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Resolutions Are For Other people, Right?

Certainly not me…  I’ve actually never (probably never.  At least, I don’t remember making any and if I ever did, I know I never stuck with them) made resolutions at the start of a new year.

But, having said that, I came to a realization (thanks in no small part to the “subtle” urging of a dear friend) the other day.  I had been doing a terrible job of staying in touch with friends back home.  Which led me to another realization.  Self-awareness can be a bitch.  Because, in addition to the above, I’d also done a terrible job of keeping up with my writing.

And not just here.

I started this blog with a very specific purpose in mind.  To trigger my writing.  More to the point, to trigger my writing about Diane, Caitlin, and our lives together as well as my life since that time.  I had been encouraged by several people in my life to chronicle what happened, that it was a compelling story and one that should be told.  A daunting task to say the least.  But I cranked out a few thousand words in a relatively short period of time.  At least until I started getting to the “hard” part.

I don’t know if it was writer’s block exactly.  I think it was more the fact that I wasn’t prepared to rip the wound that far open.  And it became an easy excuse to not pick up where I’d left off.  I thought by taking on the blog world it would get me moving on the book again.

I was wrong.

So, despite my marginal success with calling myself out “in public” on staying in touch with friends back home, I thought I’d take a similar tack with my other project and call myself out on this platform to keep working on how our family has evolved since May 22, 2003.  To that end, I’m going to (semi-regularly) insert parts of what I’ve written in the hopes it inspires me to get my ass in front of the keyboard for the purpose of writing as I had intended once I retired.  I’m not sure if I’ll go chronologically or not, but right now I’m thinking I’ll just grab a few hundred words in somewhat random order and see how it goes.

So, without further adieu-

“Drive careful.”

Those were the last words I, or anyone else, ever spoke to Caitlin.  Of course, I couldn’t possibly have known it at the time.  At the time, I was just being a Dad, you know?  One of my kids was out at night and I was concerned for her safety.  

Having said that, I already realize I need to revise the statement.  I’m fairly safe in assuming that the firefighters, paramedics, police officers, and the Flight-for-Life medical helicopter crew spoke to her that night after the crash.  I’ll bet the doctors and nurses she encountered at the hospital that night spoke to her too.  But I’m pretty sure mine were the last words she knew.  She called home about 9:30. It was her second phone call home that night.  She wanted to make sure she was driving in the right direction.    Caitlin had spent the evening at Woodfield Mall in Schaumburg, looking for an outfit to wear on a boat trip on Lake Michigan for her senior class.  It was the first time she had been to the mall since we moved and she wasn’t exactly sure how to get home from there.  

When I answered the phone the first words out of her mouth were “Should I be going east or west on Route 72?” 

I said “You should be going west.”  

She said “Oh good, I’m going in the right direction.  I’ll see you in a little while”  

And I said “OK.” 

And I said “Drive careful.”  And I waited for her to come home.

Diane and I met in June of 1995.  It was a blind date.  I thought she was beautiful.

My niece Melissa had lunch one day with her cousin Teena.  After lunch, they were sitting in Melissa’s car before Teena went back inside the salon where she worked.  Diane came out to go on her lunch break and Teena asked Melissa if I was seeing anyone.  Melissa told her she didn’t think I was and Teena said “We should fix those two up.”

We talked on the phone almost every night for about a week before we met.  It’s usually hard for me to talk to people I don’t know well, but it seemed pretty easy to talk to her.  Although my recollection was that she did most of the talking and I just listened.  She always told me that I was pretty talkative at that time.  We finally met on June 23rd at a local fair.  Diane’s eyes were the most amazing shade of blue I’d ever seen.  She had a quick, easy smile and when she laughed, it was if she’d just heard the funniest thing ever. 

Her two girls, Cassandra and Caitlin were twelve and ten when we met.  She had been a single Mom for eight years and she and the girls lived in an apartment she rented from her Mom and Step-Dad.  

I lived in an apartment in a small town about fifteen minutes away, with my two kids.  Emily was eighteen and Ryan was fifteen.  I had been divorced for about a year when Diane and I met.  She almost passed on my phone number because she didn’t think I had been divorced long enough.

By the time we got married four years later, my kids were on their own, so it was just Diane and I with her two girls, a one year-old Jack Russell Terrier named Tobi and a five year-old cat named Abby.  We lived in a three bedroom, one and a half bath townhouse.  In theory it was the right size for us, but we both knew we wanted to buy a house that was a little bit bigger, maybe had a little property around it.  We started looking in earnest in 2002.  We went through countless homes; old, new, ranch, two-story, big yards and postage stamp lots, new subdivisions and old but we couldn’t find what we wanted.  Some were more than we wanted to spend.  Some were in need of too much remodeling to fit what we wanted.  Some just didn’t feel right.  Some we waited too long to make an offer.  I’ll always remember one we waited too long on.  It was on a half acre in a nicer, new-ish subdivision that was close to town, but still kind of rural.  It was just off Route 72, about a mile east of Gilberts.  As I recall it was a little bit more than what we wanted to spend, but not by much.  We talked about it for a week before deciding we wanted the house but we were a couple of days too late.  Somebody else put in an offer and it was accepted.  

