Nine days left. Needless to say, i'm a little overwhelmed.
This morning, i bought plane tickets for my little sister & i. Originally, my plan was to buy a car for the two of us to drive across the country. However, after weeks of scouring the classifieds & craig's list, i came to this conclusion: any car in my price range would not make the drive from Kansas to Florida. I imagined it would lead to some grim scene involving the two of us sitting prettily atop my vintage suitcases along the side of some backwater highway in Alabama (great for cinematography, bad for personal safety.) So, after factoring in the billions of dollars i would spend in gas, i finally decided to fly.
When i first went to Southwest's website, i found a nonstop flight for $70 ($90 after taxes.) Right before purchasing, i called my mom to try & beg a rental car out of the deal. Ten minutes later, my flight was no longer available at that price. Naturally, i freak out & i spend the next ten minutes on the phone with my sister, searching for cheaper tickets. We found another set, even cheaper on USAir, but after factoring in the $25 charge for your first checked bag, we would only be saving $10 over the SW flight. So, $10 seems like a pretty good deal to take 2x the luggage & avoid a layover that would add 3 extra hours to our flight time.
Flying puts a concrete restriction on how much of my belongs are making the move (a restriction that factors in both weight & area,) four full-sized suitcases (50 lbs each,) one carry-on suitcase, & a purse. Wow. While that does seem like a lot, especially as i am moving into a studio apartment (already occupied by my best friend, her belongings, & her landlord's belongings,) ponder the complications of specific items i had planned to move:
- sewing machine
- juicer
- violin
- record collection
- typewriter
- books
So the next week is going to be like a giant puzzle. How to evenly distribute the weight between my four suitcases, while still leaving room for my clothes. I'll grant you it's frivolous to take these things rather than clothes & towels, but lightweight boxes are cheap to ship, & a sewing machine is not lightweight. And what about my violin? It would have to be my carry-on, which would eliminate that as suitcase space. But i am not panicking. I am just going to look at it like a nintendo game. A fun game that will determine how much of my stuff can live my new life with me.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
escape velocity
In the twenty-six years that i have been alive, i have lived within twenty-six miles of where i was born. From four to seventeen, I attended the same school district. My parents & grandparents still live on the land where I was raised (where my own mother grew up.) The past nine years are the only i have spent living in a city, a college town of about 90,000.
Now, i am in the process of extricating myself from Kansas to live with a friend in the Florida Keys.
Anyone who has ever lived in & moved from a little oasis is surely empathetic to my situation: excited to leave, terrified to be gone, & effing tired of talking about it. Obviously, the constant dialogue about the perfect weather & the ocean view is helping to keep my spirits high, & is a definite nudge towards optimism. However, working as a barista in a busy Downtown coffeeshop, i have started to feel like a broken record.
Besides the obvious resident-turnover that will accompany a Big-12 state school, there is a constant ebb & flow of townies who all have the same Dorothy desires. It is expected that you will move. And when you do move, it is expected that your take-off attempt will fail, & you will return, tuck-tail to the motherly embrace of her limestone alleys.
Unlike a lot of others who have come & gone in the years i have been here, i love this town. It cannot be overlooked, the obvious drawbacks of living in a university town: alumni, greeks, basketball, football, freshman, art students, business majors... Undeniably, the suffocatingly exponential expansion of the 'west side' is only getting worse. And, a small town, is a small town, is a small town. We may not be rural, but Downtown is tiny enough that everyone knows everything, personal & otherwise. The frequent farewell parties all share the same refrain, 'I'm just so tired of this damn town.' & 'I can't stand any of these effing hipsters anymore.'
Ridiculous. I have the most incredible life i could ask for here. I haven't owned a car in seven years, everything i need is within a five block radius of my amazing apartment in a pre-civil war house, & there is convenient & reliable public transit for the rare occasion when i am required to leave Downtown. We have a lively (albeit wheezy) art scene, & most importantly, the ability to sustain one's self by 'living locally' (groceries, restaurants, shops...) It's a town where you can barter! A community where you all live & work nearby, therefore, you know everyone! I lead a blissful, luxurious life here. I fully intend to come back someday to grow old here.
