline from Cambridge:

But we were actually on a mission of a different sort. We were looking for moving trucks. You see, in the Boston area, it seems that the majority of leases start on September 1st to accommodate the ridiculous number of college students in the area. And every single year, multiple students drive their U-hauls onto Storrow Drive, which goes along the river into downtown Boston. But there's just one problem:

The low clearance. Funny how it's not clearly posted, huh?

Can you see where I'm going with this?

Todd and I walked down to the river to see if we could find a wrecked U-haul with some dejected looking college students standing off to the side. Seemed like a good way to spend a nice afternoon. When we saw this we knew there was something afoot:

So we walked faster. We weren't disappointed:

That thing that looks like a piece of a giant sardine can hanging from the top the tunnel is the roof of a moving truck. We waited around for a while, but we never did get to see the truck. Apparently the kids just kept on driving into the tunnel even after they heard that funny noise from above. And if you look closely, you can see them huddled off near the police car. Sure kids, try to hide. Hardly anybody saw you.

It was a good day rollin' with Helga in Boston.

How to get rid of moving boxes

2007-08-27T19:05:00.000-04:00

Here is a step-by-step guide for getting rid of used moving boxes:

1. Post an ad on Craigslist detailing the enormous quantity of moving boxes in your possession.

2. Post the ad about a week before most renters with a lease will be moving (Sept. 1) because you moved the weekend before and have been in an unpacking frenzy.

3. Field about 10 phone calls in 2 hours.

4. When caller number 1 comes with a sedan that has 3 carseats (sans children) in the back to pick up all 40ish boxes, help her with them by shoving them in her car. You can make those 3 wardrobe boxes fit in her backseat if it kills you. You gonna carry those back upstairs? No, you are not. Make them fit.

5. Wave to caller number 1 as she drives away, barely able to see in her rearview mirror because those wardrobe boxes fit so well.

6. Have a glass of wine to congratulate yourself on a job well done, and also to congratulate yourself for having unpacked the wine glasses. And be damn sure to take down that Craigslist ad so people stop calling you about the boxes.

Keebler Elves, where are you?

2007-08-24T17:42:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow the movers come to take all our crap from Natick to Davis Square. Whoopee! Of course, the packing is a drag, and I've done most of it -- Todd started his new job this week, and I currently "work from home" in that I study constantly for my licensing exam and look for a job. Actually, it's quite a lot of work; I just don't get paid for it. But it means that it's a bit easier for me than it is for him to get time off from my boss so I can pack. Here's how the conversation went:

"Helga? Do you think I could take a couple of days off from studying and job hunting so I can pack up the apartment? I'm actually a bit ahead of schedule with the studying, and I've called all the places where I've applied for a job so they remember that I still exist."

"Well, I don't know, Helga. How far ahead do you really think you are? What if you forget everything you've learned?! Are you sure you want to pack up your job interview clothes just yet? What if somebody calls you back right now?! "

"Oh, well, I guess I'll just have to deal with it. There's always next week. I really do need to pack."

"All right. But just don't get too comfortable, especially with the not studying. I've got my eye on you."

*Sigh* That Helga can be a real stickler sometimes. But at least I got some time off.

Anyway, yesterday I had the yearning for some elves to come and help me pack. And not just any elves. I want the Keebler Elves. Then, after they've packed stuff for me, they can give me some cookies. Or, better yet, they can give me some cookies to munch on while I watch them pack.

Then, they can come with me to the new apartment and do all the unpacking. And, of course, they will know exactly where I want everything. So I can just eat some more cookies and relax while they work.

This does not seem like such a bad idea to me.

Finally

2007-08-21T19:36:00.000-04:00

I know. I said I was going to post some Peru pictures. But I've been busy, blah, blah, blah, and I haven't gotten to it. But here they finally are. We took lots of pictures (more than 300), so whittling it down to a few highlights was difficult. Please applaud my effort.

First, we were in Cusco and the Sacred Valley:

This is the Plaza de Armas, which is the main square in Cusco.

These are the ruins of Ollantaytambo (say that 3 times fast, I dare you!), which is a town and former Inca citadel in the Sacred Valley. We saw other ruins like this at other places in the valley as well as along the Inca trail, but I'm going to save myself some time and not upload other high-resolution pictures. You get the idea.

Here are some local women in traditional clothes. I loved their clothes. It amazed us how fast these two seemed to be able to hoof it up the steep hills where we were. Which was, you know, the Andes.

Then, of course, there was the hike to Machu Picchu:

Here I am with the other members of our little group (Todd, of course, is behind the camera). What? You can't see me? That's because my very tall backpack obscures my head. I think I almost look hardcore here, don't you?

Yes, it was gorgeous, which ultimately made it worth all the pain. Not that I'll ever do anything like this again.

We did not hike this snowy peak, even though my legs felt like it.

These are our group's very hardworking porters. Look how fast they can climb those mountains for such low pay!!

There were llamas on the trail. Here's one I'm befriending outside of a "bathroom." Heh. I was probably just making a beeline for the "toilet." Get outta my way, llama!

This is a slew of hikers looking exhausted at the top of dead woman's pass. You can't tell from this picture how far we climbed, but believe me, it was far.

And finally, there was Machu Picchu. We woke before dawn on the last day of the hike to get to Machu Picchu by sunrise. When we got there, this is what we saw:

That's right: Nothing. It had rained the day before and a thick fog lingered. This is approximately what I was thinking at the time: "I hiked for four @#$! days and shat in @#$! pits so I could come to @#$! Machu Picchu! I haven't bathed in four @#$%! days and this is what I @#$!%&@!#$@#@$@! get?! "

The camper was not happy.

So we hung out for a while with the llamas that graze there and hoped for some sun.

Luckily, the fog cleared and we got the money shots. And it's a good thing. I was almost on the verge of acting out my anger by murdering one of the very comfortable and clean-looking people who had come to Machu Picchu by way of the train.

After we left Machu Picchu, we headed back to Cusco, where we ended up staying longer than expected after getting booted from our flight to Lima (this was when the airline so kindly put us up in a ritzy hotel). But then we finally made it to Lima for a couple of days. We don't have so many pictures: I was sick and we spent most of the time in our room watching MTV, which was in English with Spanish subtitles. But here's what we did see in Lima:

Paragliders going off the cliffs in Miraflores, the neighborhood near the beach where we were staying.

And the lovely Pacific Ocean. For just a second, I thought I was back in Santa Cruz.

Oh, yeah: There was also the bus that crashed into our hotel. See the big chunk it took out of the security wall? And the silver BMW? The hotel owner told us that this was the second time in 4 years that a bus had crashed into the wall. Did I mention that people drive a little crazy in Peru?

Then, of course, we had to come home, though at least our flights weren't delayed.

This concludes the photo tour of Peru. Muchas Gracias.

I am not dead

2007-08-03T07:38:00.000-04:00

I think my last blog posting aroused some suspicion that I might be dying, or at the very least, not getting better from my Peruvian illness. Sorry that I worried some of you. The antibiotics that I got from the doctor in Peru have been very effective, and I am feeling much, much better. It's also been nice to be home so I can eat and drink without worrying about contamination. I've been brushing my teeth with tap water, baby! And eating salads and flushing toilet paper. Life is good.

My good friend Dr. Bombay suggested that what I had could be marketed as an eating disorder starter kit. The kit would include:

*One (1) copy of this article from Runner's World magazine (to get people into the eating disorder frame of mind).
*One (1) plane ticket to Peru.
*One (1) FREE intestinal bacteria.

Directions: Combine these items and poo incessantly.

Also, just for the record, I do not have an eating disorder.

Hola

2007-08-01T09:30:00.000-04:00

So I'm back from Peru. There is so much to tell and so many pictures to upload. But for now, I'll give you an overview.

Getting there: It was not half the fun. Our flight from Boston to Miami was delayed to such an extent that we could not make our connection from Miami to Lima (and then from Lima to Cusco). After telling us there was no way to get there, the ticket agent magically found us another flight from Miami to Lima. This was still a pretty tight connection, especially for an international flight. So after getting off the 3-hour-long flight from Boston to Miami, Todd and I ran across the Miami airport -- It was all very Amazing Race. And after booking it across several terminals, what did we find? That our flight from Miami to Lima was also delayed, by about an hour, I think. It finally left at about 3 am.

When we finally arrived in Lima, the airport was mobbed. Apparently, the airport in Cusco had been on strike the day before, so many people who had been trying to get there from Lima were still in Lima. We missed our original connection because of all the delays, and at first the ticket agent told us that there were no more flights. But then, magically, LAN (the airline) produced one in several hours. We arrived in Cusco about 7 hours later than was originally planned. The funny thing is, Todd had made a mistake in telling the hotel when to pick us up from the airport. But it turned out to be exactly the right time given the delays. Ha!

Cusco and the Sacred Valley: Cusco (or Q'osqo, if I'm going to use the traditional spelling), means "The Navel of the Universe" in Quechua, which is the native Andean language. It was the heart of the Inca empire, and it is surrounded by a valley that is dotted with many Inca ruins. It is also at a very high altitude, since it is in the Andes. I'll talk more about the ruins when I've uploaded the pictures -- they were pretty cool. Anyway, Cusco is very touristy, being the jumping-off point for Machu Picchu and other sights. Which means that everybody wants to sell you something, including pictures with them wearing local dress. Cusco also has tons of stray dogs and garbage in the streets. Well, not as much garbage as other places probably have. But the poverty of the locals is very clear and very sad. There are also signs everywhere discouraging sex tourism and slavery. Do you really need signs for that?

The Inca Trail: Oh. My. God. Where do I start? I'll say more when the pictures are uploaded later. But what I will say now is that this was the most difficult physical experience of my entire life, and I have never been so sore. Todd and I realized that we are not trekkers, and will probably not do anything like this again, although we're glad now that we can say we did this.

The bathrooms along the trail were terrifying. I had been somewhat excited to learn that there were toilets along the trail. However, although they were called "flush toilets," they really amounted to "flush pits." I am not good at squatting to do my business, especially when other people's shit is all over the floor. And the toilets at the campsites would eventually get plugged up. Squatting is also hard when you've been hiking for 9 hours a day in the Andes. This is a time when a girl needs to sit, thank you very much.

On the first day of the trail, I began to get very ill. I thought it might be food poisoning, and our wonderful guide gave me some Immodium, which helped me for the remaining days of the hike. Imagine how much (insert assorted curse words here) fun I had pooing constantly in those flush pits!! Anyway, I never got better after the hike and eventually saw doctor in Lima the day before we left. I've been invaded by bacteria and have lost almost 10 pounds. I'm starting to feel better though, and I imagine that soon my collarbone and hips won't jut out so much.

As I mentioned before, our guide was very helpful. We had 2 other people on our tour, a couple from France, who we liked very much. The porters, who are the hardworking men who carry the camp equipment to each site, set up and break up camp, and cook (you know, the servants) are the hardest working bunch of people I have ever seen. They are paid so little, and yet it's probably more than they get at their other jobs, which are usually farming. They are young men (usually in their early 20s) with old faces that look marred by hard lives. They carry huge loads of equipment up steep mountains. There is supposedly a 25 kilo limit on how much they can carry, but we saw some who must have been carrying more. They get to the lunch or campsites before the campers, set up dining tents and sleeping tents, cook amazing food (the best food I had in Peru was made my German, my group's cook), and do it day after day after day. Class divisions were very apparent, as the porters and cook served us, but then ate after us, not with us. They also didn't get to sleep in proper tents, just the non-waterproof military tents that served as the cooking and dining tents. This was especially problematic on the night that it rained really hard. We also never really got introduced to them until the last night, which seemed strange. We were all very uncomfortable with this arrangement. We (the group of us) kept pushing our guide for answers about this, and asking to have meals with all of us together. I'm not sure that our guide knew what to do with this, but we did all eat together on the last night.

Lima: We were supposed to fly from Cusco to Lima the day after we got back from the trail, but that didn't happen. Why? Well, when we missed our original flight from Lima to Cusco, LAN cancelled the rest of our itinerary. Just because. They did, however, get us on a flight for the next day and they put us up in Cusco at a very, very fancy hotel and paid for our meals. I loved that fancy hotel room. Which is good, because I spent the day inside of it, close to the very elegant bathroom.

We only spent 2 days in Lima, and didn't get to see much, since I was so sick. We stayed in a part of Lima called Miraflores, which is close to the ocean and probably the prettiest part of this big, dirty city. We walked to the Pacific Ocean and just for a minute I thought I was back in Santa Cruz. While in Lima, we also went to the saddest zoo I have ever seen. The animals had very small enclosures. The one sea otter they had was in what looked like a stained swimming pool (alone -- not good for such a social animal) and was eating some garbage that people had thrown in. We didn't stay long there.

Our hotel in Lima was fabulous, but not in the ostentatiously fancy way that most people would define "fabulous." It cost $40 per night and was super clean. There was unlimited free drinking water, and tons of hot water in the shower. The Internet was free, and when it was clear that I was getting worse and not better, they called a doctor for me who provided me with free care. Amazing.

There was also some free entertainment: A bus crashed into the hotel. People in Peru drive even more crazily than in Massachusetts, and on the first night that we were there, there was a bus vs. beamer accident. The bus crashed into the stone wall and security gate outside the hotel. The owner said this was the second time in 4 years that this had happened. For those of you imagining large city buses, take heart: This was a colectivo, which is more of a mini bus that you can take for about 1 sole (.60 US) and gets crammed more full of people than you thought possible. Todd and I took several of these around Cusco and the Sacred Valley -- it can be nice to travel with the locals. And we realized we could have easily been on the one that crashed into the hotel. Scary. One man had to be carried away on a stretcher.

