Girl. I had to confess.

I don't really have anything to say for myself. I hope you enjoy. 

The Neighborhood

The current interaction taking place across the street, inside an apartment.

Dog:

yap yap, yap yap yap, yap yap yap

Man:

shut up.

Dog:

yap, yap yap yap yap, yap yap

Man:

Shut Up!

Dog:

yap yap yap, yap yap, yap

Man:

SHUT UP!

Dog:

yap, yap yap yap, yap yap

Man: 

SHUT THE HELL UP!

It seems they don't have the most ideal working relationship. I particularly enjoy that the man added 'hell' as if that was the key to changing the dog's behavior.

The Hair Cut

For all the Kenna lovers. For all those of you who don't get to see her as often as you once did. Eat your heart out. Twice a year (now) Kenna gets her all her hairs cut. Because she has a lot of them. Because I don't want vacuuming to be a permanent life hobby. Because she looks so cute, like a puppy.

She loves getting her photo taken, can't you tell... look how much she loves me - it's like she can't wait for this crap to be over. Total panic had set in by that point. She is terrified of the camera. Hates it. Runs to different rooms or parts of the house when the camera is taken out. Loathes the camera. HA! I love this photo, she's so unhappy about the situation.

Soda Crackers & Ginger Ale

It usually hits me - about this time, and I have the sinking feeling, that I may, possibly, never make it out of the semester alive. The panic of the enormous load of work ahead, coupled with the very short amount of time allotted to complete it, creates a sick feeling in my stomach. And that in turn creates procrastination, which in turn, creates the sick feeling in my stomach. 

My face fears that it may be permanently bathed in blue tinted light, because, until the second week of December, I will most likely spend every waking moment staring at this computer screen, hoping that some brilliant idea morphs itself into a coherent paper. And there will, no doubt, be more waking hours than sleeping hours before the storm that is finals passes over - the ominous dark cloud that it is. Maybe I should put some lambs blood on my door... Don't laugh. 

AND THEN. As if to play some cruel, cruel joke, they (the powers that be) require that you (the minion), during this overly horrible stressful time, pick out your classes for the following semester. Because, seeing that this is possibly the point in your semester that you would NOT like to think about ever coming back to this institution ever again - they (the powers) have decided that it is the opportune moment to suck you in for another round. Why? Because-you-have-no-choice. They, have the carrot. You, fool that you are, are carrot-less. Damn carrot. And then you (minion), think about taking 18 credit hours. Which causes the panic to flow more fluidly. And then, you (the minion, least you forget), thinks about the fact that you will be taking summer classes. It's never-going-to-end. 

Better be one hell of a carrot is all I have to say. One HELL of a carrot.

"That rug really tied the room together."

So much sarcasm, you say. Well. I've got nothing for you. Some days are up days and some days are not. This is of the not. School has been far better this year than ever before. But there are still days that I feel like I'm on the hamster wheel of life. Me. Hamster wheel. Life. I still question why I'm doing this. I still question the point. I question my questioning. I question my direction, or lack of direction. I question if this is simply to fulfill the requirements of American bourgeois society - to fit in. And it is. And it's not. Gray. That's my life, unclear. Still. At some point I think I believed that my life would eventually, out of a pure freak accident, line itself up, and tow some sort of line. Thus far, I've encountered lots of freak accidents (most of which caused by yours truly) and am still awaiting the towing of any line, even a broken line - dotted, Hey, I'm not picky. 

It has been a depressing week of films, which may account for my less than jovial attitude. Requiem For A Dream, The Swimmer, and Raising Arizona. All of which were preceded by 4 months, 3 weeks, 2 days, and Ghost World. Also, I am in an intensive course dealing with African American Literature - and sometimes it just all piles up on me. Not the course work, although it's hefty, but the complete and total shit that goes on, and has gone on, and will continue to go on. I don't feel hopeless or even helpless, just it-is-so-much sometimes.

Tuesday was beautiful. Indifferent to who you voted for, you can't deny the beauty of the evening. I sat with a friend and watched as the votes rolled in. Afterwards, people on the street were honking their horns, and whooping, and hollerin' and setting off firecrackers. I've never experienced so many people, so many Americans, excited and moved by politics. It was awe-inspiring. I also got to hear the voice of our friend who is over in Kenya - who I was missing, and wishing she could be here with us. Watching and listening to Americans celebrate their President-Elect was redeeming, as was watching people all-over-the-freakin'-world celebrate with us. 

