Those moments when life suddenly upends again, and you're facing nothing but freefall? That incredibly uncomfortable moment of omgwth? Completely there. Bottled up, quiet, but there.
As an adjunct/part time full-timer, this is my life. I may have work; I may not. I may be so busy I don't get to sleep for days, and then I'm left with nothing, bereft of the busy-ness that was just my life. Some weeks I may kill eighty hours, but others I may work ten hours. We're up, we're down.
I told Scott I think I'm standing on the edge of something, but what I have no idea. I think we're both facing this in our own ways. And I am, admittedly, quietly, reservedly terrified. My minds skirts around it, this strange invisible thing that lurks in my subconscious. Perhaps it's simple paranoia at the uncertainty. I feel better, though, if I continue to not face it. I'll glance at it in my periphery, but I refuse to look at it head on. But that ache, that squeeze in my chest? I won't face it either.
The scary things in life are like that, aren't they? If I can just ignore it, I'll be okay. I can keep all of the anxiety, the fear, the uncertainty, the doubt at bay. If I don't name it, it has no power. And really, can you name a ghost of a thing? Names create substance, and this is simply a feeling.
February is a tough month, but March inevitably brings change. That shift in the air, and perhaps it's just natural vibrations that I'm feeling. March is the seasons holding their breath, waiting for large things to happen. Fall is the lingering sigh of summer, but spring is a slow inhale. And maybe that is all that I am feeling.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Friday, March 1, 2013
Ye (not so) scurvy rogues
When we lived in Chicago, we struggled through cold winters, and inevitably by February, we were fighting off the vitamin D deficiencies, we were moody and irritable. We would come home from work, throw on the comfy pjs, and curl up. One brilliant thing, though, that came out of these winter doldrums, that tiny death that overtakes us every year, was an organic foods delivery service Scott found (Irv & Shelly's Fresh Picks, if interested, and I noticed that they have substantially grown their box choices now). Each week, we were gifted with a box of bounty. In the winter, it veered toward root veggies and hearty greens. We would get pounds of oranges, apples, and other fruits. It was glorious.
We were forced to figure out just what to do with sunchokes, beets, kale, chard, and other veggies I had not even heard of. I didn't eat beets. My mother had never bought beets. Kale? Asher ate it in a pinch, but not us. I could only handle so many oranges before I was done. And so we got creative. Sunchoke chips, orange marmalade, apple butter, stuffed apples, and on. Spring began to finally break through, and the box came overflowing with green. We had ramps, basil, broccoli, kiwi, wonderfully odd, fragrant mixes of herbs, leafy green things like watercress, and more.
I noticed a while back the delivery truck that would pull up to my neighbors' house each week, leaving boxes on their doorstep. The truck was delivering organics. Well, hot damn. We began looking into it, decided to wait until after the epic holiday trip this year (seriously, 5,000 miles in 2.5 weeks). I ordered while we away so we would receive our first delivery once we returned.
The box was delivered, and it was disappointing. The veggies were wilted, the apples mealy, the bounty not so bountiful. It was sad. The bacon, though, was delicious. So we gave the company the benefit of the doubt and had another box delivered the next week. Chalk the first box up to a post-holiday slump because the next week was good, and it has only continued to get better the longer we are with them. We're using Organics to You now. We order the small bin, which is more than enough for us each week. Our fruit bowl is overflowing, the crisper can't hold everything, and our diet is much improved. Plus, the grocery bill has dropped quite a bit since we aren't visiting the store three or four times a week (we tend to buy by meals rather than one huge grocery run) and buying random items. We are able to get the protein we want (bacon, steaks, salmon, and more) from local fisheries and farms. We're trying out the milk and eggs this week, both from a local dairy. I never check what is coming, so every Tuesday is a bit like vegetable Christmas. Surprise! This week we have spinach! Yay! (five-year-old me would be completely disgusted with the current me for being so excited over vegetables).