After that, we decided to stop looking for awhile.  Instead, we’d get the townhouse ready to sell.  That way, when we finally found the right house we’d be ready to go.  We painted and ordered new carpet, neutral colors because we were told that’s what sells fastest.  One Saturday morning while we were out running errands together, we stopped to drop off some clothes at the dry cleaners.  While I was waiting in line, out of habit, I grabbed a real estate magazine and brought it out to Diane.  She looked at me like I had a third eye and said “I thought we weren’t going to look until we got done with the townhouse?”

I said “I know, it’s just force of habit.”  

A few minutes later, while flipping through the magazine, she said “Oh I really like this one!” 

I asked her where it was and she said “It’s in Wonder Lake.”

“Why do you want to go all the way up there?”

“Because I like the way this house looks.  Can we call the realtor?”

“Yeah, I don’t care.  It’s just that it’s an hour from here.”

So we called the realtor and got directions to the house.  When we turned on the street, she recognized the house from the picture in the magazine.  It sat on top of a small hill and looked really pretty up there.  The yard was about a half acre, it was a newer subdivision full of custom homes in a small town of around 1,200 people.    

She said “I want to buy this house.”

“But we haven’t even seen the inside yet.”

“OK, but I want to buy this house.”

So we met the realtor and went inside.  The first floor was all hardwood floors.  It had a pretty open floor plan with a fireplace in the living room opposite from the kitchen.  There was a small, formal dining room, a powder room and a laundry room on the first floor too.

“I want to buy this house.”

“But we haven’t even seen the upstairs.”

Upstairs there were three bedrooms, each with its own full bath.  The master bedroom had a fireplace and the master bath had a jetted tub.

“I want to buy this house.”

“Umm, OK.”

A couple of days later, we brought Caitlin up to see the house.  Since Cassi was away at college and engaged to be married, Caitlin got her choice of bedrooms.  She chose the bigger of the two remaining rooms.  And immediately started thinking about how she wanted to decorate her room, with animal prints.  She loved the house as much as her Mother did.  She couldn’t wait for summer (the summer that, ultimately, never came), so she could lie out on the back deck and work on her tan.

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Snow Days

So, I was just outside for a bit, puttering about in the yard.  Even though the current temp here is 16° with a wind chill of 4° (fear not northern friends, the forecast calls for 60° by Friday #sorrynotsorry) checking to see if the recycle bin has been picked up yet (it hasn’t) and at one point I sat down and just kind of looked at my backyard.  Now, to paint the picture, I knew I wouldn’t be out for long, so I just threw on my old Carhartt overalls since I’m still wearing shorts and didn’t feel like getting dressed yet on account of I also knew I

A.) Wouldn’t be outside for very long

B.) They’re very comfortable

C.) They’re very warm

D.) I was kind of looking for an excuse to wear them since I haven’t needed them in a while.

I got them several years ago, when I used to do fire investigations on my days off.  The job required working outside in, occasionally, extremes of weather.  From blazing hot, sunny, humid, August days to blistering cold, sub-zero, January days.  My Carharrts came in handy for the latter, not so much for the former.  They served me well for many years worth of winters in that job and now, like me, are retired to softer duty.

But as I sat there taking in my view, I noticed the fly was open.  This is not unusual for this particular garment.  They came with a button fly instead of a zipper.  I don’t know why.  But one of the first things I learned was that; due to the nature of that particular job, including the weather conditions that would necessitate their use, it was far better to leave the button fly undone rather than fumbling with the buttons with cold-numbed fingers in case, ya know, nature called.  Just sayin.  But this got me to thinking… what the heck was the response, back in the day, when the zipper fly was first proposed?

“Wait, what?  You’re going to put that thing, with those teeth, where?  Seriously?”

The things I think.

Winter reared its ugly head here in the southeast this past week.  In addition to the above mentioned temperatures, we got our first measurable snowfall a couple of days ago.  And I use the term “measurable” loosely.  It’s all a matter of perspective as I’m learning.  Down here the maaayyybe one inch of snow crippled the town.  I was sitting here at the house that evening and one of my neighbors stopped in.  She said the streets were a mess and on her short trip from one end of town to the other, she saw as many as a dozen fender benders.  I’m sure the incredulous look on my face accurately described my surprise at hearing that.  She also said there was a young girl (16 years old or so) parked (in the turn lane) down at the end of our street, in tears because she was too freaked out to drive further.  My neighbor stopped to check on her, she was unhurt, but was waiting for her Dad to come pick her up and drive her the last several miles home.  We walked down to see if we could help, and I ended up driving the car back up to my neighbors driveway so it was off the street and she could wait for her Dad in the warmth of my neighbor’s house.  To the girls defense, this was probably her first time ever driving on snow, so I’m not judging or anything.  But as I explained to my neighbor, having driven in this crap since I was 16, I was fairly confident in my ability to negotiate the three hundred yards or so I’d need to drive.