It is nice, at least for a moment, to not feel hate bearing down on us from all sides of the globe. 

pictured: Our bedcover, not a rug. 

Miss Scarlet, In the Dining Room, With The Knife.

Fall In The City

I love this photograph. 

Today is full of projects: hanging lights, carving pumpkins, roasting seeds, making cupcakes & brownies, popcorn needs to be popped (in a pot), not in a futuristic steel box that shoots waves at it, spiderwebs need to be hung, candy put into bowls, champagne glasses cleaned, wine mulled, cards & clues printed, music cued, candles lit and costumes gathered. 

Halloween is my favorite holiday and tonight six friends are gathering - or should I say six strangers: Mr. Green (Ross), Miss Scarlet (Amanda), Colonel Mustard (Giovanni), Mrs. White (Deanna), Professor Plum (Sean) and Mrs. Peacock (Jules). Should be a murderous evening.

While I prepare for the festivities, Ghost Busters will be on the tele, like it is every Halloween in my house. I have watched this film every Halloween for twenty-four straight years, yes that's right, crunch those numbers, my parents took their nine month old to see Ghost Busters in the theaters in 1984. I'm told I enjoyed the film, and was pleasant the whole way through. Scandalous parents...well played.

Like A Popsicle In Summer

When Sean and I decide to make a meal together, to cook together - It's good. 

Myself, and a giant empty soup pot: twelve different kinds of beans (dried), garlic, yellow onion, sweet red pepper, hot pepper (unknown type, came from a friend's garden), celery, carrots, tomatoes, ham, salami, homemade chicken stock, salt, pepper. I simply used whatever we had in our fridge, whatever was on hand. Yes, fresh homemade chicken stock was "whatever we had in our fridge".

Sean, apart from making the chicken stock the day before, crafted some hand made bread. I would say "homemade" but that might imply that we own a bread maker, which we don't. Our home has, what do they call those... right, a baker.

We hadn't cooked together in a while. It was redemptive. Our house - the smell alone was enough.

There are always friends we think of when we cook. Good friends. Close friends. Friends who love food, who love to eat, who love to laugh, who desire to live life with dirty hands, and drippy beards. My friends, you were missed, but thought of fondly - as always. 

It's Not That I Forgot About You

Here is a photograph from our walk last weekend. October has been hard. There is something ticking away inside my head, itching to get itself out, but it's waiting for something. Maybe it's waiting for tomorrow. We shall see. 

However, if your curious what I've been doing with all my time, you can consult the list of films on the right. That, and writing a paper every day for the past, what.. twenty-three days straight? I've lost count. I'm starting to feel as if my writing skills are being whored out to the masses. I realize that's some unapologetically horrible thing to say - but it is sucking the soul out of me to write this much. That, combined with October apparently being fart-brain month, has created a real hum-dinger of a hoedown. 

Seasons

I realize it's been a quiet month. It's been quiet in my head as well. There is always hope for tomorrow. Perhaps when tomorrow comes it will bring with it thoughtful insights and creative wording. Or maybe not. Perhaps tomorrow holds more silence also. So I wait. That's how it is sometimes - quiet. 

For Geoff

I would like to mention the fact that this video has 2,192,771 fewer views than a video of my niece. Now who's hot, who's not?

Not Exactly Clutter

The space under the antique couch has become the new resting place for the overflow of books in our home. Perhaps a bit ridiculous, sure - but we both enjoy the fact that you could now actually stick out your little hand and grab a book - from practically anywhere you plant yourself in our home. You'll find them stacked in bookshelves, and on bookshelves, in baskets, and on chairs, piled upon bedside tables, stuffed into kitchen cabinets and under furniture. Little pieces of stories that wander through our minds, and curl themselves up, under our couch. 

October

... apple pie, scarves, chai, movies, slippers, pumpkins, leaves, coats, candy, walks, costumes, ghost stories, fires, autumn, butternut squash, cinnamon and nutmeg, blankets, colors, candied apples, wind, popcorn, candles, pumpkin beer, pink noses and boots. I love October.