Our bin this last week flummoxed me a bit, though. I opened it and sitting at the bottom was a strange celery like bundle and a huge bulb of something dirt colored. Perhaps fennel and celeriac. I checked the site and was spot on, but it was text only so I just guessed as to what name belonged to which vegetable. What I did just check, though, is which is which. I'm glad I didn't grab the bulb thinking it was fennel (as I first supposed). I have no idea what to do with these things. The chard I've figured out (last night was brown rice, topped with sauteed onion, celery, smoked sausage, and rainbow chard--gah, it was good stuff), kale chips are a new favorite snack, potatoes are easy to deal with, celery, onion and leek disappear pretty quickly. The grapefruit (a ton of it) has been slowly consumed and played with: broiled with sugar and vanilla bean, grapefruit curd, sliced and frozen and more. The beets are awaiting a mandolin to be sliced. The apples, kiwi, oranges and pears are obvious (although the Girl Scouts blindsided the healthier options at the moment). But the celeriac? It's huge. Can we eat that much? A friend has it growing wild in his front yard, but he's vegan, and I don't really trust his recipes (sorry, vegans). The fennel seems to be easier. There are lots of recipes with fennel out on Pinterest and various cooking sites. It's a vegetable adventure!
We were forced to figure out just what to do with sunchokes, beets, kale, chard, and other veggies I had not even heard of. I didn't eat beets. My mother had never bought beets. Kale? Asher ate it in a pinch, but not us. I could only handle so many oranges before I was done. And so we got creative. Sunchoke chips, orange marmalade, apple butter, stuffed apples, and on. Spring began to finally break through, and the box came overflowing with green. We had ramps, basil, broccoli, kiwi, wonderfully odd, fragrant mixes of herbs, leafy green things like watercress, and more.
I noticed a while back the delivery truck that would pull up to my neighbors' house each week, leaving boxes on their doorstep. The truck was delivering organics. Well, hot damn. We began looking into it, decided to wait until after the epic holiday trip this year (seriously, 5,000 miles in 2.5 weeks). I ordered while we away so we would receive our first delivery once we returned.
The box was delivered, and it was disappointing. The veggies were wilted, the apples mealy, the bounty not so bountiful. It was sad. The bacon, though, was delicious. So we gave the company the benefit of the doubt and had another box delivered the next week. Chalk the first box up to a post-holiday slump because the next week was good, and it has only continued to get better the longer we are with them. We're using Organics to You now. We order the small bin, which is more than enough for us each week. Our fruit bowl is overflowing, the crisper can't hold everything, and our diet is much improved. Plus, the grocery bill has dropped quite a bit since we aren't visiting the store three or four times a week (we tend to buy by meals rather than one huge grocery run) and buying random items. We are able to get the protein we want (bacon, steaks, salmon, and more) from local fisheries and farms. We're trying out the milk and eggs this week, both from a local dairy. I never check what is coming, so every Tuesday is a bit like vegetable Christmas. Surprise! This week we have spinach! Yay! (five-year-old me would be completely disgusted with the current me for being so excited over vegetables).
Our bin this last week flummoxed me a bit, though. I opened it and sitting at the bottom was a strange celery like bundle and a huge bulb of something dirt colored. Perhaps fennel and celeriac. I checked the site and was spot on, but it was text only so I just guessed as to what name belonged to which vegetable. What I did just check, though, is which is which. I'm glad I didn't grab the bulb thinking it was fennel (as I first supposed). I have no idea what to do with these things. The chard I've figured out (last night was brown rice, topped with sauteed onion, celery, smoked sausage, and rainbow chard--gah, it was good stuff), kale chips are a new favorite snack, potatoes are easy to deal with, celery, onion and leek disappear pretty quickly. The grapefruit (a ton of it) has been slowly consumed and played with: broiled with sugar and vanilla bean, grapefruit curd, sliced and frozen and more. The beets are awaiting a mandolin to be sliced. The apples, kiwi, oranges and pears are obvious (although the Girl Scouts blindsided the healthier options at the moment). But the celeriac? It's huge. Can we eat that much? A friend has it growing wild in his front yard, but he's vegan, and I don't really trust his recipes (sorry, vegans). The fennel seems to be easier. There are lots of recipes with fennel out on Pinterest and various cooking sites. It's a vegetable adventure!
