In Vinto Veritas: Homesick

It's one of those nights again: I've had a little too much wine.

And it's that time of year again: when I truly pine for Texas. It's Springtime. That means South by Southwest in Austin in March and Fiesta San Antonio in April. Neither of which I've been to, but each of which I'd love to. SXSW is more on my bucket list than Fiesta, but I've been curious about Fiesta and all the ensuing pageantry since I was a little girl.

I've also been curious to see Las Posadas in San Antonio since I was a little girl, too. It's the Christmas story told on the Riverwalk. From what I understand, Joseph and Mary float down the Riverwalk seeking shelter from those along the river. I'm not sure where it ends. But who cares? It's a Mexican tradition. And a Texas tradition.

So many Texas traditions I've not yet been a part of: Fiesta San Antonio, SXSW, Las Posadas, Tyler Rose Festival, Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo, Fort Worth Stockyards Parade ... and I'm sure there are more. I just can't think of them all in my state: slightly inebriated and estranged from Texas for a decade.

Nonetheless, Spring is when the stirrings of homesickness begin. Probably with SXSW; just because I've been wanting to go since I was a young teen and first learned of it. Long before there was the film festival; long before the digital/interactive aspect. Back when it was just music. Indie music, at that. Not because I've ever been a great connoisseur of music trends, but because when you're 15 and live in the geographical middle of nowhere - where the local station (the only one for 100 miles, no kidding) plays only big band and bad country - you cling to every shred of anything that is unconventional. I have friends in Austin, which means I see the daily SXSW update on their Facebook feeds; I have friends who frequent SXSW, which means the same. And each time I read them, the 15-year-old still inside me who felt ike such a mis-fit - the rectangular peg in the oval hole of her small town (yes, I meant that) - tingles with a dash of envy and excitement.

There's also the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo. A few years ago, my brother, on a whim, asked if I wanted to come down for a Robert Earl Keen concert at the Livestock Show. ... in case you haven't guessed: it's not a one-day event. It's several. It's huge. It's typically in February, which technically isn't Spring, but in Houston - yeah it is. I couldn't go. But I would've LOVED to. I love REK. And I luuuurrve my brother. Robert Earl Keen performing and me and my brother downing Shiner Bocks and whooping along would've been a fuckin' awesome night!

City festivals aside, there is also the blooming of Texas' flowers in Spring that lures my fancy. Whether the Honeysuckle that grew on our fence in the Panhandle - a scent which can still bring me great comfort, to this day - or the bluebonnets that start to sprout in the desert and central part of the state, or the tall yucca, or the little yellow dollops of sunshine along the roadsides in West Texas that a friend of ours used to call "Bouncing Betties," the local flora blooming brought me joy. As a teenager, I used to pluck the wild bluebonnets that grew in our yard and wear them in my hair.

And then there's the torrential weather. Great beauty cannot come without great torment. I am terrified of tornadoes. I won't lie. Less so than say, tsunamis or earthquakes, but probably because I grew up with a killer threat from the sky. But you know it's Spring in Texas when you've got torrential downpours and micro bursts and tornado warnings one day and then the most glorious God-kissed skies you could ever imagine for the next three days. We had a tornado warning here the other day, but I didn't bat an eye, because I know the tornadoes on the East Coast don't take you to Oz. They don't even take you to the neighborhood bar. The torrential weather in Texas doesn't take you to Oz. It's crazy enough that it brings Oz to you. I don't miss the storms. But I do miss the gorgeousness otherwise.

I miss the Spring in Texas: when things are just waking up and laughing. When the end of school is just weeks away. When Spring Break - typically the first or second week of March - is warm enough that you can stay put and it'll still feel like Spring: sunny and warmth a-breakin'. Except for in the Panhandle, where it's kind of hit or miss. Spring, when UIL One-Act plays around the state are being competed, as are other UIL academic competitions: it's like March Madness for nerds!

I don't know if I would still be homesick if friends didn't Tweet and Facebook from SXSW. Or if they didn't email me pictures of them in endless fields of bluebonnets when the trees are still barren here. Or if I didn't know that that by this Easter, the schoolkids of Texas would be counting down only 4 or 5 weeks to their summer escape, when the kids here still had 8 - 10 weeks to go. (I'm seriously in touch with my inner 4th-grader!) But I know these things; I receive these things. And so, I get a touch of homesickness.

March 2nd was Texas Independence Day. It's a day I don't recall commemorating much in Texas (at least not beyond the sesqui-centennial in 1986), but one that has carried more importance to me since I've lived on the East Coast. I ended up taking my daughter to a Texas-themed restaurant for lunch to celebrate. It's a poor facsimile, but we made do. And it was a warm blanket around my shoulders on that chilly day. It was my pretend Spring Break in my pretend Home. And I genuinely liked it for the little time I got to have.

Glædelig Jul!

After a much needed 8.5 hours of sleep on Christmas Eve, I sat in my hospital bed enjoying the darkened silence of the room. I considered sleeping past 6:30, since this will be last opportunity to do so for many Christmases to come. At least another 10 or 15 years, by my conservative estimate. But I wasn’t sure I want to take advantage of that. Besides, stuck in a hospital room for weeks, I needed to have something to look forward to. Something to make me giddy. The last few weeks have been so weird - not living with my husband or dog, or even my cat!; taking everything one day at a time, grateful for each day that I'm still pregnant, particularly since I've had a few close calls, including one that canceled my baby shower (my last remaining hope for some activity or item resembling a "normal pregnancy”) and another last week that got me the closest to delivery I've been, yet. Nope. I chose to be giddy and rise early to celebrate. Even if it was just me in my bed for a few hours, before Honey came.

I listened to Christmas music on my laptop and thought of Christmases past. Until I was about 12, we'd spend Christmas Eve at my grandparents' house. All, or most, of my moms' siblings would come, so the house was throbbing with cousins. My family would go to our church's candlelight service, usually over by 6 or 6:30 and then join the festivities in progress at Grandma's. It was loud, fun and largely unstructured. We'd eat tamales, rice and beans and chow on deserts. The kitchen was a traffic circle. Around 8:30 or 9, we'd open gifts and things would wind down around 10:30 or 11, when the cousins would start to head to bed and we'd head back home. Sometimes, this ritual would be in Dallas, at one of my uncles' houses, but it was pretty much the same deal. Christmas morning was just for our immediate family, opening our own gifts and Mom would make quiche. Her annual Christmas quiche brunch. We were never a "Christmas dinner" kind of family. We were a Christmas brunch family.

I’m wondering what future Christmases will be like with the new little one. This time next year, our kid will be just shy of a year old, so we might be chasing his/her little waddling bottom out of the kitchen, while Honey bakes up dozens and dozens of delicious cookies and he and I make chocolate truffles together.

My sister-in-law lives nearby and we more often than not spend Christmas and/or Thanksgiving with her and her family.

Her kids are way older than ours: high school and entering junior high soon, so I’m not sure what kind of relationship this kid will have with them. We’ve never spent Christmas or Thanksgiving with Honey’s father, since we’ve been together, to my knowledge. We’ve done a few with his mom and a couple with my family. But nothing that really establishes tradition. I suppose we still have a few years to figure that out. I’d just really like our kid(s) to have fond memories of playing with cousins and singing carols and eating traditional foods that they have memories of watching us prepare and grow up to want to learn to make. You know: like I had! (Side note: I tasked my mother with getting my grandmother’s tamale recipe, so I can learn to make them for Christmases future. Honey has perfected her pico de gallo, so if I can just make a passable version of her tamales, maybe we can at least keep the Mexican Christmas dinner tradition going.)

