Movin’ On Up

The thing I’m most excited about graduation is that I can finally MOVE. I’m looking forward to a functioning dishwasher, hardwood floors, direct sunlight, and a neighborhood that doesn’t scare my friends and family.

Also, I can’t wait for stairs! The other day a classmate asked me if I’d be staying in Hollywood or moving closer to work and I was like, “Um, I don’t know — I just want to find someplace where I can afford two stories so my cats can get some exercise.” I think this threw him off because, uh, who selects their abode based on their cats’ needs? AWESOME people, that’s who.

Anyway, he looked at me funny and replied, “Uh, yeah, cuz there’s nothing worse than a fat cat.” The first words my brain sent toward my mouth were, “Yeah, totally, a woman knows no pain like a 20-pounder walking across your full bladder at 4:30 in the morning.” Luckily some sense that I didn’t want to come off like a total weirdo intervened, and I stuck with, “Yeah.”

My mom has even grander ideas for what Fred & Ethel need in a new home. She is the Virginia Woolf for cats. “What Fred needs is a big bay window, with a view out into some trees, or where he can see people passing by. And his own little perch, so he can feel engaged with the world.”

I don’t know why I’m so excited. Last time I tried to search for an apartment I ended staying where I am because it was too stressful to find a new place. I called Laurie frantically trying to decide whether to take a place. Her sage words: “Jen, if you are tearfully debating the merits of a ceramic vs. a plastic tub, perhaps it’s best to stay where you are.”

Oh. I know why I’m so excited. I’ve forgotten the trauma. Because, as I’ve noted before, hindsight is legally blind.

Anyway, who cares! I just can’t wait for a place with an oven light. That, my friends, would be worth any price.

Procrastination, Experimentation

Apparently the best ways to beat the post-vacation blues is to continue to avoid any school responsibilities and explore new procrastination venues.

For instance, embroidery!

This is my first project — a soon-to-be-housewarming tea towel for my California-born-and-raised brother Jeff and his wife Jen, who are learning how to scrape Michigan ice off their windshields. I am using Jenny Hart’s Stitch-It Kit, which actually includes some kick-ass iron-patterns of SKULLS and PIRATE CRAP, but Jeff and Jen are saps, so they get flowers. Suckas!

Also, homemade vodka!

So easy! And such a cute gift for parties.

And Penny? I hate you and your damn Sodoku. Which I still can’t pronounce correctly, but this did not seem to discourage me from playing nineteen hundred and forty games yesterday. I am never having you over again. Until next weekend.

And finally, the worst idea I have ever had: letting Fred help me make the bed.

State of the Union

Oh, I don’t know. The State of the Union is vaguely depressed. Coming back from vacation is not fun.

I don’t wake up to this:

I wake up to class I don’t want to attend, dishes I don’t want to do, a long to-do list filled with embarassingly overdue items.

And it’s not like I haven’t done anything fun! I’ve seen Laurie at SnB, been to a bunch of parties, including Gloria‘s, seen Cut Chemist, Honeyboy Edwards, and attended my first college basketball game. Why can I get no satisfaction?

Basically, I haven’t made it over the hump. There’s a post-vacation hump you have to pop over, I think, where you settle into pleasant routine and the little pleasures of a good meal are enough. Where you don’t require majestic sunsets and fireflies and howler monkies and more stars than you’ve ever seen before to feel moved and engaged with life.

It would help if I attended and read for class. And started blogging again. I’d feel moored.

So that’s what I’m going to do. That’s my big plan. It’s not universal health care, but Bush didn’t manage that either.

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Also, for something that has moved me recently, check out my friend Julie’s band, Needle! She rocks!

Vacay Part I: The Teva Gauntlet

Spending the holidays in Central America is surreal. And also kind of like a Corona ad, no?

This is just part one of many posts interesting mainly to me, but highlights of the trip included:

30th birthday misty sunrise in Tikal:

I wasn’t kidding about the Swiss Family Robinson treehouse:

Or the minnow water:

Also, an incident I like to call, The Teva Gauntlet.

The Boy and I stayed at the Swiss Family Robinson farm for a couple days, run by this wonderful couple who basically built the entire infrastructure, including toilets, roads, trails, etc., on their own.

So we show up. Two city slickers, The Boy slightly less slick than me. And the wife had my number in one glance:

The flimsly flip-flops, the large hoop earrings, merlot-painted toes, the WHITE (what, am I crazy?) purse I’m hauling around Central America with my itinerary folder with matching passport holder. She knew.

So we’re sitting there, talking about the hike The Boy and I are about to make down a ravine and up a waterfall. She looks at my sandals. “Those won’t work. Here. You can wear my Tevas.” And in one swift, triumphant gesture, she slid those muddy monstrosities under the kitchen table to me, like, HERE, let’s see what you’ve got.

What I had, of course, is the urgent desire to retreat to the treehouse and DIE.

The Teva Gauntlet had been thrown. And there are few things in life I object to more than Tevas. I am sorry if you wear them. But they are FUGLY. They are the Courtney Peldon of footwear.

And here I was, someone who doesn’t like Tevas, and who certainly doesn’t like OTHER PEOPLE’S FEET, having to wear both.

But I made a quick trip to the bathroom/slab of wood with holes cut out, gave myself a stern talking-to, and came back and velcroed myself in.

The reward was being able to climb an INSANELY gorgeous waterfall built from calcified water running over rocks and leaves.

And also some sweet, sweet footly revenge. I may have worn some really ugly shoes, but she had to wear those shoes after they’d been occupied by THESE:

***

1. Also, there was a minor catastrophe with your winter mixes, oops! They’ll be going out this weekend.

2. I f**^%%g hate comment spammers. In attempting to delete the 908 kapamajillion comment spams I got while out of the country, I think I deleted about 15 of yours. Oops again!

Two Weeks via Telegram

BACK HOME IN LA. STOP. BELIZE, GUAT UNBELIEVABLE. STOP. MORE LATER. STOP.