Home.

The cookie jar sits between the jars that hold the popping corn, and the breakfast cereal. Three jars away from the flour, and two down from the coffee. It's not the easiest jar to get to on the counter, being too far back, and obstructed by the dish rack, but somehow, everyone manages. The sound of the glass jar getting dragged against the tile counter, the click of the latch and you know, no matter where you are in the apartment, that some one's hand is digging for a cookie. The cookie jar - always kept full. Full cookie jars, that's how life should be. Full, not for a lack of eating, of taking in, of enjoying, but full because it's constantly being refilled. Maybe not always with the same kind of cookie - but how can you fault the chocolate chip? It's simple, and classic, but that's ok. I like predictability and I like cookie jars. That's not so bad is it? Just wanting to take in the sweetness, the joy, the familiar. The cookie jars are for children, for those who used to be children, for those who have children, and great grandchildren. It tells us stories of home, and of love, and of comfort, and of the familiar laughs with friends. The cookie - not pretentious, or pompous, it doesn't seek much attention. It is confidant and knows where it is needed. In beds with big comforters, and couches packed with blankets, and buffeted by pillows. The high heals, and the bow ties, those are for other desserts. It doesn't fault others for being fancy - it lets them take on the frills and the excitement. Sippers, lunch boxes, card games, camping, and movie watching; that's where the cookie is at home. You can dress it up, you can try and show it off - it won't stop you, but simply look at you and ask: "Why make me something I don't need to be?"  

My Niece is Cute.

Meet Lia Charlotte Oldroyd, aka Lala. She's almost a whole year old. She has actual skills now, so I think she's cool. And she makes faces - also cool. Way to go kid. 

Animals me no likey.

At about 6:00a I realized that the sleeping part of my morning was over. Cat spaz = dog spaz = me awake. So, in an attempt to be absurdly productive I made a couple of onesies for the new kid on the block. I still have some stitching to do on them - somehow in the six hours that I've been awake I haven't been able to get this done. I hope that she enjoys them, the whole five seconds she spends in them before she pukes on them. I unabashedly believe that she is going to be my favorite kid, and I've not even met her. 

City life.

I bike now. I know it was some sort of mortal sin that I didn't bike while living in Boulder - but I didn't. Now I do. I've also found a renewed love for my chacos. However, that has very little to do with living in the city, and a lot to do with the fact that all of my flip flops are darn old. They've pasted the old and wonderful stage, and headed right into the old, and old stage. Chacos, meet bike. Bike, meet chacos. Now that they're aquainted I'm sure they'll be lifers.

Thanks Grandma Jean!

Because You Can't Get Enough of this Crap.

Meet Sean. 

Sean created a photo form of himself as well from the oh so-secret-it's-killing-you-why-won't-I-tell-you-where-I-found-this place.

And here's how you play the game: 

(although I played with a bit of calvin ball rules for my own personal reasons.)

Answer the following 12 questions about yourself:

1. What is your first name?

2. What is your favorite food?

3. What high school did you attend?

4. What is your favorite color?

5. Who is your celebrity crush?

6. Favorite drink?

7. Dream vacation?

8. Favorite dessert?

9. What do you want to be when you grow up?

10. What do you love most in life?

11. One word to describe you?

12. Your Flikr account name?

- Place each of your answers into Flikr's search. 

- Using only the images that appear on the first page only, choose your favorite and copy and paste each of the URL's into the Mosaic Maker (3 columns, 4 rows)

Did I do this because those questions are awesome, and I just couldn't resist answering them? No they're horribly lame. However, the outcome is something I think is actually far more incredible than those horrible questions. I hope you enjoy yourself, and struggle through the decision making process.

Me. In Photo Form.

Thanks Ruby for this charming idea. Typically I cringe and run the other direction from these personality question things. But this one got me - couldn't resist. I have resisted, however, in including the questions that led me to pick these photos. I like it better this way, but by all means you can guess if you would like. I may not reveal the answer, but feel free to take a stab at my inner self persona.   

It's Time.