Saturday, February 23, 2013
On sleep, or a lack thereof
I'm a procrastinator. I have always been this. I have tried to break the cycle, but it is so hard. Everything else becomes so much more interesting when I have a project to do. Even this post is a form of procrastination as I have writing projects sitting on my desk staring me down. They lurk in my subconscious, quietly whispering "come to us; come work on us." And I ignore them, kind of. The guilt, though, ratchets up, the deadline looms closer, and I realize that, once again, I'm staring an all-nighter in the face. For the third time that week.
I thought I would be done with this kind of thing after grad school, or after being a student at least. But this isn't the case. Instead, I fall into the habit of put it off, work all night, see the sun rise, go to bed, sleep until 2:00 pm and then get up and start the cycle over. Sometimes bed isn't even an option. I have to push through, suck it up, and realize that this is completely a self-inflicted wound.
Perhaps this is part of why I wanted to work from home and worked so hard to be able to do it. I can keep weird hours only known to insomniacs, programmers, gamers, writers and students. There is a reason we are socially awkward. It's those weird hours. They do something to us.
The dark circles under my eyes are a permanent fixture. Sleep deprivation combined with allergies make me look bruised. I also feel bruised. There is a feeling in the body when it is running on no sleep. Everything aches, my skin hurts, I feel like a shell of myself. Sounds function differently, a bit too sharp, a bit too loud. My brain processes slower, sluggish. Dexterity fails. When I was younger, I would run into things or simply fall over because of this. Then I really was bruised. I would lose conversations within my head and start in the middle of one, completely confusing everyone around me. The irritability kicks in, and I am all sharp around the edges. Brittle in body and demeanor.
I remember my freshman year of college when I lost almost a full day. I was several days without sleep, and I kept finding evidence of things I had done but had no memory of. I found rice, completely cooked, in my microwave and had no memory of making it. A movie half watched on the computer, and no memory of it. I called people asking them if we had been together or if we had talked, only to have it confirmed that we had, in fact, spent time together. It was terrifying. A friend wondered if I had been given something. I hadn't. It was purely sleep deprivation. It was a terrifying realization.
I can understand this as a form of torture. Keep people awake long enough and their defenses quickly begin to erode. Three days in, and the processes aren't functioning. A week? I'm not even sure; I've never made it that long. The body, though, hates it and fights to sleep. Black spots--not sleep--just holes in the memory begin to form. One thought doesn't coherently connect to the other. Admit to whatever those questioning wanted, whether true or not.
Eventually I collect myself for a small change in the schedule, but I eventually slip back into the pattern. I don't even know if it is so much that I don't want to do the work as much as it is an inexplicable fear of sleep. If I go to sleep I give up control. I surrender the small amount of power I have, and weirdly that terrifies me. I'm not scared of the dark; I'm simply scared of the dreams I have--vivid, alive dreams that suck me in completely. I don't dream these things as much as I live them.
And so, I live with the bruises, both obvious and painting my skin and the hidden, aching pain.
I thought I would be done with this kind of thing after grad school, or after being a student at least. But this isn't the case. Instead, I fall into the habit of put it off, work all night, see the sun rise, go to bed, sleep until 2:00 pm and then get up and start the cycle over. Sometimes bed isn't even an option. I have to push through, suck it up, and realize that this is completely a self-inflicted wound.
Perhaps this is part of why I wanted to work from home and worked so hard to be able to do it. I can keep weird hours only known to insomniacs, programmers, gamers, writers and students. There is a reason we are socially awkward. It's those weird hours. They do something to us.
The dark circles under my eyes are a permanent fixture. Sleep deprivation combined with allergies make me look bruised. I also feel bruised. There is a feeling in the body when it is running on no sleep. Everything aches, my skin hurts, I feel like a shell of myself. Sounds function differently, a bit too sharp, a bit too loud. My brain processes slower, sluggish. Dexterity fails. When I was younger, I would run into things or simply fall over because of this. Then I really was bruised. I would lose conversations within my head and start in the middle of one, completely confusing everyone around me. The irritability kicks in, and I am all sharp around the edges. Brittle in body and demeanor.
