I will blog about birthday weekend later, bur here’s a picture of Katie and me from Friday night. I have zero idea what is funny.
It was a beautiful weekend: mini-road trip to a ghost town, road trip back to go to Tiny Town, airport adventures, double rainbows, baseball game, sushi, bars, cooking dinner!
I had never sat in the Rockpile before.
So now I can say I’ve done that.
So bummed, my favorite sandals broke last night. Looks like it’s time to invest in some new shoes. Yesterday at work we were having a Birkenstock vs. Keens discussion. They all like the Keens better, but I prefer the Birkenstock look. (My old sandals were from Target. And I’m super upset that they didn’t do a new version of the style this year. Because the same thing happened to the first pair of favorite sandals that I had – same exact style, but older. The thing between the toes goes. And then you don’t have sandals anymore. Just sadness.)
This baseball game was infinitely better than the last one we went to.
Waking up this morning with a mild hangover, I’ve decided that I hate adulthood. I need my 8 hours of sleep now. I need my alone time. I can’t stay up all night, or do shots of whiskey, or dance until dawn (at least not on weekdays). Sometimes I try, and I’m always swiftly reminded why those activities quickly become best left to the young. And by young, I mean people who don’t have to be at work before 9am.
This was not a wild weekend, but it was still busy. (I find that no matter what I do, I end up exhausted on Sunday nights.) I babysat all day Saturday and in between, did laundry. I managed to get twelve hours of sleep on Saturday night; I guess I must have been tired. My head hit the pillow and I was out. I missed three phone calls during the night – something that never happens. It was so nice to roll over this morning and turn off the alarms and sleep for another three hours. It was like a college Sunday all over again and it was beautiful.
This one has not let me out of his sight this week. I woke up on Saturday and was trying to get some work done, so of course, Carlos found it very necessary to stomp all over my keyboard. Once I finally got him shoved off the computer, he laid next to me and curled his tail around my arm. I guess being loved is never a bad thing. However, the beast taking up 85% of my bed is not the most fun you can have. I keep waking up all the way on the edge with him stretched out happily over the rest of the width. I guess I’ll have to start being more territorial in my sleep.
Laundry! Laundry! Laundry! Loads and loads and loads of it! (The worst part is putting it all away, and so far, I’ve done absolutely no hanging up or drawer opening. Uggh, Monday night, then.)
Sometimes, I do laundry in my prom dress. I also have a big puffy white dress that I bought in college that’s perfect for playing dress-up with my 5-year old neighbor. Today, we played a little bit in our dresses and then had a tea party outside with strawberries, whipped cream, cookies, and tea. It was lovely.
I drove the long way home yesterday, and to my immense satisfaction, pulled up to my apartment building just as he had hit 80,000 miles.
(I have no idea why it looks like it’s raining in my car.)
At six years old, he’s all grown up. I’ve had him for nearly 50,000 wonderful miles. We go everywhere together, and I imagine that I will keep him until he dies, or until I have kids, or something else gets in my way.
And of course, on this most excellent occasion, Simon found himself in the shop, having an oil change and some transmission issues. A few months ago (six months? nine? I think it was summer but who knows), I was driving down Colorado Blvd when my car freaked out. Now, I’m not one who has any experience in dealing with car problems, so my car jerking and shuddering and jumping all over the place while the D light was blinking was positively terrifying.
I called the Honda dealership. Of course, I should have anticipated their response: “That normally doesn’t happen in a Civic. We normally see that in Odysseys and Pilots.” Alas, they informed that it was a pressure switch in my transmission and that I need to bring my car in. “Can I drive on it for a bit?” I asked. They told me that I could, but I’d probably get terrible gas mileage.
Here we are so many months later. The D light stopped blinking and the never did the shuddering jumping jerking business again, so I never brought it in. But it’s been worrying the back of my brain, as transmission issues do. The gas mileage has remained pretty steady, so no complaints here.