This barely felt like a regular Christmas this year. Even though we got a foot of snow. (Almost none of which I could see from my hospital window, as it looks into a courtyard!) This Christmas, my every thought has been on the safety of the little creature growing inside me. This Christmas, my focus has been on staying pregnant for one more hour, one more day; knowing that each day, each week means a healthier baby. I have no emotional or mental room for anything else, frankly. Just keeping this kid safe and incubating. I have my own drama to worry about.

Normally, we’ve got the house decorated by early December, holiday music wafts throughout the house, the kitchen smells of sugar and butter as Honey is constantly baking. I’m writing our Christmas cards and mailing them out to loved ones. And we’re scrambling to get gifts for family (my least favorite part of Christmas – consumer “obligation”). This year, my hospital room has received most of the decorations (for which I am grateful), and the house, none, as Honey has taken to preparing the house for the arrival of our little winter babe. Even though I have a chunk of Christmas music on my laptop, I’ve not listened to it enough. Mostly because it’s awkward to fetch my laptop when lying from a 33 degree angle. We’d not been able to go any Christmas parties, holiday shows or movies of the season. We celebrated in our own way, though. And all things considered, this was one of the best Christmases I’ve had in a long time. Just because Honey is so fantastic and it reminds me what my priorities are. And the visits from friends I got on Christmas day just added a luster to the day that I won’t soon forget.

One thing we know for sure: next Christmas will be far different from this Christmas. We’ll be out in public again. The house will be decorated. The music will be playing and David Sedaris stories playing and the kitchen will smell of Honey’s magic. Christmas cards will go out (yes, probably with baby pictures in them). But there will be an extra energy in the house. An extra layer of happiness. And I have a feeling that once that happiness fills the house, we’ll struggle to remember what it was like without it. Kind of like how empty and slightly sad the house feels when our dog is not there. When Babydog is out for the night, I’m always sad a little, and struggle to remember what it was like without her joy filling the house. All I know is that our house wasn’t complete until she came along, even though we didn’t know it (okay I kind of knew it would be, having had dogs before). I suspect it’ll be the same with the kid. And we’re very much looking forward to discovering that unknown joy and rediscovering the joys of a celebrate season with this kid!

I hope Christmas, or your respective holidays found you happy and well this year. Have a fantastic 2010!

… and I apologize for not reading your blogs in a LOOONNG time. In addition to my general tendency to procrastinate, I’ve been limiting my laptop time in the hospital, so I’ve fallen waayy behind. I can’t promise I’ll catch up real soon, but I’ll try my darnedest!

Christmas Past, Christmas Present, Christmas Future?

Two years ago, Honey gave me my first digital camera for Christmas, a Cannon SD800 Elph, and I've run with it. I was never much of a photographer, but thanks to the miracle of digital photography, it's rapidly becoming a hobby of mine. I'm teaching myself how to compose shots. I have a photographer friend with whom, some afternoon I'm going to go on a photo safari, and at some point, I'd like to get a consumer copy of Photoshop so I can edit my work. Thanks to my new hobby, I've begun looking at the mundane with fresher, more curious eyes. It feels good.

One of the gifts I got for Christmas this year was an all-in-one printer/scanner/photo printer. I've taken all these wonderful photos, but they still live on my laptop, or in some cases, cyberspace. It would be fantastic to finally start framing some of them and dressing the very naked walls of our house. Yesterday, I spent about an hour and a half scanning old photos from my childhood. There are hundreds more to go, but I knocked out quite a few. Including some from Christmases past. The image on the right is one such photo. It's from 1988. (I'm the amber-mopped tomboy in the orange tie-dye shirt, near the center.) Our family flew down to Mexico City to spend the holiday with our many cousins there. It was the first time I'd been on a plane since I was pre-literate, and I remember being afriad to fly. Then the downing of PanAm 103 a day or two before our departure convinced me that our deaths were imminent.

It's inevitable this time of year that my thoughts turn to past Christmases and reviewing old pictures certainly aid the nostalgia. Christmas isn't as fantastical for me as it once was, and I'm trying to figure out why. It's not the Santa thing. I never believed in Santa. If not yet the why, I can at least pin down when Christmas started losing some of its pixie dust. Junior high.

1988 was probably the last truly exciting Christmas for me. I was 12. Before we flew to Mexico City, we stopped in Dallas to spend Christmas Eve with my mom's side of the family, like we did virtually every Christmas Eve. I played with my cousins, we ate the tamale dinner Grandma fixed us, watched whatever Christmas special was on TV, played board games, unwrapped presents ... Christmassy stuff. When we got to Mexico, the party really began. At my cousin Carlos' church, we played with no-bullshit pinatas; no papier mache Sesame Street characters. These pinatas were star-shaped, with shells made of terra-cotta and filled with sugar cane and peanuts. And they were massive. And there were many. When a piece of pinata pottery fell on my brother's head, he sought my mom's arms for comfort until he realized that every other kid was getting beaned by breaking pinatas, and went back in. Pinatas are not for the permission-slip happy American weak in Mexico. For days we were surrounded by family. We ate good meals every night. There was laughter everywhere. The gifts we got were either homemade - like the crocheted clown doll my aunt made me - or typically Mexican-craft like the leather purse I got. I was introduced to new traditions like Dia de los Tres Reyes and la rosca. The former is also known as Epiphany or Three Kings Day, the traditional 12th day of Christmas when the wisemen's visit is celebrated. La Rosca is the bundt-like cake served on January 6, though we did ours early, on the first (we ate several, come to think of it); a baby charm is placed in the cake and whoever gets it has good luck. In Mexico City, I was tickled to discover that for every kiosk set up on the city square with Santa offering to listen to Christmas wishes, there were two or three kiosks of the magi offering to do the same. Christmas is when you get your little gifts, there; Epiphany is when you get your "real" gifts. It's something we kind of adopted when my family went broke. Our gifts were never huge to begin with - a cassette from a band I liked was usually the extent of it - but extending the gift-giving until Epiphany bought my family a little time time to buy on sale. 1988 was a Christmas brimming with non-stop celebration. It was the last one I can remember like that.

Within a month, we'd moved across the state; Dad had entered the ministry full-time (an overall great move for him, but a damper on Christmas from then out) and there was no doubt about it: puberty had completed its angsty takeover of my body. From a celestial high to a rocky low. There are many things I like about Dad being a minister: he's a good preacher; he's a great listener and a wonderfully sympathetic man; it's his passion; he's knowledgable about context (and thus not literalist). However, the one thing I really don't like about him being a minister is that he's tied to whatever church he's serving for Christmas Eve.

When I was 13, I was devastated to learn that we would not get to drive up to the panhandle or to Dallas to spend the evening with mom's entire family as I had every Christmas Eve of my life until that point. We had to stay put for our church's candlelight service. I love Chistmas Eve candlelight services. After all the happy songs, the readings and prayers, when the lights go down and the sanctuary is filled with scores of tiny flickering flames and we're all singing "Silent Night" and then the accompanist stops so that we're all just singing a capella ... damn, there are few things finer. But to be compelled to stay? Couldn't this church just wing it without a minister for Christmas? Come ON! Christmas EVE! WTF?

From then on, Christmas became less magical. The songs in school, the games and the family hoopla began disappearing. We had to stay put, so Dad could preside over Christmas Eve services and we lived in such a remote part of the state that no one ever came to visit us for the holiday. (Which made me mad, as we often piled into the car on Christmas morning to drive 10 hours across the state to Dallas. Only to miss half the cousins, as they'd all returned home; and to miss the tamales, as they'd all been eaten. Why couldn't they reciprocate?) Christmas 1993 was a lovely anomaly, however, because 8 or 9 of our Mexican cousins came up and partied with us in our burg. They visited for a week. We spoke so much Spanish in the house that I actually dreamt in Spanish. (Era fantastico!)