Probably it's more correctly time for me to write something of significance - but my creativity and original thought have been sufficiently drained out. Sucked dry. Zombie brain is welcoming the arrival of the fall television schedule. Yes that's what it's time for. No, I don't feel that I'm wasting my life away in front of the television. No more than I am wasting it away sitting at my computer for 10 hours a day, everyday, writing papers. I'm a film major for gosh sakes, give me a break. I'm sure in some way it's my d-u-t-y to watch these shows. Don't you want to support my higher education goals? I mean, this is the big social to do right? This is what we're all hoping I achieve. You can't go questioning it now, just because it involves copious amounts of time in front of my television. 

So what am I going to watch? I'm not going to tell you if you're going to judge me. You wouldn't judge someone who went to the theater, as in musicals and plays - not cinema, all the time. It's basically the same - be honest. You would find that person cultured, and sophisticated... Fffiiiiinnnee-uh. I'll tell. It's all the usual suspects. Heroes, Pushing Daisies, My Name Is Earl, 30 Rock, The Office, Scrubs, Amazing Race... And last, but most definitely not least, Desperate Housewives, but you already know of my affinity for the beautiful satire of life. 

So I like television - maybe you like staring into the abyss and thinking deep, cultured, sophisticated, albeit slightly b.s. "what does it all mean," thoughts with your furrowed brow. We've all got our thing. I'm not going to take that away from you. You can live it up with your furrowed brow and your questioning ways. I'll be lowering my blood pressure, and stress levels, and you may be raising yours - but who am I to tell you that one is better than the other? Furrow on I say. But just remember that it might have been your fault that the Arrested Developments of our time were ended long before they should have been. You could furrow over that. 

Pictured: the clock radio in our kitchen, that sits next to our espresso maker. Use: to bring Rockies, Broncos, and CU games to whoever is cooking - or perhaps even a little "Wait, Wait...Don't Tell Me!" - that Mo Rocca - so smart and funny, even when he's on iron chef. I mean how many people can pull off VH1, NPR and food network? Only Mo.   

Lord. I need to add an amendment. Please add Mad Men, and Boston Legal to the aboved mentioned list of shows. How I could have forgotten two of my dearest, I don't know.  

He Knows Me Well

Four Years.

Your slippers are my slippers,

your robe, my robe

your coffee, my coffee.

Your laughter, my laughter

your dinner, my dinner

your blankets, my blankets.

Shared post-its,

shared dog,

your cat, my cat.

Shared spaces,

shared songs,

your book, my book. 

Your worries are my worries,

your heartache, my heartache

your smiles, my smiles.

Your love, my love,

your life, my life. 

Downtown

My view as I waited for the bus, after waiting for the bus, and that bus getting hit by a loon.

Genius

How does it know?

Ok. So it isn't always genius, but it has been fairly incredible in my life thus far. It will never fully replace the hand-picked mixed tape effect of decades past, insofar that it lacks the love, but it does do the job swiftly... Which is real helpful when you need to write a paper, or clean the house, or any other similar task and would like a little music to help you in your endeavor, but realize that spending and hour or two putting together a playlist would really undermine what you're trying to accomplish. 

Thanks fruity computer system. You're awesome. 

If I could phrase ideas this well, that would be awesome.

"But M*A*S*H says nothing about war per se except to show that the best way to conduct yourself in any situation, even the direst, and maybe especially the direst, is to know your job without taking yourself or the rules of conduct too seriously."

So Unexpected.

Which is exactly what I have come to expect from the Coen Brothers.

Creativity and Origionality X 6 = Coffee

I am writing a paper. After that I will write another paper. Then another. Then another. Then another. Then another. Not in an I-feel-like-all-I-do-is-write-papers, never ending, looping sort of way. It's really more of an I-have-six-papers-due-next-week sort of way. And when I say 'sort of way' I mean, it is that way. Clearly one or more of these papers is going to get a serious shaft on creativity. I'm only one person. Common. 

With hesitation I say, for anyone who is a fan of Film Noir (or interested in a view of youth culture), you may be interested in seeing the movie Brick (Rian Johnson, 2005). It gets violent, and then it gets more violent. BUT in no way do I think that the violence should warrant an avoidance of the film. I was leery at first, but I after some processing, I feel that this film was brilliant - if nothing else you should sit in awe of the dialogue. 

It's the Great Paper, Charlie Brown

It's just a little past eleven o'clock in the evening. Therefore, it must be time for me to start writing a paper. Obviously. 

