Archive for March, 2008
I’m not a particular fan of American Apparel … apparel. I am a fan of their labor and environmental policies, obviously, although their CEO makes it difficult to focus on that aspect with his unabashed sexual antics and wildly inappropriate workplace ethics. But really, what bothers me most is that they think that these pass for shorts? REALLY? THOSE ARE NOT SHORTS. THEY ARE, AT BEST, UNDERWEAR. I can’t believe we live in a society where ass cheeks are an appropriate accessory.
This, by the way, further underscores the fact that I continue to age, most recently brought to light by the fact that I live in a college town and spend much of my day surrounded by college students. And every day, as I remark to friends nearly hourly, I remain floored by the fact that college freshman and sophomores look like infants. Teeny tiny INFANTS who should not be allowed to leave the HOUSE, much less attend college on their own and be given free access to things like hot plates and microwaves and BEER. And yet, there they are, walking around without someone holding their hand. I can’t believe it.
It reminds me, somewhat incongruously, of the a time when I was at a bar in the BU area of Boston and was being strangely courted in that drunk, not-so-charming way by a young college student wearing beer goggles. The fact that I announced that I was married left him with a “So what?” glare — I believe he said, “That’s kind of hot” which of course, it wasn’t to a normal person — but what REALLY got him was the fact that I announced that I was twenty-nine. I’ll never forget the look on his face when he realized — again, drunkenly — “Wait, dude, you’re going to be THIRTY? Dang, that’s old.” I mean, there are a lot of times in my life that I feel like I’m living a terribly contrived sitcom, but that might best them all. I’m also fairly certain that I went home and smeared an avocado and honey mask and bought eye cream online, because OH MY GOD, I was suddenly very old.
Hey, how was your weekend? In addition to the host of errands required after moving into a new home, we found the closest mall, if by “close” you mean about an hour away, and was also very tiny in comparison to the terrifyingly robust shopping available in Naples, which is a retail MECCA, if you didn’t know. I counted five Bed, Bath & Beyonds within a ten-mile radius there once, which is both comforting and petrifying, because how many people do they need to support that many pillowcases and placemats? It’s … it’s a far cry from our hour-ish journey to the nearest Home Goods and KMart, because let me remind you again, WE HAVE NO TARGET. This … this is very difficult for me, as I could use endless aisles of trash cans and bath mats right about now, and no such oasis exists, Martha Stewart Every Day or not.
We also watched No Country for Old Men, and I had the same struggle that I always have when watching anything by the Coen brothers in that I feel like I’m supposed to be extracting some deep, fatalistic meaning from every scene, though I largely adore them. This also makes me feel deeply inadequate when I dislike one of their films, as I sort of did with No Country for Old Men.
It’s not that I didn’t like it, necessarily, it’s that I … I didn’t love it, primarily because it did little more than give me the creeps because just two days ago, I swear, I had a dream that Javier Bardem was trying to kill me, and hey, guess what? THE ENTIRE MOVIE is Javier Bardem trying to kill people, with that ultra-creepy Prince Valiant page boy (really, I’m giving little away here: that’s evident in the first three minutes). This meant that I spent the greater part of the movie with my face hidden behind a fleece blanket, because ew, nightmare on film, HOW FUN — that is, when I wasn’t telling Sunny the pug to just SHUT UP already, because there were a lot of dogs and horses in the film and she had to tell us about it repeatedly, each and every damn time she saw one. OH HI. WE GET IT. A HORSE ON TV, THANK YOU.
Plus, and this is strange: I usually don’t mind adaptations when I’m watching them if I haven’t read the book, but in this case, I kept thinking that I’d SO prefer reading this than watching it. I felt much the same when I saw The Sweet Hereafter, which you should only see if you feel like taking a dull butter knife to your wrists and killing yourself VERY SLOWLY. Because Jesus, was that ever depressing.
Which reminds me: now that we have a living room we like and can sit in comfortably, we’re watching movies again. What have you seen lately that you really liked? Rentals, if you don’t mind, because remember: there is no movie theater with first-run movies within a 30-mile radius. No, I’m totally not kidding. And because I know someone is going to ask: we already saw Juno.
Thank you! And happy Monday!
*Common, John Legend & Kanye West, but it’s on Common’s album, in case you were wondering.
March 16th, 2008
When we moved into our last house, we unpacked quickly and, if you ask Adam, we unpacked foolishly and recklessly by putting things in any place, rather than the right place. This is why I am currently surrounded by neatly organized piles of our things and it is also why our kitchen knives are merely resting on the counter, waiting to stab an innocent bystander. And as you can probably guess, this is also why I am considering stabbing myself in the eye with one of those kitchen knives, because THE PILES ARE MAKING ME CRAZY.
Among other things making me nuts: the dog licking her ass, Fred Armisen’s Barack Obama (it’s terrible! IT IS SO BAD, IT ACTUALLY MAKES ME ANGRY) and the whole Eliot Spitzer brouhaha. I feel … I feel bad for the prostitute involved, for reasons unknown, though very likely because she seems so LOST and also I may be a wee bit jealous of the $5300 per hour paycheck. Not that I want to be a prostitute, you understand, but I would like to find something that doesn’t involve the swapping of bodily fluids that will pay me $5300 per hour. And if you were wondering, finding errant commas is not that something.
