Nuggets of Gold!

WHAT I DID THIS SUMMER

Not blog, that's what! I could offer up some excuses, like I was seduced by the quick-hit allure of updates via Facebook status, or I was busy actually spending time with my husband, or it was too damn hot. All apply. But mostly it was laziness, I think. Sue me.

But I'm back to business now, and there's nothing like a new look to signal that. So enjoy the typewriter, and all the retro irony it may inspire: "Typewriter, ha! Remember when we used those? It was back when people read newspapers! Ha ha ha ha. HA."

Here are some things I did this summer, in no particular order:

WORK
I worked this summer. Which is something I don't take for granted anymore. My employer laid off a lot of folks in June, and I thought for sure I was a goner, seeing as how I'm still the newest employee, nearly a year after my hire. But I survived to see another day. Until the next round, which is now. We're waiting (and waiting, and waiting -- my employer may be ruthless, but it sure ain't efficient) to hear who the ax will get next. Morale is low, and the quality of the paper is suffering both from that and from the cuts to people and pages. I find myself wishing I'd majored in something other than English all those years ago. But I still (mostly) love what I do. So I'm doomed to a life of uncertainty, at least for the immediate future.

HOME
We're buying a house! (Which is an even more stressy experience than usual, considering the above). It's both exciting and terrifying at the same time, and I'll be glad when it's done, which should happen at the end of September.

SCHOOL
Last week I stepped foot into a high school for the first time, mmm, possibly since high school. I was invited to speak to a newspaper class about the exciting career possibilities in newspapering. Ignoring my instinct to scream "RUN!", I gave them the truth about the industry, and then tried to soothe them by saying probably everything would be sorted out (read: rock bottom will have been hit) by the time they're out of college. They digested that and other info I threw at them pretty well, but the nugget that caused the most ripple was a mention of how copy editors work at night.

One girl shot up her hand: "But! But! How do you have a social life??"

I tried my best to give an un-terrifying answer, muttering something about hanging out with like-scheduled co-workers, but her brain was already hard at work solving the problem.

"Well," she conceded. "The clubs don't really get going until midnight anyhow."

Word.

MISCELLANIA
-- My babiest brother-in-law got married in a gorgeous affair on Georgia's St. Simon's Island. Geoffrey and I hit the famed "South of the Border" I-95 truck stop on the way home. It was everything we hoped for, and so much more.
-- I missed a Wilco show because I had to work, and I'm still bitter. I pretty much missed Old 97's, too, playing free two blocks from my apartment. But I managed to catch the last four songs of that.
-- I went to a copy editing seminar for three days at UNC. I met some good peeps, did some mean karaoke, got to crawl around a college town, and got re-energized about my job. Which lasted about a month, until the second round of layoffs were announced. Yey.
-- I had a giant article (essay, really) published in Furman's alumni magazine. All about my stint in Japan. It made me miss Tokyo, big time. But getting that extra paycheck helped take the sting out some.

So now you're caught up. Don't you feel better? See you again here soon. For real! Don't look at me like that ...

Ah, urban America

Question: If it's 3 a.m., and there's a shirtless dude, who, after spending a few minutes looking into the windows of a vacant apartment across the street from me, decides to pass out on the sidewalk in front of that apartment, next to his 1970s porno van, should I call the police? Even if he doesn't appear hurt, and he doesn't appear to be hurting anyone?

Answer: Yes indeedy, because that's all very creepy, and it's happening too goddamn close to my apartment.

Sigh. Am I a sellout if I desperately want to move to the suburbs?

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UPDATE: Peeking out my window, it seems that the guy lives in that apartment. (Awesome, he's my across-the-street neighbor!) The cops, infinitely patient, held flashlights for him as he took many long moments to fumble with the lock and finally let himself in. I guess he was too, um, drunk? to unlock it without aid. Cops are still there, however, which makes me think they might have the same question I do: If you're too drunk to open your own door, and too drunk to come up with a plan other than sleeping on the sidewalk when it's a million degrees outside, should you, perhaps, maybe not have driven your porno van home?

Ah, drama. An exciting feature of downtown living.

I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME STEW

Being a southerner myself, I get Southern-ness. I do. But honestly? The pet-names-from-strange-men thing is getting a little out of hand. Twice on Saturday, I was called "honey." In front of my husband, no less. Now, one of the instances was from an extremely old, extremely Southern man. So I give him a pass. The other instance, however, was from a man maaaaaybe in his late 40s. Which, no.