And now we're back. Our flights back went fairly smoothly. Now, of course, we need to start packing to get ready to move. But I might go back to bed first.

Packing up

2007-07-18T11:01:00.000-04:00

We leave for Peru tomorrow night, so don't expect to hear from me for a while. I'm going to be busy climbing mountains, petting Alpaca, not getting pick-pocketed, and asking for vegetarian meals in broken Spanish.

Maybe I'll send some postcards that won't be received until I return, which will hopefully be with some good souvenirs and an Andean tan. Though that might just be a bad sunburn due to high altitudes. Plus, it's winter there. I'm packing long underwear for sleeping in the tent. I don't think they make "tan-thru" long underwear.

Think of this as my pre-Peruvian ramble. That's all for now.

Brick. House.

2007-07-12T13:35:00.001-04:00

It seems like nearly everywhere I go lately, that song is playing:

In the grocery store earlier this week: Brick. House. A woman with a baby in her cart sang softly as she looked at soup.

In Target yesterday: Brick. House. I walked around, looking for things I could not find but was happy to be in an air-conditioned, non-humid environment. I sang along in my head before going back to Heat Stroke Villa, which is what I will call my non-air-conditioned apartment.

Today at the gym: Brick. House. I did squats and wondered why a woman who is "36-24-36" would be considered anyone's Brick House. She just sounds skinny to me, which seems like the opposite of a Brick House. Clearly, the Commodores were confused by our sexist, fat-phobic culture.

Is the entire town of Natick on the same Musak loop?

Incidentally, our new apartment will be in a brick building. A Brick House if you will.

Clown school in Singapore

2007-07-11T11:14:00.000-04:00

Last week I had an odd dream: Todd had decided that he would accompany a friend to Singapore where they would attend clown school together. One of the main reasons he was going was that there was a special airfare, so long as the return date wasn't for 3 months. So, that was Todd's plan: He would go to Singapore for 3 months and learn to be a clown. I was not invited. Rather, it was expected that I would just pay the rent for 3 months with my nonexistent salary and generally hold down the fort.

I tried to remind Todd that he didn't even like clowns and that they are actually quite scary. But no, he was determined. And I was pissed. I woke up ready to both kick him and cry, but before I did either I realized it was a dream. And I'm sure Todd appreciated this, especially with the kicking.

In other news, we leave for Peru next Thursday. That's just over a week, in case you don't know what day it is. We will not be attending clown school there.

Memories

2007-07-05T19:18:00.001-04:00

The air is thick with memories 'round these parts. After all, last year at this time, Todd and I were busy selling off our stuff and preparing to move. My days consisted of procuring boxes, wrapping things in bubble wrap, and trying to be patient as endless streams of people who saw our stuff on Craigslist wanted to come lowball me on the price. And now, here we are again, preparing to move, though at least this time it's just to a nearby city. Last year, too, we had a vacation in the works -- the roadtrip that took us 3,200 miles away from home. And two weeks from today, we are going far away again, to Peru. But this time we're coming back.

To prepare for our upcoming move, I posted an ad on Craigslist today to sell the treadmill that took me nowhere. Of course, this brought back memories of all the ads I posted last year that resulted in the sale of most of our possessions. (This was also because we still have all the pictures on the computer -- anybody want to buy a bike that I no longer own?) And it turns out that there were some pictures on the camera that we hadn't downloaded yet, from good times had months ago. I think it's always exciting to discover pictures you forgot existed. Here's a little walk down memory lane:

It took me a few minutes to figure out what this one is. Not long after we moved here, Todd and I played tourist. This is me peering over the pew at an old church -- it might be the Old North Church or something, but I'm not sure. I found it funny that the pews were so enclosed, and even had little doors. That way you don't have to interact with anybody. Which is as God intended, apparently.

This is the state house in Concord, New Hampshire. In September or early October last year, Todd and I took a day trip to the north. We saw some leaves and stopped off in the capital. We were still in travel mode, I think, since this picture looks pretty similar to the state house picture we took in Boise, Idaho. I think we were taking an unconscious tour of state capitals.

These two are of Kennebunkport, Maine. For my birthday last year, Todd and I went to Portland, but on our way home, we stopped to see where the rich and famous hang out. This is where they do it. Although I don't think the truly wealthy "hang out." They enjoy pursuits that sound more sophisticated, like "dining" and "entertaining." Unfortunately, we don't have any pictures of actual rich people in their natural habitat. Sorry.

Hiking up the mountain

2007-07-02T19:43:00.000-04:00

On Saturday, Todd and I decided that we would be all hardcore and hike up Mount Wachusett, a local ski area. We packed our backpacks full of heavy books and started driving to the mountain, feeling good about this hike as a preparation for the big hike to Machu Picchu later this month. By even considering doing this hike, we felt big and strong.

Our plans were almost thwarted though, by these people:

Turns out there was a big multi-stage bike race that day, the Fitchburg Longsjo Classic. Some roads were closed and we thought that maybe we wouldn't be able to get to the trails. We persevered, and got to see the riders traveling in herds faster than it would seem possible for humans to go.

This race is apparently a big deal. We heard that during that day, people had gone something like 90 miles. And it wasn't even the last day of the race. We got to the top of the mountain in time to see some of the elite finishers. Yes, the finish line was at the top of the mountain. These people are actually hardcore, whereas Todd and I just like to pretend.

We rooted on the cyclists, took a few pictures, and milled around. Then, we trudged back down the mountain in time for dinner. Because that is the sort of hikers we are.

Also, I had the really annoying Mount Wachusett jingle that I heard in commercials all winter stuck in my head as I hiked. It's been stuck there since. I'm really hoping this clears up before Machu Picchu, or I will end up going insane. Sadly, I can't find the commercial on YouTube, so those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about will just have to take my word for it.

The Princess of (Mis)Pronounciation

2007-06-25T14:51:00.000-04:00

The other day as I was watching some stupid TV (is there any other kind worth watching?) I was sent into a reverie by an Aricept commercial. Which is kind of funny/sad, when you think about it, since Aricept is an Alzheimer's drug -- if I needed the drug, there would probably be no reveries.

I got to thinking about the word Alzheimer's. When I was a child, I used to think that this word was acutally Oldtimer's. As in Oldtimer's Disease. The etymology made sense to me -- it was a disease of the old, after all. And so I happily mispronounced the word until somebody corrected me.

This wasn't the only word with which I did this. I also used to think that suitcase was actually soupcase. The etymology did not make sense to me in this instance, and I was confused. I never saw any Campbell's in there. Who packed soup to go on vacation? Even though it didn't make sense, I went with it, and walked around saying soupcase until one day my mom heard me say it and took pause. She made me repeat myself and got a good chuckle. When she corrected me and explained that people pack suits, not soup, I felt better. Because you just shouldn't pack cans of soup for a vacation.

Then there was hoak chest. It was the thing that sat down at the end of my parents' bed and that was used for storage. It looked to be made of oak, and it was a chest. So it kind of made sense in my small and apparently fevered brain. Luckily, my mom caught me on this one as well and explained that it was actually called a hope chest. Whoops. (Thanks, Mom!)

And lest you think that I only did this with words I heard, allow me to set you straight. As an avid reader, I was burning through books beyond my grade level at an early age. (I love you, Babysitter's Club!!) This also meant that I often read unfamiliar words whose meaning I was able to decipher from context, but that I could not accurately pronounce. Like hors d'oeuvres. I knew that this meant small, snacky food. But I thought it was pronounced horrs du vorrs. (As you can imagine, I would probably excel at French). This mispronunciation issue was remedied when I finally heard somebody else pronounce it correctly and the light bulb went on. I was old enough at that point that if some random person had caught me mispronouncing it so egregiously, I would have had to turn red and run away. And given that I was also an uncoordinated child (all that reading), I probably would have tripped. Which would have embarrassed me so much that I would have had to quit school.

So I think we should all be glad that I am no longer the Princess of (Mis)Pronunciation. The funny thing now is that I get really annoyed when other people mispronounce words. My grandmother, for instance, insists on calling Oprah Winfrey Ofrah. It doesn't matter how many times you try to subtly correct her ("Yes, grandma, that was a good show that OPRAH had the other day.") it doesn't change. Actually, it's a bit endearing, and given that she's in her 90s , I think this is the way it is.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some soup to pack.

What happened to June?

2007-06-24T19:19:00.000-04:00

I'm not quite sure what happened to the month of June. It's like I blinked and the end of the month is here. I have been busy, though, I swear! For instance:

I co-invented Happyland. What, you haven't heard of it? Isn't that sad for you. The fabulous stylist who does my hair and I decided that one of us will win the lottery and then create a commune. The commune will be called Happyland. The rooms will be filled with very comfortable mattresses and big-screen televisions. There will be fountains of fondue (both cheese and chocolate) and this will make everybody-- you guessed it -- happy. Additionally, it will always be 75 degrees and sunny. If a Happyland resident would like some weather alternatives, there will be a button that can be pressed to create the weather. Plus, nobody will have to hold down a job. Want in? Yeah, I thought so. There will be a secret handshake, so I suggest you bribe me for it.

And as if co-inventing Happyland wasn't time-consuming enough, I've been exerting a lot of energy by thinking about the gear I'll need to hike the Inca Trail. I even went so far as to try on a backpack! And buy water purification tablets and wool socks! In fact, just thinking about all that exhausts me. Which bodes really well for the hike itself, I'd say.

Don't worry. I think July will be more interesting. We will be going to Peru, after all. Hopefully, I'll be able to bring a baby Alpaca back to the states. It would fit right in at Happyland.

Davis Square

2007-06-03T18:58:00.001-04:00

Once we got back from Vermont last Monday, we had an appointment with a rental agent. We thought that she had one place to show us, but it turned out that she had four. The fourth one had just been listed that day. In fact, I think it was more like the owner had just hired the rental agent that day, but no formal listing had been made yet. The first 3 apartments we saw wouldn't have worked for various reasons, although a couple of them were pretty close. Then, there was number 4. And we liked it. We were the first ones to see it and we snapped it up, since it was the type of place that wouldn't stay long on the market. We saw it fast, and after several other apartments, so I don't have a clear mental picture of it. Which caused me to freak out a bit after signing the lease: Is it too small? Will our furniture fit? Did this all happen too fast?! But I'm calmer now, and my buyer's remorse has basically resolved. Because we haven't bought anything -- this is just a rental. And if my biggest worries are fitting my furniture into the apartment (as opposed to say, getting, mugged as I walk down the street) I don't think I have much to worry about at all.

So come September, we'll be living in Davis Square, and we'll have a very short walk to the T. We really wish we could move in right this minute (I can pack fast!) but, you know, pesky leases require patience. And so we continue to wait for the time we can leave the 'burbs behind. It's getting close. I can already taste the J.P. Licks.

Eating our way across Vermont

2007-06-02T12:17:00.000-04:00

Last weekend, in celebration of our 3rd anniversary, Todd and I went to Vermont. I could talk about the cute towns of Middlebury and Burlington, the loveliness that is Lake Champlain, and the beautiful lushness of this time of year. And that would be nice, wouldn't it? And if I had pictures, I could post them, which would also probably be pretty great. But I don't have pictures, and talking about all that other stuff really negates the main point of the trip, which ended up being gorging ourselves on local delights.

Last Sunday was a rainy day, which lent itself well to eating. We had a lunch that featured large quantities of cheese (from real Vermont cows!) and then went to a chocolate festival, where we were given free samples. The festival was a bit small for our $8 admission, but we managed to get the most of our free sample coupons by scoping out the place and making our choices wisely. There was a booth where you could get chocolate martinis, but, unfortunately, they weren't giving out free samples of that. Some people who were getting their samples would make conversation with the maker of the chocolate and ooh and ahh about the smoothness of it and crap like that. Whatever. We didn't want to talk with these people. We just wanted to stuff our faces and leave.

There was also a person wearing a moose costume. The moose looked to be either tired or drunk on chocolate martinis. He stumbled into one of the rooms at the festival, brushing me with his antlers as he pushed past. Then he sat in a chair and propped himself up against a wall. Although there were children there, he didn't approach them in the annoying fashion that you often see from people in costumes. And everyone took a wide berth around him. Everyone knew not to mess with the moose.

After eating all we could at the chocolate festival, we then went to the Ben and Jerry's factory for a tour. At the end of the tour, they give a very generous free sample of their flavor of the day (ours was Phish Food). At one point in the tour, they also tell you about their quality control process, which involves a rather large man tasting the ice cream. They say that their quality control people eat about a pint of ice cream a day and because of this they are given free gym memberships and cholesterol screenings by the company. Todd and I both know that we could do this job extremely well. So if our other careers don't work out, we now have a good backup.

The only Vermont food we didn't manage to eat on our binge was some sort of maple product. Oh well. I guess we'll just have to go back on a pancakes-and-candy trip sometime. Maybe next year. Isn't the 4th anniversary the maple year?

Rent to us! We won't grow pot!