Now, curiosity doing what it does, I decided I needed to drive to the gas station, about a mile down the road, to see how bad things were here.  In that two-mile round trip I saw two more cars on the side of the road, for no apparent reason, with the four-way flashers on and another fender-bender.  And, as I drove over the interstate, I  glanced down and saw an eighteen wheeler that may have been facing the wrong way.

It snowed for maybe an hour and had stopped by the time I got out.  I knew coming down here, people weren’t accustomed to driving in this mess.  But this really kind of set the bar for just how inexperienced folks here are at dealing with snow.  I guess if I had to draw a parallel from back home, this was the equivalent of a 10″-12″ snowfall in northern Illinois.  But instead of hitting a slick spot and driving into a snow bank, these folks just parked where they were and flipped on the four-ways to, I don’t know, wait till it melted?  The one car I saw appeared to be a guy in his 20’s or 30’s and I thought to myself “who the heck are you waiting for to come rescue you?”

I really wanted to stop and ask if he needed help, but I didn’t think I’d be able to keep a straight face.  Ok, maybe I am judging.  A little.

Peace

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Family Lines

The Oldest One and the Heir To The Throne are heading out for a visit at the end of the week.  It’ll be great to see them, I think I’m looking forward to the visit as much as they are.  That got me thinking about family in general and mine in particular.  And, it reminded me of something I’ve been meaning to do here for a couple months as well as to share an achievement I recently accomplished.  But, more importantly, to tell you why I did it…

One of the proudest moments of my life came 25 or so years ago, when my then (to me they still are, fwiw) brother-in-law and sister-in-law, Randy and Dawn, asked me to be the godfather of their newborn daughter.  Randy, brother of my original ex, and I always got along great.  Same thing with Dawn.  If I remember correctly, and good God it was so long ago, they started dating just before the OE and I met so I’ve only ever known them as a couple even after all these years.  Still, the fact that they thought so much of me as to ask me to be such an important part of Amanda’s life was an honor I didn’t take lightly.

Over the years, even after the OE and split, I tried to at least reach out to Amanda on her birthday.  There was a long time where I didn’t see those guys, yet, I always felt like they were a part of my family.  I mean, we all know sometimes family is separated by miles or what have you.  Often times, today especially, family can get separated by belief systems.  We all have that uncle, cousin or brother-in-law that is not only our polar opposite in beliefs, but insists on pointing out the error of our ways at every. family. gathering.

“Gosh thanks for explaining to me how much you hate ‘candidate A’ Uncle Wilbur.  Now I can see why voting for ‘candidate B’ makes sense to you.  I just didn’t realize you were so passionate about Fascism before.  Now can you please pass the mashed potatoes and shut the hell up you Nazi.”

As I flash forward from the warm, fuzzy moments of becoming a godfather I’d like to stop by this past summer when I went to a family cookout at Randy and Dawn’s house.  It was a great time; we reminisced about the old days, marveled at how, despite the passing of years, none of us had aged (bold-faced lie).  But one of my favorite parts was getting to see Amanda and to meet her sweetie pie, Korey.  I actually might have met him in passing at a family funeral, but those things aren’t really conducive to getting to know someone, so… I was pleased to come to the conclusion that Korey is a pretty stand up guy.  They’ve been dating for quite some time now and when you’re that age and in a long-term, committed relationship, well the conclusion is going to get jumped to, whether you realize it or not.  Sure enough, they’re engaged and have a date set for October of next year.  I’m thrilled for them both, especially seeing Amanda so happy.

So, when I got something in the mail from the two of them shortly before I moved out here, I didn’t think too much of it.  “Save The Date” cards are quite the thing now, and my assumption was that I’d gotten mine.  But when I opened it, in addition to the expected card, there was a hand-written note from Amanda.  I didn’t have the foresight to pull it out when I sat down here so I’ll paraphrase it.

She spoke of her memories of me as she grew up; from the “Veterinarian Barbie set” at age 5 to the “annual birthday text” exchanges we share since she’s become an adult.  Whether she knew it or not, Amanda has always had a special place in my heart and she burrowed securely into the middle of that sucker with her note.  And then she slammed the door behind her with the end of her note when she asked if I would consider being the officiant at their wedding.

I’m not gonna lie, tears were streaming down my face as I read it.

Now, a few things were going through my head as soon as I processed the words.

A.) Of course I’ll do it, it would be my great honor

B.) I don’t have to be a priest, right?  Cause that ship has sailed…

C.) How long does it take to become an ordained minister?

I kind of put this on the back burner when I moved, figuring I had about a year to do whatever I needed to do.  And, when Amanda and I spoke about this a few days after I got the letter she suggested an online program that she knew was both legal in Illinois and fairly easy to obtain.  After being out here for a few weeks, I decided to look into the  website she’d suggested.  I read up on it a little, saw some of the people that had become ordained and the history of the faith and moved forward on it.

I filled out the registration form; name, address, where I would be using my new-found title, clicked “SUBMIT” and Voilà!