A paper on what?

On poetry.

Poetry? I thought you were an ignorant fool, incapable of understanding poetry?

That's fair.

But you're going to write a successful paper about it?

That's the idea.

Humm.

Yup. 

What do they call that?

Learning.

And what do they call this?

Avoidance. 

Dear Roethke, Whitman & Frost

I just got my ass handed to me in a poetry class. Frost, I am sorry I ever thought you trite. I apologize for all those who made you seem so. Your brilliance and your depth astound me. I'm glad your poems did not mean what I had been led to believe. It was so surface - so patriotic, so quick and transparent. But that is not the case with you. It's the opposite I find. The irony and the puns have made me question, made me look, made me laugh. So shrewed and sharp-witted; you have added to my life. 

I now take pleasure in your poems, 

And that has made all the difference. 

(Irony wholly intended.)

Sunday Afternoons & Walks in the City

While I sat on a bench in the park this past Sunday afternoon, and whittled away my life reading a Norton Anthology, my family relaxed. I think it was especially good for certain members of the family. Mainly those members who were not reading anything with Norton on the cover of it. Or for those who don't read at all. I think it was especially sublime for those who don't read at all.  

 

I woke up this morning to the sound of cars wooshing through rainy streets, and thought, "awww yea!" Morning tea, cinnamon sugar toast, hot shower, scarf, jacket - it was a good morning. While walking to the bus stop I passed this tree and my heart skipped a little - it's fall. Not only did it feel like fall, with the brisk 40-something degrees we were sporting outside, but the trees (I mean tree... in the singular - obviously, hence the photo) had gotten the memo. The only fleeting blemish on this morning? No chai. Hopefully the snow can hold off long enough for me to get my festive autumnal self in shape. Seriously now, it would have been movie-esque if only I had had that damn chai. 

This evening as Kenna and I took a walk around the neighborhood, and as my nose and cheeks turned just a little bit pink, I could smell wood burning in fireplaces and it made me smile and inhale deeply (those festive carcinogens!). It's supposed to be 80 degrees or something similarly horrid this weekend, but for now I'll live in a world where summer has ended because it is no longer August. September has come and it's time for fall, give it up summer - nobody likes you anymore, move on.

And So It Begins

Don't worry if the major that you picked didn't lavish lots of promotional stuff on you and hand you tickets to early screenings of films. We all make mistakes.    

Probably I shouldn't, but I'm just saying...

Stay Cool My Bebes

I only just got the internet back into my life a few days ago. 

Currently trying to make our new apartment feel like home. Are you thinking, "Hey I'm in your family, and I don't see my wedding photo on that wall!!! Whaaaaaa!!!" Well that's because you didn't send it to me. I must have photo, to display photo. That's how the game works.

Yesterday I walked down to the coffee shop on the corner and was informed of two things by the guy making my americano. One, that the iPhone is gangsta. And two, that he "DNC-ed himself out!!" 

More about our new life in Denver to come. 

Impressive

James Harding, editor of The Times Of London, made quite an impression on me in what was probably about a 5 minute or so interview. But what else would you expect?

Magical English Cleaning Techniques Leave American Girl Bemused

I fear that my brilliant packing technique, may leave a bit to be desired. Clearly I am feeling a bit down a rabbit hole, hence my boxes have now started commanding passersby. 

And if it is the case, that you find yourself thinking that any such thing as a flap-lock feature will make your packing any easier, I am hear to tell you, it will not. Despite whatever hoopla they may have printed on a box. Unless flap-lock includes a self-packing feature, which I assure you it does not, it is of no help in anyone's packing endeavours.

If only I had a wand ... or an ingenious finger snapping nanny ...

Yeah. And there's that.

A few things impressed me today.

The Daily Show's coverage of the cover of this weeks The New Yorker - stellar. "We hit the pavement and soon found out that there's impenetrable satire that people might not get, almost everywhere."

And then I saw this. And honestly, it gave me chills. You can say I = Nerdy if you wish. I cannot wait. 

Number fourteen.