2007-05-25T12:56:00.000-04:00

Apparently there is a new trend: Landlords are increasingly seeing that properties they've rented out have been turned into marijuana grow rooms. This pretty much destroys the property. Todd and I have long considered ourselves great tenants, but now we have yet another reason: We won't turn our apartment into a grow room! We should make sure to tell this to the rental agents and landlords that we meet. It'll make us a shoo-in for any apartment!

Mental Notes and Breadboxes

2007-05-22T17:26:00.000-04:00

I've thought a number of times recently about doing a blog entry. Usually, I haven't had time to do a blog entry right when I think about it, so I've made a mental note to do it later. The problem with mental notes is that they get lost. Or I come back to them later, and the oomph that was there before that would have propelled me to write something is gone. Too bad I usually feel too busy or exhausted to do a blog entry when I have an idea. It seems like I think about doing something and then I look up and it's 3 days later. Why is this happening? Oh yeah: I work full time at a high-stress job, I'm studying for licensing (minimally, at the moment, but it still takes time and energy), I'm training for a big hiking trip as well as a half-marathon, and now we've begun looking for an apartment. No wonder my mental notes are getting lost in the shuffle.

Every time I apartment hunt, I'm reminded of why I hate moving. The search for the perfect (or even a decent) apartment takes over your life. Plus, I feel like I just moved. We still even have some packing paper. And we never did get around to buying plants, since we knew we wouldn't be in this place long. Why buy something that you'll just have to move in a year? So we've just been biding our time in a plantless, paper-filled apartment until we can leave.

We saw some apartments this weekend that were problematic. Todd and I have been spoiled with our last several apartments in terms of their size. For instance, we like to both be able to stand in the kitchen and turn around. And, as I'm sure I've mentioned before, our last apartment in California was Fa.Bu.Lous. So I compare everything to this superapartment. I will probably never live in an apartment that nice again unless I get extremely lucky. And I don't win raffles all that often, which I will take to mean that I don't have very good luck.

But back to the problems with some of the apartments we've seen so far: They were miniature. And expensive. I realized that I need to start asking agents if the apartment is bigger than a breadbox before I agree to see it. The first place we saw looked like a cell at a penitentiary and it was $1400 a month. Astronomical, but very close to the Central Square station, which makes transportation easy when your parole officer gives you the go-ahead.

Luckily, we've also seen some apartments that are a bit closer to what we want, so we can be hopeful of finding something. We're even offering a reward to someone who might help us find the perfect apartment by tipping us off to something good. I'm not at the point of starting to read the obituaries. Yet. But if you know someone with a great place on the Red Line between Alewife and Central who is pretty sick, let me know. And if you think they will probably die or at least need to go into the hospital for a long stay by August or September first, I'd be happy to give them a ride to the ER in the front seat of my U-Haul.

Neighborhood Spy

2007-05-07T18:43:00.000-04:00

It seems that our crazy-ass downstairs neighbors have moved, and in a very weird way. A couple of weeks ago, Todd and I noticed that we didn't hear any noise coming from downstairs, and their cars seemed to be missing. We thought that maybe they had moved, but we hadn't seen a moving truck or anything. Where was the usual grunting, sweating and cursing that accompanies a move? Usually it's pretty easy to tell when your neighbors have moved. We thought this was all a bit strange, but stomped happily across our floor and enjoyed the lack of stale cigarette smoke floating upstairs.

Today, I ran into the landlord and he told me that they indeed have apparently vacated the apartment, but seem to have left all of their furniture and belongings behind. And their stuff was in boxes, so it seems like they must have been intending to move it. When the landlord told me this, I wondered if they were dead in the apartment or had been abducted or something, like in a bad horror flick. Or maybe they were running from the law and had to leave in a rush! But, since this is reality, this is likely not the case. Maybe they just decided that they had bad taste (which they do) and needed to start over with some new furniture. And if this is the case, maybe they weren't so crazy-ass after all.

When Todd and I give the landlord our notice, we'll have to make sure to specify that we intend to take our furniture with us.

Let it out!

2007-04-27T17:01:00.000-04:00

Several weeks of sleep deprivation and high stress at work have begun to take their toll. I am beginning, ever so slightly, to lose control of myself. For instance:

Just now, when driving home from work, someone cut in front of me. I had an urge, lasting only a few moments, to ram my car into her stupid, stupid car. The reason? Not so much that she cut in front of me, but that she failed to give me a thank-you wave. I yelled at her, of course, from inside my car, which helped me feel better. And then I cut off someone else. Perhaps this means that I'm becoming a Masshole.

I've taken to yelling at the television, especially during Jeopardy. I find some relief in telling Alex Trebek to shut up and to tell the contestants that they are stupid, that they have stupid clothes, that their names are stupid, or that they otherwise should not be allowed out in public. Of course, the fact that I might be watching Jeopardy with any regularity is problematic, and likely means that I'm about ready for retirement. Which is fine with me.

Last Saturday, I cried while hiking. And no, it was not because I sustained a life-threatening injury. There it was, the first really glorious day of spring, and Todd and I decided to do a hike to start getting into the groove for the Inca Trail this summer. The trail was rocky and ill-defined, and I really wasn't having that much fun. Also, 75 degrees felt like an oven, so I was cranky and sweaty. But the last straw was when I stepped in a mud puddle, dirtying my "magic shoes," which are my new running shoes that seem to have magically fixed the problem with my IT band. So I burst into tears. I mentioned this to Kjerste in an e-mail earlier this week, and I said that I wouldn't blog about it because I just felt too stupid. But I am now seeing this as one incident in a general pattern of lame overwhelmed-ness, and I feel the need to confess. I'm letting it out! So there, now you all (what, all 3 of you?) know that I am lame and cry about shoes. What, you wanna say something about it? I didn't think so.

Obviously, I need a glass of wine.

Marathon Monday

2007-04-16T17:11:00.000-04:00

Today was the 111th running of the Boston Marathon. I, obviously, did not run it. However, we live at about mile 10, so it was pretty easy to watch. (Note to Kjerste -- being so far away from the finish prevented me from yelling "Finish strong!" But I did think about it.) Watching it was much easier than running it, especially in the cold, rainy weather. While watching, a little part of me thought, "Hey! I should do this!" I'm sure the reason I thought this is because I am completely insane. The Boston Marathon requires that you qualify by running fairly fast in another marathon, or you can be a charity runner and raise money for a charity team. Or, you can just show up and run as a Bandit, which is an unofficial runner, and you get no number or timing chip. When I look at the qualifying times, I feel pretty strongly that I could qualify as approximately a 70 year old. Unfortunately, I think they verify your age, and although I look old, I don't look that old.

The Marathon, like so many other sports, has an illustrious and sexist history (including a notable moment in which the first woman to finagle a bib number in 1967 was almost forcibly removed from the race). Women were finally allowed to enter officially in 1972. The elite women I saw running this morning were damn fast. Just before the race began, one of them was interviewed for the local news coverage, and she mentioned that, due to the weather, she was going to start out "conservatively" at about a 5 minute 30 second mile pace. What?! This is conservative? Then, throughout the race, commentary focused on how "slow" the Elites were running compared to how fast they could run under better weather conditions. But I'd say they were still blindingly fast. These people are greyhounds. I could certainly never, ever, ever run that fast. Which is why I'm not an elite runner and instead more of an average lump.

My favorite part of the goofy news coverage, however, was the "guy on the street" at Heartbreak Hill (about mile 20) who was diving into the field of runners with a microphone, pointing the live camera at them, and asking them questions. The runners he tagged seemed pretty easy going. Were they too tired to fight him? In this position, I don't know if I could handle the questioning. I'd either be rude ("Why are you talking to me? Can't you see I'm trying to run a marathon, you idiot?") or so tired that I'd lose control of myself and burst into tears. Either way, not pretty.

In general, I would say that watching the marathon today made me want to become a professional athlete. I could center my day around running and getting massages. Granted, I could never be fast enough to win any money as a professional athlete, so that would be a drag, but the hours would be good.

Apples

2007-04-08T17:13:00.000-04:00

Whenever I feel like not much exciting is happening in my life (see my previous posting), I tend to find ways to entertain myself. Sometimes it's been through things like, say, dying my hair or making prank phone calls, but I don't do those things any more. So I need something bigger. And I've found it. I'm going to run a half-marathon. Note that I said HALF -- don't get too crazy.

It's the Applefest Half Marathon -- it takes place in New Hampshire in October (which translates into plenty of time to train). A couple of friends and I will do it together. Mainly, we're focusing on the fact that they give you apple crisp at the end, and we will use visualization of said apple crisp to get us up some fairly steep-sounding hills that occur at the end of the race. I will do anything for dessert, apparently. And that seems to fit with something strange about this race -- they have weight divisions. It sounds like they are optional, but I think it's a bit odd. For one, the weights aren't very high: Men above 190 are eligible for the "Clydesdale" division, and women above 140 are eligible for the "Fillies" division. Is this an attempt to make people feel bad for being a normal weight? Is this why the website only seems to show pictures of strikingly skinny people? Are they trying to conserve on apple crisp by making you feel so bad before the race that you feel too guilty to eat dessert afterwards? Because that's not going to work for me. I'm still eating my pie. And when the paramedics come to cart me away because I'm dying, I'm taking it with me in the ambulance. I will not be deprived.

I wrote an e-mail to the organizer of the Applefest hoping for an explanation about the weight divisions. I also wanted to make sure they are optional -- I am not getting on a scale on race day. Applefest guy assured me that the weight divisions are optional. And he noted that there is some kind of Clydesdale and Filly movement. Note their strangely patriotic website. Apparently, this movement was started by those who felt that race organizers discriminated against larger runners. The overall tone of the e-mail from the Applefest guy was one of irritation with the Clydesdales. I wonder if they are a thorn in someone's side? Maybe I'll luck out and there'll be some kind of throwdown at the half marathon that I'll get to watch. While I'm eating my pie, of course.

My Boring Life

2007-03-29T19:01:00.000-04:00

It's official: My life is boring. Last week for my "spring break" I mostly just studied for licensure. I looked at flashcards until I was about ready to crawl out of my skin, all the while thinking "All work and no play makes Helga a dull girl." And you know what? It does. I obviously need to consider early retirement.

For instance, as a diversion last week, I would spy on the neighbors who live in the house behind us (this is not hard to do -- all I need to do is look out the kitchen window when I walk by). It's a couple (man/woman) who have recently had a baby. For the last several months, I've watched the mom go from a little pregnant to bursting at the seams. Then, last week, I heard the crying of a newborn while it rode in a sling as mom let the dog outside into the yard. For some reason, I found this very exciting. I feel strangely connected to these people to whom I've never spoken. I thought about sending a congratulatory card to this couple, but then remembered they don't know me and sending a card would out me as the neighborhood spy. If I were really the crazy old woman that I'm acting like, I would just march right over there and ask to hold the baby. As I did so, I would regale the couple with stories of my own experiences with babies, which would be limited to the many kittens I've raised. Instead, I'm just an old woman trapped in a younger woman's body. I'm a crazy cat lady with no cat cred. That's a shame. Early retirement beckons.

Happy Anniversary! Have some groceries.

2007-03-19T18:43:00.000-04:00

Last week, I had my own special little Ides of March experience: Upon arriving to work, I discovered that the can of Diet Coke in my lunch had a tiny hole. Nearly all of those 12 ounces of liquid sanity had emptied themselves into my backpack. So I spent the first part of my morning wiping down my personal effects and wondering where I'd get my afternoon fix. Luckily, the only thing in my backpack that sustained any damage was my planner. I laid it by the radiator in my office, and it dried into a fairly respectable, if slightly browner and crinklier version of its former self.

This morning, as I sipped my coffee and contemplated the beginning of my spring break (working at a school really does have its advantages), I happened to page through my planner. This is really the first time I've looked at the pages in the back -- the ones that have places for "notes" and addresses and other wastes of paper. In past planners, these have been a wealth of useless information. This is the case with the back pages in my current planner. I came across something called an "Anniversary Gift List by Year." As one might guess from the title, it lists some traditional types of gifts for (presumably wedding) anniversaries from the 1st to the 75th. And some of these are hilarious. For instance, for the first year, the appropriate gift is one that involves paper, plastics, and/or clocks. Hmm. I suppose this means that you should get your beloved a clock and have it double-bagged at the grocery store? Or maybe just buy a plastic clock and wrap it in paper? Kjerste, this should make your planning so much easier!

Then, of course, there's year 10, where the gift should involve tin, aluminum, or diamond jewelery. Is it just me, or do these things not quite fit together? Some recycling to go with that necklace, dear? This isn't nearly as good, however, as the 24th year, for which the gift is musical instruments.

The ante goes up around year 41, though: After being with someone for this long, it is suggested that you buy some land. And then, the following year, improved real estate is the gift. So put something on the land. But then, in year 43, you should go on a trip. I guess all that nesting (and thinking of retirement?), with the land and the house was too much. The 44th anniversary, however, represents a return to the nest: The suggested gift is groceries. Groceries! These are definitely not on my list of desired gifts for any occasion. Plus, I don't think it should take 44 years and an anniversary to get one's significant other to pick up a few things at the store. And if it has, I say give back the plastic clock and the tuba, and move off that plot of land. Everybody's gotta have a limit.

I See Dead People

2007-03-12T18:13:00.000-04:00

Kjerste kindly reminded me today that it's been a while since I've posted. Just before she did, I was thinking the same thing, and wondering what I would blog about next. Lately, life hasn't felt too exciting, and almost anything I could post on this blog would be old hat. To wit:

Yes, I'm still trying to get in shape to hike to Machu Picchu.
Yes, Todd and I are still counting the days until we can move to Cambridge or somewhere else not in the 'burbs.
No, I still don't have a Real Job, not that I've been trying that hard.