I remember my freshman year of college when I lost almost a full day. I was several days without sleep, and I kept finding evidence of things I had done but had no memory of. I found rice, completely cooked, in my microwave and had no memory of making it. A movie half watched on the computer, and no memory of it. I called people asking them if we had been together or if we had talked, only to have it confirmed that we had, in fact, spent time together. It was terrifying. A friend wondered if I had been given something. I hadn't. It was purely sleep deprivation. It was a terrifying realization.
I can understand this as a form of torture. Keep people awake long enough and their defenses quickly begin to erode. Three days in, and the processes aren't functioning. A week? I'm not even sure; I've never made it that long. The body, though, hates it and fights to sleep. Black spots--not sleep--just holes in the memory begin to form. One thought doesn't coherently connect to the other. Admit to whatever those questioning wanted, whether true or not.
Eventually I collect myself for a small change in the schedule, but I eventually slip back into the pattern. I don't even know if it is so much that I don't want to do the work as much as it is an inexplicable fear of sleep. If I go to sleep I give up control. I surrender the small amount of power I have, and weirdly that terrifies me. I'm not scared of the dark; I'm simply scared of the dreams I have--vivid, alive dreams that suck me in completely. I don't dream these things as much as I live them.
And so, I live with the bruises, both obvious and painting my skin and the hidden, aching pain.
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
The February slumps
February always makes me low. It's the hardest month to struggle through: still broke from the holidays, it's dark, it's cold, the days are still short, and my body just wants to sleep (and sleep and sleep and sleep). It is hard to motivate, but in our world we have to motivate. February is a hinge month; we're gearing up for the next thing (spring, summer, tax season, whatever) and we need the energy to do this, but it's just. not. there.
I'm facing down big things right now, and I have to get them done, but it's soooo hard to do them. It's small steps at a time: write 50 words today, grade 3 papers this evening, apply for that 1 job, do this 1 project tonight. Even getting up, showering, making coffee, and dressing (in that order) are so damn difficult right now. I always think it's depression; I do not suffer depression, but these funks sure feel like it. Just let me stay in bed. Everything feels like it weighs a ton. I feel like I'm moving through water, forcing that foot to step, that food to be eaten, that word to be typed. I don't stagnate, I just simply slow down. Significantly.
It's also the month of indecision for me. I need to go to bed; I don't want to go to bed. I feel whiney, whimpery, and childish. I want to throw tantrums (about what I don't know) and I just don't have the energy. I'm angry that it's winter still, but I resent the flowers that are already appearing in my yard (it's too early, stupid flowers; you're going to die!). I am resentful and angsty. For no good reason! It's truly bizarre. And it happens every year. And each year, I can't figure it out until someone reminds me that it's the February funk. "What's wrong?" can only be met with "I don't know. Things just feel...off." Then I suffer through the "ugh, I'm a terrible person because there is nothing really even wrong and I'm complaining." It's a nasty spiral. Blerg.
I think it's probably good that I don't have a full-time, in-office required kind of job life. I'd use all of my sick/personal leave in February. As it is, I just sit and give the papers and things needing grades the stink-eye. "Go grade yourselves," I mutter as I give them a good shove. Write yourself, blog (yeah, we've seen that this blog is not self-motivated to write itself...stupid blog).
I'm facing down big things right now, and I have to get them done, but it's soooo hard to do them. It's small steps at a time: write 50 words today, grade 3 papers this evening, apply for that 1 job, do this 1 project tonight. Even getting up, showering, making coffee, and dressing (in that order) are so damn difficult right now. I always think it's depression; I do not suffer depression, but these funks sure feel like it. Just let me stay in bed. Everything feels like it weighs a ton. I feel like I'm moving through water, forcing that foot to step, that food to be eaten, that word to be typed. I don't stagnate, I just simply slow down. Significantly.