These days, we have no set family gatherings with our extended families. His sister lives nearby, so we often visit her family. But I often feel something just one-off is missing. Our nephews have no cousins with which to play, so they either disappear to play on the computer or whine for attention. We adults don't play board games; we just talk about work and life and it's just ... a visit. My family lives in Texas, and with Dad unable to travel due to ecclesiastical duties, it's incumbent upon us to visit if we're to celebrate Christmas together - which we've only done once in the 10 years Honey and I've been Christmassing together. But even there, my brother just watches football and we just ... visit. No music and merriment. Honey's parents live on the West Coast. Sometimes they come out for Christmas or we go there, but it's just ... a visit. Once we played poker with his dad and nephews, and frankly that afternoon saved Christmas for me. It was so good to play something. My brother is marrying a girl from Wisconsin. He's up there now. She wants to never spend Christmas away from her family, so I have no idea if we'll ever get to see him for the holiday again. Which sucks. The older I get, the more disconnected I feel from family fun. Even when we see family, it seems so chaotic and not as cheerful as it used to be. I really, really miss playing boardgames with aunts and uncles. I miss the tamale buffet. I miss the cheesy holiday TV shows playing in the room where the kids are (ahem, please not around the adults). I miss poorly banging out "Joy to the World" on whosever piano is available. I think it's time to start some new more mobile Christmas traditions that bind us together. But I don't quite know which or how.

Honey and I have an accidental tradition of listening to David Sedaris read his "Santaland Diaries," either as we trim the tree or on Christmas Eve. Maybe I'll learn to make tamales like Grandma and insist on that wherever we go. Or maybe insist on more boardgames or puzzles. I love boardgames at Christmas. Christmas, for me, is about three big things: glittery cultural accoutrement, the breathless anticipation leading up to Christmas morning, and cozying up to family and enjoying eachother. Each feels like they're falling shorter as I grow older. I want to learn how to get the magic back.

Chocolate Nutballs - The Recipe

Apparently, I made a few mouths drool with the talk of my chocolate nutballs and their picture. I've gotten requests for the treats themselves - only one of which I honored, because she happened to be in my kitchen and knows I'm easily overpowered - but I think Joe had the best idea: post the recipe.

For the last 5 or 6 years, I've been on Texas Monthly's weekly recipe list. Of the scores, if not hundreds of recipes I've gotten in that time, I think I've attempted only two or three. This recipe is one of them, reprinted here, complete with the text from the email, but the links are not hot:

You’ll find more recipes online at texasmonthly.com. You can also share recipes and food questions with other TEXAS MONTHLY readers at the Recipe Swap.

Chocolate-Grand Marnier Truffles

Recipe from Sierra Grill, Houston.

1 1/4 cups heavy cream
16 ounces Nestlé semisweet chocolate chips
1/2 cup unsalted butter
1/4 cup Grand Marnier or Bailey’s Irish Cream
Zest of 1/2 orange 1 1/2 cups pecans, ground or finely chopped

In a heavy, nonreactive pan bring cream to a boil. Immediately remove from heat and stir in chocolate and butter until smooth. Add liqueur and orange zest and chill overnight. Shape into 3/4-inch balls and roll in pecans. Makes 6 dozen.

****************

After my first attempt, I hesitate to call what I made truffles. Hence, labeling them chocolate nutballs (because I am nothing if not mature and referential). The consummate engineer, Honey had a good idea to help me create more attractive treats that I'd be proud to call truffles and not "nutballs." He suggested that instead of rolling them between my palms like I'd do modeling clay, that instead I seek some silicon mold of half-spheres - like a novelty ice-tray - and let the chocolate chill in that. Then when it's all chilled, marry the spheres together, maybe with a little water at the seam. Since I'll be out and about today, maybe I'll swing by Sur la Table and see what they've got in that vein.

With only half the chocolate mix, I believe I made about 55 balls, following the 3/4-inch ball rule. After Darla made off like a bandit with about two dozen of them, Honey decided we needed to make them bigger and rolled the rest of the chocolate into balls about 1.5" to 2" in diameter, mixing them not only with nuts, but with confectioners sugar. Good idea. Since these balls are bigger, they're more satisfying and I, for one, am less tempted to mindlessly pop one in my mouth as I am when they're smaller.

Though we had Bailey's at home, I opted to use Grand Marnier because it gave me an excuse to buy it. Insted of Nestle, I used Ghirardelli 60% cocoa, because we had a few bags of that lying around. I grabbed another bag of the Ghirardelli 60% bittersweet and a bag of their milk chocolate when I was at the grocery store Wednesday. I'll try those next. When I feel like I've gotten the process down pat, I'll try darker cocoa, white chocolate, fair trade chocolate, rum, kahlua, cordials that a friend brought me from the Caribbean: all sorts of variations until I'm known as the truffle-lady .... not just a little nuts.

A Question of "Character"

This past Wednesday, one of my best friends from college popped in for a visit. She and her family were elsewhere on the East Coast and drove to spend half a day with us. However, the half-day turned into a few hours for dinner. They figured the "4-5 hour drive" between destinations would be like that between DFW and Houston, which she and I can both do in our sleep, and undoubtedly have. They didn't count on the toll-roads, the crowded freeways, the lack of access roads, and the poorly labeled exits and exit-warnings. It was good to see them, though. We see them about once every year, or year and half when visiting friends and family in DFW. As we pulled out to grab dinner for her hungry toddler, she said something that struck me as odd. She loved our neighborhood and commented on how much "character" it had and then said Texas neighborhoods didn't have character.

I took the compliment for what it was, but was kind of amused by her observation. To begin with, I think there are plenty of people in our metro area who would look at our neighborhood and would think that it lacks "character." We live in a development built about 40 years ago in a style inspired by the older architecture of the area, but definitely in a style fitting to the late 60s, early 70s. Plenty of folks around here complain about the architecture that goes up in neighborhoods that are being "revitalized" because it looks too similar to that of everywhere America. (While I agree about the architectural conformity, I think the bigger issue is the "chainization" of decaying neighborhoods than the sameness of style. Frankly, though, "revitalization" is a topic for a whole other musing.) If she drove another 15 or 30 miles out from our neighborhood - if even that far - she'd find suburban neighborhoods and developments populated with houses that look almost exactly like hers, in her neighborhood planted between Dallas and Fort Worth. (Not Arlington; there are a bajillion bedroom communities between the two.)

I commented to my friend that the "character" is only a function of the oldness of the settlements on the East Coast. Texas, by and large, was settled much later than New York, Philly or Charleston. But, that got me thinking: what is "character" in a neighborhood? Or in architecture? Is it really about age?

Back when McMansions started cropping up in the late 80s, I remember thinking those were full of character. When we visited Mom's baby brother in a Dallas suburb and saw the two-story, high-ceilinged, attached two-car garage manse he and his wife had, I remember thinking that was the pinnacle of success. That was a unique house - one with character. But that was because in our small town, I only knew the Levittown-style shoebox houses that I, and virtually everyone around me, lived in. But now, every new house within a pretty broad price range, looks like that. Now, at least where we live, those tiny shoebox houses that felt so stifling to me growing up, are the ones with "character." And what of Santa Fe? Every building in that city is traditionally made of adobe, in keeping with its Pueblo Indian heritage. I believe there is an ordinance requiring it. Does that mean that an adobe McDonald's has "character?" Certainly, a McDonald's that is in the architectural style of a Pueblo building is less shrill amongst like buildings than a typical white box with a red roof and yellow stripes. But isn't it like slapping lipstick on a pig?