Adam has announced that he is for legalizing prostitution and would like to initiate a jism tax, if you will, along the lines of a cigarette tax. A JISM TAX. Of course.
Incidentally, I’m not sure that we’ll ever see our car again, seeing as it was shipped from Naples several weeks ago and has not yet arrived. I’m not encouraged by the fact that Adam called about it today and expressed his displeasure at the fact that it seems have gone AWOL, and was responded to in a way that would make cognitive behavioral therapists around the world cheer in solidarity.
“Well, sir, I’m sorry you feel that way.”
How woefully effective, yes? I’m thinking I’ll see our car sometime in December after it tours the greater Sacramento area.
In other news, I should tell you that things are good. Remarkably good, and I’m usually of the superstitious sort who doesn’t like to admit that kind of thing, lest it be ruined by tempting the gods of fate. Except I realized tonight that it’s not remarkably good in the sense that it’s any different from a life that most people have, it’s that our lives before were darker than we realized until we got out of it, you know? I mean, we both go to work — he at an actual workplace, me to a mix of home and the coffee shop — and we come home, have dinner and watch television in front of the fire with a warm puppy. Except that there are other people in our lives now, and though it’s been too short a time to say we have friends, it’s been a surprising comfort to see the same people, day in and day out. For example, I worked next to the same one-eyed man for the last three days in a row. (The eye patch is hard to miss … ) He’s … strangely comforting, in that he knows my name and we wave. Every day.
And Adam loves his job. Loves. And he hasn’t loved his job like this in a long time.
I didn’t mention this before, but our neighbors downstairs (our house has a basement apartment) are a nice couple almost exactly our age, and at least once a day, the woman and I have a chat in our house, and we have lunch plans for next week. And today, when I arrived at the coffee shop, nearly everyone in there already knew me by name — honestly, that small greeting was the most warmly I’d been welcomed anywhere in Florida in the almost three years I lived there. And oh yes, in a little over a week, we’ve found ourselves committed to a fundraising event … at the American Legion … Bingo for charity, you know. I mean, it’s not a Legion-sponored event, but … oh nevermind. Heh. I didn’t say it was perfect.
So there’s that. There’s the start of a small, cozy little life, and even if this is as far as it goes, I appreciate it already. And did I tell you that I’m likely seeing one of my best friends and her baby daughter next week? IN PERSON. AND I WILL DRIVE THERE. You have no idea how exciting that is for me, after being stranded a plane ride away from everyone I love. It’s … it’s a pretty big deal, and yet for most people it’s the simplest thing. I missed that so very much.
I hope you have a great Friday.
*Reindeer Section
PS: Also, because some people asked what I did with it, I did have a little ditty about the survey here, and as I mentioned I LOVE SURVEYS and may have filled it out already like, uh, TWICE. And I would fill it out a thousand times but I don’t think I’m allowed. And yes, I did answer a sex survey once whether I spit or swallow or none of the above because of a strange mixture of naivete and a wild love for surveys. Like an idiot.
But you know, I always feel like such a tool putting something like that up like oh hi, HELP ME WITH MY ADS, and OH THE GUILT. Nevertheless, lest you think I’m being sneaky on purpose, the link for the BlogHer Ads survey is here.
It’s also in shining pink rotation on the right, all guilty-like from time to time. But to assuage my own guilt, I should tell you that the people at BlogHer are really, really nice and wicked smart and helpful.
*Reindeer Section
March 13th, 2008
You know, and I hate to say this, I give Ryan Seacrest a lot of credit. The dude works his ass off at … whatever it is he’s doing. How does one go about deciding that as a career, they’d like to be Dick Clark …ish? That reminds me of some Southern cousins of mine who live in a tiny town in rural South Carolina — the youngest one, Jessie, asked me about public relations and journalism at the behest of her father, and told me quite sincerely that while PR vaguely interested her, her calling was to be an MTV veejay. And she was so … HOPEFUL about it, like she really believed her champagne wishes and caviar dreams could come true. And worse, I think she’s a waitress now.
We swore off American Idol this year, and for a little while, were so smug about our lack of Idolness. Friends and family would discuss and have the SAME CONVERSATIONS we had year after year — honestly, you could swap out “Mandisa” for any one of this year’s underrated talents, and you might as well be in 2006 — and we would sit quietly, content in our obnoxious smugness because we didn’t get sucked in this year, no sirree.
Er, I watched the full two hours tonight. And it’s on, bitches. And I feel like I failed some kind of social experiment, and Chris Hansen is going to come out with his hidden cameras at any time, asking condescendingly, “Could you not HELP yourself?”
No. I couldn’t.
Anyway, of all the things that have spooked me since moving to Vermont from Florida, I have to tell you, I remain shocked that the weather isn’t one of them. Granted, I haven’t endured MONTHS AND MONTHS of eye-poking winter and endless hours of scraping the car windshield until your doohickey breaks (ours did yesterday), and those days where you just want to go SOMEWHERE, but Jesus, it’s a mess out there, so why bother? But I would venture to say it has more to do with what I left than what I came into.