It's also the month of indecision for me. I need to go to bed; I don't want to go to bed. I feel whiney, whimpery, and childish. I want to throw tantrums (about what I don't know) and I just don't have the energy. I'm angry that it's winter still, but I resent the flowers that are already appearing in my yard (it's too early, stupid flowers; you're going to die!). I am resentful and angsty. For no good reason! It's truly bizarre. And it happens every year. And each year, I can't figure it out until someone reminds me that it's the February funk. "What's wrong?" can only be met with "I don't know. Things just feel...off." Then I suffer through the "ugh, I'm a terrible person because there is nothing really even wrong and I'm complaining." It's a nasty spiral. Blerg.
I think it's probably good that I don't have a full-time, in-office required kind of job life. I'd use all of my sick/personal leave in February. As it is, I just sit and give the papers and things needing grades the stink-eye. "Go grade yourselves," I mutter as I give them a good shove. Write yourself, blog (yeah, we've seen that this blog is not self-motivated to write itself...stupid blog).
Friday, February 15, 2013
The Lenten season give-up
For Lent this year, I decided to part ways with Facebook and bread products. The bread thing already fell through with JaCiva's cupcakes and petit fours, but Facebook is still on. With giving this up, my goal is to focus on writing more, so expect some blog posts over the next forty days!
Thursday, February 14, 2013
The lot was cast and then I drew, And Fortune said it shou'd be you.
There have been a few discussion in my life lately regarding marriage and why and how people choose to make this leap and stay together. My mother says it's a covenant for her, friends fall in love and marry for love, some marry for the green card, others for practical reasons. I'm watching numerous friends and family plan to marry and listening to the hopeful ways they think marriage will play out. I'm also watching the first of friends divorce. Engagements are such a hopeful thing, rather idealistic, and so full of promise.
The number these days seems to be that 50% of marriages fail in America. We rely on love--that funny, fleeting, belly dropping, swoony feeling--to coast by on, to drive our sex lives, to make us feel wanted, needed, and oh-so-special. We have friends who married in the "bunny-hump, baby-I can't-get-enough-of-your-hot-body" phase. And when that fades? They wonder what happened, awakening from this drunken, hyper-sexualized place they've been in. And it's a magical, wonderful place. You lose weight, you glow, you feel amazing. And then life hands you a big ole' wake-the-hell-up dose of reality at some point. Hello!
We've been lucky in our relationship. We work hard to be happy and have taken drastic measures to do this at times (our moves are often related to this). But we've been rather careful, too, in the decisions we have made to keep us afloat. We don't have children; we haven't bought a house; we have odd jobs that allow us to be together and take off suddenly the way we want. We are carefully plotting and planning the next phase, our next steps. We have worked hard for what we have. We had hand-me-down furniture for the first seven years of our marriage. We were broke for most of the thirteen years we've been together. We didn't rush into things (some might say the marriage, but I don't think so: we didn't live together before, we didn't have a shotgun wedding, but we did get married young). We never followed the Joneses or needed everything others had. We didn't jump on bandwagons (kids, houses, cars, boats, dogs, and whatever else). We created our own goofy little niche.
We married for practical reasons. We also left the caveat in our relationship from the beginning that if life took us different ways, we'd be ok with that. We got married because taxes, school, and things like that made more sense to navigate together. We also really liked each other. We got along splendidly (we still do), and we had and have a very healthy dose of respect for each other. I used to think people found someone who could put of with their BS, but now I think it may be more that you find someone who respects your BS and helps you figure it out.
We spend a lot of time supporting each other. Not a day goes by that I am not told that I am loved. Not once, not twice, but many times each day. Not a day goes by that I don't say I love you; again, many times over. Sometimes I need a gentle reminder to put the computer/Kindle/book/distraction away to pay attention to who is right in front of me. And behind that gentle reminder are the words telling me how smart, creative, interesting I am. I don't seek this, but good grief, in a life that batters, tramples, and can be down right difficult and deflating, it's nice to have someone remind me of that, and to remind him of it, too.
It's Valentine's Day--a holiday we generally don't celebrate. Instead, we celebrate our meeting. Thirteen years now. And that is a long time and no time at all. We've left some stages behind us, but we've found balance, longevity, and a comfortable place to be. No games, no hidden agendas, no faking the single life (ugh, please stop doing this, other people), no friends to keep up with. We still get annoyed with each other, we still fight. Our fights, though, are ridiculous and so self-deprecating, and I've had to break up with tequila because of this. It's not a pretty sight when I'm a mess, his feelings get hurt because I'm picking on the way he cut the limes, and I'm crying that things are so great that the only thing I can pick on is how to cut the damn limes for Coronas. Yep, ridiculous, embarrassing in hindsight, and kind of (admittedly) cute (even though I did not look cute with my wobbly eyes).