I took the car into my mechanic, who’s basically the best mechanic ever. He calls me to tell me that he doesn’t really feel any loss of power when he drives. I cut in about the D light. “The D light was blinking!? No one told me about that! I’ll call you back!” The phone went dead. He called me back about a half an hour later to tell me that yes, it is a transmission pressure switch error code but it’s also another error code.
But then he tells me not to worry, because it’s not bad enough to deal with. (I love this guy. He’ll let you know what’s urgent and what’s not.) I still need to be super vigilant about my transmission, because at the first sign of trouble, I’m going to need to replace something about the solenoids and the pressure switch, or worse, the whole damn thing.
I’ve got his blessing to keep driving on it and he’s going to give me the name of his transmission people. So, Simon and I shall keep adventuring until it’s time to do some serious surgery. At that point, if it’s the $400 repair, I won’t hesitate, but if it’s the entire transmission, we’ll have to do some serious thinking about whether or not it’s worth it. But for now, I’m still just as excited about him as I was the day that I got him.
I bought Simon when I was 20. It was February 4, 2008 (yeah, I guess that’s weird, but it’s a date I’ll never forget). When I turned the car on for the first time, the odometer read 33,111. I knew right then that I had to have him. (That, and the fact that I spent as much time as I could in my Grandma Mary’s car when I was a kid because she had a digital speedometer. I thought her car was the best ever. And yet, somehow, I’d managed to get a digital speedometer of my own! Luckiest girl ever, I swear.)
Simon at night, with bubbles. Illinois. 2009?
Simon, at dusk. Illinois, Halloween, 2010.
(side note: Old Dave may have been right about the sex appeal [or lack thereof] of Birkenstocks.)
In the four years that I’ve had him, he’s been crushed, crunched, cracked, and spray painted. He’s hit bugs, curbs, rocks, potholes. He’s driven and driven and driven. And I have loved every single minute of it.
Simon in Wisconsin, barely. Winter/Spring 2010.
Simon reflecting in Rocky Mountain National Park, June 2009.
Oh and the best part?
80,000 miles divided by 6 years is 13,333.33 miles per year, on average. It’s just one of those things that was meant to be.
When I got home from my quick weekend in Chicago, I was a bit surprised to see an orange tent set up in our living room. Mike was so excited to tell me all about it: how lightweight it is (3 pounds!), how it’s great for backpacking, how it’s got a rain fly and he’s excited to make oatmeal under it in the mornings if it’s raining. Lots of conversation about the possibilities of rain with this tent – apparently the rain fly can be put up before you build the body of the tent so that in case of inclement weather you don’t risk getting your tent soaked while you mess with the poles and rain fly. I think that’s marvelous.
We had to take the tent down because someone with sharp claws was just as excited as Mike about the new tent. Carlos kept sneaking around the tent, trying to get in through the flap. I’d see a swish of black tail as he got in, only to run out moments later when Mike caught him. Then I’d see the little black face sniffing around the bottom of the tent. Not wanting to have to buy a new tent due to slash-holes caused by my cat son and his nasty habit of relentless investigation, the tent was packed away. However, I did enjoy sitting inside a tent inside my living room. It brought back childhood memories of Mike and I camping in the backyard.
(This is one of my favorite pictures of us ever.)
I so love the fact that I came home to a tent. I so love that my roommate is my brother. I love that we are nearly exact opposites. Mike’s idea of fun is a week spent fishing and hiking and backpacking. That’s my idea of perfect hell. My idea of fun is dancing, or the library, or four hours in a bathtub with books, or drinking wine. I do believe that those may constitute Mike’s perfect hell.
However, give that kid some sports, and you’re all set. I really like going to games with Mike. I always learn something and I always have fun. Above, my first Cubs game ever after I graduated from college.
