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.

Flopsy, Mopsy & Cottontail

I'm no Mr. McGregor, but I do own a cat with a tail that swishes slowly back and forth. This particular little bugger is after my beautiful leafy greens. I hope for his own sake that he does not meet Famous Amos or he may end up in next weeks rubbage bin. 

Thea Cole-Stutz-Oldroyd

When someone dies you cook. It's what you do. When a cat dies, especially one with a thrice hyphenated last name, you make cake. 

What are you going to do with your Saturday?

I have been asked this question multiple times this past week. Each time I found it difficult to answer, because it's sort of a loaded question. If I respond with the truth, "Same thing I do every other day because I'm on summer vacation and have no responsibilities in life and can do whatever I please," this could be met with, a bit of, ooooh... hostility. However, if I answer with the fair and truthful, but unattractive, "Oh. Run some errands, clean up the house. Maybe take the dog on a run, or do a little gardening - maybe some book reading," I can quickly see the look in their eyes change from the excited "this-girl-has-endless-possibilities-of-fun-having-to-be-had-on-this-Saturday", to the feared, "oh-my-dear-sweet-Lord-your-life-is-really-much-more-dull-than-I-had-anticipated". 

What am I supposed to do lie? I mean if I had "endless-possibilities-of-fun-having-to-be-had" don't you think that I might have already shared them with you? So if at this point I've not mentioned anything earth shatteringly incredible that I will be spending my Saturday doing, you can most likely assume that I will be doing what most people do on their Saturdays - a little bit of "weekend work" and a little bit of "lounge about the house". 

So obviously now, all you can think is, "Sooo... what are you going to do with your Saturday?" because you are, unequivocally, unable to stop yourself from asking this question - much like weather talk. Deep down, or maybe not so deep down, people do not like this question. "What are you going to do with your Saturday?" and all you can think is, "Aaah... not talk with you apparently". But, being the gracious, and patient, and kind person that I am, I shall indulge your terrible social awkwardness and invite you into the wild and wonderful world that is Saturday Errand Running. 

I woke up particularly early to pick up some friends and deposit (yes, deposit) them at the park-n-ride so that they could get themselves to the airport. Picked up a little coffee on my way home and had a visit with my husband before he went to bed (works overnight in the ED - gets home when other people get up). Then it was off to tackle the motherload, Target & Costco on a Saturday. Luckily, I was solo in my Saturday errand running and therefore had high hopes of being able to weave stealthily between large slow moving obstacles, be they lost children, or desperate mother's stocking up their pantries for Y2K. In Target I purchased a trendy little canvas bag so as to not kill polar bears, and ending up in a looping-gouge-your-eyes-out conversation with the lady at the check stand because she really wanted me to buy a different one that would fold up and fit in my purse. No amount of, "well I like this one, and it can also be folded into a much smaller size" type of argument was to be heard, nor was she to be diverted by any topic changing efforts on my part. Eventually I found myself just staring at her, not nodding, or agreeing, or making any kind of movement - just the blank stare, holding out my hand and wishing upon the golden calf of "crap you don't need to buy anyway" idol, that this woman would at some point hand me my receipt. In a clear moment of weakness on her part, she parted with the thin piece of paper, and I was out the door. Next stop Costco where I was harassed by multiple sample givers. At one point I actually found myself being yelled at because I would not take the dried blueberries, "BUT THEIR GOOD FOR YOOOOUUU!" he yelled as I bobbed and weaved my way through the monster mother carts. All in all I came out of Costco unscathed, mostly because they did not have the item I was needing to purchase and so I left quickly, with only a slight detour to buy a soda (You know, s-o-d-a, that evil thing that is killing all of America? I stopped for one. Because clearly I have a death wish.) Death drink in hand, I drove to the grocery store - picked up necessary item that Costco had been lacking in, and then made a quick (or what I had anticipated to be quick) stop at the bank to deposit some checks. As the teller is typing in who knows what she looks up at me and says, "Well - I can't deposit this one." pointing to one of the checks, "because they didn't finish putting in the date," I look, and what I see is this: 5/28/0_ and then an indiscernible next number that could have been interpreted as either another zero if we were still in the year 2000 OR as an 8 as any sane person would have assumed considering that it is unlikely that I've kept this $60.00 check for eight damn years. I look at the check, look at her and say, "Looks like an eight to me." She replies, "Well I can put it through, but if it's declined you will be charged a $31.00 fee." I smiled and thought, "No. That's fine. I'll just frame it and hope that one day it looks more like an eight." So after she deposited one of my checks I left, walked straight over to the ATM, fixed my indiscernible date issue, and deposited the check there. The whole time thinking - "They've got a serious flaw in their system here...". 