I didn't expect my marriage to fail (who does?), but I am a pragmatist and a realist, and I knew that the possibility was always there (it is for every relationship). I'm also stubborn as hell, though, and not afraid to fight for the things I want. I know what works and doesn't work for my relationship, and I suppose that's the secret, isn't it? Patience, respect, and a huge amount of humor seems to get us through most things we've faced thus far, and I imagine it will be these things that sustain us.
Addendum: I came across this again today and felt others might enjoy reading it. I read it years ago, sitting in a quiet library in the heart of a cold Colorado winter. It's enough to warm you through:
http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2006/02/true-love/slater-text/1
The number these days seems to be that 50% of marriages fail in America. We rely on love--that funny, fleeting, belly dropping, swoony feeling--to coast by on, to drive our sex lives, to make us feel wanted, needed, and oh-so-special. We have friends who married in the "bunny-hump, baby-I can't-get-enough-of-your-hot-body" phase. And when that fades? They wonder what happened, awakening from this drunken, hyper-sexualized place they've been in. And it's a magical, wonderful place. You lose weight, you glow, you feel amazing. And then life hands you a big ole' wake-the-hell-up dose of reality at some point. Hello!
We've been lucky in our relationship. We work hard to be happy and have taken drastic measures to do this at times (our moves are often related to this). But we've been rather careful, too, in the decisions we have made to keep us afloat. We don't have children; we haven't bought a house; we have odd jobs that allow us to be together and take off suddenly the way we want. We are carefully plotting and planning the next phase, our next steps. We have worked hard for what we have. We had hand-me-down furniture for the first seven years of our marriage. We were broke for most of the thirteen years we've been together. We didn't rush into things (some might say the marriage, but I don't think so: we didn't live together before, we didn't have a shotgun wedding, but we did get married young). We never followed the Joneses or needed everything others had. We didn't jump on bandwagons (kids, houses, cars, boats, dogs, and whatever else). We created our own goofy little niche.
We married for practical reasons. We also left the caveat in our relationship from the beginning that if life took us different ways, we'd be ok with that. We got married because taxes, school, and things like that made more sense to navigate together. We also really liked each other. We got along splendidly (we still do), and we had and have a very healthy dose of respect for each other. I used to think people found someone who could put of with their BS, but now I think it may be more that you find someone who respects your BS and helps you figure it out.
We spend a lot of time supporting each other. Not a day goes by that I am not told that I am loved. Not once, not twice, but many times each day. Not a day goes by that I don't say I love you; again, many times over. Sometimes I need a gentle reminder to put the computer/Kindle/book/distraction away to pay attention to who is right in front of me. And behind that gentle reminder are the words telling me how smart, creative, interesting I am. I don't seek this, but good grief, in a life that batters, tramples, and can be down right difficult and deflating, it's nice to have someone remind me of that, and to remind him of it, too.
It's Valentine's Day--a holiday we generally don't celebrate. Instead, we celebrate our meeting. Thirteen years now. And that is a long time and no time at all. We've left some stages behind us, but we've found balance, longevity, and a comfortable place to be. No games, no hidden agendas, no faking the single life (ugh, please stop doing this, other people), no friends to keep up with. We still get annoyed with each other, we still fight. Our fights, though, are ridiculous and so self-deprecating, and I've had to break up with tequila because of this. It's not a pretty sight when I'm a mess, his feelings get hurt because I'm picking on the way he cut the limes, and I'm crying that things are so great that the only thing I can pick on is how to cut the damn limes for Coronas. Yep, ridiculous, embarrassing in hindsight, and kind of (admittedly) cute (even though I did not look cute with my wobbly eyes).