Sunshine isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I know! That sounds absurd! But as a friend of mine from my last job so eloquently put it, say you had your favorite food for dinner whenever you wanted it — nay, you HAD to have it for dinner as long as someone told you to — for me, that’s creme brulee. Creme brulee for dinner would be AWESOME the first night. And probably the second. And the third. Oh hell, the first two weeks. But by the third week, you’re a little bored, but feeling guilty, because dude, it’s CREME BRULEE, am I some kind of ASSHOLE? And then by the fourth week, OH MY GOD I HATE CREME BRULEE. Can’t I have some brussels sprouts, for God’s sake? I need FIBER up in this piece to survive!
That’s what an endless string of 80 degree days does to you. You don’t CARE anymore. Yay, it’s sunny! WHO CARES. IT’S SUNNY ALL THE TIME. Honestly, I didn’t notice the weather. Ever. People would be all, it’s a beautiful day! And I’d be all, NO ONE CARES. YOU JUST DESCRIBED EVERY DAY. (At least until the rainy hurricane season)
It was sunny and warmish today. And for the first time in a really long time, I appreciated it. Really!
Have a great Wednesday!
*Rusted Root
March 11th, 2008
You know when you’re in a hotel room — say, on a vacation for the first night, or visiting family during a holiday — and you wake up in the middle of the night and you’re just not sure where the hell you are or how you got there? For a brief flash, it’s like you’ve been kidnapped and are waiting to discover that you are, in fact, handcuffed to the wall and some man named Stu is hovering over you in his rubber chaps and oh, by the way, he wants to have his way with you before he slits your throat, if you’re not busy. Now. And then slowly you come to and realize, no no, I’m in my parents’ spare bedroom/Marriott/Doubletree/whatever.
I’ve woken up like that almost every day, and you’d think by now I’d be accustomed to it, or at least would be able to place myself in some sort of vague geographical location. But no. Every morning at 4 a.m. like clockwork, I wake up completely disoriented with a desperate desire to pee like I’ve never peed before. I haven’t made it through the night without a minimum of two trips to the bathroom since we moved here — it’s so DRY, with the heat on and all (and lack of humidity, thank you Florida), that I’ve been drinking like a camel in the desert. My lips, too, are none too pleased, and resemble the neck of a turtle and are about as appealing to kiss, I’m sure. Mmmm… turtle neck.
(Turtle neck, by the way, gives me the worst visual ever, and reminds me of that utterly hilarious Blog Share post on R’s blog about the turkey wattle. It’s funny how things like that just stick with you — when I was single, I was dating this guy who was perfectly lovely, until one day I noticed he had piggy hands. I don’t know why, it’s just that suddenly, I looked at his hands and they were like miniature pork products resting on his palm. And it ALSO reminds me of a conversation I had with a friend today wherein I admitted it would be hard for me to date someone in his 70s unless I had married them when they were younger and/or was in my 60s or 70s myself. For many reasons, but aesthetically speaking, it’s because of Old Man Flabby Butt. I’m not against Old Man Flabby Butt, it’s that for some reason, I need that Old Man Flabby Butt to come about organically, or at least be logical, because at that age, I will be sporting Old Lady Flabby Butt myself, you know? Of course by that time, all the old men and their flabby butts will want YOUNG TAUT butts, so I’ll be alone in my elderly flab and this whole conversation is moot. Or mute, as too many of my colleagues have said in the past. MUTE. Anyway, good thing I’m happily married, is what I’m saying, because I’m sounding like a bit of an asshole here, I know. No pun intended. With luck and good health on our side, by the time I end up with an OMFB, it will be one I’ve seen grow INTO its current form, rather than being surprised by it.)
(End, uh, OMFB and piggy fingers tangent.)
Aaand, we’re back to 4 a.m. and I don’t know where I am! So, when I finally figure out where I am, I am jostled awake by the fact that hello, I am in Vermont. Which is very close to Canada. Which is VERY FAR away from where I was two weeks ago, and I know that’s obvious, but have you ever played the game where you try to picture yourself on a map, like a little mobile push pin? For some reason, that always gets me, like HELLO, I LIVE IN VERMONT. When did that happen? And then my mind does that whole camera pan thing like Jim Carrey in The Truman Show, only I’m a little blue push pin amid a sea of moose and pine trees, waving wildly for the cameramen to come get me, or at least let me know that they’re THERE.
I’m sorry. I know this is boring as sin (though sin is much more exciting), because by now, you’ve all figured out that I’ve moved, while it is still dawning on me day by day. I will get over this, really I will, it’s just that it’s only been a week, and I’m still so surprised by it all, I don’t know why. Do you know that sometimes I think hey, I should stop by and see my old hairdresser, without realizing that DUH, that would be a FLIGHT?