Of course, there are some communities that don't allow the proverbial pigs in in the first place. A friend of ours from Maine likes to brag that Maine doesn't have a Wal-Mart, because the locals won't permit it. Vermont also has laws that make it difficult for chains to settle in. It certainly is easier to preserve the architectural tradition of a community by disallowing the eyesore giants to enter in the first place. (Not to mention it's a great way to preserve local small businesses.) But again, is "tradition" really "character?" New Orleans has an architectural tradition, as does Brooklyn and Santa Fe. But maybe that tradition only has "character" outside of its home. America, in general, is still pretty new to have a clearly-defined architectural tradition, compared with most of Europe and Asia. We're still developing accents; our language may not be settled for a few more hundred years. ... rambling off, now ...

A house with "character," as described by a realtor, generally means one that is older, needs work and one upon which the new resident could imagine a past story (or glory?) and can write his or her own story. Really, every edifice has character of some sort. A mobile home has character as much as the White House. Just because it isn't stately with an imagined past history doesn't mean it doesn't have character. It still communicates and reflects a lifestyle. It just may not be the kind of lifestyle most of us are conditioned to aspiring toward, or the kind of lifestyle most of us would desire or envy. Just because brand new cookie-cutter houses in suburbia are the norm for a wide swath doesn't mean they aren't places where people can't write their own stories. The same holds true for condos atop Bally's gyms in "revitalized" communities. Just because they're the Trapper-Keeper notebooks of residential architecture, doesn't mean the stories that can and will be written in them won't be any less interesting or valid than those written on the pages of parchment.

... now I miss my Trapper-Keepers.

Resurrecting Discipline

HA!

In order do resurrect something /someone, that entity had to have lived. I have never been terribly disciplined about anything in my life! (Save for birth control.) Nonetheless, now that the thesis - aka, Grendel - is slain, I recognize I need to get back into the habit of posting on a daily basis and cruising the blogs of friends. I'm sure there is plenty I could blog about today, but as I need to hurry to work, I'll just update and riff and then I need to get dressed and go.

Since my last post, I've been either traveling or traveled upon. My group took our gig on the road in late July where we performed at a marathon festival that included over 100 groups performing back to back to back for 56 hours. Of those, only 3 groups got standing ovations. We were one of them. Considering that included among those scores of groups were a smattering of highly talented professionals and some celebrities even - none of whom received that kind of audience accolade - we were all pretty sauced! Then Honey and I zipped to Texas on a much-needed visit to family. We saw my grandparents (which was good since I think this may have been the last time I see grandpa alive), his grandparents, some cousins, my parents, and lots of friends. And as Texas is a big state and we have pretty much our whole families there, we still missed a lot of people. It was a bit of a whirlwind, traveling up I-35 to see all these folks in the span of 4 days, but I'm glad we did it. We're in that cycle of life where everyone's either getting married/having babies or on the other end, breaking irreparably or dying. Being Home always makes me feel so good and though I'm happy when we're back at this home, I've found lately that I'm literally sick to my tummy when the plane leaves Texas, the last few trips. It just makes me sad to leave, even when there's something wonderful waiting for me in our East Coast home - like BabyDog and Cootie Cat.
... eh, bygones.
My parents followed us back up here and visited for most of last week. That was fun, but it is nice to have our house back. Last night, my best friend from adolescence arrived for a job interview, so we went out for a beer and bocadillos. We lunched with her in Austin 2 weeks ago, but we still had lots to catch up on. It's funny, I saw her maybe a total of twice in the last three years, and then this year, I see her twice in three weeks!

Now that Grendel is rotting in the Great Mead Hall (mmm, mead!) that is the school library, I find I have a teeny bit of free time on my hands. For now, I think I'm just going to enjoy it - especially since work is burbling towards a Vesuvius like eruption and my group is retooling for a bunch of shows this fall. But in the next few weeks, I'd like to start finding other ways to train my creative energy. There's a 10K I'd like to run this fall and I need to start training my soft, flabby self. Likewise, I need to get back into the habit of writing for fun. Maybe fix that horrible screenplay of mine. Eek! That reminds me: I still owe my friend an essay for his site. Schiesse!
Well, off to work! Happy Monday!

Happy ... Easter?

Springtime is one of my favorite times of year out here in major metropolis East Coast America. It's truly lovely. The blooming trees and daffodils fill me with joy. Something I have noticed, however, is that for as long as we've lived here, Easter has never felt like Easter to me. That's not true, our first Easter here - 6 years ago - was beautiful: sunny, mild and glorious.

Every Easter since has seemed to follow weather pattern that is just antithetical to the point of Easter in my opinion. It basically goes like this. We have some warm days in early Spring ... or maybe we don't, but invariably, Easter Sunday is almost always overcast, wet, cold or some combination of the three. You don't feel inspired to wear sandals or pastel colors at all.

Today is of course, no different. Though it's partly sunny right now, it's also about 35 degrees outside. I believe the only reasonable response to that on an Easter Sunday is: you're bloody kidding me, right? Having spent the bulk of my childhood in the Panhandle of Texas which is prone to see it last snowstorms in mid-March and is not warm year-round like people think, I'd like to think maybe I'd be cool with this meteorological holiday abomination. But no. Because even in the Panhandle, it's generally 65 to 75 degrees on Easter Sunday, so you can still hunt eggs in short sleeves and not have to wear anything heavier than a light sweater to church. However, global climate change seems to have afflicted the native lands today as well. It's 45 degrees here, feeling 32; there it's 32 degrees feeling 22. (Note to self: never move further north than New York City.)

Why does this upset me so much? Because Easter should be mildly warm and inviting. It should be the time of the year when we feel comfortable enough to shed layers and let our bare skin soak in the first few kisses of the sun. Easter is when Jesus rose from the dead; it shouldn't feel dead and defeated outside. Rain on Easter is an unfortunate occasional occurrence. But after 7 years of rain or overcast or stupid cold as this, I'm prone to just ask Jesus to sleep in another week or so. If I were Christ, that's what I would do: hit the snooze button until it's picnic weather. "Melt the clouds of sin and sadness/ Drive the dark of night away" go some lines from "Joyful Joyful We Adore Thee." How can I feel like the clouds of sin and sadness are melted when it's bloody raining outside? Even from the pagan viewpoint of Easter or Spring festivities: seriously, do you feel fertile and like you want to celebrate renewal when people are wearing dark overcoats and the sun hides her face?

Honey thinks it's odd and amusing that I am so vehement about Easter Sunday weather. (Did I tell you there was a dusting of snow o'er everything at 7AM, yesterday? Infuriating.) His viewpoint, and I hope someday I can adopt it is that it's the weather and it's beyond your control, so why get bothered? I guess I have such fond memories of new dresses and playing barefoot outdoors on Easter Sunday after church, that it saddens me to see children here bundle up at church on Easter. Plus, I'm a very solar-powered individual, I've decided. I enjoy changing seasons and appreciate what they bring to the environment, but ultimately I LOVE the sun. And once winter is over, all I want is to bathe in the sun's light and soak up her warmth.

On the upside, Honey and I did go to church this morning. It was the first time this year. Last year was the first time ever that I hadn't worshipped on Easter and I felt empty for like a week. It's so strange, not having gone to church for all intents and purposes, in over two years that some Sundays really are more impactful than others. I love celebrating the resurrection, ultimately. Miss any other Sunday but the one that celebrates the defining event of the religion. We went to a neighborhood Lutheran church. We'd not done a Lutheran service in a while and we both forgot how much they love to do readings. It was like out the wazoo - almost Catholic.

The service was fair; as first time visitors, it felt a little alien, but we acclimated decently. The sermon was okay, but no really new inspiration on the Easter story - or at least, none that I picked up on. Maybe he needed to work on the delivery. In the 10 years Honey and I have been together, the ministers of churches we've belonged to have been excellent orators. Even my dad, whose tone tends to be more colloquial and less "speakery", is a really engaging storyteller, capable of great analogies. So our expectations are kind of artificially high. We did sing "Christ the Lord is Risen Today," which to me makes any Easter service, no matter how full of flourish or understated, complete. Two years ago, at my sister-in-law's church, we didn't sing it on Easter and it felt kind of like ... "no, I don't think he is risen today."