So there you have it. Really the only new thing is that I've begun studying for the licensing exam. And is this exciting? No, it is not. It involves flashcards. And practice tests. And a big time commitment, which is another reason I've not been hitting the blog: My bloggin' time is being encroached upon by studying time.

Perhaps the only really exciting things are the dreams that I've been having lately. And I'm not really sure that "exciting" is the correct word, as the dreams involve dead people. I would like to note that my dreams seem to be the exact opposite of Suziemusi's recurrent dreams of growth and birth and all that good stuff.

In the dream I had last week, I was in a house (not my residence) and became aware that there were a couple of people -- both women, I think -- who had committed suicide and were hanging in the bathroom. They were hanging over the toilet from a metal towel rack of the kind you might see in a hotel. A (female) police officer/detective was on the scene, and she needed me to identify the bodies. So I guess this means I must have known them or something. Anyway, she's prepping me to ID them by letting me know what a gruesome scene it is -- I have yet to enter the room, and yet, I can basically picture it anyway. She's also telling me that it smells pretty bad. She takes me in the bathroom, and she's right: It's gruesome and it smells like dead bodies. Not that I know what that smells like, but I've read Stiff, so there you go. And the detective is giving me this look like "I told you so!" Anyway, I this point I wake up frantically, and with the smell of those dead bodies in my nose. Again, not that I actually know what that smells like.

After waking up, I realized that I had to pee, so I tiptoed to the bathroom (you know, the room with the dead bodies in it!) in the dark . At which point, in my sleepy fog, I began to think of scenes from scary movies I've seen, notably The Sixth Sense. And yeah, I started to get scared, much as a small child might after a nightmare. All I could think, however, is "Damn you, M. Night Shyamalan! You screwed me up!" Then I went back to bed.

Last night, I dreamed of dead folk again. In my dream, I was in Alaska, or some other cold spot, with a bunch of people that I seemed to know. We were on some kind of expedition, and we were stuck in the snow. We started to dig into the snow for some reason, and came upon some body parts. I remember, in particular, finding the face of a person, frozen solid and rather like a mask. Finding all these body parts indicated to us that another party had been there before us and had resorted to cannibalism. And in fact, we were needing to do that ourselves. Somebody produced a dead body (a rather large man, I think), with his hands, feet, and face removed (which I've heard from PBS can indicate cannibalism in archaeological evidence). Just as we were contemplating dinner, we all realized that there was a very small town about a block away from us. We hadn't noticed it before. There was some confusion about if it had sprung up during the course of our stay (how long had we been there?!) or we had just been oblivious. There was a general store and what looked like a Chinese restaurant. So we didn't eat the guy after all, but felt pretty stupid, since we had apparently missed some pretty obvious but important information.

So there you go. And stop looking at me like that. I'm not disturbed. And I'm qualified to make that assessment, especially with all this studying.

"If you feel like you're going to vomit, that's okay!"

2007-02-25T16:04:00.000-05:00

That's what my spinning instructor told the class yesterday when she was making us do some hard, terrible things. Luckily, nobody did vomit, and I frankly wasn't nauseated. But the fact that I was in a class where the instructor expected nausea made me very happy. I know, I'm a freak. But I'm a medium-core freak who likes to pretend she's hardcore. Which means that I like this instructor, even though she makes her class want to vomit. Or maybe I like her because of it.

This morning, however, I felt solidly medium-core because I could barely lift myself out of bed. I've discovered some leg muscles that I didn't even know I had. It seriously hurt to put pants on because it meant that I had to raise each leg to get it into the pant leg. Perhaps I should consider hiring some kind of home health aide to roll me over and dress me until the situation improves. I'm obviously only barely capable of performing these activities myself. The best part is that a home health aide would probably also tell me that it would be okay if I wanted to vomit.

The Torturous Art of the Cover Letter

2007-02-20T19:26:00.001-05:00

I've always hated writing cover letters. I think it's hard for me to sell myself on paper like that, and what I really want to say generally isn't something that I can say (For instance: "If you want to know about me, please turn the page to my vitae. Thank you.")

Over the last couple of days, I've been working on a cover letter for a job for which I'm applying. This would be a Real Job. But don't get too excited -- I really don't have much chance of getting it. This is partly because I'm not a Real Professional. And because I don't see myself as a Real Professional, I think it comes across in my letter. Also, again, what I would really like to say is pretty much off limits for the letter. So, in order to get it out of my system, I will post here the cover letter that I wish I could write:

To whom it may concern:

With great anxiety I apply for XX position. Please find attached my curriculum vitae, which includes a list of professional references that you may contact if you would like someone to vouch for my mediocrity. I am, however, a very nice person.

I think I would be a good fit at X because I really need a job. Sallie Mae is breathing down my neck and heat is expensive. Although I hear that you are not a particularly fun place to work, I'm willing to put that aside so long as you pay me well and don't torture me too terribly much. And when I suggest that you pay me "well" please do keep in mind that it is only a suggestion. I am desperate, which means I'm a good bargain. I have also never really made money in my life, so I have virtually nothing to which I could unfavorably compare whatever crappy salary you offer me. I might ask for more, but only because the aforementioned Sallie Mae owns my soul.

If you hire me, you will be pleasantly (?) surprised at my ability to make sarcastic quips during meetings. Depending on your sense of humor, you may or may not find this funny. If you don't, I will make an effort to quiet myself by muttering under my breath to coworkers instead. I will also retire to my office and work on my blog. At the end of the day, I will be happy to leave on time in the name of "personal balance" and go home to immediately put on my pajamas even though it is only 6 PM. I will then watch mindless sitcom reruns on television because I'm so freakin' tired from getting up at 5 to hit the gym that I was really too tired to function at work in the first place. I am excellent in emergency situations, however, because when I am tired and stressed, I tend to cry.

Please do not hesitate to contact me to further discuss my application.

Sincerely,

Helga

Six Months and Counting

2007-02-15T12:39:00.000-05:00

Last night and this morning, I wished more than ever to get out of the suburbs and into the city. Why? Last night, I and many other irate yet resigned passengers waited for a commuter train that was 40 minutes late (my train ride itself is only about 5 minutes). The platform is outside, and if you ever read a newspaper or turn on the TV news (or live here), you know that is was slushy and snowy in Boston yesterday. So I was cold. If I lived in the city, I would be taking the subway, which has more frequent trains and (generally) underground platforms. And that would make me much less irate.

I had planned to dig out the car when I got home, since I knew that the snow and ice would freeze rock-solid by morning, but it was dark and I couldn't feel my hands. I went inside and had some wine instead (okay, this helped with the whole irate thing). This morning, after creeping outside at 5 AM to see that the car was indeed frozen solid, I gave up on the idea of going to the gym and got back in bed. But I had to dig out anyway later, and it was quite a chore. I almost couldn't get the car free from the ice drift into which it was locked. So I guess I got a workout anyway. I just couldn't bring myself to spend more time waiting for the stupid train. And plus, I needed to hit the laundromat tonight, which means I needed the car. If I lived in the city, I would have gym that was on a subway line or within walking distance. And I would probably just leave the car frozen. And laundry? Well, when our lease is up, I'm not doing this driving to the laundromat shit again. Because wherever we live next will have to have laundry in the building or at least right around the corner.

We've lived in the suburbs of Massachusetts for 6 months today. Which means we're halfway through our lease and can dream of apartment shopping soon. Well, I guess we've already been dreaming. What it really means is that soon we can start looking.

Also, weather.com says it's supposed to be 67 degrees in Oakland tomorrow. In Boston it's forecast to be 28 and windy. Excuse me while I shed a tear that will quickly freeze to my cheek.

"Natick Recycles"

2007-02-12T17:54:00.000-05:00

Or at least that's what is emblazoned on the sides of the recycling bins the town provides. I've often thought that it would be more accurate to say "Natick (sort of) recycles" or, when I'm in a worse mood, "Natick doesn't recycle shit." After all, the trucks only come to pick up the recycling every other week. For most people, this doesn't seem to be an issue, since hardly anyone in Massachusetts recycles anyway (the recycling rate is a paltry 22%). On the off-weeks, I often see garbage bags filled with recyclables. It takes a lot of willpower on my part not to tear these bags open and scream at idiots who seem to think this is okay. And my workplace doesn't have a recycling program for aluminum and plastics. They can only bring themselves to recycle paper, apparently. This. is. ridiculous.

Given all that, you wouldn't think that Natick's recycling bins would be such a commodity that people would need to steal them. But you'd be wrong. Back in October, our first recycling bin was stolen after we forgot to put it away when we went away for the weekend. Since that time, we've used an old laundry basket, which worked fine and allowed us to not have to purchase another bin from the town. And we've faithfully brought it in every Friday night upon returning from work (pick up is Friday morning). But last Friday, there was no basket on the curb to pick up. Apparently, it was stolen too. Nobody has broken into our car. Leaving our building door unlocked doesn't present a problem. Our neighbors routinely set junk out on the curb that nobody will touch (this week: A weight bench). But somebody is stealing our recycling bins? This seems a bit twisted. If you're going to steal something, at least make it worth the effort. I keep looking around by the bushes, thinking that maybe the wind blew it under something, just because I can't believe it. Who the hell steals a recycling bin?

Somebody in my neighborhood, that's who. And I think it would be hilarious if this ended up on the crappy local paper's police blog. Usually it details small thefts from the mall, domestic violence, or DUIs. The best part is that it includes the name and address of the person arrested. Imagine it: "Bunky Schmoe, of 35 Summer Street in Natick, was arrested for recycling bin theft. More than 30 bins were found in his basement." (Please note: This is not a real name or address. I'm not actually making an accusation).

I have a t-shirt that says "Police" on it. Maybe I should start wearing it.

Mountain Goat Gym Rat

2007-01-31T19:43:00.000-05:00

In in an attempt to get into mountain-goat shape for the big hike to Machu Picchu, Todd and I have joined a gym. Being in a small suburban town means that we had few choices, so Gold's Gym it was. Unlike Suzimusi, who found the Gold's in her neck of the woods to be rather unfortunate, Todd and I have been pretty happy. One thing that I've enjoyed is the fact that it's not such a meatmarket as the 24-Hour Fitness in Oakland I used to go to. Walking into that place was crazy. You could just feel the eyes on you; everyone was watching everyone else, even at a ridiculous hour of the morning. And I'm not even hot, especially in my baggy t-shirt and scowl. Sometimes, I felt like making an announcement: "You know what, people? When the sun it not up yet, do not hit on me or even try to make conversation. I am not your friend. And no, I will not meet you in the steam room." Of course, making this announcement would have required talking to people, and why would I do that? It's much healthier to just fume in silence.

I also really enjoy the idea of the gym. I'm finding it easier to get out of bed in the morning knowing that I'm getting up to go to a well-lit, warm room to run on a treadmill instead of the cold darkness outside. When it was warmer out, I could handle the darkness of the early morning. I felt hardcore and like I was a member of some kind of secret club of slightly crazy yet respectable people. Then it got cold and I realized that I'm not really hardcore. I'm medium-core at best, and dark+cold+6 AM = get on the treadmill.

Perhaps the best part of the gym, though, is the people-watching. I realize that I missed it during my gym hiatus. You can always count on there being somebody doing something entertaining, like the guy who practically does jazz hands as he walks on the treadmill, looking as though he might break into song at any moment. I love that. Or the aerobics instructor who shows up in caked-on makeup, and who I think may have been smoking in the parking lot. Don't take classes from her! One strange thing I've noticed however, is how nearly everybody there is white. I suppose this is one of the hazards of suburbia or of not living in a place like Oakland anymore. I would consider this a downside of the gym, but I really realize that it's a downside of the whole town. That's sad.

Musings on Winter

2007-01-24T19:43:00.000-05:00

The weather man says that El Nino is responsible for this year's mild start to winter. But I (and a bunch of others, I'm sure) can't help but wonder about how much is due to global warming. In the name of Al Gore, make it stop! Anyway, this has meant that this former California resident hasn't had to contend with winter as it is traditionally defined in New England. Until recently, that is, now that it has actually become cold enough to freeze stuff. And it has even snowed a (tiny) bit. I managed to scoop up a little to make a snowball to throw at Todd. This made me happy, and I may have even skipped a little. I know that this is nothing, and I may not be skipping when it snows for real and the trudging begins, but still. I'm happily clad in my down parka, and all I can do is hope that the geese don't peck my eyes out in revenge when they return from their winter homes. I've seen The Birds. I know what can happen.

Maybe my lovely parka has something to do with a funny incident that happened the other night when I left the office to go home. It had been very chilly in the morning -- it might have been the morning that the snot in my nose froze a little, but maybe that was another morning -- and I hadn't been out of the office all day. The temperature had risen by the evening, and when I left, I thought to myself how much warmer it was than it had been that morning. I estimated the temperature to be somewhere in the mid-thirties. And then I thought: When did the thirties become warm?