And hey, thanks for the dishwashing tips. I am both comforted and alarmed that there are so many of us with a constant fear of germs, and while I realize on some level, it’s irrational, one of my good friends got salmonella from an EGG. A REGULAR EGG, COOKED IN HIS HOUSE. And dude, he didn’t even EAT the rotten egg, it just happened to be near an egg that he did eat, and he ate the okay egg sunny side up, which meant that while yes, it was fine, it was raw and had been tainted! By the bad egg, bitchy little Veruca Salt that it was. And while I realize maybe he should have tossed the entire dozen, he ate the egg that was on the OTHER SIDE! TAINTED EGGS, man. They’re EVERYWHERE, lurking like evil little gnomes waiting to wreak havoc on our intestines at a moment’s notice. This is why we must be vigilant.
And I really enjoy italics, don’t I? HI, WOULD YOU LIKE SOME ITALICS WITH YOUR EGGS?
I’m sure I had something else — in fact, I know I did. I sat down to write today with a PURPOSE, though very likely an absurd one. So here we are again. Nowhere, but with more blue push pins and flabby butts!
Happy Tuesday!
*Soft Cell. Or at least, their version is the most famous, I think.
March 10th, 2008
I’m sure where you are it’s beginning to look all delightfully springy and shit, but here, we’ve been blessed with a weekend of ice storms, and please don’t hate me for saying this, but I kind of missed it, especially when I spent Saturday night all snuggled up in front of the woodstove with a sleeping dog in my lap watching Gone Baby Gone (which, by the way, was outstanding, but what’s the point in discussing it, as I am the last person on earth to see it?).
By the way, after Thursday’s meltdown, I had a great couple of days and now honestly uh, welcome to my mood swings? This weekend, I felt like I was BORN to live in new places and was contemplating our next move, because I love adventure! And Vermont! And more adventure and unfamiliarity! Stay tuned for the next hormonal dip, for it promises to be utterly delightful.
God, this is all such a wordy way of recommending the best boots ever, and what have very likely gotten me through this brief spell of winter: the Ugg Bandon. Now look, I KNOW they’re ugly, and I know they’re expensive, but my God, I have trekked through giant drifts and windstorms without fear and my feet have stayed WARM. And what might be sadder is that I think they’re the most I’ve spent on any shoe, ever (pity me) and they’re astonishingly hideous and a little too practical. But did I mention there were ice storms today? And that right now, as I sit here typing to you, it is FIFTEEN DEGREES outside? And yet: my feet are warm and dry, and I’ve walked the dog three times. That’s all I’m saying.
Speaking of cold, I’d like to issue a warm PSA of thanks to the good citizens of Vermont, for we’ve had to rely on two of them in the last seven days to jump start our vehicle, because my husband — TWICE, IN ONE WEEK — left the lights on in my car, rendering our battery dead as a smushed fly, which left us to wander around a (TWELVE DEGREE) parking lot until we found someone kind enough to help us.
Also! Also! If y’all are ever in a situation where you need gas, nightcrawlers and say, the weapon of your choice, I’ve found the place for you — yes, I filled up today at a combination gas station/tackle shop/gun store with a giant sign in the window, “Serve your country: buy a gun.” While I’m not an NRA member, I’m not necessarily anti-gun, either (surprise!), but really, I’m not sure how buying a Walther with my nightcrawlers and diesel really serves my country, you know?
If you didn’t know, Vermont has some of the most lax gun laws in the United States, despite having one of the lowest crime rates in the country. But uh, if you need an uzi to commit a crime elsewhere, we’re your guy!
There also seems to be a disproportionate amount of taxidermists, which always mystifies me. Are there that many people who want to immortalize their pets and farm animals? What is the POINT of taxidermy, exactly, other than to do as one house I pass fairly regularly has done, which is to uh, preserve and pose a grown horse — complete with horse blanket — in a lifelike position, as if snacking on some clover. It took me ten drive-bys to realize that hey, um, that horse is in the same position it was this morning! And five minutes ago! AND HEY THAT HORSE IS STUFFED.
(Why?)
And finally, I have to tell you that yes, my house is perfect and cozy and it’s everything I would have wanted if I had the choice of creating it myself, honestly. It’s an 1870s farmhouse on several acres and I have a creek in my backyard! A whole creek! But … but …
I don’t have a dishwasher. And really this is fine … sort of. When Adam came to see it, he didn’t notice, and I forgot to ask and now here we are with no dishwasher and no garbage disposal and NO SPRAY NOZZLE (of all the things, I miss the spray nozzle the most) and while it hasn’t been that bad so far — really, I don’t mind washing the dishes by hand, it’s not that– I have officially reached true understanding of the meaning of dishpan hands from immersing them in the hottest water I can stand because I’m afraid of germs and have instead opted to boil my fingers off. You see, I am REALLY afraid of germs. And raw chicken. And salmonella. And did I mention germs? Non-dishwasher-havers: what do you do? How do I clean RAW CHICKEN THINGS while assuring that they are, in fact, SANITIZED? (I’m sounding like a crazy person, with this raw chicken thing, I know) And what about the whole SPONGE THING, where your toilet is supposedly cleaner than your average kitchen sponge? Should I be dipping my silverware in the toilet first?