He’s the athletic one. I mean, he’s 6’4″ and I’m barely 5’8″. He does the heavy lifting; he opens jars; he reaches things on the top shelf. He’s the one that’s good at math (damn good). He does the detail work. He’s focused, calm, patient, way too laid-back for his own good, kindhearted, organized, neat. He’s analytical and observant. He loves his outdoor activities, but my idea of outdoor activities involves drinking in a park. He cooks, too. He’s going to be a great dad and make some lady who can’t cook very happy one day.
I’m the impulsive, energetic one. I’m loud and quite outspoken. I’m the one who thinks about the big picture, who takes care of administrative detail like paying the bills, and who is wound up 99.99% of the time. I am in no way patient or detail oriented, and I’ll never be accused of being organized or neat. And I can’t cook to save my life. (Baby steps, I keep telling myself. Noodles and sauce from a jar is totally food.)
Even though we’re not biological siblings, we’re a matched set. We make a really good team. We balance each other out. I’m impressed by his dedication to his schoolwork, fascinated by his love of strange things like his panini maker, and excited about our mutual enjoyment of tea. He knows how to calm me down when I’m stressed; he’s wise beyond his years.
We get each other. We used to climb the apple tree in the backyard together. We used to throw tennis balls at the house. When we were little, we thought it’d be the best idea ever to take out the hall closet that separated our rooms and create one giant room that was full of everything fun. Or if we couldn’t have one giant room, we wanted a secret tunnel.
During nap time (which sucks when you’re 7 years old), we’d grab Mom’s exercise mat and use it to sled down the stairs. In the summer, we’d have cannonball contests – which I never won. We dug mud holes in the garden, took our bikes and scooters all over the neighborhood, stayed out late and played hide and seek….
When I went off to college, I had a rough time the first night. I’ve never been that good at hiding my emotions, and I’m prone to bouts of hysterical crying. And so, I cried. I cried, and I cried, and I cried. (It was pretty bad.) My mom and brother and uncle and cousin left me all alone in Chicago (which would turn out to be one of the best adventures of my life, so in hindsight, no complaints). No one would have ever known about this if my uncle hadn’t told us – I’m glad he did – but apparently, Mike cried through Illinois on the way back to Denver.
My brother is one of the most amazing people I know. I’m so lucky that he’s mine. (Don’t tell him that – I don’t want it to go to his head.) I am so grateful.
I’ve left so many times, for so many reasons, and every single time, I end up back in Chicago, staring longingly at the lake. It was the lake that brought me there, after all. This weekend was a lot like the weekend that I spent out there in July, but this weekend was so much better.
Last week, when I told my boss that I was headed to Chicago for the weekend, he looked at me and said, “Your flight’s on Sunday night, right?” I paused. “Um….no….Monday morning, actually.” He looked at me and laughed. “I’ll see you on Tuesday,” he said.
(Remember the July trip? Waking up at 6:03 when my flight had taken off at 6:00….the long day spent laying on the couch while I killed time until my Monday night flight, a day of work lost, a terribly abrupt goodbye, the uncertainty of it all.)
Leaving Denver after work on Friday is not the best way to go. But then again, weekends are short – you’ve got to make the best of them. I was almost too tired to be excited, but simultaneously terrified that I wouldn’t make my flight. Of course, i had to stop for gas and ended up giving my dinner to a homeless man.
Sitting in my car, filling Jell-O shot containers full of shampoo and soap, I reminded myself why I do things like this. The work-life balance, but more than that. Life, mostly. The most beautiful life is the one that will never make me wonder what could have been.
The TSA was puzzled by my Jell-O shot shampoo containers. They took the bag out and marveled (my words, not theirs) at it before finally letting it go. This was immediately after I had to take cash out of my bra to get through the body scanner. I believe Charlie Sheen put it best when he said, “Winning.”
I’m a Taurus. I’m a very stubborn woman. He picked me up and I was first-date nervous. (Honestly, we’ve only ever been on about 4 dates, give or take, so it’s not like my nerves are entirely unfounded.) He made me dinner while I wandered to find beer. I interrupted him giving me directions with, “I’ll figure it out,” and ended up walking an extra 4 blocks each way to 7-11 (Chicago 7-11’s are the best – no 3.2% beer there!).