Of course, contributing to that sentiment was that it 48 degrees and rainy outside.

what i like about right now

listening to "the blood of eden" off the mix CD i made Honey many years ago when he was out of the country for a few months. it's such a warm, sexy, longing song - well, Peter Gabriel, what can you say? i rediscovered this CD about a week ago. i don't know where it had been hiding.

i made it one warm Spring afternoon at a friend's house; she had a CD burner. it was before everyone could just rip one of these things off on their PCs. i had an idea of which songs i wanted to include, but another of my friends was there making suggestions. he thought i should include something by Morcheeba, so i did. it's sexy, but not totally me - a little too british. eh, still okay. i mostly used CDs of other friends. most of my music was still on tape.

i wanted to give Honey a CD for his return of music that was passionate and echoed the ache i'd had for him in his absence, and probably the ache he had for me. (he did pine for me. within 6 months we were engaged.)

wow, i'm loving this. there's a lot of Dave Matthew's at the beginning of the CD - did i mention i was 22 when i made this? i forget how much i really do like DMB's innuendo laden croons. but after "blood of eden" i'm hearing U2's "love is blindness" and now something from dead can dance, very sweet and somnambulant quality.

i remember i made him another CD that i sent him while he was there that i sent him. i wanted to express my support (maybe even envy) for him and the assurance that i was waiting for him. so i opened it with the closing song from the movie Orlando, "coming" - a beautiful, soulful tune - and included Bill Wither's "ain't no sunshine", B-52s' "Roam", Foo Fighters' "walking after you." i don't know where that CD went. i'd love to find that one, again.

listening to this mix CD again, i feel 22 again. i can feel the carpet under my feet at my friend's house; the sense of security i felt at her house, the "at homeness." i can see the sunlight angling in from her backyard. i can feel the eager anticipation of graduation around the corner, of Honey's return, of my birthday, of setting out to be with him, of the coming century and the excitement of my own sheer youth. i haven't seen my friend in almost 5 years; i haven't had much e-mail contact with her in that time, either, but each time we return to that city and drive past her house, i feel warm and cozy. that city evokes warm feelings in me; i always feel at home there, like i've come home. safe. at-homeness.

this CD gives me at-homeness.

*painting found on www.herbleonhard.com; he apparently does paintings inspired by pop culture. not bad.

Malone pines for her desert home

Before I begin my post in earnest, I would like to begin with praise for Daniel Craig, the new James Bond. Honey and I caught Casino Royale yesterday afternoon. I only went on the glowing recommendations of coworkers. I, too was skeptical of a blond Bond; moreover, I'm past tired of Bond's objectification of women. Must I really suffer through Denise Richards or Halle Berry stiff acting and cooing over some guy twice her age just to get to the intrigue and action? Casino did not disappoint - probably the best Bond I've ever seen; thanks in part to a screenplay cowritten by the writer of Crash - and Craig rocked my world! His performance wasn't the Bond archetype that we all know, love and yawn at. It was alert and in the moment. Best since Connery? Hell no: better than! Way to go Danny-boy! I can't wait to see the next offering.

Now, to the real point:
I had the dream again the other night. I don't know if I've ever blogged on it or not. I'm back in my hometown - not the city of my nativity, but where I spent puberty and adolescence - just visiting and I 'm happy to be there. These dreams are usually so vivid or so emotionally compelling that I convince myself that I am actually there. In the last year, I've wanted so badly for my presence there to be real that I pause, take in my surroundings and think to myself or outright proclaim: "this isn't a dream. I'm really here! I'm here! I'm not dreaming!" ... and of course I always am. On occasion, I've woken up actually sad or angry that it was a dream. In retrospect, the landscape of my town is rarely accurate: the temperature is too cool or the mountains too young, like the Rockies, not like the wizened old mounts that they are.

I haven't been back to my hometown, for all intents and purposes, for over 12 years. After I graduated high school, my family moved, I went off to college and the only times I returned were to pick up a friend en route somewhere else, and to scatter the ashes of my first dog. 48 hours total between the two trips in a dozen years doesn't feel like enough.

Sometimes I ask myself why I should care. It is a small town hundreds of miles from any city most outsiders might recognize, closer to Mexico than the nearest mall and I never completely felt like I fit in there. Most people scoff at places like that; and when folks never quite felt completely like they fit in, they write off that place and move on. I think I care for two reasons.

1. Unlike most people I know, I can't return to my hometown for a casual visit. My family no longer lives there, so I have no draw, and it's so remote that to get there would take two plane rides and a car ride that lasts longer than an Oscar-length movie. Because of this inconvenience and my absence from the place, I have no way of dealing with the ghosts of my youth. Honey can drive by his old high school anytime he visits his parents; he can see random old friends still in the area and old haunts for the same reason. I don't know what's up with the Pizza Hut where my friends and I used to hang out and where I had my first date. I don't know if the movie theater still has the John Travolta, Stayin' Alive poster from 1983 in the lobby. I lived in that town from ages 12 to 18, six very important years, which really help shape who one becomes. I feel unresolved a lot of times, not getting a chance to go back and just peek. And I'm terribly jealous of my brother and parents who return every year or two to visit friends. They report back on how much (or little) the place has changed and I feel like it's a kid growing up without me.

2. I long for the simplicity of that isolation, these days. The push and shove of metropolis life, of this part of the country can be overbearing. Elbow room, clean air and drinking water and inky night skies are a luxury anymore. I go in my dreams, maybe to reckon with ghosts and get away from the congestion here.

For almost ten years, when Honey and I started dating, I've been wanting to take him there. But we've never managed to go. My throbbing desire to get out there has only become palpable in the last 3 or 4 years. (Hmm. I wonder if that has anything to do with the war.) I know we'll go out for a visit sometime, but I joke that the only time we'll get a chance is when I die and Honey has to go scatter my ashes at the crook in the river where I want to settle. That would suck, because then I couldn't take him to my favorite places alive! Note to self: don't die at least until you can get Honey out there.

In this last dream I dreamt, Matt Dillon was waiting at a restaurant where I was eating in the old burg. Sounds strange, unless you also know that a neighboring town to my burg has become a mini-mecca for New York artists and the faddish richies who like to cling to the newest chi-chi art-spot. Why Matt Dillon, I don't really know, but that's incidental. As for the neighboring town: I am truly excited that in the last 5 or 6 years, there has been an arts injection into the area. Had there been a movement like that when I was a teen, I may have been less disaffected. (However, I'm sure all that stuff takes money, and I remember having to skip out of a community theatre show I really wanted to see because I had only half the $6 admission.)

What gives me pause though are the wealthy NY hangers-on who are jetting out to the middle of nowhere to visit these new spas that have cropped up in neighboring town and frankly probably my old burg. According to a magazine I read recently, published by a Manhattan retailer for the uber-rich, one of the new hotels to cater to the elite charges $425/night. In an area where the poverty rate is twice that the national average, the median income is rougly $25K and where "school choice" is not an issue because there is only one school to choose from in each town, that kind of stuff breaks my heart. While I'm sure it's good for some locals, I worry about the effect it has on the already depressed local economy. This is a part of the country where housing prices generally go at their own pace, but my family reports that in the last five years the prices have gone through the roof. When the NY Times first did a piece on neighboring town, within days, there were offers to buy property flooding in from the Northeast corridor. The new richies coming in might make it harder for the locals to buy in their own back yard. Additionally I worry that this rapid, specialized attention for neighboring town might balloon into the next Santa Fe. I love Santa Fe dearly - my family traveled Northern NM virtually every summer till I was 13 - but for all the excellence of its history and the art, both old and noveau, it has lost some of its soul to Hollywood and New York. I don't want to see this for neighboring town. I truly, truly hope that the community will continue to benefit from the newfound attention from the artworld (I do genuinely believe it has), I just also hope and pray that it doesn't become the next Park City or Santa Fe playground for the wealthy at the expense of local character. I feel kind of like that person whose friend finds fame: Do well! Benefit! Don't totally sell out, though!