HELP. I’m staying up nights imagining giant pools of salmonella collecting on my dishware. There must be a solution for this or at least something I can do to ease my addled, germy mind.
And hey, happy Monday! And wish my friend TwoBusy one, too, for it promises to be a bitch for him, and warm fuzzies are always helpful (Shut up, TB, SHUT UP. THEY HELP.)
*The Bravery
March 9th, 2008
I’m strangely homesick, but logic would ask, homesick for what? It’s not like I was madly in love with what I left, but at least it had become familiar. And as I mentioned yesterday, there is some newfound queasiness due to all the TININESS of it, but I keep reminding myself that it will be at least familiar in a little while, or so I hope. It sure is beautiful, I’ll tell you that — which reminds me, no photo downloader thingy yet. It’s here somewhere, but I’m going to need someone’s mother to dig it all out, because I’ve no idea.
But I digress. To be honest, and this is as much for me as you, so that I remember that sometimes I’m not rational: I think a lot of this panic might be PMS-related. Don’t tell Adam, for nothing is worse than confirming time of the month suspicions, I tell you. Nothing. I also think it’s compounded by the fact that I was trapped in the house today because we only have one car right now and Adam had to trek up to the Big City. And you know, nothing says “stir crazy” like being surrounded by boxes with no relief in sight, without even realizing where your clean underwear are. To compound matters, I didn’t get much work done, ergo I am now behind, because it was the antithesis of soothing, all that unfinished business and packing paper.
But besides that, I think in my glee to get back to New England and out of Florida, I assumed, extraordinarily incorrectly, that it would be a piece of cake and there would be no adjustment period whatsoever — that I would just arrive seamlessly without pausing to realize that hey, um, THINGS ARE DIFFERENT. Oh, how absurdly foolish, yet uncharacteristically optimistic of me. For God’s sake, even the DOG hasn’t adjusted perfectly, and her life is exactly the same as it was in Florida. You’d think I’d give myself a break, but apparently I’d prefer flogging myself and snuffling over the kitchen sink for failing to realize this earlier.
Also, say it with me: I’ve been here for FIVE AND A HALF DAYS. Surely, it’s time for widespread panic! I’ve seen everything in five and a half days! I might as well just THROW IN THE TOWEL, right?
Anyway, speaking of adjustments/journeys — our beloved little ancient 1998 Honda Accord is taking quite a lengthy journey, and though it will be all but useless in the winter wonderland that is Vermont right now, I miss it. Well, to be honest, I miss the lamps and hangers we stuffed into the trunk, as well as the various wastebaskets we’ve jammed in the backseat. The Honda, it seems, is still in Florida, despite having been picked up more than two weeks ago. I’m thinking by now that the car has been picked clean like a chicken carcass and all that will remain is a few axles and maybe a dangling license plate.
Enough! How much of this can you stand? Incidentally, we now have television, and to say that I missed the … heat that is Sayid is a grotesque understatement. I’m also more than a little bit embarrassed to admit that I love television and quite possibly want to make out with mine, if only because I missed it so.
Also, and here’s where I sound horribly uncultured, but can I tell you that I made Shake ‘n Bake for dinner tonight? And that it was, um, FABULOUS? Pork recipe, if you’re wondering. Crunchy on the outside, juicy on the inside: just as the package promises. Next up, grape jelly pie and maybe that faux apple thing on the Ritz box.
Happy Friday!
*Widespread Panic.
March 6th, 2008
First off, our stuff is here! Hooray for stuff! Whether it will ever get out of boxes is another story altogether — two busy people and enough boxes for the universe to unpack do not a joyful situation make. Would anyone like to come organize my kitchen while I retreat to the sunroom to get some writing done, perhaps with a snifter of brandy? I’ll make you tea if you holler really loudly that your back is hurting.
The good news is, however, that we have a bed, and God, it will be so good to sleep tonight without the loud “REEARGH” of the air mattress every single time one of us wants to get up to go to the bathroom. This is, of course, followed by an incredible bounce that shoots the remaining sleeper off the edge of the bed into the makeshift cardboard-box night table, taking out the lamp and the alarm clock, along with whatever nighttime beverages the sleeper may have chosen (and Jesus, it’s drier than Death Valley in here, so water is necessary, along with giant pools of Blistex).
I should tell you, too, that one of our movers — a local guy, from Rutland, which is … well, it’s not very close — stood in our kitchen chatting about the primaries and at one point announced TO ME, A WOMAN, “Can you believe we have to choose between a colored guy and a woman? I mean, those are our only choices!”