I didn't expect my marriage to fail (who does?), but I am a pragmatist and a realist, and I knew that the possibility was always there (it is for every relationship). I'm also stubborn as hell, though, and not afraid to fight for the things I want. I know what works and doesn't work for my relationship, and I suppose that's the secret, isn't it? Patience, respect, and a huge amount of humor seems to get us through most things we've faced thus far, and I imagine it will be these things that sustain us.
Addendum: I came across this again today and felt others might enjoy reading it. I read it years ago, sitting in a quiet library in the heart of a cold Colorado winter. It's enough to warm you through:
http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2006/02/true-love/slater-text/1
Friday, April 20, 2012
Ides of March
2012: the year it ends (supposedly).
A recap:
January: cold and wet, trip to Oklahoma, busy
February: cold and wet, bought tickets for spring break trips, busy
March: omg!!!
March warrants three, yes three, exclamation points. March was the destroyer month, the month that lives in the "what doesn't kill us makes us stronger" arena, the "I can't even cry this is too much," the "if I can hold on just one more day," the turn our world upside down month. March was hell and we are just recovering from it.
We received notice in February that our rent was going up. Not much, but enough that we did not want to pay it. We began looking. Around March 5, we found a place, we put the deposit on it, we made arrangements to begin moving in on March 15. Great! We love the place! It's funky, it's quirky, it's really small but big in a weird way!
On March 8, the little black car was totaled. We were fine--shaken, stirred, and confused, but fine. We didn't see it coming. We were crossing an intersection, freshly brewed coffee in hand (iced for me) when suddenly Scotty shouts out...I don't know what he shouted out. Curses? Gibberish? Sound? The loud bang and sudden force of my body being jerked forward, up, and to the right. My coffee exploded. It was like the scene in Apollo 13 when they squeeze the food out of the packaging: slow motion, large amoebas of liquid contracting, expanding, falling all over me. Our car stopped on the sidewalk; the other car limped into the adjacent parking lot, radiator fluid pouring from its busted hood. And I sat there, mouth hanging open, holding my empty coffee cup. Scotty turned, asked if I was ok, and got out of the car. I continued to sit with my mouth open, holding the empty coffee cup as I ran through a quick inventory of body, mind, and car. "We're on the sidewalk" passed through my head. I gaped at the others sitting in their cars staring back at me. I crawled out of the car, stood, and quickly leaned back against it. My legs could barely support the rest of me. A woman rolled down her window, asked if I was ok, and then they drove away once they received confirmation that I was, in fact, well enough. The light turned green and everyone drove away. They did not stay to give a report, act as a witness, offer testimony. Nothing.
And so began an anxiety, stressful, ridiculous, exasperating wait/hurry/wait/hurry of rental cars, insurance, loan application, car shopping, wrangling, chiropractic care, with the final verdict: 0% at fault for the wreck.
We finally found the car after much deliberation, shopping, consulting, angering used car salespeople (always men), and tears over the loss of the little black car. It was heartbreaking to see it broken, wheel askew. That had been our first big purchase as a married couple, had been all over the US, was paid off, had been our home on wheels, and more. We loved that little car that could (seriously, it went everywhere! even places it never should have--I'm thinking of you Telluride mountains). We upgraded to a Honda CR-V EX-L (not, as I sleepily told Scott one day, the SE-X package). We like it, but it has been an adjustment. Little black car could park anywhere; it was a compact. This new car, Bella Blue Car, is not. I pop curbs like crazy in this thing because I still drive it like the VW Golf; it is not. It's roomy with plenty of storage and still gets good gas mileage.
Amid all of this, we were also packing up the apartment for a move midmonth. Apartment to house upgrade is really nice! We signed for a mid-month move-in and opted for an end of the month move-out on the apartment, so that gave us technically a two week window to shift. Technically because we were both headed out of town the last week of the month.
The house has a white picket fence and it is the cutest thing--tiny with this amazing backyard with raised garden beds already in place (more on this later). There is a backhouse, the casita as a friend calls it, that we are using as my office. I am pretty sure it was a mother-in-law unit since it has a full bath and kitchen in it. Our house has two kitchens!