The question still remains: Why Matt Dillon? Guess I'll have to sleep on it. Maybe he'll tour me through my old burg tonight and quell my fears for neighboring town.

those which tickled me

1. hearing Babydog yelp with unfiltered joy as she chased the sheep this morning.
2. letting Honey choose the Halloween candy tonight at Target. "But I don't think the children will really like the dark chocolate Hershey's, babe." He smiles, "Exactly!" ... and he talked me into getting Babydog a costume even though he thinks they're stupid, just becuase he knows how much I'd kick myself if i'd've passed it up. yea, Honey!
3. replacing the previous owners' (henceforth to be known as the Dundies) kitchen nook overhead drab light with a prettier warmer one. it's fun: with each minor change, this house becomes more and more ours!

Fall sneaking up on us

"I'm in the habit of being alone/ I try hard to break it/ But I can't on my own ... but man, I wish I had a hand to hold ..."

Honey is listening to Edie Brickell on his computer. I forgot about this song. I forget how great she is. She's good for this weather-turning season.

October is one of my favorite months here. September & October and April - July. April through July are my favorite months everywhere, but particularly here. But October is particularly great because of the foliage. That actually is my beautiful thing for the day. It's enough to carry me.

1. the first leaves of autumn being kicked up in little flurries by the wind and passing cars. I can't wait for the oranges to get deeper and bright, bright reds! I might alter my drive in just so I can get a better look at the leaves! They're like slow fireworks.

In the meantime, I remembered that JoeInVegas said on October 2, that one of the things he liked about the day was that it was cloudy, a rarity in Vegas. Then, last night, I was cruising YouTube and checked out a user I hadn't visited in a few weeks, LazyDork, and if you'll see when he arrives in Vegas at the end of the video, it's cloudy. Did he arrive on October 2nd?

Random Redheaded Ramblings

I was about three days behind in my e-mail, today, when I finally checked it. Texas Monthly had sent me another weekly recipe and some ad for some author talk or musician's talk or travel special. I only save the recipes anymore as I'm not in the great state enough to ever catch the author talks or special events. I have to admit, each time I see the name of Texas Monthly in the inbox, I get a passing twinge of homesickness, especially when who or what they're pitching is particularly enticing, like a recipe from a restaurant I like. (And I try not to leave the state without a copy whenever I visit. DFW airport is best about making them easily visible to buy than Austin or Houston, I think.) It's kind of like how you smile each time you pass a picture of a dear friend from college that you still keep hung up even though you haven't spoken to her in years.

We're about 50% unpacked now in the new "oh-shit-we're-grownups" house. A lot of my clothes are still in boxes. I randomly found a label to a CD I made for Honey when he was briefly working abroad. It's titled "Music to 'Relate' To." Apparently, in my early 20s, I thought I was clever. There seem to be some good songs on here; I wish I could find the original CD. Maybe I've burned them onto MP3 somewhere. Nope. Doesn't seem to be on my harddrive. Though browsing through iTunes to hear the snippets what I hear puts me back in the mood; takes me back to my friend's house where I burned the CD, and how safe and familiar that house and that city felt and still feels. ... it reminds me of my younger youth. (I refuse to completely relent the title of youth, yet. I've still a few days till 30.) It reminds me of the optisim of the late 90s.

I don't know if I was so optimistic then because I was younger and it came with the territory or if those were generally more optimistic times. Even with Columbine, political mishandlings of Bosnia Herzegovinia and the Balkans, and the impeachment of President Clinton, I felt optimistic. I remember, from 1997 through late 2000, thinking whatever fuckups occurred were not insurmountable. Clinton could fix it. Parents and students could fix it - maybe they'd actually spend time with their kids and be kinder to their peers and help prevent further Columbines. The nations of the world would be or were at least trying to be helpful and more helpful and would try and try again to help out and not make bad mistakes.

But here. Now. I do not feel secure. I am optimistic, but almost only just to keep my self from going crazy. (I do believe survivors are those who refuse to surrender to their fears or resign to whatever oppresses them.) Truthbeknown, I am far more worried about life today. I'm sure some of it has to do with aging and gaining more and more responsibilities. But as I sit in my office, painted by the previous owners in nursery colors and ponder what lies ahead for the future child I hope we rear in this room, I worry. The big nasty political threats that face our country don't just come from al Quaeda and other terrorist organizations, they come from our own government. Whether it's tapping our phone calls (WTF?) or putting signing statements on every bill the prez signs so that he can override whatever he doesn't like and play king or simply having a government whose executive branch flouts UN laws and the opposition party rolls over like some lame pony, I just don't feel confident in those who are purported to represent and protect us. It makes me sad.
... or maybe this is tonight's table wine talking.

in the meantime ... we have our first houseguests coming this weekend. Anyone got any suggestions as to a good "first official meal" in the new house to cook for them? Any ethnic traditional dishes i need to know about?

Attaining the Dream

We are homeowners, now. Our house looks nothing like this one. (btw, Honey says I should credit the pics I include, so this is from kellybradford.com) But I do love the wraparound porch on this one. And what better way to convey the American Dream of homeownership than the white picket fence?

We haven't moved into the new house yet. I'm looking forward to it, though. Not the moving, just the being there. Rearranging the household budget has made me nervous, but the truth of the matter is that the house suits us and we can grow into it. (Fingers crossed.) The backyard is smaller and not really dog-friendly per se, but as babydog is more of an indoors dog and only goes to the back to do her bidness and to splash in the puppy pool, I think she'll do alright. We're closer to some large common yard areas for her to runaround and do off-leash training in, anyway, at the new place. The front yard is tiny, too, but as I just like a few flowers and not much yardwork, it's perfect for now.

I find myself both happy with this purchase and terribly frightened, now. I've had a few "oh shit" moments and I'm sure I'll have more in the coming months. I told Honey, that though I'm excited about the house and I feel like it was ultimately a good decision, I can't help but feel scared shitless about it. It's funny, I remember feeling a little daunted about married life in the first few days of our marriage: that waking up, looking at Honey and thinking, "I can't believe I actually DID it." But for as nervewracking as the decision to marry is, I feel like our relationship and Honey himself are far more reliable than any house could ever be. Hence, some of the morning after, buyer's remorse for the house. I think moving into the place will be good for me though - will help me get over it.

Buying this house has been good for me in other ways, too. This year has brought several emotional highs followed immediately by lows for us personally, not to mention it seems like my friends and loved ones, or their loved ones have been having significant health problems. Oh - and I'll hit the big 3-0 this month. So focusing on purchasing this house has kind of been a pleasant distraction from the little defeats the year has brought. (Not that 30 is a defeat. Frankly, there's victory in aging, right?)

After the move-in, I'm hoping we open a bottle of some great wine. Something red. Mmm. Just the thought makes me fuzzy with yummy happiness!

Craptastic Temp

It's 86 degrees inside my house right now. Who knows what the humidity is? It was finally warm enough Friday night to turn on the A/C and when we did, it was kaput. We'll be in the new house in less than a week. Thank God. I'm getting so tire of the haphazard upkeep of this place.