I think what surprised me most is that he’s obviously a Democrat, given the “we,” and that kind of talk seems … well, it seems against the Democratic stereotype, that’s for sure. And you know, the whole idea that I would be as offended as he is by a woman running for president, never mind the uh, creative use of the word “colored,” is abhorrent and entirely … flooring. Perhaps he was better rooting for ah, someone else, or joining one of Ron Paul’s rabid fanzine writers (Note: I really do mean those nutty writers, and not RP himself.) Jesus. I’m never very good in situations where there is obvious deep-seated prejudice, because — well, at least in this case, the guy was responsible for carting my precious valuables up and down the stairs, so a tongue-lashing would likely have cost me a lamp or two. But generally, I am too stunned to properly respond, although if I’m honest, if someone thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to whip out something as scathing as that in casual conversation, I’m imagining I’m not going to be the one to change his mind, no matter how eloquent my commonition. I realize this is, on some level, wrong, but I generally opt for non-confrontation. (Although the giant “Obama 08″ pin on my bulletin board likely spoke volumes, although to him, it likely meant that coloreds bother me less than women.)
Anyway, I’ll tell you what else is not so fun: living with a pint-size Paul Revere. The dog is on high alert in the new house, and at any given moment can be found running through the hallways barking, “The toilets are flushing! The toilets are flushing!” Like we didn’t know. The same warning is also used when the heat goes on, given that the heat sounds like a legion of tiny gnomes hammering on the baseboards and by God, she is going to sniff those gnomes out and eat them if it kills her. Or at least, she’s going to tell someone about it.
I’d also like to add that this life is both exhilarating and entirely … freaky. Honestly, this town is small. Very small. So small that I had lunch and dinner next to the exact same family, and I quickly realized that it wasn’t a kind of weird coincidence, it’s that this town is that tiny. My next door neighbor has a TOWN HOLIDAY in his honor because he’s “such a nice guy.” I’m sure there’s more to it than that (I hope?), but seriously. Apparently one day a year (not sure when this year’s holiday is/was), the entire town is invited to the local pub to have a beer in Frank’s honor and all proceeds go to the charity of Frank’s choice. It’s … well, Jesus, where the hell AM I, that something like that even EXISTS?
I’m feeling more like JC Wiatt every day, and again, it both excites and freaks me right the hell out. I went to the local natural foods store today and saw pickled baby carrots — from a local pickling lady in a nearby town — on sale for $7.95. SEVEN NINETY FIVE. It’s Country Baby! (Side note: I bought them because I had to try them. Mine are better. Pickled carrot lady might have competition, if I can ever figure out how to can. Watch out, PCL!) And there is a whole lot of “yupping” and “nopeing” and a LOT of overalls. Lots.
Anyway, that’s where I’m at. Still liking it, but utterly spooked by the general tininess and obvious quirks. And town holidays. And Country Baby pickled carrots. Vermont is a little scary, non?
Yup.
*John Mellencamp, of course. I … I own a few of his albums. And I like his wife a whole lot. Stop laughing.
March 5th, 2008
Ha ha HAAAA, guess who got lost in the Green Mountain National Forest today? GOOD TIMES. Jesus, those roads are windy and scary and there were a few moments where I almost went all Jane Fonda in “9 to 5″ screaming to myself, “PULL OVER, PULL OVER!” but there was no where to PULL OVER. I was in the MOUNTAINS. On NARROW SNOWY ROADS. And then my mind went all James Kim, and I imagined my family wondering where I went for weeks and days, not realizing until JULY that I was in a snow drift somewhere north of the gleaming metropolis of Ripton, VT (Pop. 556). Vermont is like that, it seems — one minute you’re searching for the auto supply store in a reasonably populated area seeking only a set of new wiper blades, and the next, you’re wildly cruising through the mountains wondering if you’re going to make it out alive, because THERE ARE NO PEOPLE. ONLY MOOSE. AND PINE TREES.
(GAH. MOOSE.)
Incidentally, my hair turned out perfectly, and dude, I give that hairdresser all the credit in the world for hanging in there and making a concerted effort. When I walked in, honestly, there was sheer panic in their eyes — SHEER. PANIC. It took three stylists, four combs and 30 minutes of analysis to determine how they would approach the highlighting process. I had no idea my hair was so … complicated, but I guess it is, given that at one point my new hairdresser whispered desperately, “THERE IS NO PATTERN. NO PATTERN. AND NO NATURAL COLOR AT ALL. WHAT. THE. HELL.”
(For hair aficionados, my entire head is foiled in shades of light blond, red, pink and copper-ish. I’d post a photo, but I can’t, thank you, Adam! See Flickr for details.)
And it turned out perfectly. And the best part, that will make people who get their hair colored regularly DIE OF SHOCK: the whole thing cost me $80. A FULL FOIL ON MY ENTIRE HEAD. AND A CUT. FOR EIGHTY DOLLARS.
EIGHTY DOLLARS. I AM DEAD FROM REVERSE STICKER SHOCK. (For reference, my friend E got a single process last week — no foils — for $200. In Boston, this would have cost me $350; in Florida, $170. Look, I know it’s expensive, but I am cheap in other ways and am wearing jeans procured at an outlet that are very likely irregular. Not that I have to justify this, but still, as my grandmother would say, there are starving children in China! THE HORROR.) (Why China, I do not know, but that’s what Italian grandmothers do. They bullshit, I guess. Why won’t I stop talking?)