The fact that this is "warm" means that I am very pale. Paler than I have been since I was born. But even then I might have had more color, because at least then I would have been pink. My permanent watch tan that has resulted from years of all-season running outside in T-shirts is nearly gone. When I left the house to go running this Sunday, Google Weather told me that it was 12 degrees with a windchill of zero. And you know what? I was cold (and, yes, I was wearing something more appropriate than a T-shirt). But I ran those 6 miles anyway because I like to pretend to be hardcore. And also, if I didn't keep running, I would have died of exposure. Or at least I would have been uncomfortable until one of the other runners I saw called for help. I think they actually might have been hardcore.

I should get some more sweaters.

Fun at the Office, Part 2

2007-01-17T16:27:00.000-05:00

Housekeepers are overrated: Apparently what people really need is a chimpanzee.

Having free time at work obviously gives me a chance to do some important reading.

Fun at the Office

2007-01-13T14:25:00.000-05:00

It has been blissfully slow at work the last couple of weeks, which means that my co-workers and I have been finding creative ways to entertain ourselves all day long. Most notably: YouTube. Collectively, we are finding that you really can waste hours on YouTube. Of course we already knew this, but still.

This is how it works: Somebody finds something on YouTube that's funny, and then calls everyone into one of our offices. The door is shut, and we watch something completely inappropriate for work and laugh hysterically. "Dick in a Box" is the fave. It has become something of a theme song, really, and we spend time singing it with each other and dancing around. It's like summer camp!

When things pick up again, it's really going to cut into our YouTube watching time. I'm not sure how we'll survive.

The Next Postcard

2007-01-07T19:13:00.000-05:00

There are basically 2 ways to get to Machu Picchu in the Peruvian Andes: The easy way and the hard way. In the easy way, you take a train from Cusco to Aguas Calientes, the town nearest to the ruins. Then there is a short hike (of several hours) to the ruins themselves, where you likely emerge alert and recently showered. In the hard way, you get dropped off by a bus on the Inca Trail, the "traditional" way to access the ruins. You then hike in the Andes for 4 days, setting up camp along the way and pooping in the forest. Thus, when you reach the ruins on day 4, you do not emerge recently showered. In both the easy and hard cases, you are required by law to go with a tour group and guide (or if you're rich, a private guide), and there is a limit to the number of hikers per year who may access the ruins. This is an attempt to minimize the environmental impact of the tourism, which, for a while, was apparently getting pretty bad.

So why am I writing about all of this? Last week, Todd and I booked tickets to Peru for July, courtesy of our credit card airline miles. We will go for 10 days, but the main point of this trip is to see Machu Picchu. And we're going to do it the hard way, which we are hoping is also the more rewarding way. I think hiking the Inca Trail is on those "1000 things to do before you die" lists. Which is really convenient, given that this hike may kill us. Carrying large packs uphill at high altitudes? It sounds like a death wish to me. On day 2 of the hike, there is something called "Dead Woman's Pass." I think it was really nice of somebody to name this pass after me, even though I haven't even gone there yet. Thanks folks!

My previous hiking experience has been fairly tame. It has consisted of Kjerste and I doing day hikes near sea level that ended with hot showers, pizza, drinks, and feelings of deep accomplishment. We are proud urban hikers. Hiking the Inca Trail is going to be a bit of a stretch for me, and I'm sure it will end up being one of the best things I ever did, blah blah blah. Right now, of course, I'm thinking of how rusty my Spanish is and how physically difficult the hike will be.

Thus, booking this trip has led me to some good New Year's resolutions. I had been having difficulty thinking of any, but now that I know I'll be hiking in the Andes, I think getting into mountain goat shape is an important goal. Also, I'll make a point of learning useful Spanish phrases, such as:

"Please do not pick my pocket. There is only lip balm in there."

"Why is there no hot water in this shower?"

"I do not eat dead animals of any kind. Please take the Alpaca away."

"What is that crawling across the wall?"

I'm sure I'll think of even more as time passes.

As a bonus, I understand that you can get coca tea and chew coca leaves as you please in Peru. In fact, the tour outfits all seem to provide coca tea, since it supposedly helps you adjust to the altitude. I'll bet it helps with all kinds of things, except for getting back through US customs.

It looks like this is going to be a very interesting year.

A Tale of Two Horses

2006-12-27T15:10:00.000-05:00

My first car was a 1989 Mustang. I named her Medusa because she was pure evil, an atrocious lemon that had an alternator that caught on fire repeatedly, among a multitude of other problems. I became adept at using a fire extinguisher and making small talk with tow-truck drivers. I also got good at duct-taping leaking hoses well enough to drive to the service station. Medusa was a bad, bad girl, and every time I took her to the mechanic, I think I could hear her laughing. She didn't even have a pretty face, given that I had been in a fender-bender early in my stewardship of her that would have cost too much to fix (Of course, I ended up spending more money than she was worth in repairs....). Medusa finally died en route to Santa Cruz from Oregon where I had been visiting my mother. Silly of me to think that Medusa would survive a long trip like that. Maybe I was trying to kill her once and for all. But she did have the last laugh, since I tried to get her fixed (I should have gotten out the kerosene instead) and the mechanic screwed me. I swore off cars made by Ford forever.

All this means that there was something a little funny about the fact that the rental car agency gave us a Mustang at the airport during our visit to the Bay Area. Having signed up for a tiny economobile, Todd and I thought it strange that the agent asked us if we would like a convertible at no extra charge. We told him no at first -- it is December in San Francisco, after all. When are we going to put the top down? But then the agent confessed his true intentions: They were all out of "regular cars" and had no choice but to upgrade us to something sporty. And they had 31 brand new convertibles in the garage.

The agent asked us what color of car we wanted (we chose silver, although the idea of red was tempting), and off we went to find our car. At this point, I hadn't yet figured out that we were getting a Mustang: We had been offered a "convertible" and handed keys that said Ford, but it wasn't coming together. I was busy hoping that whatever the car was, it wasn't so big that parking would be a nightmare. But as we walked through the garage, and I kept seeing people driving off in Mustangs, I started to realize what was going on. When I saw the car, I immediately flashed back to Medusa and her many blazes of glory. Hilarious.

Luckily, the new Mustang does not look like the ugly 1989 monster. In fact, it looks good. Too good. I liked it. Dammit, Ford! I hate you! I may have even skipped and giggled a bit when I saw it. Though, in my defense, I was tired. As a sidenote, an older couple (male-female -- no compulsory heterosexuality here!) was getting into their own Mustang beside us, and having a difficult time. They thought the trunk was too small for their gargantuan suitcases. They sighed and struggled and complained about how they ended up with a sportscar. The man even went to ask if they might get something else. Todd and I, on the other hand, pronounced the trunk spacious, threw in our tiny suitcases, and laughed to ourselves at this poor couple who apparently does not know how to pack light, and can't figure out that the back seat can also hold luggage.

We drove off in search of our hotel and I reflected on my years with Medusa. As I was doing so, I caught a glimpse of smoke out of the corner of my eye. For a split second I thought: Is the car on fire? I was in a Mustang, after all. Isn't that what they did? But no, it was just exhaust in the damp night. Obviously, I'm more deeply scarred than I thought. Thanks Medusa. And also, thanks to the Mustang du jour, who has provided something of a corrective emotional experience, with its shiny coat, good stereo, and responsive growl.

Ford is still on my shitlist, though.

California, Here I Come

2006-12-22T12:33:00.000-05:00

Todd and I are going back to the Bay Area for a few days for Christmas, our first trip since we arrived in Boston a little over 4 months ago. I'm curious what it'll be like. I'm looking forward to seeing friends and family, but there's a part of me that dreads, just a tiny bit, seeing the Bay Area itself. What if I have separation anxiety and don't want to come back? I realize that I don't feel all that homesick anymore, and I like that -- I'm starting to see this area as home now too. But there are still things I miss, and I'll bet there are even things that I don't know I miss. And I won't know what these things are until I experience them unexpectedly.

For instance, on the very rare occasion that I hear somebody drive by playing loud music, I'm transported back to Oakland, where we kept our windows open year 'round and were frequently bothered by people driving by and bumping their songs (fo' shizzle). It's funny how something that used to be irritating is now an occasion for nostalgia. Hell, there were times I called the cops on loud street-partiers in the middle of the night, like some kind of crazy old lady. (Although once I was told by the dispatcher that, due to a double shooting, the cops were unlikely to come quiet down the block. Go Oakland!). But now I wouldn't mind a little street party to mix it up a bit in suburbia. I think being a crazy, slightly ghetto-fabulous old lady suits me fine. Though, if I were truly ghetto-fabulous, I would just yell out the window myself at the partiers instead of calling the cops. But I'm a little shy.

People often talk about California/The Bay Area in idealized terms: "Oooh! California! It's sunny all the time! It's so great! You don't even have a winter in the Bay Area!" In the past, I always scoffed. But now that I don't live there anymore, I can see why it seems so great -- it is (except for the ridiculous cost of living -- but at least the produce is plentiful and cheap). There really can be a lot of sun (except in the summer when it's foggy), and yes, in the Bay Area, winter is very, um, subtle. Even though it's not really all that cold here yet , I can see now why weather with a high around 60 during the winter months isn't really considered "winter" by so many people. Hey, you could get away with wearing assless chaps all year long like that! And I'm sure that there are some people who do. But I digress.

So my reunion with California will likely be bittersweet. But I promise (scout's honor!) that I will not go to our old apartment and try to do a citizen's eviction on the current tenants. At least if I did, it's not like the cops would come.

Somebody Buy This Woman a Drink!

2006-12-18T18:53:00.000-05:00

On Saturday night, Todd and I went to a concert. When showing my ticket to the bouncer outside the building, he gave me a wristband, indicating that I am of drinking age. He didn't check my ID. However, when he got to Todd, he made him take off his hat and looked closely at his ID before forking over the wristband. Todd is 7 years older than me.

I've been wondering why this happened. Do I really look that old? Have the last few stressful weeks really aged me that much? But then I realized: I just have the haggard appearance of someone who really needs a drink. That's the result of the last few stressful weeks. The bouncer just saw it in my slightly wild-eyed glance. He didn't want to mess with me: Earlier in the day, some random woman in a doctor's office waiting room told me that I looked upset. She wasn't wrong, but my facial expressions are none of her business. I gave her a dirty look and an irritated laugh. That'll teach her to talk to me!

Of course, if I don't just look like I could really use a drink, this means that maybe I really just do look older than Todd. So maybe I look 10 years older than I really am? That's great!

Coping Through Chocolate

2006-12-10T17:55:00.000-05:00

Things have happened over the last week that made it a very bad week. I can't really blog about them here, though, because of confidentiality and privacy constraints. Yeah, I know that sounds like there might be a lawyer or hit-man involved, but that's not the case. Even though I can't share what's going on, I can share other important information: Chocolate chip cookies and chocolate mint M&M's are important tools for coping. And you know what? Those chocolate mint M&M's taste really good with Shiraz. Go figure. Chocolate really is medicinal -- don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

Here's to a better week.

The Day the Music Died

2006-12-04T12:21:00.000-05:00

Back in July, as Todd and I packed up our car for our road trip East, we realized just how much crap we had that we erroneously thought we could fit in the car. We dumped some stuff in our apartment lobby (like little-used camping gear) with a sign that said "Free" and let some lucky schmuck -- most likely our pack rat neighbor -- have it. We were feeling a little crazed, I think, by all the packing and cleaning (fumes from the Pine Sol?), and we also decided that we didn't have room in our car for all of our CDs, a few books, and a couple of shirts. Looking back, we realize that we definitely had room for these few items. Of course we did! We had an entire car! We're thinking more clearly now.

But at the time, we packed up a box: Some CDs, a few books Todd brought home from work, and a sweater and a couple of T-shirts that I didn't immediately need. The CoHos graciously offered to mail it to us when we got to our destination. Kjerste put the box in the mail in September, and it hasn't been seen since. It appears that the postal service has lost our stuff. This probably means that a mailman somewhere is listening to our CDs and wearing my sweater (that I got for $10 on sale at the Gap).

Now that I've given up hope of ever seeing that box again, I realize how sad I am about losing those CDs. Luckily, we had some of our most prized ones in the car with us, but every once in a while, I'll have a pang when I think about some music that I lost. Like almost my entire Ani Difranco collection (oh, it pains me to even type it), most of which was lovingly burned onto CDs by a friend of mine. Ani: I guess I drove a little too far out of range. And Led Zeppelin: Yes, it has been a long lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely time. And Frank Sinatra: I guess you did fly to the moon. And what about Ella Fitzgerald? She was right all along, you know: It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing. And Soul Coughing, and the Butchies, and Bratmobile, and Cake: I miss you all terribly.

I suppose this means that it's time for me to get some more CDs.

Happy Birthday, Kjerste!

2006-11-29T07:30:00.000-05:00

Today marks my dear Kjerste's 27th year. And hopefully, an end to the birthday curse. As some of you may remember, she was clever enough to provide me with a festive birthday blog posting. And now, I would like to shamelessly copy that idea by doing the same. Because my scanner appears to lack a crucial cable, I will not be posting any of the pictures I have of Kjerste being festive -- something that she may appreciate, especially when she reads what lies below. In the past, I might have composed a little Ode to Kjerste, complete with bad rhymes. Instead, I will list some of my favorite moments with her. Think of it as a narrative ode and a means to illustrate the splendorousness of Kjerste.