While I have yet to make any kind of decisions concerning kids & career, I feel safer assuming that someday I could have one or both of those. So, why wait until having them binds me irreversibly to the Midwest? I am aware enough of the passage of time to recognize that the now is an opportunity to save myself from becoming an elderly woman who settled down without exploring her options.
Mostly, I just hate winter. I hate being cold. I take it as a personal affront. As if every bone-chilling breeze, & soul-crushing ice-storm is an attack on me, as an individual. For a third of the year i wear long-johns, thermal socks, undershirts, sweaters, gloves, boots, a coat, & a thick scarf. It's suffocating! Not just the scarf over my mouth & nose (or the frozen air when scarfless,) but the layers & layers constricting your movement & rendering you as unsexy, & uncute as possible.
Do you know where they don't have winter? The tropical islands known as the Florida Keys.
And what they do have in the Keys, besides beaches, palm trees, sunshine, & crystal clear water? Weather that allows me to wear sundresses for two thirds of the year.
Now, i am in the process of extricating myself from Kansas to live with a friend in the Florida Keys.
Anyone who has ever lived in & moved from a little oasis is surely empathetic to my situation: excited to leave, terrified to be gone, & effing tired of talking about it. Obviously, the constant dialogue about the perfect weather & the ocean view is helping to keep my spirits high, & is a definite nudge towards optimism. However, working as a barista in a busy Downtown coffeeshop, i have started to feel like a broken record.
Besides the obvious resident-turnover that will accompany a Big-12 state school, there is a constant ebb & flow of townies who all have the same Dorothy desires. It is expected that you will move. And when you do move, it is expected that your take-off attempt will fail, & you will return, tuck-tail to the motherly embrace of her limestone alleys.
Unlike a lot of others who have come & gone in the years i have been here, i love this town. It cannot be overlooked, the obvious drawbacks of living in a university town: alumni, greeks, basketball, football, freshman, art students, business majors... Undeniably, the suffocatingly exponential expansion of the 'west side' is only getting worse. And, a small town, is a small town, is a small town. We may not be rural, but Downtown is tiny enough that everyone knows everything, personal & otherwise. The frequent farewell parties all share the same refrain, 'I'm just so tired of this damn town.' & 'I can't stand any of these effing hipsters anymore.'
Ridiculous. I have the most incredible life i could ask for here. I haven't owned a car in seven years, everything i need is within a five block radius of my amazing apartment in a pre-civil war house, & there is convenient & reliable public transit for the rare occasion when i am required to leave Downtown. We have a lively (albeit wheezy) art scene, & most importantly, the ability to sustain one's self by 'living locally' (groceries, restaurants, shops...) It's a town where you can barter! A community where you all live & work nearby, therefore, you know everyone! I lead a blissful, luxurious life here. I fully intend to come back someday to grow old here.
While I have yet to make any kind of decisions concerning kids & career, I feel safer assuming that someday I could have one or both of those. So, why wait until having them binds me irreversibly to the Midwest? I am aware enough of the passage of time to recognize that the now is an opportunity to save myself from becoming an elderly woman who settled down without exploring her options.
Mostly, I just hate winter. I hate being cold. I take it as a personal affront. As if every bone-chilling breeze, & soul-crushing ice-storm is an attack on me, as an individual. For a third of the year i wear long-johns, thermal socks, undershirts, sweaters, gloves, boots, a coat, & a thick scarf. It's suffocating! Not just the scarf over my mouth & nose (or the frozen air when scarfless,) but the layers & layers constricting your movement & rendering you as unsexy, & uncute as possible.
Do you know where they don't have winter? The tropical islands known as the Florida Keys.
And what they do have in the Keys, besides beaches, palm trees, sunshine, & crystal clear water? Weather that allows me to wear sundresses for two thirds of the year.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Ha.
Remember that time i decided to start a blog, & then immediately abandoned the idea?
Oh yea, that was last year. Don't worry, i really mean it this time.
Oh yea, that was last year. Don't worry, i really mean it this time.
Monday, June 2, 2008
summer sundays
I live in a kickball town.