I didn’t mind the walk. I love the city.
Saturday day was him working for a bit and me going to see my friend Anne. Then it was double-date concert night. I’m not a huge fan of dubstep – it sounds like robots dancing to me – but we went and saw Bassnectar at the Congress Theater. It was loud, crowded, and fun. Some girl stepped all over the side of my heel though (until this happened, I wasn’t aware that it was possible to step on the side of a heel, all the way up to the ankle), which has left me bruised and grumpy. His brother and his girlfriend are great! We made brunch on Sunday morning, and I watched Back to the Future for the first time, curled up on the couch under a Cubs blanket.
Not our best picture, but the only one I have!
This time there were no tears. There was only the promise of “next time” – we’ll spend more time with his grandparents, we’ll cook again with his mom, we’ll get to see each other sooner rather than later.
I usually don’t repost internet memes, but this one made me laugh.
One of my friends was flying back into Denver this morning and was looking forward to laying out in the park this afternoon. The mental image of a person sunbathing in a snowsuit made my day.
I had a lovely weekend.
I feel like I’ve been slowly returning to society for the past couple of weeks. I’ve been reconnecting with old friends and carving out time to make new friends and have adventures. I’ve been quite pleased to discover that I haven’t lost my fun side. I’m also thrilled to report that in spite of being terrified that I’d never make new friends, that was a silly fear.
On Thursday, I saw one of my cousins perform in her school play. They did “The Rockin’ Tale of Snow White,” a darling adaptation of one of my favorite stories. After, I went to meet Jacob at a bar downtown to watch his friend’s band play. (I saw them play last week, and they’re great! But then again, I’m just such a huge fan of keyboards, so I might be a bit biased.)
Friday night was my “do absolutely nothing” night, followed by a busy Saturday full of babysitting (we had our first Kool-Aid stand of the year. The four-year old wanted to sell the cups for 11cents, so the mom told her that for every cup she sold for 10c, she’d throw in an extra penny. It was cute.) laundry, my brother’s birthday dinner, drinks with friends, and dancing at my favorite goth/80s bar.
I had a reverse-gay moment on Saturday. There’s a funny thing that happens: often, when someone is meeting a gay person, they’ll say, “I have a gay friend! You would just love him!” as though they’re matchmaking and as though all gay people are just “going to love” each other. So on Saturday night, I was out with some friends in a mixed-group, and I got really excited to tell the only straight guy there that I had a straight friend who he would just love. I even asked him if he liked baseball. Ha.
Sunday was brunch on the patio at a cute place in Capital Hill (bottomless mimosas, yes, please!), with an afternoon of Cheeseman Park lounging after.
This stick is the “Talking Point.” Jacob and my new friend Ben carry it around with them whenever they lounge in the park. It serves as a sort of marker/flag. We decorated it with plastic flowers (as Ben said, “For $2, you can carry beauty around wherever you go.” He also mentioned that you must have the confidence to pull off carrying around fake flowers, but I think they’re great.) and another stick. I wanted to get more sticks and create a teepee, but unfortunately, large sticks are hard to come by.
I’m so happy that it’s almost summer. There’s nothing I love more than afternoons in the park. (But oh man, sunscreen is so expensive!)
I was all excited to tell you about the lukewarm water week that happened at my apartment, but now I feel like an ass. A couple of weeks ago, a water heater in our apartment building broke and we were left with tepid water for our showers. (And there’s nothing I love more than hot water. I hope they never invent time travel – I’ll refuse to go back past the dawn of reliably hot water.) My landlord assured me that we’d have hot water again as soon as he got the new hot water heater, and sure enough, it’s been wonderful. I was on the phone with him today, and he said, “How’s the hot water, dear?” I was a little embarrassed by my enthusiastic response. But last night, Mike had to watch a documentary for one of his classes about poverty around the world. (I liked it and it’s streaming on Netflix, if you’re interested: The End of Poverty? It’s a good history of globalization/the rise of such severe poverty and it attempts to argue against privatization, although I’m not sure how effective the final argument is.) As I was watching, I was remembering how little hot water we had in South Africa and I feel like an ass for complaining about clean, running, just-not-hot water. I’ll take that over no running water any day.
