The honeymoon phase 1

Let me tell you about our hesitations with this trip, because we have them and we have both voiced them at different points along the way.

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When we were planning our wedding and our honeymoon, we had the brilliant idea of taking a road trip from Oklahoma to Banff, Canada. Scott had been rebuilding a 1976 VW bus, pop-top camper and all. It was in great shape, just not, apparently, in enough great shape to make a cross-country tour.

We had new sleeping bags (a wedding gift from Scott's parents), a savings account (also partially built from wedding gifts), reservations, and maps. We had stocked with food, arranged to have Scott's brother look after our apartment, and we had no cell phones at the time. It was going to be a gypsy dream, a bohemian honeymoon.

And so we set out. Happily puttering along in the bus, happy as clams. We made it to Kansas when the troubles (plural) began. With Scott behind the wheel, we were pulled over. After running his license and registration, the police officer came back with the announcement that Scott's license was suspended and told me "Mrs. Taylor, you will have to drive." The first person to call me by my married name was a cop...and he gave me devastating news. I had not driven a stick shift beyond a parking lot, never taken one on the highway, much less across the country. damn. So we did the logical thing: we waited for him to drive away and Scott resumed the driver's seat. Risky, yes; practical, definitely; necessary, absolutely.

And we continued on our merry way. We stopped that evening somewhere in Kansas, past Dodge City. The plan was to stay off the main highways because we wanted to see "Americana" (the romantic view) and because the bus only went 60 mph (the practical view). We would drive into these towns and it felt like a one car parade. People love the bus or they are suspicious of the bus; regardless, they stare. The next morning, day 2 of the trip, something happened. A backfire or a pinging noise and we noticed that the back window was really dirty and getting dirtier fast. Upon further inspection, it was discovered that we were blowing oil. For the uninitiated, old VW's engines are in the back of the car rather than the front. We do the logical thing and keep driving. The oil gets too bad to see through, we stop and wipe it off, easy-peasy. Well, easy-peasy until we're dumping quarts of oil into the damn thing each time we stop. It's cool, no worries.

Tune in for "The honeymoon phase 2", coming soon!

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Disclaimer:

Our current car is a 2003 VW Golf with 116k miles on it. It is a good car, it runs well, we've taken care of it, it's paid off.

Romance

I'm in love with the idea of what we are doing. I'll admit it. I am thrilled when I have the opportunity to tell people our plans, thrilled when what I say doesn't register and then again when it does and that look of "you are [crazy, irresponsible, whatever] (and I'm secretly jealous of you because I'm here doing God knows what)". There may be some editorializing happening there...

My lines anymore feel almost scripted as I try to explain and remain vague, because let's face it, the plans are vague.

The script:

Them: So...I hear you're leaving us?

Me: Yeah, May 21st is my last day here.

What I want to say: Gettin' the hell out of dodge! Woohoo!

Them:...and what are you going to do? Where are you going?

Me: West.

What I want to say: Anything I want to do, anywhere I want to go. Away from you.

Them: West. What do you mean? You're not staying in Chicago?

Me: Well, we're going to travel this summer, and keep our eyes open for places to land.

What I want to say: Obviously not. I have no job, no home, no prospects, just a lot of student loan debt. And I'm ok with this so deal with it.

Them: So you are relocating this summer?

Me: Kind of. After a while.

What I want to say: Duh!

Them: What are you going to do out there in the West? Do you have places narrowed down?

Me: Yeah. I mean, we have it down to three states but we aren't limited ourselves. Oregon, Washington, and Colorado.

What I want to say: Nope, I'm totally playing this wild card.

Them: Oh wow. Those places are beautiful.

Me: Yes, thus the reason for our escape. We need to live somewhere with more...scenery...more outdoor lifestyle.

What I want to say: Somewhere over the rainbow....way up high....something something....bluebird sky...why oh why can't i...

Them: So what will you do in these places?

Me: I don't know. Put my expensive MA to good use? Teach maybe. I can always sling coffee shots again to get by.

What I want to say: Whatever the hell I want! I really have no idea.

Them: Oh, I didn't realize you had an MA.