In no particular order:

Our "Photo Shoot" and New Year's Eve, 2000. On New Year's Eve, we got all dressed up in long skirts, because it was New Year's Eve and we didn't really have a place to go, other than some party for which we had vague directions. We drove to Monterey and proceeded to take "artistic" black and white pictures of each other (because we were dressed up and looked good). Because it was late in the day, however, and the light was low, the pictures looked rather funerary. Then, not being able to find the party we were trying to go to, we ended up at a Super 8 with some Cisco watching the ball drop with Peter Jennings. (He was on TV, not in the motel room. And I don't know why it was him and not Dick Clark). At the time, I think we were both a little disappointed: We really were all dressed up with no place to go! We even had long red nails! Looking back, however, I realize that this was one of the best times I've ever had on New Year's.

Our girl nights. For the couple of years that Kjerste and I both lived in Oakland, we had weekly girl nights. This would often involve a bottle of wine, some Mint Julep masks, and/or some burritos. Sometimes a trip to Mecca, also known as Target. I loved these nights, and I looked forward to them all week. It was so great to be able to catch each other up and laugh our asses off, which we inevitably did. It was so great to live so close to each other, which is something that I miss now that we live more than 3,000 miles apart. Those were golden days.

Our Bon Voyage Party. When Kjerste and I were about to begin college, it was late in September, due to our schools' schedules. This meant that most people we knew who were going away had already left, so the bulk of the goodbyes had already taken place. Where did that leave us? In charge of our own Bon Voyage party, of course. So we made a cake and took some pictures. Then, LL came over, and we all went to Wal-Mart to hang out. Because this is what one does in Manteca. Don't be hatin'. Then I helped Kjerste bleach her hair platinum blonde, and this is where the party started to go awry. Let's just say that I really screwed up her hair, and then when we tried to correct the situation by putting color back in it, it was grayish. Feeling like a horrible person, I bought her some Ultra Swim shampoo, in hopes of stripping out the gray. The good news was, she went to art school, so I hear that people thought her hair was all cool and counter-cultural. Additional good news: She continued to be my friend.

High school hijinks. Kjerste, LL and I had a whole lotta fun. Toilet papering houses, wearing dreadfully short skirts, applying strange makeup, making prank phone calls, donning fake accents (which we still do) and attempting to put a tiara on a cow are only some of the highlights. Good times.

The John Holmes incident. As a jokingly inappropriate housewarming gift for Kjerste and Suzimusi in their college apartment, I gave them a very strange John Holmes blow-up d oll. Just what every household needs!! After inflating him and laughing hysterically, we ordered pizza from a place where the delivery boy was someone Kjerste and Suzimusi knew. When the doorbell rang, we figured it was him, and had the brilliant idea of having John Holmes answer the door. So we opened the door, and had John peek around the corner in his naked, inflated glory. Unfortunately, it wasn't the pizza; it was the landlord coming to complain that we were making too much noise with all our laughter. Oops! John flew behind the couch and we all became very, very apologetic. The poor landlord didn't know what hit her. And of course, we laughed even harder when she left.

Our hikes. For years, especially during college, Kjerste and I would go for regular hikes. We generally felt hardcore afterwards, and would eat some pizza and drink some wine. Gotta balance out all those burned calories somehow. One hike in particular -- the last one we went on, I think -- we got lost and ended up hiking 13 miles. It started to get dark and there were a bunch of cows around, which was a bit spooky. At one point, we thought some of them might be following us. Yes, the same girls who participated in trying to put a tiara on a cow (see above) were now afraid of them. I guess was cow karma coming to get us. Obviously, we survived. And I'll tell you: We walked fast toward the end of that hike.

Our weddings. Kjerste and I were each other's maids (or in my case, matron) of honor. There is nobody else who I would want to be there when I was freaking out about planning or the day before when it really hit me that I was actually getting married. I don't remember all that much about my actual wedding -- it was a blur. But I do remember Kjerste's speech at the reception that made me laugh and cry. Two years later, at her wedding, I found myself sobbing into a microphone as I gave a speech for her and her wonderful hubby. It was a beautiful day.

Thus, I think it's easy to see why Kjerste is so fabulous: She's funny, smart, and has a way with cows and John Holmes. She has mastery of phony accents and of providing emotional support. She can also knock back the Cisco. She has been there for so many of the important moments of my life that this selection barely even scratches the surface. Her being there has also made these moments important. I love this girl. And so should you. Happy birthday, baby girl!

Feel free to share your own special Kjerste moments.

Flu Shot

2006-11-28T18:02:00.000-05:00

I just saw a segment on the evening news that featured a doctor urging people to get their flu shots. And I found myself thinking, "Shut up! I don't want a flu shot!" If I get the flu, it means some time off, and getting to sleep in really late. And maybe eating a lot of pudding, though I don't know why. This doesn't sound so bad to me: I like sleep. And tapioca. I could deal with the flu. Keep your flu shot to yourself, TV doctor!

I think I need a vacation.

My Future as a Barista

2006-11-20T18:31:00.000-05:00

I owe an exorbitant amount of money in student loans. This was the price of getting a doctorate from a very expensive (though not entirely terrific) school. By the time all my grace periods and deferments are over, I'll be paying more than $800 bucks a month in loan payments. And this is with a 30-year consolidation loan.

Enter financial anxiety.

Todd and I found a "handy" online loan payment calculator. One of its fun features was that it could tell you how much you would need to make a year to pay off your loans and still have a life. According to its wisdom, I would need to make about $250,000 if I were paying off my loans in 10 years. HA! Of course, it was a little less -- "only" about $150,000 a year -- if I'm paying off my loans more slowly, as I will be doing. These figures make me laugh, of course, because this loan calculator is ridiculous and inaccurate. Also, I have serious reservations that Todd and I could ever make that much money between the two of us. We are just not in the lines of work that will pay us what we're really worth. And I must jump through the hoop of professional licensure to actually be able to make real money. Thus, there will be a period of time when I finish accruing all the hours of experience I need in order to qualify to apply for licensure but before I am actually licensed. This means that there will be a period of time where it will be difficult for me to find a job that will pay me much, but in which I will also have my astronomical loan payments.

Luckily, I figure I can always work at Starbucks, just in case I can't find a job. Or if I find one but it doesn't pay me enough. I'm sure my doctorate makes me uniquely qualified to deal with the pissy customers as well as the bored high schoolers who work there. I should make sure to include that sentence in my cover letter. Although, I guess I wouldn't need a cover letter to apply to Starbucks. See? Things are looking up already!

And speaking of licensure, it's apparently a really good thing that I moved out of California. Due to a stupid error on a form by my supervisor and I (the form was dated incorrectly), the California Board of Psychology tells me that my internship (at which I was miserable -- yes, we're talking bold italic miserable here) basically can't count toward my licensing hours in the state. If you are reading this and have no idea what this means, that's okay. Let me put it this way: This is bad enough that you would hear me scream no matter where in the country you lived. If I was going to get licensed in California, that is. Which I guess I won't.

So, yeah, Starbucks. I'll probably look cute in the green apron.

"I'm Gorgeous Inside"

2006-11-19T18:14:00.000-05:00

This was on a real estate lawn sign advertising a house for sale. I saw it yesterday while running, and I had to fight the urge to steal the sign. (It was broad daylight in the suburbs. Somebody would probably stop me. Maybe chase me with a leafblower). It' s not like I have a house for sale and I'd like to advertise its inner beauty. Rather, I would use this sign to advertise my inner beauty. Why can't I be gorgeous inside? And why can't I let people know? If a house can do it, so can I. And why can't all women? Aren't we all tired of only being seen for what gorgeousness we do or do not exude superficially? And how can someone be truly gorgeous if it is only superficial? And who gets to define gorgeous? Nobody asked me. Good thing I have this blog to tell my handful of readers what I think.

I think there's a t-shirt in the making. Perfect for Suzimusi's Fabulous Campaign.

Treadmill Trauma

2006-11-13T17:35:00.000-05:00

Back in September, Todd and I bought a used treadmill off of Craigslist. The goal of this purchase was to make my life easier. Of course, getting said treadmill was no easy feat -- it involved renting an SUV (which, fortunately, we were already renting to pick up the wardrobe that took me about 3 hours to assemble), partially unassembling it, then getting its heft up our stairs and into the little carpeted room that serves as the workout room/closet/junkroom. Yes, we are fabulous multitaskers. Then, the treadmill had to be reassembled. This was relatively easy, given that just its feet and arms had to be reattached. And I realize that this sounds rather macabre. And when I say "relatively," I mean relative to the entire rooms of furniture I've assembled over the last few months.

I should mention that our apartment is on the second floor of an old, very funky building. I realized that our treadmill might be noisy to the downstairs neighbors, but since it was sitting on carpet, I assumed that this would do the trick. And, I figured that if the noise was a problem, the neighbors would tell us and we could just put something underneath it. After all, they know where we live. But, never a peep was heard from the neighbors, and on my merry way I ran, thinking my life was made easier by technology.

Until a couple of weeks ago, when the neighbor cornered me as I was taking out the recycling. He says that the treadmill is noisy and wakes him up in the morning. I'm wondering that if it was such a big problem, why did he wait 2 months to say something? But, I thanked him for his input, flashed a fake and disarming smile, and vowed to fix the problem. And also wondered if I made the treadmill quieter, would he then maybe make his juvenile delinquent son not yell all the time out in the yard? And maybe he could stop chainsmoking? And maybe stop running the washer when we are taking showers and stealing all but a sad trickle of water?

And so heavy-duty foam was purchased (2 layers!), cut to size, and installed under the treadmill. And did I mention that the treadmill is exceedingly heavy? So moving it to install the foam is not exactly easy and fun. But I figured it would definitely solve the problem. And merrily I ran, thinking I had discovered a crafty and ingenious solution.

Not so. The neighbor claims that it is still too loud. I find myself now not caring too terribly much if it wakes him up. I don't like him. He' s not my friend. He didn't even introduce himself before he complained. Maybe he should get up early and get some exercise himself. I kept these thoughts to myself, of course, and said I would try something else.

Todd and I consulted with the landlord, who already knew about the treadmill problem from our dear neighbor. So I'm guessing that maybe he complained about the noise to the landlord before he complained to us? Now I really don't care if I wake him up. But, with our landlord's permission, we moved the treadmill outside the apartment, to a part of the hallway that is not even over the downstairs apartment -- it's over the entryway to the building. Moving the treadmill down the hall involved once again temporarily amputating feet and arms, carefully guiding it through doorways, inching it along the floor, putting the foam back underneath it, and reattaching its limbs. And did I mention that it's exceedingly heavy?

I thought that this would be the final fix. How could the neighbor complain about noise when it's not even over his apartment? Well, he can, and he did this morning as he stumbled upstairs in his bathrobe. We offered to buy him a white noise maker. A coworker said that maybe he needs earplugs. I don't think the neighbor sees these as options. And seriously: He's bothered by the treadmill but not by the damn trains that run all day and night through the backyard? He should already be wearing earplugs.

So now here I am with a treadmill that I purchased to make my life easier, but actually seems to be doing the opposite. If this building wasn't so old and funky, and had some real insulation, it probably wouldn't be an issue. I've read things online about people having treadmills on upper-floor apartments with no problems. Obviously, they didn't live in the slope-floored, poorly insulated Funkhouse. They must live in a Real Building. Maybe I'm an idiot for not foreseeing this as a problem. My goal in life is not to wake the neighbors.

Hopefully I can at least use the treadmill as a handy clothing rack.

Good Times

2006-11-08T17:42:00.000-05:00

Democrats are taking back the House: Yay, Nancy Pelosi!
And it looks like we'll have the Senate, too. I've got my fingers crossed.
Massachusetts just elected it's first African-American Governor.
South Dakota's abortion ban didn't pass.
Arizona refused to ban gay marriage, even when so many other states did (stop the hate, people).
Rummy's taking a hike.

For many years, I've felt so disillusioned with politics. Today, I feel hopeful (see above). It's exciting to see the country begin to come to it senses. I've been waiting.

Excuse me, now. I have to go dance a jig.

Rambling

2006-11-05T09:31:00.000-05:00

I feel the need to write a blog posting, and yet, I have no inspired words. This is my third attempt at this post. I've started and deleted the following 2 ideas:

1. I was going to write about how, even though we are still not fully settled into our current apartment, we're looking for the next place we want to live (Cambridge, Somerville) when our lease is up. In August. Because we don't like suburbia, blah, blah blah. After I wrote a few paragraphs, I realized that I'm beginning to sound like a broken record. I've written this all before.

2. Then, I was going to write about how we got rear-ended in Boston yesterday. And it sounds like it might be an interesting story, except for the fact that it's not. We were really barely tapped by another car. No marks on our bumper, even. And when we pulled over to see if there was any damage, the other driver pulled over too, so no there was no hit-and-run drama either. I think we've probably hit other cars harder when wedging into a small parking space. Nothing to see here; move along.

Now, after saying all of that, I realize that today is an important anniversary, and so, there is something to say: It was a year ago today that Kjerste, L.L., and I completed the Treasure Island Triathlon in San Francisco. It's strange to think how much has changed in the last year: Kjerste got engaged and married. I now live far, far away from SF. L.L.'s son just keeps getting bigger and more grown-up looking. I miss ya', girlz.