Molly makes the train

It's taking me a while to get used to my new work schedule and commute. I'm enjoying what I do enough that staying past 6 doesn't feel like a punishment at all. In fact, I like it. But the best bus to get me home leaves directly at 6:15, a few blocks from my office. I worry that I looked like a hustle-butt this evening. I don't want to give the impression at my new job that I'm a clock watcher. (I've had clock-watching jobs, and this is not one of them!) But, by the same token, I'd like to make my bus, and get home in time to have a few quality minutes with my man and my dog. I'm sure I'll find a rythm, soon. Plus, in a few weeks, when things really kick into gear, I know I'll be putting in a LOT of late nights. Though I hope we have our act together enough that those nights are not frequent. I ended up having to take the subway for about 4 or 5 stops. Thanks for the iPod tip, JoeinVegas. I plugged in and let Michael Stipe and the boys serenade me away from the cloying tunnels. Of course, it did help that I didn't get on a train before 6:30, so the rush hour crowd had thinned out sufficiently. But we'll just be proud of myself for being so comfortable on the cluttered train, tonight.

In the meantime ... Happy Texas Independence Day to my Lone Star friends and family.
Pop open a Shiner, if you're so inclined, or a Dr Pepper, if you're Baptist and drink up to the old republic! In honor of the holiday, I'll do a brief list of some of my favorite things about Texas:
- carbonated beverages are all called "cokes" regardless of brand
- home of the longest school bus route in the US
- Robert Earl Keene, Dixie Chicks, Willie Nelson, Tommy Lee Jones, Mike Judge, Richard Linklater, the Hank Hill family
- Dell, NASA, Whole Foods Market, Continental Airlines, Southwest Airlines
- geology ranging from desert mountain to piney woods, to sandy beaches to grain-bearing plains
- George W Bush wasn't actually born there (YEA!)
- Austin public schools derive 30% of their electricty from wind power, making them one of the 25 most environmentally energy conscientious businesses or organizations in the U.S. according to some group or other
- dancing the Cotton Eyed Joe at weddings and school dances. And that ain't bull-shit!

how the children behave

This seems to be the mode of play these days for my dog and cat. These are not my actual pets, but the cat looks alot like my kitty, and though my dog is not nearly that big, it does seem to be her life-dream to pin the kitty down for a good slobbery nibble fest. Their bizarre friendship, which frankly I worry is rife with dominance issues - but anyone who has a herding dog knows there's going to be "type A" personality, bossiness issues - blossoms daily. We suspect in a few months, the cat will be happy enough and secure enough in his relationship with the dog to eventually join us downstairs when we watch TV on the weekends. It'll be good when he does that, too, because then doggie-girl will leave us be and not insist on barking over Jon Stewart's punchlines because she wants us to play tug with her. I'm always amazed at how she knows when it's a critical moment in the story!

In the meantime, I'll be required to have my car with me at work in a few weeks. Until then, I'm trying to find a good public transport route which will allow me to avoid subterranean commuter train traffic. I'm not the person you want to be sitting next to on the subway when it unexpectedly stops in a tunnel, or lurches, or slows. I'm the person who has to hum, breathe deeply and go to her happy place. Or barring that, make instant best friends with whoever is sitting near me. And we all know how socially unacceptable friendly conversation is in a tight space!! However, I think it has to do as much with being stuck in a "crowded-as-hell-on-Nazi-appreciation-day" car during the height of rush hour. Much as I destest car traffic, I'd rather be stuck in my own car where I have at least the illusion of control over my own destiny than smushed with my face in some stranger's armpit in a non-moving train car 100 feet underground. Even a bus in traffic is better. At least then, you can crack a window, and can see outside - so I don't feel so clausterphobic.

Ahh. If only American subway systems were like the one in Hong Kong: seriously clean, cars which were open for people to move freely, constant air flow through the cars, swift moving trains and bilingual announcements which are very clearly ennunciated. (I sometimes wonder how foreign tourists cope with our system of public announcement mumbling.) Even when it was crowded to the gills - and it's Hong Kong, so that's like 75% of the time - you never felt like a sardine! Hong Kong, how I miss you!

At least my "avoid the train" agenda is getting me to walk a lot more. Molly needs to move her buns, these days. Perhaps this'll help burn off left over Christmas fat. Is that Noelle Gras?

I love my new job. I hate being a grown up. When did I start worrying about home ownership?

I just completed my first week at the new job, today. It's a ground floor job, but I feel like a necessary part of the project, which is a first for me. I feel like I'm learning about the field, and I'm already pretty confident that this will ultimately open more doors for me when this project ends. And the best part is, though the salary is low for the area, it's still slightly higher than what I've been offered for other similar positions I've intereviewed for at non-freelance, permanent staff places. It's also the same starting salary I had at my corporate "hate-my-life" job that I had for four years. Of course, I took that job 5 years ago, so ... any economists out there can tell me how I've not really improved yadda, yadda. But I like this one!

Honey and I are going to try to purchase our house that we've been renting and living in for the last 2.5 years. What's sickening is that this house has appreciated in value by about 30 - 50% since we moved in. (And we don't even have a garge and the windows are the original energy leaking ones installed in 1965!) Even though the market has cooled in this area. I feel like we're kind of in a crap position:
1) We can easily afford a tiny "can't-accomodate-visitors, much less -raise-kids" condo in a high rise. (Have I ever mentioned we moved because I got clausterphobic in a high rise?) We'd have beaucoup disposable income to put into savings and travel, but we wouldn't be able to have children, like we want, because there would be NO ROOM for another person.
2) Or we could mostly afford a house in our zip code with 2 or 3 hobbit sized bedrooms which would feel like a cramped closet the instant we have a child (and we'd like to have up to 3). Our disposable income would go into savings, but not much else.
3) Or we could just skin of our teeth afford this house which could very easily accomodate 3 children into their adolescence. Savings would be a piggy bank in the attic, and our kids would have to just hear tales of their grandparents uncles, aunts and cousins, because we could never afford to travel to see them.

Scheme 1
Pros - we could save for another 3 - 5 years and have beaucoup money to crank out child number 1 with, and just delay childbearing like every other schmo on the east coast. The condo would fairly easily sell to the next yuppie scum like us who comes along. For the cost that we sell the condo for, we could buy a huge house in the Southwest and never have to move again!
Cons - I feel very suffocated after a year or so in a high rise. Honey can attest that I can get weird about it. Though we have no reason to think we couldn't get knocked up in another 3 to 5 years, now seems as good a time as any to go ahead and start trying for spawn. Plus, our parents' health being what it is, if we wait much longer, our children will only ever know invalid or dead grandparents.

Scheme 2
Pros - We can afford it. We can still save. It's not a high rise.
Cons - If we end up having to live in a cute shoebox for 30 years - let's say the economy turns and we can't afford to move anywhere - we will have to resort to eating our young. The only reason my parents didn't end up eating my brother and me when we lived in a very cramped "get-the-hell-out-of-my-face" house, is because we moved to a 2nd bathroom, separate laundry room, separate dining room joint by the time I was 14. Another inch of elbow room can really save one's mental health.

Scheme3
Pros - It's large enough to accomodate building a family, but not so large that if we nix the kids idea we'll feel like indulgent pigs living in an oversized McMansion a la DualIncomeNoKids like Nick and Jessica. It's in a corner of the neighborhood that always seems to make out well no matter what the market does.
Cons - We'll have to work constantly like hippos afford the place. We'll grey prematurely just from worry about if we can afford it.

I've been reading NubianTemptres43 lately, and though I'm not in exactly the same place as she is, I either have been or otherwise know what she means about all the scary crap and ambivalence that comes with being a grown up. I'm not currently feeling like I don't know what I'm doing with my life - which is strange as I've felt directionless for the last 3 years. But grownuphood is definitely not the platter of hope that was sold to me and my generation raised on "feel good; can do" edutainment of the 80s and 90s.

At least I love my job right now!