Now, i know that Vice has talked trash on small-town, hipster kickball leagues. And until this spring, i'd never been to a single game (despite having worked jobs in multiple business with kickball teams in the last 5 or 6 years.) A couple of weeks ago, i was lured to the night-time game at our Municipal Stadium to watch a rousing game of the drunken sport.
When school lets out (as our town can also be called a college town,) my city is laid-back & generally more easy-going. Most obviously, a certain percentage of the town packs up & leaves, much to the relief of we that live here year round. More importantly, the weather in the springtime is amazing, especially in sharp contrast to the brutal wintertime we all feel lucky to have survived. So, true to our college town stereotypes, when the weather gets good, the good get drunk. Here, we get drunk at a public park while we make fun of our friends falling down when they attempt to steal second & lose their still-lit cigarette in the dust.
The circa-1947 stadium is only a few blocks from my house, so unlike most of the fans, balancing coolers of PBR on their bike handle bars, i can walk over with the dog as dusk starts to settle into the tops of the trees. Some weeks we come armed with coozies & a case of beer, but there have been a couple of glorious evenings filled with jugs of homemade sangria (perfect for a hot summer night.) Which is not to imply that it's about drinking. Sure, it's fun to get drunk with your friends, but it's also fun to sit around in a crowd of people who are all excited about the same thing. Everyone has been doing this for a few hours, so we're sharing in this community moment that lasts all afternoon. And that's what i really like about it., that feeling of camaraderie, especially amongst drunken compatriots.
Now, i know that Vice has talked trash on small-town, hipster kickball leagues. And until this spring, i'd never been to a single game (despite having worked jobs in multiple business with kickball teams in the last 5 or 6 years.) A couple of weeks ago, i was lured to the night-time game at our Municipal Stadium to watch a rousing game of the drunken sport.
When school lets out (as our town can also be called a college town,) my city is laid-back & generally more easy-going. Most obviously, a certain percentage of the town packs up & leaves, much to the relief of we that live here year round. More importantly, the weather in the springtime is amazing, especially in sharp contrast to the brutal wintertime we all feel lucky to have survived. So, true to our college town stereotypes, when the weather gets good, the good get drunk. Here, we get drunk at a public park while we make fun of our friends falling down when they attempt to steal second & lose their still-lit cigarette in the dust.
The circa-1947 stadium is only a few blocks from my house, so unlike most of the fans, balancing coolers of PBR on their bike handle bars, i can walk over with the dog as dusk starts to settle into the tops of the trees. Some weeks we come armed with coozies & a case of beer, but there have been a couple of glorious evenings filled with jugs of homemade sangria (perfect for a hot summer night.) Which is not to imply that it's about drinking. Sure, it's fun to get drunk with your friends, but it's also fun to sit around in a crowd of people who are all excited about the same thing. Everyone has been doing this for a few hours, so we're sharing in this community moment that lasts all afternoon. And that's what i really like about it., that feeling of camaraderie, especially amongst drunken compatriots.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
spring? is that you?
Spring has been very slow in arriving this year. Not that i ever enjoy winter, but, when it drags on so long, & so bitterly, it leaves me... bitter. Thankfully, the days are consecutively above freezing now, & alive things are starting to appear. This afternoon, to celebrate, my boyfriend drove me out into the country so i could go to a nursery where my family has taken me to my entire life. For the most part, all nurseries & plant farms produce a similarly pleasant nostalgia, which tends to result in unnecessary hours (& dollars) spent maintaining this green bliss. However enjoyable a trip to a nursery is, no other place can compare to the utter nirvana represented by this plant farm. Two-hundred acres of farm: over a dozen greenhouses, sheep (another blissful childhood memory,) burros, cats... everything alive & happy & beautiful. Bliss.
Sadly, i did not inherit my mother's green thumb. I cannot grow things. At all. I'll admit that it's largely due to a complete lack of sunlight in our antique neighborhood, but even house plants are hit & miss for me. I don't always kill everything, don't get the wrong impression, but it takes a pretty tough plant to survive my lifestyle. The ones that do, last forever. Knowing this, i buy lots of plants, every year. Probably two-thirds of them die, so i like to keep my odds high by getting a large number of them.