Halloween

2006-10-31T13:50:00.000-05:00

Some people are able to get really excited about this "holiday." I'm not. At least not like I used to. As a child, I looked forward to the insane amounts of candy and a costume to which I had given entirely too much thought. In high school, I remember coming up with some clever costumes with the girlz -- Kjerste, surely you remember your Miss Kitty costume. In fact, I remember in high school, and later in college, Kjerste and I investing a whole lotta time and energy into making costumes. One year, Kjerste was a Beauty Pageant Miss 5th Runner Up and I was a black-and-white movie star, inspired by Pleasantville. My costume involved painting me with white paint (and wearing a black dress) -- later in the evening, I realized I was leaving paint skidmarks everywhere I went. Oops.

There is something I really like about the idea of being somebody else for a day. And to get to go to some kind of party while doing it is a plus. Of course, my very serious job really doesn't lend itself well to willy-nilly costuming -- nobody wants to walk in to see their therapist dressed as the grim reaper or a chicken, for instance. Well, some people probably do, and that's a whole other session. So this means I have to wait until I go home to get into my costume. As I have no formal costume, I think that I'll just call myself Pajama Girl. Or better yet: Pajama Girl Eating a Microwave Dinner while Watching a Re-run of Seinfeld. Now that's a party.

Where are you from?

2006-10-30T14:32:00.000-05:00

This weekend I was at a conference for work, and there were people from all over the country (and some from Canada) there. One of the main introductory questions that people were asking each other, of course, was "Where are you from?"

When this was asked of me, I wasn't really sure how to answer it, since I've only recently come from once place to live in another. Had I been asked where I live, it would have been easier. I live in Natick, MA. But I am definitely not from there. I've lived there for almost 3 months, and I still have pictures sitting on the floor instead of hanging on walls. And there's not a lot for us to do in Natick, except go somewhere else. I know some people love it here, and I think that's great. For them. We, on the other hand, plan to live here for the terms of our lease, and then move to a place where there are cafes that stay open past 3 pm. It's just not, ultimately, the place for us. We're city folk.

Where I really feel like I'm from is Oakland. Having lived there for several years, I really came to love it, despite all the shootings. And I guess it's a little strange to feel like I'm from a place that I wasn't born or raised, but there it is. It's my O-town, where people have a little peace march around the lake every week, and where Canadian Geese live and eat and eat and eat and never migrate. It's where a new Trader Joe's is going in. And it will undoubtedly sell the baked tofu I love so well. (As a sidenote, the proposed TJs in Berkeley is creating quite a stir -- get over it people!)

Not that Oakland doesn't have it's problems: The homicide rate, the rich-poor gap, the cost of living. These issues bothered me and I wanted to change them. But for a while it got to be my little corner of the world. I wonder if Tony Bennett would have left his heart here if he knew it the way I did.

Maine

2006-10-23T18:37:00.000-04:00

This weekend, Todd and I went to Portland, Maine for an early birthday trip for me. On the way to Portland, we outlet shopped in Kittery. We bought more clothes than either one of us has bought in a single trip in a long time. Having some really good outfits makes me happier than it has a right to. In particular, I'm thinking of the cranberry red corduroy pants I bought, which I wore today. Life is good.

Portland is a terrific little city. I've determined this because it has a nice arts district and downtown, and a seemingly endless supply of vegetarian or veggie-friendly restaurants. I guess there is just something about Portlands, since Todd and I also love Portland, Oregon, in part because of the wonderful downtown and the tofu that rains from the sky. Well, the tofu is really for me, since Todd has yet to become conscious of his deep love for tofu. I'll break him down.

On the way back from Portland, we stopped in Kennebunkport, home of very rich people. We even saw some of them, although, luckily, we didn't run into any Bushes. We took some pictures there, including a few digital ones. I could post them now, but the camera is still in the car and I'm too lazy to go get it. And besides, patience is a virtue.

One of the best parts of this trip is the fact that it's fall. The leaves are peaking around here, and in the parts of Maine where we were as well. I feel a little like I'm living in a postcard. For instance, this morning while running, I passed a field that contained a red barn and was framed by red and golden foliage. A fog lingered on the grass in the early morning half-light. So I stopped for a while to take it all in. The fleeting nature of this makes it all the more beautiful: Soon the leaves will be off the trees and I'll be staring a skeletons in the snow. Which will probably be beautiful in its own way, although certainly more chilly. Natick may not be everything we would ever dream of for a place to live, but it does make for some nice runs.

My birthday always makes me reflect on the past year. Last year at this time, I had no clue that I would be living in New England, looking at leaves, and going to Maine for my birthday weekend. It's funny the way things work out. And I'm so glad that I took the risk to pick up my life and move into unknown territory. It turns out that the unknown is full of foliage and red corduroy pants.

Blue Monday

2006-10-16T17:48:00.000-04:00

I, along with the rest of the world, hate Mondays. Ever since I was a small child, I have had a hard time sleeping on Sunday nights, just out the anxiety of Monday bearing down on me. And sometimes I'm not really all that anxious. Like now, for instance, when I really like my job. Sometimes I just lay awake in bed, as I did last night, thinking of my to-do list, mulling things over from earlier in the day or week, or other random thoughts. No other night of the week is like this. But there is something about Monday that exerts a vice-like grip on me. I can feel it creeping up on me on Sunday, as I witness the final day of the too-short weekend slip away, and the promise of another long week settle in. It's then that I think about how much I need a real vacation or a hobby or just a 3-day weekend (whatever it is that seems needed at the moment) to make my life a little better.

I guess it doesn't help that the last 2 weekends have been 3-day weekends for me, first for Yom Kippur, and then for Columbus Day. Although I don't consider Columbus Day to be a real holiday (and I'd rather call it Indigenous People's Day, thank you very much), and I've never before gotten it off of school or work, I took it gladly. But those weekends are behind me now, and I have nothing but a long stretch of regular-length weeks before me. Weeks of getting up at 5 AM, which gets darker and darker, to run. (Which reminds me how much I'm looking forward to the end of Daylight Savings Time, so it'll be at least a little lighter when I get up). Which also means weeks of trying to get to bed by 9 and being completely exhausted by Friday. Weeks of making my lunch to take to work right after I make dinner. Yada, yada, yada. And it's not like I can even try to get out of bed at 5 AM on days like today, when I didn't even finally drift off to sleep (and to dreams of airplane crashes and passport mixups) until 1:30 AM or so.

Actually, when I think about it, what I really need is a personal chef, a personal trainer, and a job that doesn't start until noon --but still ends at 5 or 6 -- and that pays me really well (so I can pay the chef and trainer). I wonder where I can get me some of that.

Vegetarian Hypocrite

2006-10-11T09:07:00.000-04:00

It occurs to me that my last posting exposes my hypocrisy: Here I am, complaining about how I can't find the kind of tofu that I want, and then, in the same day, I go and try on coats made out of animal products. And I had such a hard time deciding on which coat I wanted -- wool or down? Sheep or geese? Yeah, I know it's not like I'm actually wearing a dead animal ("Wow, is that a scarf?" "No, just a goose neck."), but still. Of course, this all occurred to me as I was drifting off to sleep under my down comforter....

So there it is: I'm a vegetarian hypocrite. I'll comfort myself with the fact that nobody's perfect, and that it turns out that the wool coat I bought is too big and pretty itchy, so I'll have to exchange it. But what will I exchange it for? Down? More wool? Maybe something synthetic that is made out of a petroleum product? I can't answer this question. And that's because I'm a hypocrite.

Weekend Saga

2006-10-09T12:34:00.000-04:00

This weekend was supposed to be something novel: The first weekend in a long time in which Todd and I were not going to have to unpack boxes, procure furniture, or put together furniture. We were actually going to have a chance to have fun in our new digs. Yeah, we had a few chores, like getting to the laundromat, hitting the grocery store, and buying me a winter coat at Burlington Coat Factory. But compared to the Ikea treks of weekends past, this was nothing.

Ha! On Saturday, we ended up going to 4 grocery stores. Four! First we went to Roche Bros., which we'd never been to before. And we could see why: They had Whole Foods prices, but not Whole Foods fabulousness. After putting a few things in our cart, we realized that it was ridiculous, abandoned the cart in the store, and left in a huff. Next, we went to the actual Whole Foods, so I could get tofu. This appears to be the only grocery store chain in the entire state (at least in my limited experience so far) where I can find blocks of baked, seasoned tofu, of the kind I could find in every damn place in the Bay Area. C'mon Boston! Get with the program. Maybe Boston actually is with the program, and I'm just experiencing the joy of the 'burbs. I don't know.

Because Whole Foods is so expensive, tofu is about all I can afford to buy there. Which is sad. But given that produce is already generally expensive here (the short growing season and all), and we eat lots of it, we are spending more for groceries than we ever have. Luckily, next door to Whole Foods is Trader Joe's, which, in California, was the light of my life. It was cheap, it was good, and it had tofu. It didn't let me down. Unfortunately, the Trader Joe's near us is disappointing. A tiny produce section. No baked tofu, as I mentioned before. And the prices in general seem higher than the TJ's I went to in Emeryville. Well, except for the wine, which is still cheap. And this is one of the few TJ's in the state with license to sell wine, so I guess we lucked out there.

This week, TJ's produce section appeared to be especially skimpy, so we couldn't get everything we needed. Which meant we had to swing by Stop and Shop on our way home. Stop and Shop, we've found, is so far the least disappointing of all the stores near us, and has the best prices, so we were able to find the last few items we wanted. We then trudged dejectedly home.

In the middle of all of this -- I think in between Roche Bros. and Whole Foods -- we went to the Burlington Coat Factory, where I actually bought a few clothes that might keep me warm this winter, along with a winter coat. This was not an easy task, because they have a gazillion coats, and I don't know what the hell to get. It's hard for a coat virgin like me to tell what is going to be warm enough and what will be too warm. After much debate, it came down to 2 coats: a lovely gray wool knee-length number, and a mid-calf down extravaganza that had me sweating in the store. I could probably live outside in Alaska in the down coat, so I thought it might be a bit much. I went with the wool, but still wonder if the other one might have been better. I don't know! I need a personal fashion advisor! I tried to make Todd into this person, but it didn't work so well. As I was trying on the coats, and going back and forth between the 2 chosen ones, Todd was sitting on the floor of the store, looking like he might fall asleep. I should have let him lay on one of the coats.

All of this meant that we didn't get to laundry on Saturday, which we had wanted to do so we could spend the entire day in Boston (having fun!) on Sunday. We decided we would just get up early and wash our clothes, so we could then head into the city.

So we got up on Sunday, and Todd turned on the computer. Or, rather, he tried to. It was dead. Dead, dead, dead. We're not sure what happened. It never even said goodbye. But it did take my iTunes playlist, and several of Todd's files for work, with it. Being Columbus Day weekend, there was a sale at CompUSA. Todd promptly ran out and bought a replacement machine on Sunday morning. We then spent all of the morning and the majority of the afternoon not in Boston, but huddled in our office, setting up the new computer. And trying to figure out how to get my music from my iPod back into iTunes, which can't be done without some kind of software that we need to download. We tried several different programs, and nothing seemed to work. Really, this shouldn't be so hard. Apple just wants people to suffer. I was so frustrated. And also pissed off at myself for not somehow foreseeing this and burning a CD or 2 of my iTunes playlist.

We finally headed into Boston around 3 or 4, tooled around the North End and had dinner. As we were heading back to the T, we decided to go to a slightly farther stop and walk along some of the Freedom Trail. As we did, we came across the Holocaust Memorial, which we had been wanting to visit. It consists of glass columns in a row; they are hollow in the middle and you walk through them in a straight line. Etched on the glass, reaching up to the sky, are numbers like those that were assigned to people in the deathcamps. There are so many of them, they completely cover the glass. Also etched on the glass, on the inside, where you walk, are quotes from people who survived, and others, about the experience of the Holocaust. As you walk through the columns, warm steam rises through grates in the ground. Underneath the grates are flickering lights. The crematorium. I couldn't help but cry.

Being there was unbelievably intense and moving. And it put into perspective all my frustration about my iPod and the computer crash. I mean really, who even cares? And going to 4 grocery stores? How privileged I am that I have 4 that I can go to. My worries are so mundane. It's so easy to get wrapped up in these everyday stresses that I can forget that there are more important (and worse) things that have happened, and that continue to happen. In the midst of my weekend saga, it was good to have a reality check.

Thickening up my Blood

2006-10-06T17:45:00.000-04:00

Today, the high temperature was in the mid-fifties. Which really doesn't sound all that cold until you stop to consider that this is the temperature that one might expect on a January day in Oakland. Of course, earlier this week, it was about 80 degrees, so you can't say that there's no weather variety here. Which you can definitely say about O-town.

This cooling will, of course, be a trend. It will lead to snow and ice and me toying with the idea of keeping a flask of bourbon in my coat. I realize that I need to get serious about winterizing my life. Really, the only discernible step I've taken toward this goal is buying a treadmill on Craigslist. Now I can count on not freezing to death when I'm running early in the morning in the wintertime. (I should say that getting this treadmill home and up the stairs was very difficult, as it seems to weigh approximately 1,000 pounds). I've also looked at a few winter coats, but haven't bought anything. I've counted my long-sleeved shirts, and I think there are something like 8. And at least 2 of these shirts really wouldn't keep me warm in the winter since they're basically summer shirts. That's right: I used to live in a place where long-sleeved shirts were for summer.