It's done. After many a muggy, hot 'n zesty afternoon of looking at apartments we have finally found one. Yesterday we spent a few hours, a few horrible hours, "hoof-n-it" around downtown neighborhoods searching for THE place. The place with the light from heaven shining down on it, and choir of angels singing every time we looked in it's direction, making it abundantly clear that THIS is where we should live. However, all I seemed to discover was a lot of beautiful, quiet, mansion neighborhoods - which would be awesome if we were in that mansion-owning state of life... we are, not exactly there yet. A neighborhood that had a man with a pirate eye, and puddles in the sidewalk where birds were bathing. And a neighborhood with children terrorizing the sidewalks with small bicycles. However, no heaven-light, not even a burnt out heaven-light bulb. Nothing. I left our search, hot, blistery, grumpy, hungry, sweaty, demoralized, disheartened, annoyed, and hot. Also, I was hot. 

Today I received a call from a company where we had put in a rental application. We were finally approved after a little bit of hoopla and they said that they had two apartments for us to look at. After yesterday I was still a bit deflated, and sure that these apartments wouldn't be what we wanted. They were sure to be far inferior apartments. Shoddy. No heaven-light.

Apartment 1. We walked up three flights of stairs through very narrow hallways, and a series of doors. The tenant across the way has some sort of wild car alarm dog that exploded when we reached the end of the hallway. We looked at each other, thinking, "Oh. That's awesome". Apartment 1 was small, but fine. Very small, almost not fine kitchen. Windows that looked out on a parking lot, and to the building next door - not exactly picturesque.

Apartment 2. Not exactly magazine picture worthy neighborhood (read, slightly sketchy).  But it was bigger than most we had looked at. The kitchen was great, big enough for an eat in table. Hardwood floors. Windows facing the street. First floor, only up maybe three or four stairs. These are the things you think of when having to lug your life up and down stairs. Or when remembering, once you got to the car that you don't have your celly. And going back up. And coming back down. Arriving at the car to realize that you left your sunglasses on the table when you picked up the phone. The actual number of stairs becomes important. You're annoyed enough at that point. Really it comes down to a matter of how annoyed, and often this can be measured by number of stairs. Example. I am 4 steps annoyed. Versus, I am 3 flights of stairs, small, hot hallways, and too many doors annoyed. You see? Oh, also, it was the apartment that I had originally wanted. Apparently something had fallen through with the other tenants, or who knows what. Maybe that person was struck down by heaven-light. In either case, they weren't going to rent it. So. We are. We have a new home. Number 14. 

We are within walking distance to our favorite restaurant in Denver, as well as a whole slew of restaurants, pubs, diners and coffee houses. Near a park, near our new best friend, and not far from school. Close to museums and ... not far from the ball park.

I didn't see any heaven-light. But I'm sure it was there. I forgot to look up. 

I didn't even know

That my soul was looking for this book. But it was. Yours might also be. Probably is, you just don't know it yet.

Ay, Dios mio!

Moving. 

I got out the camera to maybe take a few snapshots of the horribleness that is moving. But my experience was as follows:

Where's the camera?!? Oh. There. Man, this new case that Sean found is really great. Open case, take out camera, try and turn it on. Won't turn on. Continue to press the on button like a spaz. Thinking. WHAT!?! Who broke this? What the hell? We just bought this thing! Waahhhh? It was just working. What did Sean do to this thing when he put it in this god awful case. I hate this case. How did it break my camera?!? This case is horrible. Who would ever think of using it for a camera??? Oh. Yeah... I had to charge the battery the other day. Go get the battery from the wall, try and remember how to put it into the camera. Turning the camera over and over and over and not seeing ANYWHERE where a battery of this size could possibly fit. WHAT? Where does this battery go?!? I know I've done this before. It can't be that hard. I'VE-ALREADY-DONE-THIS-BEFORE. What? It's impossible. That's it. No more photos. I can't figure this damn thing out. Oh. There. That's where it goes. Now I just have to slide that thingy open....slide it open....o-p-e-n. WHY WON'T THIS THINGY OPEN!?! UUUhhhhhh. Oh. There. That wasn't that hard. Ok. Now, take the battery out of the charger....how does that go again? Push? No. Pull? No. LIFT! Yeah, I'm all over this. I totally got this under control. Ok. Put battery in. Which way? This way? No. Shove? No that seems like something you're never supposed to do. OHHH, line it up those metal parts. YES! Camera ready to go. Pictures abound! I take a few photos... Uhhh. These photos are terrible. Yuck. I'm not taking photos. 