Ahem. I have taken A Turn. Anyway, while my hairdresser offers none of the wild antics that Squiggy did, I anticipate that there will be PLENTY of issues to discuss, because get this:
He lives off the grid. As in, he has no public utilities and he built some kind of insane WATER GENERATOR or some shit and he tells me it doesn’t work so well, so they go without electricity for days at a time.
Days. I mean, dude, I’m all for being environmentally conscious — we’re here, after all, because Adam got a job at a green company — but off the grid? OFF THE GRID. Oh my holy hell. And also slightly ironic, because he spent the better part of the morning smearing chemicals on my head. Something seems incongruous there, but I can’t put my finger on it.
Which reminds me, and then I’ll stop, because really, enough is enough, but I’ll simply add that I went to buy a microwave today and couldn’t find a single store in this teeny town that might sell one. And dude, when I asked the clerk at the drug store, she was utterly FLUMMOXED and said I might have to drive into the “big city for that.”
The big city, which has a population of 38,000. FOR A MICROWAVE.
*Yeah Yeah Yeahs
March 4th, 2008
Adam and I are relatively smart people, I promise. I mean, I’m an editor! I know how to properly use a semicolon! And I get paid for it and everything! Granted, this is one of those savant-like things that you can either do or you can’t, and I’m pretty sure it has little to do with intelligence, but given the fact that we left the lights on in our Honda this evening — in 20 degree weather — while we dined on chicken jalfrezi and raita, it’s the best I can come up with. You can probably deduce that this means that our car battery went kerplunk, leaving us with nothing more to do but stare at each other and wonder if we should just leave it there and walk home (totally an option, albeit not an attractive one) or beg someone for a jump.
We opted for abject pleading, and ended up getting a jump from a nice family who just moved here from Reading, Pennsylvania (What up, my fellow Pennsylvanians!) and driving around what is essentially a one-horse town for 20 minutes, before becoming so bored of passing the same Mobil station over and over and oh my God OVER AGAIN, only to sit in the driveway and stare at each other for a while while the battery charged.
Honestly? It beats sitting on the air mattress with no stuff and no cable — no TELEVISION, actually, for we clearly have cable Interwebs. Buuut, I think I have officially reached the end of the Internet. Send help, for I’ve seen it all. Oh, and if any of you feel like updating your blogs hourly, rest assured, I will read every last blasted entry in excruciating detail. I never realized how important stuff is until you don’t have any, and by “stuff” I mean a fresh pair of socks and maybe a sweater other than this brown hoodie that I’ve been growing on my arms for about a week. I cannot WAIT to have new clothes and clean socks and dishes! I WANT DISHES! Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a homemade pickled carrot? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA?
Ahem. Forgive us, for we are losing our minds here on the air mattress. Our stuff has been delayed by a day and won’t arrive until Wednesday, so until then, iTunes is my sole form of entertainment. And you, of course.
I went to get some work done at a coffee shop today — the shop, I’m guessing, that will be my office, at least for the short term — and it was my first official day as a full-time freelance writer-slash-editor, and hell, I enjoyed it. I wonder how long it will be before I hear the hum of painful boredom and lack of social interaction, for I talked to precisely no one except for a few friends over IM. Well, and the barista.
The job situation here is … well, it’s SMALL, to put it politely, and for the moment, I can make more money with more intellectual stimulation via the world of freelancing than I would, say, as a dental assistant or a receptionist, of which there are jobs aplenty in the region. Writers and marketing types, not so much, but it’s day three, so what do I know? I’m keeping my eyes on it, but the last thing I feel like doing is giving up something I genuinely enjoy for the lone sake of getting out of the house, so hello, coffee shop, my new friend! How are you? I should also add that one of the many quirks of my little town, however stereotypical, is that patchouli (the cheap oil, not the refined fragrance I know and love) seems to be experiencing a revival of sorts, for I smelled it on MANY, MANY PEOPLE today, and beards seem to be some sort of compulsory rite of passage. I imagine they have to, for it’s so damn cold out there, and ski masks are terrifying, and indicate something will be happening at gunpoint in a matter of moments. Adam is pondering it, so he says, because apparently there are few opportunities to grow a beard without being mocked, and this is one of them. To which I reply that I may never kiss him — or do any of the things that kissing leads to, ahem — again, and is a beard really worth that?
He’s still deciding.
Which brings me, in a roundabout way, to the issue of getting out of the house. Well, maybe not getting out of the house so much — the coffee shop will do that for me — but getting out to a place to meet actual people outside of a workplace environment. Frankly, I get a little tired of meeting people at work anyway, for suddenly your world becomes entirely too entrenched in your place of employment and God, nothing is worse than doing something embarrassing, like farting or capping three of your teeth in saag paneer, and having to face the same people in a professional setting the following day. Friends forgive these things, but in the wrong work environment, forget it. You’ll be known as Farting Spinach Girl for the rest of your tenure, emphasis on the farting portion.
I’ve toyed with the idea of a Unitarian-Universalist organization and I will, I don’t know, take yoga or join a gym or something, but I’ve never been very good at joining things. So, we shall see. But hey, um, anyone ever joined anything and had it work out? Anyone a Unitarian-Universalist? (Forget a regular Jesus-y church. It’s not me, save for my deep admiration and envy for the Episcopalians and Jews, but even that is too great a leap for me for the time being.)