Insomnia

I woke up this morning about 10 minutes before the alarm and just lay in bed, wide awake, my mind racing. It's rare that I wake up before the alarm, and anymore, rarer still that I can't get back to sleep once I wake in the middle of the night. But getting to sleep has always been a task for me, and lately it's been almost impossible. I lie awake in bed, in the dark and my heart starts racing and my mind soon matches its pace. My stomach starts gurgling too. And of course, it doesn't help that I have two cats crawling all over me. Some nights I sit up in bed, and just want to cry, but I can't cry properly and instead I just tremble with dry sob in the dark.

It's anxiety, pure and simple, that's preventing me from sleeping. It comes in waves and cycles. I hate it. I hate that I'm probably not dealing effectively with what is causing me stress. (work, faith, school, life, etc.) But I'm not sure how to, or if I can. The other night, as I was sitting up in bed, angry and all acid refluxed out, my honey stroked my back and said, "It's because of living here." I was a little confused. Was he talking about our house - specifically the stomach churning process of trying to buy it in this inflated market? I love our house and suggested that wasn't it. "No," he said, "I mean living in this area." This kind of surprised me. He and I have bounced our frustrations with this area off of each other, but it was the first time (that I can remember) that he directly attributed mental health issues to living here.

I love living in a major metro area on the East Coast, but I can't do it forever, and it doesn't come without a cost. While I have always something of a worry wart, I can't remember ever living with a constant dread, a constant necessity to hold my breath. I'm sure a lot of that comes with being a "grown up," but I wouldn't really know for sure as most of my post-college life has been lived out here. The same fast paced energy that makes the metro-East so exciting can also end up being suffocating. It moves too fast, sometimes. And you're judged by your career or your career choices - even more so, I think than you are in general America. A friend of mine on the West Coast who did business in New York on occasion once told me he felt like on the East Coast society judges you by your marketability. This, he further opined, might be why motherhood before age 35 or 36, in the East, is kind of quietly disdained. If you crank out a screamer before 35, you're damaging your marketability, so why would anyone deliberately do that? I really couldn't agree more with him.

Strangers don't really look you in the eye here. Growing up in the Southwest, passing a pleasant smile to a stranger on the street was pretty much the norm. If you didn't exchange a smile, you at least looked the person in the eye. And banter with strangers was common. When we moved here, it was immediately apparent - pretty much the first day we pulled into town - that there is essentially no hospitality to or among strangers here. I learned later that people here are as nice as they are in the west, but it took several months to learn that. People don't extend themselves as readily. You wouldn't know that the person on the subway, across from you who looks like a miserable zombie and who always averts their eyes when you look at him could really be an awesomely warm person. (Ironically, I have found that there is a sort of city bus hospitality in this area. I think it comes from people being on routine schedules. Unless someone thinks they'll see you again in the same area at the same time, the chance of them extending a smile or sharing a joke is rare.)

Forget about strangers holding the door open for you, or thanking you for holding it open for them. The chance of either case occuring is probably one in ten. If you're lucky enough for a stranger to hold the door open for you, it's most likely that he/she kind of "accidentally" kept it open: ie, they let the door catch on their elbow for you because you were half a pace behind them. That's always what I love most about returning home for a visit. People - and granted, not every person you see - hold doors open for you, and they thank you, deliberately, not oh crap, I guess I have to say 'thank you'. The very first day we were in my home state - in a metro area whos population rivals that of many East Coast areas - a young gentleman held open a door for us, even though we were a good 10 - 15 paces from the door. It's such a little thing. But it's a dignity given.

I didn't know how much I loved the little dignities shared with strangers until I moved East, and didn't get them on a regular basis. It's like not knowing how much you appreciate the sun until you move to Nome, Alaska and don't get to see the sun for 6 months, and even then you're under 10 feet of snow. Little dignities, like sunshine, sustain you more than you know. The locals here aren't as affected of it, I think. Just like a native Nomer probably doesn't miss the sun, because she really doesn't know it, or thinks it's a seasonal abberation. A Nomer visiting Arizona may really like the sun while she's there and she's aware of the sun's lack, when she goes home, but she doesn't complain about it. Native or deeply implanted East Coasters are aware of the lack of little indignities, but they don't complain about it. (The little indignities being so important reminds me of "Divorce Song" by Liz Phair. It's not the big things that kill us.)

But, unlike the sunshine, they can do something about it. We can choose to be more proactively friendly to strangers. We can choose to hold the door open for someone. We can choose to thank the person who holds the door open. We can choose to let the person in the crosswalk cross, as opposed to speeding up to mow him down. But few of us choose to do any of these things. Much as I've tried to maintain the manners taught me and modeled for me from my Southwest upbringing, I find myself becoming more East Coaster crumudgeonly. I dodge eye contact more often, I offer smiles to strangers no longer. My banter with strangers anymore is far more constrained than it used to be. I find myself second guessing everything.

And shadowing all these minor daily indignities is the specter of 9/11. If my daily anxiety is fueled by strangers ignoring eachother, then the furnace that processes that is the threat of terrorism. I think we feel it more out here than folks do anywhere else in the country. We were hit. We have two bruised cities on our shores, and we've probably had more closed tunnels, arrested neighbors and "strange backpack on the bus" threats than anyone else. One can argue that a lot of it is just hype perpetrated by a fear mongering administration, but the truth of the matter is, when your city has a hole its skyline, when your farm has a scar across its field and your fortress has a charred maw, it doesn't matter who is governing you, there is a whole different perspective you operate under. Victims of violent crimes are many times forever changed, forever more suspicious. The East Coast was the victim of a violent crime. We can't help but live with a sense of suspicion for the rest of our lives. I don't care how many times we tell ourselves, if we're afraid then the terrorists have won. Try telling a Gulf Coaster, a few years post-Katrina, not to fear thunderstorms or high winds or heavy rain. Try telling them that their fear of a simple tropical storm is irrational. They have scars. Those of us who were on the East Coast for the attacks have scars. Mine is the engine of my anxiety.

I love where we live. I do love the East Coast. I feel very much that this is exactly where we should be at this moment in our lives. I love the ethnic plurality of the area. It's my favorite part of living here. While most metro areas in the US are more ethnically diverse than they were even 15 years ago - I'm constantly surprised by how ethnically diverse Texas is becoming - most places don't have the ethnic equanimity (?) of the East Coast. While in most metro areas, there are two or three main ethnicities or nationalities peppered with other more "minority" minorities, the East Coast is almost nothing but a pepper mill. The kid in class next to you is just as likely to speak Kikuyu as Spanish. I LOVE that about living here.

When the time comes for us to move west again, I will miss the symphony of languages on the subway. But when we're west, I'll feel freer to smile at those having a foreign conversation in public.

World Peace Begins at Home

The animals in my house may one day truly be friends. Until then, they remain antgonizer and antagonee.

Of course, the antagonizer has no idea she antagonizes. She thinks she and the cats - well, the one cat who will grace her with his presence - are playmates. The highlight of my dog's day, aside from her daily walk, is in the evening after supper. We have headed upstairs to play computer games, check e-mail or post meaningless ramblings intended for my imaginary friend in Shropshire (whaddup, Niamh!), and she races up behind us and tends to her evening activity, cat-watching. Our cats live in our bathroom closet. They chose that spot when we moved in a few years ago, and last year when we got the puppy, they saw no need to ever leave, save for eating and eliminating. So the canine child perches herself in the middle of the open bathroom door and gazes into the linen closet where the cats stare back, anxiously.

One cat learned a few months ago that if he just stays still, the dog provides an essentially free spit bath. They have a routine, now. The braver of the twin cats sits on the closed toilet lid and stares at the dog. The dog-baby stares back for a while until she can no longer stand it, and moves to the toilet and noses the cat into a bizarre ecstasy. Someday our cowardly kit will try his luck, I'm sure. Until then, however, he just watches on in his envy, living in his own dry fur.