But today was the real gem. I approached the cheese guy at Harris Teeter (not old, probably in his 50s), to ask where I might find fontina, only to be greeted with "Well hello, little girl." For serious? LITTLE GIRL? Fuck you, buddy! I wish I'd have said that to him, actually, but I was sort of stunned and just went on with my question, though I do think I did manage to give him a bit of the stink eye by the end of it. He pointed out the fontina, helpfully describing the difference between two cuts of it, and then left me alone to my invisible rage. Finding that the cheese was $10 for a smallish block(!), I put it down (in the wrong place -- take THAT, weird dude) and huffed away.

I feel sorry in advance for the next kindly gentleman of a certain age who decides to call me "darlin'." He's probably going to get a punch in the mouth.

UGLY SHIRT 1, ME 0

Did you ever have an article of clothing that you came to hate, but you kept it in your closet as punishment ... for yourself? I suspect I have several of these. But in particular I have this shirt that I looooooved in the store, and since it was on sale I bought it, and then I got it home and realized that, even though I loved the print of the fabric, the cut was just hideously unflattering. Like, makes me look preggers unflattering. But goddammit, I bought this shirt, I spent good money on it, so instead of rolling my eyes and getting rid of it, I not only keep it ... but I'M WEARING IT.

And I'm going to wear it all damn day and know I look yucky (too bad, too, as I'm having a good hair day), but by god, maybe I'll think twice next time before buying a shirt (a) without trying it on and (b) without remembering that empire waists always, ALWAYS, make me look pregnant.

I suspect it might be insane to punish myself like this, but here I am, in my ugly shirt that I'm also now noticing is rather uncomfortable to boot. Am I the only one who does this?

LOVE AND HATE

OK, yeah. That last post was way too depressing to leave up there that long. Moving on ...

Tonight, downtown, there was the most wonderful smell of honeysuckle in the air. A storm was rolling in (well, north of us, I think we're just getting the breeze), and it brought the best wind ever. I wanted to stand outside and breathe it in for an hour. And I would have, too, on my porch, if it wasn't so crapped up with pollen as to make it uninhabitable, for the moment. But pollen, at least, makes honeysuckle grow ... not downtown, but somewhere. So I can forgive it. Honeysuckle is my favorite smell.

While I'm being an earth-mama here, I might as well share that I'm starting yoga tomorrow. Assuming I get my ass to the gym. Regrettably, the Y doesn't make you sign up for classes; you just show up. Which means no commitment. Which means no discipline on my part. Damn. But I really want to give it a try, so hopefully I'll make it. This time, and maybe even another.

End of this peace-y shit. I am now contemplating grabbing a baseball bat and clobbering the driver of the street cleaning truck who has decided this week to park his deafeningly loud truck outside my living room window each night at 12:30 a.m. or later and make a shit-ton of noise while he does ... whatever he's doing. Emptying his truck into the street sewer, I guess. Or possibly getting water from the fire hydrant. Whatever it is, it's noisy, it takes a long time, and it fills my heart with hate.

BAD WAY TO END THE NIGHT

So yeah. OK. Just got home from being mugged at gunpoint. That was, um. Yeah. Surreal, I guess? Also? Bad.

Geoffrey and I were walking home from a bar four blocks from our house when some mo-fo lingering on the sidewalk (YES, I know, but so were a lot of people at 2 a.m. when all the bars just closed) put a gun in our faces and oh-so-nicely asked for money. He came at us out of a church parking lot, so thanks for that, big J. Luckily (I guess?) he just wanted cash, not credit cards, or cell phones, or wedding rings. So I gave him, I dunno, about $35 and Geoffrey gave him whatever he had and then he and his gun (!) walked away, and so did we. Like an idiot (sort of), I called 911 right away -- like on the same block -- and we booked it to my office (which was closer) and waited for the cops there.

So we have a case number now, wooo. And I'm a crime victim. Again (first time being when my car was stolen in D.C.). And some guy just improved his ranking within his gang, most likely. So congratulations to him. I'll just be here, I guess, safe (?) at home, trying to figure out how a city the size of Tokyo can be perfectly safe, but Raleigh is apparently not so much.

God bless America.

LETDOWN CITY

I have been in Atlanta (HOT-lanta!) this week, helping my dad take care of my mom as she recovers from hip-replacement surgery. And I have to say, the theme of this trip has been disappointment.

Disappointment 1:
You still can't buy beer in the grocery stores on Sunday (except in actual Atlanta, which no one has actually ever seen). I went to Publix Sunday afternoon with a list that included dinner fixin's and sweet, sweet beer to get me through my stay -- if you know me, or more accurately my parents, you know that sweet, sweet beer is an absolute requirement for surviving more than 10 minutes with them. After soaking in all the Publix goodness (like the bread lady -- the Publix bread lady is always awesome no matter what location you visit), I turned down the beer aisle to find ... no lights. And a big sign saying "No beer/wine sales on Sunday ... SINNER." Because I guess the baby Jesus doesn't want us to drink on his big day. Or, more accurately, he wants us to plan ahead for drinking on his big day. But lottery ticket sales on Sunday? No problemo. Thanks, Georgia. Thanks A LOT.