After my bank encounter I decided that I had clearly had it with customer service for the day and thought it best to just head home. Errand running ended. But for kicks and giggles I decided to get a little bit of gas because I couldn't think of a better way to spend that thirty bucks. I mean, except for giving it to that bank lady. 

I hadn't taken but two steps into our house when I realized that I hadn't taken the crap to be returned stuff with me when I ventured into the Saturday world this morning. Luckly me. Looks like I've saved something special to do later in the afternoon. Maybe I'll reward myself with a second death drink. Or perhaps with the destroyer of all elementry school children everywhere - the cupcake.

Lightning McQueen

Gwen Scout, my beautiful niece and super cool kid, spent four days with her Gamma & Gampa and they did a lot of crazy things. My parent's house is a little bit like child heaven - trains, tents, tunnels, orange trees, berry bushes, swimming pools, watermelon popsicles & toys, toys everywhere.

Gampa however is so cool because he owns Lightning McQueen, and lets her drive it! Who knew that Gampa drove a real Lightning McQueen?!? Gampa really is the coolest. Uncle Naan and Aunt Joojie are counting down the days until she comes to visit. It's nice of her to visit us, even though we don't drive race cars.

Oregano

Summertime Dinner

Start eating 5:45p. Marinated & grilled chicken. Bread toasted on the grill with a white bean, garlic & oregano dip. Baby Bree & strawberries, two bottles of wine, salad & couscous. Espresso & ice cream. Walking back into the house, arms piled high with dishes only to realize that it is 11:00p. This is why we wait all year for dinner in the garden.

I apologize that the only photos happened after all of the food had been devoured - but when your hands and chin are dripping with olive oil and juice from a strawberry - it's not exactly at the forefront of your mind to take a photograph. I'm sure you understand.

Yes. Our house is magical.

Quintessential Summer Vacation Sunglasses? Check.

California. Chicago. New York. Yea, these'll work.  

The Reaction.

You don't have to study tomorrow.

What?!?

Summer Time

"And now," cried Max, "let the wild rumpus start!"

It was starting to become funny...

I have been officially accepted to the University of Colorado at Denver.

so close. so. very. close.

12 May 2008, 4:00p it will all be over. 

This morning I strung the lights in the trees in our garden and it's starting to feel like summer. This is going to be the longest week of my l-i-f-e. Drama, I know but - deal. 

George McCraw & Hampton Dunn - Grandpas We Miss.

The Writing

My sister in law is convinced that I should major in something to do with writing. Like creative writing. Each day she says this to me. Each day I make the scrunchie, yuck face.

"They" say that my writing is humorous and honest. To me it seems honestly boring, "Have you read my boring post? The one that slowly meanders it's way through the paragraph as if it walked in with purpose and then couldn't quite remember what it was and found itself opening the microwave to put the milk away?". My writing has no direction much like my life has no direction. Direction-less. Well more like direction-void, because my writing does not have less direction that it used to, it just had no direction from the get go. My writing seems self indulgent at best and ridiculous most of the time. Maybe heartfelt, but heartfelt wanderings and indulgent musings are still crappy writing, even if you did really feel it. "This funny antidote is really from my heart," well great, but it's still a terrible read. A muddled merry-go-round. If I wait until there is something "meaningful" or productive or finished or hell good to write about there would be nothing here. When is it good enough? Oh probably never. Not competitive - just... Everyone is a writer and everyone is a guitar player - well... Many shouldn't write, and most shouldn't play. Here's the thing, I'm not even totally interested in me. At best I find myself mildly amusing & unnecessarily sarcastic - but a "good read". Humm. I don't know about that. Perhaps I am gifted beyond reason - too easily able to laugh at myself and therefore my writing is sub par because I'm okay to laugh it off and say, "Well I never said I was a writer!" There's the "they" that say that you can hear my inflection and my voice through my writing - but here's the deal, can a stranger hear it? Someone who's never met me? It's debatable - and leaning far to the no side. One slightly humorous sentence amidst a sea of barf-o, does not good writing make. So do I confine myself to only future posts of superb writing? No - because then there would be no more posts. But I do wish for it to be more. Or if not more, let's at least try for less bad. Funny tone cannot cover up bad, wandering writing. 

 

New York Train Trip

Quintessential sunglasses have been purchased. Pictured soon.