I became a minister in the Universal Life Church.

Now, if you know me IRL, you know I tend toward the irreverent, probably not a typical behavior for, you know, a reverend.  In fact, when I spoke with the Great Vincenzo and mentioned it to him I’m fairly certain I dropped an eff bomb in the title somewhere.  And when asked how I should be addressed, my first thought was something along the lines of “The Right Reverend”.  It has a nice ring to it.  To be honest, at this point in my life, I’m not a huge fan of organized religion.  I think I’d probably describe myself as spiritual rather than religious.  But the truth of the matter is, I take this very seriously.  At least as far as the wedding is concerned.  I’ve already started working on what I want to say.  To be such a big part of such an important event in the lives of these two isn’t something I take for granted and I want the words to be honest and open and real.  I want them to understand how precious love is.  And how it’s never to be taken for granted.

And how I’m not the role model they want to follow.  Three strikes and you’re out, right?

Just sayin.

Peace

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Falling Leaves

In my yard, or immediately adjacent to it, I have five beautiful, mature oak trees.  They’re huge, old trees, maybe a couple hundred years old, and really kind of majestic.  To think of how things were here when they were saplings, and the changes that have taken place on this landscape over the course of their lives gives one pause some times.  Nature can be quite spectacular when we allow ourselves the time to reflect upon its beauty.

Standing in the backyard, watching the leaves waft gently down to the earth can be fascinating.  Twisting and turning, sometimes rolling, ever gently cascading toward their ultimate resting place in the yard, it’s mesmerizing.  One by one,  gingerly drifting downward it’s a  beautiful, serene, pastoral, calming scene.

But as they conspire to fall by the hundreds, thousands even, changing the landsca- GOOD CHRIST THEY WON’T STOP FALLING WHEN WILL THIS MADNESS END

Sorry.

It seems as though I’ve traded in my snowblower for a leaf blower.  Not a bad trade mind you, but let’s just say I’ve spent a fair amount of time here these first six weeks on leaf relocation.  On the plus side, the local Public Works Department does a pretty decent job of picking them up.  The street side of my yard is as far as I have to deal with them, after that the city comes by on a semi-regular basis to vacuum them up and take them wherever leaves are taken.  I did the most recent leaf roundup last Tuesday *shout out to my neighbor for coming over to help me play “Beat The Clock” with the sun* before the pending arrival of the Boy Child, PhoJoMama™ and family, so the yard would look somewhat presentable.  Of course by the weekend you’d never know the yard had been raked.  Ever.  Except for the ginormous pile of leaves defining the boundary between street and yard.  I assume the holiday has their pick up delayed since said pile is still there.  It’s kind of had me holding off on leaf blower detail since I planned on waiting until last week’s pile was gone to start over.   I don’t think I have that option any more though since the new crop of fresh fallen little demon leaves have blanketed my yard in various shades of brown.

In a somewhat related vein; and proving the theory that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, (see what I did there?) this article  was placed on my social media yesterday by the Boy Child.  While it raises many solid environmental points, I’m choosing the vanity of a (reasonably) well-groomed lawn in its stead.

In a delightful (is there any other kind?) bit of serendipity, I hear the rumble of the leaf-vacuuming truck as it moves in to the neighborhood, clearing a spot in leaf purgatory for the past weeks collection.   Wow, that’s kind of metaphysical for this time of morning.  I guess my coffee has kicked in sufficiently to start the removal.

Peace

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And So, We Give Thanks

Sometimes you have to strike while the iron is hot.  I just had this text conversation with my friend, my go to guy for all things southern, the internationally renowned podcaster and the pride of southern Arkansas, Seth.

Seth: “I’ve got a super southern thing to tell you.”

Me: “Oh?”

Seth: “Met a man called Possum whose dog’s name was Ray.  Ray and Possum get paid to search for deer that get shot and can’t be found.”

Me: “Not only did I literally lol, I can’t stop.”

Seth: “True story.”

Me: “That’s amazing.”

As we wheel into the Thanksgiving holiday, there are so many things for which I’m not only thankful, but grateful.  First and foremost; friends and family.  I may be biased, but I think I’ve got the best of each.  And if I don’t tell you that often enough, shame on me.  I wouldn’t be where I am today without you.

Speaking of which, I’m thankful for what I’ve found here in my newly adopted home.  As a new Asheborower (Ashboroian? Asheborogian?  Asheborologist?) I’ve been welcomed in to the neighborhood, at least by the neighbors I’ve met.  And even the ones I haven’t yet met still use all their fingers when they wave at me, so that’s a plus.  And I’ve only gotten honked at once by someone that was less than satisfied by my driving skills.  Also a plus.

I told myself I wouldn’t stoop to “weather shaming” when I’m asked about my new environs.  I’ve slipped a couple times, but really unless someone specifically mentions the weather I’ve held back.  It hasn’t been spectacular, but in all honesty, it’s been pretty nice.  Coolish, a little rain here or there, but certainly nothing like what I’ve heard it’s been like back home.  No snow, really not even what I’d call a hard frost.  So I’m thankful for that too.  Since climate was one of the reasons I chose to relocate.