Disappointment 2:
I had forgotten that radio station 99X bit the dust. Now it's called Q100 (which is completely ridiculous, as the frequency is 99.7), and its playlist is pure suck -- of the same vintage of suck as every other radio station in this town now. I e-mailed a fellow Atlantan co-worker to share my despair, and, bless him, he reminded me that Georgia State's Album 88 still exists, and is still awesome. Thank you, the baby Jesus, for that. But I'm still going to drink on your big day because you allowed 99X to die. Sorry.

I'm heading back to Raleigh today, blissfully. The City of Oaks may not have the Big Chicken, but it does sell beer every chance it gets, and for that I love it.

SPRING FORWARD

I'll admit it: I'm a little over-excited about this whole daylight savings time thing we did this weekend.

After all, I haven't done daylight savings time in three years, since Japan sits that whole phenomenon out. I loved almost everything about Japan, but I did not love the fact that the sky was pitch-black dark at 4 p.m. in winter, and by 6 at the latest in summer. What can I tell you? I guess I just like light.

Even though I work at night and thus can't really enjoy it, I love the idea that you can eat dinner and STILL have another couple hours of sunlight. It certainly makes my day feel longer (in a good way), since that day doesn't usually start until 10 a.m. or so. Sometimes in winter that late waking hour means I've missed almost half the day's sunlight.

But the best part of daylight savings time is that it means spring's a-comin'! I am perfectly ready to put away all my coats and sweaters and start living in T-shirts again. Bring on the sun! Bring on the heat! Bringing on a little more rain to end the drought would be nice, too, but I don't want to be piggy.

MY GUNS ARE HUGE, BRAH

Quick -- touch the ground, see if it's cold.

Hell MUST be freezing over, because the hubby and I have ... sigh ... joined a gym.

We are card-carrying members of the local YMCA now. The pudge made us do it. I guess we were fine all these years living in Washington, D.C., and Tokyo, with walking being a primary mode of transportation. But not so in the City of Oaks. It's all car, all the time -- until the
weather's nice enough for me to ride my bike to work, that is.

Somewhat related to the whole gym thing -- because I want to get an armband to hold my iPod while I work out but I'm not sure they make them small enough for my sticks -- I measured my biceps today. Turns out, brah, my guns are, like, HUGE. Ten inches around, to be exact. Which actually does sound huge, but I confess that most of it is jiggly stuff. (Not to be confused with Jigglypuff).

One day, brah, if you're rad, maybe I'll show you my guns. I can even point out which way to the gun show. YEAH.

WHEN CHRISTMAS TREES FIGHT BACK

I have to come back to this subject of Christmas trees hauled to the curb long after Christmas. Why? Because in addition to being an eyesore, they're also a friggin' road hazard, apparently.

One tree in particular, placed on the curb that happens to be right outside my first-floor apartment, is definitely out to get someone.

Two weeks ago, I was walking down the sidewalk on the way to my car when a gust of wind caught this nicely rounded, rather large tree and rolled it into the road, a fairly heavily traveled three-lane street. I thought about darting into traffic to grab the runaway tree, but when I saw that the first car barrelling in my direction was driven by someone who was yapping on a cell phone and OBVIOUSLY not paying attention to anything, I thought better of it. Smart move, as he plowed directly into the tree. I watched as he stopped his car, got out to inspect what had happened ("Person, or tree? I dunno, I was on my phone! I can't be expected to look at what I'm driving into!"), tossed the tree disgustedly back to the curb, got back on his cell phone, and drove away.

Tonight it is windy again, and dang if that very same tree (because, news flash folks, the city expects you to bring your tree out to the curb reasonably soon after Christmas, because it has better things to do -- like give parking tickets! -- than patrol for rogue trees all year long) didn't roll back into the street sometime after I turned off the porch light around midnight.

Here's what a Christmas tree in the middle of the street in the middle of the night looks like (click for larger image):

I thought since the street has a low speed limit and is straight and flat and mostly deserted at night, and since people use headlights most times, people would see the tree in plenty of time to choose a non-Christmas-treed lane. But no. In the time it took me to write the part of the post above the photo, two people ran the tree clean over -- without stopping -- and another slammed on the brakes just before it, then carefully drove around it ... and away.

So, being the nice person I am, I ran outside in the pouring rain at 2:30 a.m. and pulled what was left of the tree -- mainly the trunk -- to the curb. YOU'RE WELCOME, people of Raleigh. My hands will be sticky and smell like sap for the next three days, I hope you're happy. Also? Santa, if you're reading this, the former owners of this tree definitely deserve a lump of coal this year. I know you're watching, but I just thought I'd mention it.