To date, the only successful gardening venture at this house has been my spring bulbs. This is the second year for them to bloom, which is enormously rewarding, since i don't have to do a damned thing, & they'll always reappear. One afternoon of hard work, years of enjoyment. It does make me a little mournful when i consider the reality that, once i've left this house, & it is occupied by other, more careless tenets, the tulips & daffodils & muscari that i love so dearly, will be forgotten & trampled beneath cigarette butts & PBR cans. Consistently, i remind myself what an important lesson in zen living this is: Sometimes, after planting a garden, you will abandon it.
Sadly, i did not inherit my mother's green thumb. I cannot grow things. At all. I'll admit that it's largely due to a complete lack of sunlight in our antique neighborhood, but even house plants are hit & miss for me. I don't always kill everything, don't get the wrong impression, but it takes a pretty tough plant to survive my lifestyle. The ones that do, last forever. Knowing this, i buy lots of plants, every year. Probably two-thirds of them die, so i like to keep my odds high by getting a large number of them.
To date, the only successful gardening venture at this house has been my spring bulbs. This is the second year for them to bloom, which is enormously rewarding, since i don't have to do a damned thing, & they'll always reappear. One afternoon of hard work, years of enjoyment. It does make me a little mournful when i consider the reality that, once i've left this house, & it is occupied by other, more careless tenets, the tulips & daffodils & muscari that i love so dearly, will be forgotten & trampled beneath cigarette butts & PBR cans. Consistently, i remind myself what an important lesson in zen living this is: Sometimes, after planting a garden, you will abandon it.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
a lot.
I talk a lot. A lot. It's not intentional, or something i'm unaware of, it's just something about myself that i have yet to discover how to control (like not flinching when there's a rubber band pointed at me or laughing when people fall down.) Every thing i do, i do a lot. I take photos. A lot. I love a lot. So much, a lot. So completely, entirely, a lot. The only plausible (preferable) explanation that i have happened upon is that i just have to much clutter in the brain box, & not enough organization to conquor it.
I used to write a lot. Constantly, a lot. Until one day. It stopped. I was glad for it, in a way, because, while i had lots & lots of words (like, loquacious,) & a lot of interesting ways to use them, i never really had very much to say. Sadly, this is the same way i would categorize my speaking habits.
SO! In comes a blog. Which, despite the idea of anonymity (of which i am so fond,) has been nearly impossible to write. Nothing to say, i suppose. I have the hardest time starting anything. The idea of finality is paralyzing. I can never name pets, or start sketchbooks. I have half a dozen address books that i've never written an entry in! 'What if i lose that pen?' 'What if he doesn't turn out to be much of a Berlioz?'
But now this is done, typed. So perhaps, talking (a lot,) can become blogging a lot. It's still writing, & it's still communicating. Let's hope it works. Blogging. About nothing to particular, to no specific style or subject. Plenty of room to grow & talk about art &/or world issues &/or how dumb everyone is &/or sex (well, maybe not, because nobody likes a negative nelly, & world issues sure are a downer, debbie.)
I used to write a lot. Constantly, a lot. Until one day. It stopped. I was glad for it, in a way, because, while i had lots & lots of words (like, loquacious,) & a lot of interesting ways to use them, i never really had very much to say. Sadly, this is the same way i would categorize my speaking habits.
SO! In comes a blog. Which, despite the idea of anonymity (of which i am so fond,) has been nearly impossible to write. Nothing to say, i suppose. I have the hardest time starting anything. The idea of finality is paralyzing. I can never name pets, or start sketchbooks. I have half a dozen address books that i've never written an entry in! 'What if i lose that pen?' 'What if he doesn't turn out to be much of a Berlioz?'
But now this is done, typed. So perhaps, talking (a lot,) can become blogging a lot. It's still writing, & it's still communicating. Let's hope it works. Blogging. About nothing to particular, to no specific style or subject. Plenty of room to grow & talk about art &/or world issues &/or how dumb everyone is &/or sex (well, maybe not, because nobody likes a negative nelly, & world issues sure are a downer, debbie.)
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