I’m thankful for my new-found sense of restraint too.  As most of you know, a couple months ago, I had to have Sophie put down *skypoint* and I thought I’d get a puppy after I got down here.  I started watching a site that featured rescue Labs.  I found several I wanted to see, even went and looked at one although three other visits fell through for a variety of reasons.  I planned on going to a puppy adoption event last weekend to check out a bunch of puppies but, as the time to leave came and went, I found myself questioning my motives.  I decided I didn’t really want I puppy right now, rather, I wanted Sophie.  I miss having her around more than I miss having a dog around, if that makes any sense.  I kind of enjoy, for now anyway, the freedom of not having to watch the clock to get back home in time to let the dog out/feed the dog/whatever else  particular need the dog may have.  I  know the time will come when I’m ready.  But, just like the time for me to start saying “y’all” hasn’t arrived yet, neither has the time come for me to take on a puppy.

Lastly, and kind of circling back a bit, I’m thankful the kids and the littles are all coming to visit soon.  The Boy Child and PhoJoMama™ and their brood are coming for Thanksgiving, Oldest One and the Heir for Christmas, and the Quiet Child, Boy Genius and Reigning Princess will help me welcome in the New Year.

So, yes, life in general and retired life in particular are pretty good for yours truly.  I hope each of you can find the things in life for which you’re thankful and celebrate it with the ones you love.  If not, call me.  I’m more than happy to listen.  Because we’re all in this together, like it or not.

I’m still laughing btw…

Peace.

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Mailing Chickens

There’s an old saying – “an army marches on its stomach” and a quick GTS tells me it either comes from Napoleon (Bonaparte, not Dynamite) or Frederick the Great.  So either way, it’s been around a long time.  I guess it isn’t exactly applicable to me, since I usually eat on the fly or load the front passenger seat with easy to grab munchie type foods when I travel, but I’ll get to it’s applicability in a little bit.  Probably.

See, I traveled to Nashville last weekend, for the wedding of two lovely people, shout out to Steph and EJ.  I wish you both much love and a lifetime of peace and happiness.

Since it was my first time there, I decided to make a weekend out of it.  When I wrote about the trip last week, I solicited suggestions for where to go, what to do, etc.  I mean, Nashville is known for music, obvs, but I wanted ideas from people that I know (and that know me) to get a better feel for what I’d enjoy there.  Got recommendations to visit the Ryman Auditorium (Yes, it was very cool) the Country Music Hall of Fame (also worth the visit, and I’m not a “country” guy) but, without question, my favorite recommendation came in the form of a text from my good friend and internationally renowned podcaster, Seth *skypoint*, minutes before I got on the road.  I’ll paraphrase- “If you get in a bind I’ve got a couple hookups down there for bail money, etc. And whatever else you do, EAT AT MONELL’S!  It’s a f**king mazing.”

The man does not lie.

I mean about the Monell’s part.

I didn’t need bail money but I believe that part to be true too.  But I digress.

Monell’s is, indeed, a f**king mazing.  It’s set in an old house, in an old neighborhood. The food is served family style, meaning, you’re seated at whatever table has room for you and whomever you’re with.  When I say “family style” I mean they cook for a family of roughly 84,326 people, each of whom is ravenously hungry.  Good Lord there was a lot of food and each plate was at least as good as the one that preceded it.   Bite-size cinnamon rolls, biscuits and gravy, corn pudding, cheesy grits, peach preserves, scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, pancakes, sausage, bacon, and country ham.  Oh and before I forget, a ginormous plate-full of fried chicken.  Jesus, my eyes are glazing over just typing this.  It was incredible.  Bob and Melissa joined me on Friday morning for my first visit and when we finished we all kind of looked at each other with a “what the hell just happened” look on our faces.  Seriously, ridiculously, incredible food.  And when I went there yesterday morning for my pre-road meal it was a repeat of wonderful.  I had to step a little bit out of my comfort zone to sit at a table of total strangers, but this food would make you do things like that, it’s so worth it.  And the people I broke biscuits with were all really nice too, so that helped. If you ever go to Nashville YOU MUST EAT HERE.  You have been warned, if you don’t go you have no one to blame but yourself.  Seth, my man, any time you feel like sharing foodie recommendations, fire away.  My stomach now trusts you completely.

Quick road trip related note… I crossed, I think a couple times each way, what may well be my favorite river, by name only at least.  Every time I cross the French Broad River it brings out my inner 15 year-old and I can’t help but giggle.  Out loud.  I picture in my head a bunch of early settlers standing on the bank of this river, wondering what to name it.  And one of them shouts out something about a woman they’d met at a trading post a ways back.

“What was her name?”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know.  That French broad”

Of course that’s not what the name means, but I have to confess a conversation like that will play out in my head every time I cross that river.  And I’ll laugh.  Every time.