We are fully moved in and settled now. The settling took forever. But we each have space: my office in the casita, Scott's studio in the basement in which he has a screenprinting studio set up and ready for work.
It's nice when pieces fall back into place. I learned, again, that I am certainly not a drama kind of person. The anxiety, stress, and all really takes a toll on me. I like a quiet, calm kind of life. Let's hope there is not another like March 2012.
A recap:
January: cold and wet, trip to Oklahoma, busy
February: cold and wet, bought tickets for spring break trips, busy
March: omg!!!
March warrants three, yes three, exclamation points. March was the destroyer month, the month that lives in the "what doesn't kill us makes us stronger" arena, the "I can't even cry this is too much," the "if I can hold on just one more day," the turn our world upside down month. March was hell and we are just recovering from it.
We received notice in February that our rent was going up. Not much, but enough that we did not want to pay it. We began looking. Around March 5, we found a place, we put the deposit on it, we made arrangements to begin moving in on March 15. Great! We love the place! It's funky, it's quirky, it's really small but big in a weird way!
On March 8, the little black car was totaled. We were fine--shaken, stirred, and confused, but fine. We didn't see it coming. We were crossing an intersection, freshly brewed coffee in hand (iced for me) when suddenly Scotty shouts out...I don't know what he shouted out. Curses? Gibberish? Sound? The loud bang and sudden force of my body being jerked forward, up, and to the right. My coffee exploded. It was like the scene in Apollo 13 when they squeeze the food out of the packaging: slow motion, large amoebas of liquid contracting, expanding, falling all over me. Our car stopped on the sidewalk; the other car limped into the adjacent parking lot, radiator fluid pouring from its busted hood. And I sat there, mouth hanging open, holding my empty coffee cup. Scotty turned, asked if I was ok, and got out of the car. I continued to sit with my mouth open, holding the empty coffee cup as I ran through a quick inventory of body, mind, and car. "We're on the sidewalk" passed through my head. I gaped at the others sitting in their cars staring back at me. I crawled out of the car, stood, and quickly leaned back against it. My legs could barely support the rest of me. A woman rolled down her window, asked if I was ok, and then they drove away once they received confirmation that I was, in fact, well enough. The light turned green and everyone drove away. They did not stay to give a report, act as a witness, offer testimony. Nothing.
And so began an anxiety, stressful, ridiculous, exasperating wait/hurry/wait/hurry of rental cars, insurance, loan application, car shopping, wrangling, chiropractic care, with the final verdict: 0% at fault for the wreck.
We finally found the car after much deliberation, shopping, consulting, angering used car salespeople (always men), and tears over the loss of the little black car. It was heartbreaking to see it broken, wheel askew. That had been our first big purchase as a married couple, had been all over the US, was paid off, had been our home on wheels, and more. We loved that little car that could (seriously, it went everywhere! even places it never should have--I'm thinking of you Telluride mountains). We upgraded to a Honda CR-V EX-L (not, as I sleepily told Scott one day, the SE-X package). We like it, but it has been an adjustment. Little black car could park anywhere; it was a compact. This new car, Bella Blue Car, is not. I pop curbs like crazy in this thing because I still drive it like the VW Golf; it is not. It's roomy with plenty of storage and still gets good gas mileage.
Amid all of this, we were also packing up the apartment for a move midmonth. Apartment to house upgrade is really nice! We signed for a mid-month move-in and opted for an end of the month move-out on the apartment, so that gave us technically a two week window to shift. Technically because we were both headed out of town the last week of the month.
The house has a white picket fence and it is the cutest thing--tiny with this amazing backyard with raised garden beds already in place (more on this later). There is a backhouse, the casita as a friend calls it, that we are using as my office. I am pretty sure it was a mother-in-law unit since it has a full bath and kitchen in it. Our house has two kitchens!
We are fully moved in and settled now. The settling took forever. But we each have space: my office in the casita, Scott's studio in the basement in which he has a screenprinting studio set up and ready for work.
It's nice when pieces fall back into place. I learned, again, that I am certainly not a drama kind of person. The anxiety, stress, and all really takes a toll on me. I like a quiet, calm kind of life. Let's hope there is not another like March 2012.
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