Mostly, I haven't really thought about the impending winter. Which is easy to do when you have a few warm days that make winter seem like a myth. And I've taken care not to wear too much clothing. No, I am not walking around naked. But I'm not wearing as many layers as I would in similar temperatures in California. I'm trying to thicken up my blood, which I'm told I must do. And what's with that expression, anyway? I have a hard time believing my blood will actually get thicker -- I'll probably just grow an extra layer of blubber. I could fact-check this online, but that would require me to exert some minimal amount of effort. I just don't have that kind of time or energy, with all the winter clothes shopping I'm going to have to do.

Plus, I need to become hardcore freeze-proof. There are just too many people who told me before I moved that I was going to freeze to death in Massachusetts (and if you're reading this, you're probably not one of them). They warned me that it gets cold there, as if I wouldn't know that because I lived in a (well-insulated) cave. They seemed to forget that 1) People already live in New England, so living with the cold has been done, and 2) Coats are widely sold in stores. So thickening up my blood is also a way for me thumb my nose/flip the bird at the people who wanted to tell me I couldn't survive and (implicitly or explicitly) that moving here for my job was a bad idea. They should watch out, because I'm gonna learn how to throw a mean snowball.

Not So Fast

2006-10-02T19:57:00.000-04:00

Today was Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement. Every year during the high holidays, Todd and I try to figure out what to do to make the holidays our own. Last year for Yom Kippur, we both took the day off work, ate Chinese food, and otherwise loafed about. Technically/traditionally, what someone is supposed to do on Yom Kippur is fast for the 25 hours between the sundown of the beginning of the holiday and into darkfall the next day, when the holiday is over. And fasting means not only eschewing food, but also drink. And one is not supposed to engage in other comforts, such as showering. Also, nearly the whole day is supposed to be spent in temple, repenting and otherwise trying to distract oneself from dehydrated starvation. At least until the break-fast, where everyone gorges and is generally relieved.

Not being the traditional types, Todd and I have never really done all this (Though Todd does vaguely remember fasting when he was about 15). So this year, we decided to give the fasting a try, although I refused to give up water. I also drew the line at the not showering thing. We were also going to attend a service at a Humanistic Jewish temple, which said something about being in tune with the cultural traditions of Judaism more than the religious ones. This seemed different, so we thought it would be an experience. And attending the service was free/donation requested, rather than the several hundred dollars per person to get tickets at some synagogues.

I would definitely say that today has been an experience. The service was strange in that there was no religious element whatsoever. No Torah. Very little Hebrew. No mention of God, even. It was a "family" service, and featured children reading various poems and quotes, one of which was from Mr. Rogers. It was well-meaning but hokey. And the lack of anything religious was disconcerting. How can there be no Torah? On the high HOLY days?! No. Also, the whole service lasted about 45 minutes, rather than the 3+ hours one might expect for a morning Yom Kippur service. This was hardly enough time to distract us from our hunger.

And our hunger was great. It was distracting us from the purpose of the day, which is self-reflection and amends-making. At one point this morning, I was saying something to Todd but then lost my train of thought because I was thinking about yogurt. Last night, as we were drifting off to sleep, Todd suggested that we might eat some banana bread together after the fast was over. You know, as a fun activity. And this was just the yearning for food. I had no coffee this morning. And for someone who usually starts her day with 2 large mugsfull, this is bad, bad news.

By the time we returned home from the temple (which was actually a Unitarian Universalist church) it was basically lunch time. In the car ride home, we had been discussing how the fasting was not helping us be more self-reflective, and so seemed like pointless pain. We also drove by many restaurants and bakeries. I was beginning to feel nauseated from all the acid rolling around in my stomach. And so we did what people do: We ate. The fast that was supposed to be over around 6:30 or 7 tonight ended at about noon. We decided that we are just not the fasting type. I don't know how so many people all over the world do it. Maybe they know something I don't. Maybe they're in temple all day, so there are no bakeries to look at. I don't know. But they get my utmost respect.

Next year, maybe we'll go the Chinese food route again.

Argh!

2006-09-27T17:18:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-24T10:30:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-23T11:48:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-18T18:59:00.003-04:00

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

2006-09-17T08:31:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-16T12:09:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-11T18:19:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-07T19:29:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-05T17:58:00.000-04:00

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.

Settling

2006-08-29T18:57:00.000-04:00

The following are reasons why I'm beginning to feel more settled in:

1. The kitchen is fully unpacked.

2. Our collection of 37 boxes is becoming our collection of broken-down boxes that we need to ask someone from Craigslist to spirit away.

3. I've assembled multiple pieces of Ikea furniture, with little insult or injury to myself, the furniture, or innocent bystanders.

4. We found a coffee table (on Craigslist, of course). Well, sort of. It actually is a bit too large, so I think we'll use it as a TV stand instead. But we needed one of those too, so it all works out. The best part was that we bought it from someone whose apartment was much funkier than ours, and not in an endearing way. Buying this table made me feel good about myself.

5. My job is great. Plus, they (my supervisors and the larger institution) keep giving me free meals. And I'm not talking Swanson HungryMan, either. Last week, there was a welcome lunch. The main course? Lobster. I am not joking. They also had steamed clams, salmon, and a fabulous vegetarian option, of which I readily partook (the veggie option, not the fish. I haven't been converted). I guess the lunch wasn't actually free to most people -- the lobster eaters, at least, had to pay -- but I wasn't charged anything. I didn't even have to show any ankle. And there was a raffle. Normally I don't win at raffles, but I won a travel coffee mug. I guess I gotta wash down all that free food with something. Yesterday, at another function, I also obtained a free lunch, made with local produce and other local goodies. Tomorrow, I'm told that there will also be food for me at a staff meeting. And next week, I hear that there might be some Pad Thai with my name on it. There is also a communal chocolate stash in the fridge at work. Hmm. Maybe I should just buy some larger clothes now so I have some room to grow.

And finally:

6. I've solved the mystery of the low ceilings in the Natick FunkHouse: It's actually not so much that the ceilings are low; it's that the floors are high. In the area of the apartment where the ceilings feel lower, the floor actually steps up, so we just stand closer to the ceiling. You know: The FunkHouse is not fat; it's just big-boned.

Unpacking

2006-08-27T09:44:00.000-04:00

On Friday, our furniture and boxes were delivered by the movers. Now, what once appeared to be a fairly spacious apartment is filled with the mess of moving. In fact, it's very clear to me that my previous thought that this apartment was bigger than our last place was false -- it was just empty.

The unpacking is slow, since we have little closet space (we need to buy a wardrobe -- good thing we've got wardrobe boxes for now) and no dresser. And no coffee table, entertainment center, stereo, TV, filing cabinets, nightstands, etc., etc. It was nice to have a real bed to sleep on, but our bed is so big compared to the air mattress that it made me realize how small our bedroom is compared to our old bedroom in Oakland. In fact, our furniture (at least the few pieces that we have) really accentuates the slant in the floors, which I'd noticed before, but didn't realize how prominent it was until I saw how crooked our bookshelves look. I guess it's good that we're not in earthquake country anymore, although I do keep thinking "Wow, this will really be a problem in an earthquake!" only to then realize that such an event is unlikely here.

And then there are the low ceilings in the bedroom and (small) living room. The ceilings are of a normal height in the kitchen, bathroom, office, and extra room/closet/workout room. I don't know why they are lower in the other rooms, other than just general funkiness. We're not hitting our heads or anything, but I don't exactly have to get up on a chair to change a lightbulb, either. The lack of ceiling height is also accentuated by our bed, which sits up high. We bought it, of course, when we were living in our place in Oakland, which had freakishly high ceilings. They were so high, in fact, that changing lightbulbs was an adventure. I was known to have to stand on books on top of a chair in order to barely reach the ceiling fixtures. Yes, this was not the safest arrangement and I should have just gotten a ladder. I certainly don't need that ladder now, though. Good thing there are no ceiling fans or we'd have some real problems.

Because of all this, I am now obsessed with ceilings. When we go to other people's apartments to look at furniture they are selling on Craigslist, it seems like everyone has higher ceilings than we do. So my refrain after leaving these other apartments (too often, without furniture) is "Now those were some high ceilings!" So I'm basically beginning to sound like a freak. Or at least a little obsessed. And maybe I am.

What I really want are some elves to come in the night and put away all our stuff, get rid of the empty boxes, and maybe even wash a few dishes while they're here. I wonder if the Keebler Elves are available. Then they could leave me some cookies, too.

I miss our old apartment. Now those were some high ceilings.

Working Girl

2006-08-23T20:02:00.000-04:00

Do you remember that final scene in Working Girl? The one where Tess (who, strangely enough, Arethusa recently referenced) goes into her new office building only to discover that she's in charge and has a fabulous office? Well, I am the new Tess.

Today was my first day on the job for which I moved all the way across the country. And what is the first thing they do? Give me a choice of which office I want. At the particular stage I am at in my career, having an office is unheard of. But a choice of offices? No. I chose the corner office with the brand new computer. The fact that this was even an option still boggles my mind. And they gave me a plant.

Then, what do they do next? Tell me that they will be giving me more money and benefits, due to an update in my contract.

Somebody say "Amen."

Fun with Craigslist

2006-08-21T18:14:00.000-04:00

I trust Craigslist to give me many things: Furniture, apartments, and most of all, entertainment. To wit: Last week I posted an ad in the general section asking for recommendations for a hairstylist. I noted that I have very short hair and would like to maintain my modern cut (which is my code for no grandma hair, please). I got several e-mails with suggestions. But this is the best one:

hi, are u single ? :)

nothing sexier than a lady

with very short hair

!!

i'm a contractor and also

went to cosmetology school,

yeah, i know,

quite a

combo !  :) rick

Yes, Rick. That is indeed quite a combo.

At Last

2006-08-21T17:28:00.000-04:00

Today a nice man came and set up our phone and internet. No more going to the library or internet cafes to check e-mail. No more having to use cell phone minutes for every single call. Who would have thought I could feel such deep love for Verizon?

We are getting more settled into the Natick FunkHouse every day. We've bought some furniture on Craigslist. We're cooking our own meals, thanks to our ChefMate Kitchen in a Box. We're blocking the train noise at night by closing the windows and turning on a large fan. We've even begun to plan our housewarming party, which will take place at some point in the distant future. We've decided that we will invite all the people we know here, even if we know them only peripherally. This means that the guy who sold us insurance gets an invite. As will the agent who helped us find the FunkHouse. Who needs to intimately know all the people at a party? I remember going to parties in college where I wasn't even sure whose house it was. This last sentence could also read: "Back in my day, we didn't need to know who was throwing the party! We just needed to be able to find it!" Choose your own adventure, people.

I've even devised a game for our theoretical housewarming party: Roll the Bottle. Rather than be irritated by our sloping floors (especially in the dining room) I think it's time to embrace them. The game will consist of 2 people, each with a bottle of beer. The people will simultaneously roll their bottles across the floor, and the person whose bottle gets to the other side first wins. Which means they get to keep their beer and their opponent's beer. Deeper meaning can be added to this game by including beers from different regions. Sam Adams vs. Sierra Nevada comes to mind -- Massachusetts vs. California! Who will win? The excitement never stops here at the FunkHouse.

The Wrong Side of the Tracks

2006-08-17T11:08:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, we moved into our new apartment in Natick. After having only seen it once, for approximately 10 minutes, we were faced with some surprises. For instance, the previous tenants didn't do such a fine job of cleaning up when they moved out. And the building owner didn't pick up the slack. This meant that the first thing we had to do was clean the place. This is terribly unsatisfying, especially given that one of the previous tenants apparently had very long hair that was still on everything. Although I wouldn't mind if one of my friends came over and shedded (Kjerste, I'm talking to you), there is something about picking up hair from someone you don't know that is not cute. Plus, there is some painting that needs to be done, and some egregiously broken window shades that should have been fixed when the last people moved out. More work for us. We are also not entirely sure where to take out our garbage and recycling because the building owner hasn't called us back about doing an initial walk through.

We also noted how little storage space this place has, especially compared to our previous, fabulous apartment in Oakland. In Oakland, we had 2 walk-in closets, a hallway closet, and tons of drawers in our huge bathroom. And a stunning view of the lake, of course. And I realize that this is not the normal state of affairs, but damn, did I get used to it. So the room that was to be the home-gym will probably now be the treadmill room and walk-in closet. And should I even be complaining about this? I mean, really: If we've got an entire room that we can turn into closet space, I should really just shut the hell up. But complaining makes me feel better, so that's what I'm going to do.

One of the bonuses of this apartment is that it is a 4 minute walk to the commuter rail station. What this also means is that it is right on the train tracks. We can see and hear the trains go by. And although I've complained before that the trains don't run frequently enough to get me where I want to go, I'm kind of glad now that they don't run more frequently. Last night and this morning, I was awakened by every single commuter train, as well as the occasional freight train. I've also stated previously that I wanted to live somewhere with some urban noise, so I wouldn't feel like such a suburbanite. I guess I should be careful what I wish for. In some sense, the current setup is the best of both worlds: It's really, really quiet at night (except for chirping crickets) but then the train rolls through to remind me that I am livin' on the wrong side of the tracks after all.

I miss my old apartment. I miss my old life. And dammit, I'm crying in an internet cafe. Why am I in an internet cafe? Well, Verizon can't come out until next week to set up our phone and internet. And again, why am I complaining? I live within walking distance to a cafe that provides free internet.

I would take to my bed, but all we've got is an air mattress (the movers won't arrive with our stuff for a little over a week). And taking to one's air mattress just doesn't have the same histrionic flair as does taking to one's bed.