Before I hit the road, I had to swing by the Post Office to ship out some of my excess candy from the Halloween that wasn’t.  As I walked in with my packages, I noticed a couple at the counter with several boxes, each box with numerous holes in it.  I assumed they were shipping plants somewhere.  But as I stood there, filling out the address tags for the various destinations, I heard a strange sound.  I couldn’t quite place it at first.  It was very soft, and my brain took a few seconds to register since the noise wasn’t one I’d ever expect to hear at the Post Office, of all places.  But, as I listened more intently, sure enough, I heard…

Clucking.

I looked up at the couple, now having set the first pair of boxes up on the counter, and sure enough, they were mailing live chickens.  And I’m not even joking.  Live.  Chickens.  In the mail.  I don’t know if that’s a thing or not btw.       *door knock* “Who is it?”   “Chickengram”   “Oh!  Great!  I’ll be right there!”  And I wanted to know so much more.  Who gets mail-order chickens?  What’s the survival rate for mail-order chickens?  How many mail-order chickens does it take to make a full load?  What other animals can you get mail-order style?  How many chickens were in each box?  What happens if the chickens don’t care for their traveling companion?  What does a chicken battle royale sound like in transit?  What happens if the chicken lays eggs in between Point A and Point B?  Is there an extra charge, since you got more mail-order chickens than you paid for?

Ok, I’ve got to stop.  The more I sit here, the more I want to know about mail-order chickens.

Peace.

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Scary Creatures. Somewhere Perhaps, But Not Here.

Does anybody need three wardrobe boxes?  Asking for a friend…  The amount of leftover cardboard seems staggering, it certainly feels like more than what I bought.  I filled the recycle bin last week and immediately refilled once it was picked up.  I saved the boxes that survived the cross country transport in the best shape and put them up in the attic, you know, in case I ever decide to move again…  LOLOLOLOL, I crack myself up sometimes.  At any rate, it’s safe to say I’ve still got a surplus of cardboard products.  Now, this also means that I’ve essentially got everything unpacked.  It may not be where I want it to be, and I’ve still got much to do as far as getting this place the way I want it, but small victories are, in fact, victories nonetheless.

Something else I’ve got a surplus of; Halloween candy.  I had not. one. trick or treater. yesterday.  No goblins, no ghosts, no Kardashians, or any other frightening figures knocked on my door.  What the hell?  I, of course, bought candy that I like (obvs) and I bought a bunch of it because who wants to run out on Halloween amirite?  That’s just asking for trouble.  So now, rather than risk putting on a fast fifteen pounds of post Halloween weight I’ve decided to send out “care” packages.  Because I care about maintaining my svelte, boyish, figure.  Again, LOL.

I decided, since I’m traveling to Nashville for a wedding this weekend, for one of the guys from the firehouse, my brothers from Red Shift in the high-rise district will be the beneficiaries of some of my overestimation of candy.  You’re welcome!  I think I’m going to send some to the littles too.  Sugar load coming courtesy of someone who won’t have to deal with the after effects!  Speaking of Nashville, since this is my first time there, I’m open to suggestions of where to go and what to see so fire away.  I’ve gotten a couple of good ideas from people, but I’m making a weekend out of it and I’d like to see as much as I can.  I’m kind of bummed on one thing; I knew I wanted to check out the Bluebird Cafe, even more so after it was recommended by a friend who has a trustworthy sense of quality music, but when I signed on Monday morning to get a ticket to a show I wanted to see, it was sold out less than three minutes after it opened up.  It’s a very small venue, so I get it, but it’s still kind of a drag.  Sigh.

Moving right along… I thought I had mentioned, either here or on the old site not that long ago about how I made chocolate chip cookies after a baking fail at the firehouse.  I was pretty sure I’d commented about it, at least in passing, and a deep seated fear of redundancy initiated a fifteen or twenty minute search through old posts which produced nothing.  So, let me just say that those cookies were pretty darn tasty.  If you read this even semi-regularly or if you know me IRL, you know how fond I am of baked goods.  So it is with no small amount of shame that I admit to you, I neglected to buy anything of that nature during my first couple excursions to the grocery store since I got here.  I know, right?  I don’t know what I was thinking.  I’d like to blame Bob and TJ somehow, but I just couldn’t make that work in my head, so I guess I have to own this one.  To that end, I bought a Kitchen Aid mixer.  This is something I’ve been putting off since the first batch of homemade cookies.  It was a bit of a mess, literally, since I wasn’t prepared hardware-wise for baking at home.  Bowls were a little on the small side and the old hand mixer I’d picked up at an estate sale was almost overmatched.  I found out just how overmatched when I smoked it (literally) at the conclusion (thankfully) of my second batch of homemade cookies.  I waited because I wasn’t sure where I’d end up, or rather, what type of kitchen I’d have.  And since I’m nothing if not a color coordinating fool *snark* I waited to make sure it matched whatever appliances I’d end up with.  Actually that’s a little less snarky than I care to admit to, but whatevs.  So I’ll soon have no one to blame but myself for not having delicious baked goods whenever I desire.  Spoiler alert- there’s really never anyone to blame but myself, so…

I’ve decided my maiden voyage in the new mixer will be – brookies. That’s right,  you know ’em, you love ’em, you can’t eat just one, that little piece of euphoria inducing splendor will be coming to me from my very own kitchen.  I already can’t wait.  If you’ve never had one, well, you need to change that, pronto.  You’ll thank me, I promise.