Me: .... (thinking "this is one reason I'm leaving")

What I want to say: asshole

Them: Well, good luck.

What I want to say: Chump.

And they walk away confused, as though I've just turned their world upside down. I can also hear them thinking, "I hope my kid never pulls some dumb move like this."

Moving towards the move

We have boxes piling up and nothing yet going into those boxes. I have piles of stuff (yes, just stuff) that needs to be pawed through, sorted, and dealt with. I do like the purging aspect of moving. That unloading of things that accumulate and clog our lives. It unburdens me and after a while I just begin throwing out everything.

Scott called after a moving a storage system, Pods, that several people recommended. It is, of course, much more expensive than originally anticipated. It comes out to be equivalent to renting the truck, storing the apartment, and renting the truck again. The plus side of this, however, is that Pods takes care of the storage, for an extra monthly fee (of course).

I began thinking of all of the moves I have made since I was 18. In ten years, I have had 9 different homes and 1 non-home. This next move makes 10.

WHY?!

will i ever find a home?

Breakfast of Champions

Coffee and job searching.

Who I am

I cleaned out and deleted some social network accounts but felt tied to these profiles:

I am a superhero still discovering my powers. I am leather and lace. I am bound and free. I am a unique stereotype. I am a reluctant adult. I am an angel who left her paradise, a devil who sought cooler climes. I am Eve that ate the fruit and never looked back. I am a contradiction unto myself. I aggravate, irritate, and confound. I am comfortable with who I am and who I am becoming. I am a work in progress.

I want God, I want poetry, I want danger, I want freedom, I want goodness, I want sin.

On a side note I (am): a master of procrastination, a chieftan of organized chaos, a lover of life, a collector of random facts and trivial information, always a little lost, an avid reader, have intense desires and dreams and hopes, rarely make sense, exist in a perpetual state of confusion, terribly stubborn, a demander of answers or at the least suppositions, a learner of languages, a killer of plants, am easily bored, wide-eyed at the world, a drinker of good wine, persistent, a light-weight, goofy, finally learned to laugh (often hysterically) at myself, a teacher, a supporter of good causes, a traveller of dreams and fantasies, love candy

Grading

I, as I am certain that many who teach do, hate grading. It is the worst part of the job. However, it can provide an unending source of amusement and mirth and Scott has walked in on my doubled over laughing at some sentence or misspelling.

My favorite:

As one of the requirements for the art module in my Humanities course students write a brief essay on Van Gogh's Shoes. As we are wont to do, a particular student trusted her spelling and grammar checker rather than carefully read over her work before submitting it for grading. As a result, I had a whole essay on what should have been peasants' shoes but was an essay on pheasants.

This little gaffe had me doubled over with laughter, tears rolling down my cheeks, and gasping for breath as I read it for its literal content. It was, to say the least, amazing.

And then you are faced with how to deal with something like this. I think my comments were something along the lines of:

Please be sure that you are re-reading your work before submitting it. Spelling errors can interfere with the meaning of your paper; for example, you continually write about pheasants (a large long-tailed game bird native to Asia, the male of which typically has very showy) rather than about peasants (a poor farmer of low social status who owns or rents a small piece of land for cultivation (chiefly in historical use or with reference to subsistence farming in poorer countries). See how this drastically changes the meaning of your paper?

Other favorite typos/misspellings:

Pubic spaces (public spaces)

they're ...cats, meat, etc (their)

This little gem was passed along my way this morning and made me giggle:

http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/04/alot-is-better-than-you-at-everything.html

In all, sometimes grading can provide that laugh that I so desperately need to get through the beginning composition compositions.

The restless spirits

I realized today what it is.

As I told one of the grad students, "We're striking out West! (It's a little pioneer feeling, Manifest Destiny, Oregon Trail, whatever you want to call it...except in a hatch back VW...) I need to be closer to larger, wilder landscapes (skyscrapers, while similarly large and neck-crick inducing, do not serve this purpose)."

It's true. I think if I had had the option to strike out west in a covered wagon or go into the Great North by dog sled, I would have been all over it.