I think this was Mike’s birthday cake? If you don’t mind my saying so, we were just adorable.
I love that in most pictures, I’m either moving or talking. Apparently my inability to sit still isn’t new (and neither is my love of cake).
I love finding old pictures. This one was pinned to my wall in my room at my mom’s house.
I love that my room at her house is a frozen snapshot of my adolescence. Not quite frozen anymore, as it would later become the repository for all of my collegiate possessions and thus everything has commingled into a massive reminder of everything that is my past. Schoolbooks, shoes, pictures, artwork, dresses (oh, my dresses – they are all so amazing.)
There are posters on the wall. There are pictures of me and my friends, doing whatever it was that we thought worth photographing at those ages. I’ll pick one up and cringe at how silly I look, but they’re a nice reminder of how much I’ve grown and changed. They also remind me how grateful I am that I was so invested in my adolescence. We were so engaged in shedding our youth and so determined to don our adult selves, but we never lost sight of our enjoyment of everything “teenage.” We were silly and serious, immature while maturing. Honestly, it was rough, but it was beautiful.
I was talking to mom the other night about those rough years. She told me that her mantra during that time was This too shall pass, which makes me wince with regret and a touch of shame. She was quick to reassure me that it wasn’t all bad. (Great, just what everyone wants to hear. “It wasn’t ALL bad.”)
I was telling her about the mother and daughter that I saw checking into the hotel in New York. The daughter had the matronly look of a teenager who developed young but hasn’t yet grown into her body and the mother just looked frazzled. They were at the counter, asking the concierge a question, and I heard the daughter say, “I told you so!” to her mother in front of the concierge.
I cringed for both the mother and the daughter. That daughter will one day realize that being right isn’t always the most important thing (not always, but most of the time, right?). Also, the daughter will learn that double-checking is something all adults do, although I was recently informed by a co-worker that I’ll grow out of my habit of obsessively double-checking everything. That came as a relief. Double-checking is so necessary but so annoying.
I apologized to my mom for basically all of my youth. In retrospect, I was a holy terror at certain moments and perfectly angelic at others, but I’m comforted by the knowledge that all of that is normal in the progression from infant to adult – the progression that is never easy and comes with no instruction manuals.
My relationship with my mother is a strong and honest one. I don’t lie to her (I try not to lie in general, but I’m particularly frank with her), and she doesn’t lie to me. I know that anything I do, she’ll support, and she’s always been available to listen. She doesn’t always like it, but she’ll listen. And I appreciate that. It’s the sort of unconditional love that makes me proud to be part of the family. They’re all very good at the unconditional love thing.
She admitted to me that she understands a lot of what was going on back then was caused by my dad, which I don’t deny. His approach to parenting a teenager may not have the best. (By “may not have been the best,” I mean “definitely wasn’t the best.”) It caused a lot of anguish for me and created a terrible emotional firestorm that, when combined with teenage hormones, was bound to create a series of terribly unfortunate and chaotic events. You’ll do well to note that since I was able to remove myself from the situation and embrace my independence, there has been a drastic increase in all things positive.
Growing up involves a lot of growing pains. Those precious babies do grow into perfect monsters and then pass into tentative adulthood. It’s never peaceful. Even after they leave the nest, there’s a lot of growing left to do. By that point, you can only hope that they have the tools necessary to deal with the hellish nature of adulthood and the grace to accept responsibility for all that they are and do. A sense of humor never hurts, either.
(see? I told you 17 was rough.)
a mile high and then some... 