Peace

PS – I can’t believe I forgot to add that at the end of my last post.  It’s been kind of my unofficial official closing here for years.  So you’re getting another one here.

Peace

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Welcome To The Neighborhood

Seeing as how this is the place I go to write and you, in turn, come to read, I figured it was about time I held up my end of the deal.  So…

The move was… interesting… I think I need to refine the aforementioned Funkenwinkel Nuisance Ranking Scale.  Btw, any suggestions for that are welcomed and will be given full consideration based on creativity of both description and cursing.  However, instead of dragging you through all the gory details of late arrivals, nonexistent customer service and the frustration of trying to understand and be understood by a person for whom english is a second language (side note; the fact that people speak more than one language now makes me, as a rule of thumb, far more tolerant than I used to be.  Once I realized that I only speak, ya know, ONE language, I figured it was only fair that I cut them some slack for at least attempting multiple languages.) I decided instead to just leave it at this; I got 99% of my stuff here and in the same shape it was in when it left Illinois.  With minimal effort on my part.  After all, while my stuff was being loaded, I literally stood in the kitchen and ate chips.  Pretty much similar to when it was unloaded here in North Carolina.  All in all, I can’t complain about it too loudly.

In the midst of trying to figure out where I want to put things etc. I’ve managed to take a little time to explore my new surroundings.  Among the things I’ve learned so far; apparently the globe of my front porch light has been the final resting place for every insect that has died in the state over the course of the last millennia.  I said a few kind words over the tiny, desiccated, corpses of a variety of winged insects just before I washed them out onto the grass though, so we’re all good.

Also, I learned the neighbor two doors (I think) down has a beagle that’s quite fond of his own voice.  The beagle’s, not the owner’s.  Just sayin’.  Now, I’m not one to “breed shame” as I know or have known dogs of a variety of breeds that are deemed “dangerous” or “inherently stupid”  or what have you and, of course, it’s the individual animal and the way it’s trained and not an entire breed that should be lumped into a category.  Having said that, there’s something about the incessant baying of a beagle that rankles me.  More so than almost any other breed.  So, I’ve got that going for me.

I discovered a local treat (by “local” I mean Virginia and North Carolina) named Biscuitville.  Think breakfast sandwiches like you’d find at the golden arches (NOT the golden arcs) and you get an idea.  Now multiply the flavor of said sandwhich by a factor of about 12,683 and you have an idea of how amazing country ham on a biscuit tastes.  Side note; if you think it’s hard to understand a voice over the intercom of a fast food place, try throwing in a southern accent on top of it.  Yikes.  My response to something (and by “something” I mean, I have no idea what I was asked) this morning was, literally “Ummm, yes?” but I got the food I requested, so I’ll take that as a win. Let’s see, what else?  Oh yeah, I found a wonderful BBQ place not far from my house.  A large plate of coarse chopped bbq with fries, cole slaw, and hush puppies for under $10 and I can’t eat all the food they give me.  Also, win!

This part of the country once produced a large portion of the furniture America bought.  And, while much has gone off shore (I’ll spare you my rant on this topic) (for now) there are still many fine, locally owned stores, outlets, etc in the area.  This works out well for me, since I need to furnish a couple rooms and I’m kind of a cheapskate.  

This piece for example –

I found this gem in a local auction/consignment store.  After long distance discussions with the daughters as well as a couple friends with much better design sense than I have, I made an offer on it.  As you can see, it fits nicely right inside the front door of the new place.

So thanks to all that gave input on this one, I promise I’ll try (prolly not too hard though tbh) not to overload your text/minutes/data/emails with my questions/comments/pictures regarding future purchases.  Maybe.  We’ll see.  If I can keep my impulsivity reigned in by my cheapskatedness that would be a big help too.

 

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It’s… complicated

So, this isn’t how I intended to write my last missive from northern Illinois.  But things, as things are wont to do, took a turn.  It will apparently be a brief one, but a turn nonetheless.

And this one may get wordy due to the good news/bad news aspect.  So, first with the bad news…

I got a call from my realtor in NC this morning.  She didn’t receive the final document from the bank in time for Thursday’s closing.  Now, in and of itself this is not a huge deal.  The thing that makes it a huge deal is that I’ve

A.) scheduled the movers to deliver my stuff Thursday.

B.) scheduled the utilities to get hooked up/switched to my name Thursday.

C.) scheduled a delivery for three appliances I need for Thursday.

I was, you might say, displeased to hear this news.  There were, in fact, a handful of deleted expletives that were aimed at no one in particular but rather so I could vent.  I left numerous messages with the loan officer and had a chat or two with my realtor.  I heard back from the loan officer who was, ironically, AT a closing when I called.  She was on her way to the office to find out what was up and as I told her; at this point I’m not concerned with the who, what, how, and why this happened.  I just need it fixed.  Like, right now.