One of the greatest things about moving. Because there are about 2 things that are awesome about moving. The whole rest of the experience is akin to... nothing. Nothing else reaches the crapload that is moving. So one of the greatest things about moving is that you discover all sorts of odd things. Even if you just moved last year. It's like these things just surface only for moves. Old wallets. Weird toys from your childhood. The other great thing about moving is grander, but we'll get to that later. It's much more philosophical, and a who am I in the universe type of thing. But first, there are a lot of things about moving that suck ass. There is no other way for this to be put. If you are over oohhh say 30-something this does not apply to you. If you don't have to move every couple years or so, you do-not-count. There is something about sorting through every piece of weird crap you own.. organize it, box it, label it, move it, lug it up and down stairs (multiple times) and then un box it, un/re- (but in a different way) organize it. And the fact that you get to look into the future and know that you'll get to dance this dance again in a few months only adds to the grandeur. 

And always everyone is a big fan of "Just get rid of it all!" That's always the advice. Always. "Then you won't have to do all that!" Thanks ass face. That's not really a great option. Why? Well what am I going to get rid of? Our wedding dishes? Our computer? Our clothes? Our food? My art stuff? Our books, which are next to holiness? Pots and pans? Kitchen-aid mixer? Silverware? Our dog? What exactly is it that you think that we can just toss out? Because trust me, we would be all over that. But what is it exactly that you think we should just throw away, or give away? The furniture we're not very attached to, and so we don't care too much about that, but the furniture is the easy stuff to move at this point. It's all these damn boxes that are so horrible. Also, when moving you get to live in boxworld. No one likes box world. The only time box world is strangely appealing is when you finally get everything moved into your new place and you sit on the floor that first night eating pizza by candle light. Other than that, it's mostly just a whole lot of rummaging through, and living in/out of, and sorting boxes until you're hot and sweating, to finally find the holy of hollies box to then realize ,"Oh damnit, this is not the box I was looking for."  Even though it was labeled "bathroom toiletries" the shampoo somehow is not in there. 

Ok. The second thing that is great about moving is that it's exciting. You get to live somewhere new. Somewhere you've never lived before. New neighborhood. New coffee shops. New weirdos. New oddities. New friends. New smells. New sights from the window. New things to be annoyed at. New cracks in the sidewalk to remember. New stairs. New door handles. New. Different. Change. Hope. Not like before. New. This part about moving I like. This part makes all the terrible parts bearable. 

I lied. There are three things about moving that are awesome. This four foot box of shredded paper (read packing material) that is sitting in our living room/dining room/library is pretty incredible. If I were about 20 years younger this would be irresistible. It reminds me of when my friend's father had some giant things (to be left unnamed) delivered to their house and what was left over were g-i-a-n-t wooden crates filled with random odd sized foam pieces. Large enough crates that multiple people could play inside them. Sometimes instead of packing more boxes I just run my hands through the mass of shredded paper. Pick at it. Tear it into smaller pieces. Squish it. Later when it's strewn about our new apartment from the unpacking of the horrible boxes I shall hate this shredded paper. But for now, it and I are on the same team. 

The Wild Rumpus.

My brother, his wife and their daughter came to visit us. It was an incredible, adventure packed weekend. I opted to just throw a giant stack of photos at you. There are lots of other things to tell about my month of June, which has been in internet silence I realize. More to come soon. Until then, here's the weekend with Gwenevere Scout. Enjoy. 

Discovered that living on a farm is incredible.

That nap time is very important, for everyone.

We ventured out to the street fair for some bouncy house, slide, magic show, balloon hat madness.

While in the car she would inform us, "We going downtown!" And we did. She found this giant snail, and probably we could have just stayed there the whole time and she would have been happy.

We ate lunch at "the riber" aka Boulder Creek

Played at the playground at Chautauqua

"Monster Face!" Family photo at Chautauqua

"What do you think the horseys are doing?" She asked Sean and I over and over while we ate breakast. 

One last romp on the farm!

Flower picking

And dandelion blowing

And running

She is a crazy animal lover and she loved the "kitty-cat"

It's a pretty hard life to live on a farm and play with all those animals - really takes it out of you.