Also, on an unrelated note, I have a haircut tomorrow, and I’m TERRIFIED. What … what’s going to happen? WHERE IS SQUIGGY? I sense that I’m not exactly on the cutting edge of hair fashions here in the wilderness, so this should, ah, be exciting. Adam has advised me to buy some hats just in case things go horribly awry.
And with that, I’m going to stare at the air mattress for a while and maybe play some TyperShark. Yes, that’s precisely how desperate we are. WE HAVE NO STUFF. SEND SOCKS.
*Goldfrapp
March 3rd, 2008
There are a lot of things I’ve done over the years that give me pause, for what the hell was I thinking? Why DID I date that guy who was a full 10 years older than me WHEN I WAS FOURTEEN? (Ew, right? Does it not make you a little ill? You should know it was short-lived and no no, there was no activity of the statutory variety. I have to clarify that. Which THEN makes you wonder, what was wrong with HIM? AND ME? AND EW, THANK GOD.) You know, stuff like that. I don’t have a lot of big regrets, because at the end of the day, I figure, meh, it’s part of the way life is supposed to be, and if I hadn’t done those things, maybe I wouldn’t have ended up with all the good stuff I have (and the bad, too, but such is life). Okay, maybe I wish I hadn’t ever smoked, but that’s nothing I haven’t remedied, hopefully without too much long-term damage.
I think regret should be saved for things that are seriously LIFE-ALTERING, like forgetting to put on your seat belt before a big car wreck, God forbid, or I don’t know, feeling bad for pushing your mother-in-law off off of the edge of the balcony (not that I’ve, um, ever wanted to do anything like that, nor has anyone I know. NOPE).
But you know, I have to wonder what I was thinking when I moved to Florida. I guess I couldn’t have known, really, the disaster I was diving into, but now that I’m in Vermont, the fallacy in that decision is remarkably clear. You guys, it’s pretty here. I am not particularly well traveled in the global sense — I’ve been to parts of Europe and the Caribbean, and that’s about it, except, of course, for Canada — but I’ve been all over the United States, to parts large and small. The only areas I’m yearning to go that I haven’t been yet are Montana and Wyoming (Yellowstone, it calls to me), although I would certainly go back to many of the places I’ve already been in a heartbeat. And I have to say, this is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. Ever. And I live here.
The mountains! We’re at the foot of the Green Mountains, and Lake Champlain is mere minutes from our house and honestly, it takes my breath away when I drive through the rural roads and see the farms with their rolling hills with horses backing up against the purple mountains uh, majesty. (Shut up.) I always thought I was an ocean person, but ocean views are so limited in their access — full view of the ocean is limited to either the very rich or the very lucky, but mountain views are for everyone.
I would post some pictures for you, but a certain someone, who I may or may not be married to, packed the USB thing to download my photos. And that stuff doesn’t arrive until Tuesday, which means that in the interim, we ain’t got nothin’ but an air mattress.
And I’m so grateful — so very grateful — that we live here now, even if it doesn’t work out, because it reminds me of what I missed when I was in Florida. I know a lot of people like Florida, and I mean no disrespect at all — what I’m talking about here are the things that are important to ME, and were very likely unique to my particular area of Florida. Like, for example, original architecture. In Naples, every single building was faux Mediterranean. EVERY. BUILDING. And after a while, stucco really gets old and it starts to feel like you’re living in one of those fake mini-countries at Epcot — cute for a visit, but do you REALLY want to live in Fake Morocco, bastilla aside? (Mmmm … bastilla.)
And the weather: yes, it’s warm and lovely and God, you never have to wear a coat. Like, EVER. But … the whole weather thing I found to be deceptive in that yes, it’s warm and wonderful, but please, for the love of Jesus, don’t sit in the grass, for you will be devoured by fire ants within mere moments. (Just ask my ass.) And if you’re in a rare place where you WON’T be eaten like a Grilled Stuft Burrito, the grass is sharp, and will slice you open like tiny razorblades. And there are snakes! SNAKES IN YOUR GARAGE! And alligators! IT IS A HARROWING PLACE, THAT FLORIDA.
To be fair, I lived in Naples, and though there were inherent issues, such as the fact that they LOVED Katherine Harris there and, in fact, voted overwhelmingly to put her in the Senate (HOW ARE THE HANGING CHADS, KATHERINE?), it was also not exactly skewed in my favor, personality wise. Meaning, of course, Adam and I were the rare minority of residents who were under the age of 65. I was asked out more times than I could count by dirty old men — many of whom wanted to know if I was “into motorcycles” for reasons unknown, and our friends were few and far between. Or, if you want to get technical, non-existent.
In short, it didn’t fit me. And I’m not sure if this does, but I’ll tell you, this is the closest I’ve felt to home in almost three years. And that? FEELS PRETTY DAMN GOOD.
Happy Sunday/Monday, to you!
*The Killers
March 2nd, 2008
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