I paced and muttered for a little bit, vented to a person or two (you know who you are.  And thanks for letting me rant) and got in the car to run some errands.

And had an idea.

I called the realtor and told her “I don’t care if this is legal or if it ever happens or what hurdles are in the way, but I want you to contact the sellers and see if they’ll rent the house to me for one day.”  She said there’s actually a provision in the contract that allows it.  I told her I’d like to set that up as a plan “B” and that I was still urging the bank to fix this so I can keep the closing as scheduled for Thursday morning.

But having a plan “B” in place helped unfrazzle me.  Like, a lot.  And I’m moving forward as if everything is going according to plan, but prepared for a change if need be.  As long as the bank gets me the effing document I need today so I can get the funds from my bank here in Illinois…

Sigh.

But, to the good news portion of today’s program…

Saturday I went to a birthday party for the former Beatle Baby.  Or so I thought.  See, a few weeks ago I heard from the Boy Child that they’d be celebrating his birthday six days after the fact at 10:00 Saturday morning at the local park district building.  I thought it odd, but quickly shrugged it off due to

A.) who wants a bunch of screaming six year-olds running around their house?

B.) scheduling at a public facility can be tricky so you take what you can get.

C.) why would I doubt the fruit of my loins?

I should point out here that, in the past, I haven’t always reacted appropriately to surprise parties in my honor.  Don’t get me wrong, I like when it’s all about me as much as the next person, but still, there’s something about them that makes me feel a little twitchy, you know?

So I found a parking spot and got out of the car.  I noticed the Oldest One’s car, the Boy Child’s car and I thought I saw the Quiet Child’s car too.  I had brought a couple of things for her, but wasn’t sure if they would be available for the party.  I walked in, heard a small ruckus to my left and started following the noise.  As I got to a corner in the hallway I saw BC.  I asked if QC was there and he said she was.  I handed him the birthday gift and told him I was going to run back to the car to get something.  I turned and got about ten feet when he called me back saying if he gave the gift to the former Beatle Baby I wouldn’t get the credit for it.  I rolled my eyes, muttered something under my breath and turned around to go with him.  I saw one of the kids dart into a room down the hall, and as we passed an open door, I looked inside.  I saw a couple of my nieces there and thought “why are they here?”

BC told me to go into that very door and, as I walked in and looked around the room, the first thing that came to mind was “Why the f*ck are these people at the former Beatle Baby’s party?”  Friends, family, coworkers, retired DGFD guys, people I hadn’t seen in years in some cases.  All here for a party for my six year-old grandson.

And then, I realized the truth.  My rotten (not really) kids had planned a surprise retirement party for me.

I had no clue.  Not. A. Single. One.

Who knew they could be so conniving?  For the previous couple days, right up to and including Saturday morning, I had gotten what I believed to be unconnected texts, calls, and/or emails about my weekend plans.  I never caught on.

I just want to say it was really a wonderful morning.  And more than a little overwhelming, just as the firehouse festival to me was.  I felt a little like Sally Field (never thought I’d compare myself to her btw) when she said “You like me, you really like me!”  Truly one of my best days.

 

It was a steady stream of well wishes from everyone.  And it was tear-free.  There was one moment where it came close, when the Reigning Princess jumped up into my arms, as is her practice, and hugged me particularly tightly, burying her face into my shoulder.  I did my best to comfort her, told her she could FaceTime me anytime she wanted and reminding her they’d see me at Christmas and that I’d be home in the spring for dance recitals and ballgames.  That was the toughest moment for me, as that kid has had me wrapped around her little finger from Day One and we both know it.

I know this move will have moments, both for me and for those I’m closest to, where my sanity will be (probably rightly so) called into question.  But I’m still confident this is the good and right thing to do.  Comfort zones must be challenged from time-to-time.  It’s part of how we grow as humans.  And, by the very nature of the challenge, it’s at times, frightening.  But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t attempt to expand our boundaries.

Sometimes a “new normal” is forced upon us.  Sometimes we choose it.  Either way it can be terrifying.  And it can be empowering.

Sometimes both at the very same time.

Peace.

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Moving On

As I sit here, waiting for the sun to break the horizon, I am not yet “homeless” but I am, in fact, bedless.  I took that apart and boxed it up last night, since the movers are coming today to load up the truck with my stuff so that same stuff can be reunited with me on Thursday after I close on my home.  My retirement home, you might say.  You might, but I won’t.  At least not for a few years yet.  I hope.

On the Funkenwinkel Nuisance Ranking Scale  (That’s a made up term btw so don’t bother GTSing it) I’d rate this experience so far as a solid “it’s not so bad” which is more than “why did I wait this long?” but far less than “WTF was I thinking?”.  I can’t really complain too much about it.  Other than unfortunate timing on the pick up, which will most likely, cause me to miss an evening with some of the guys from the firehouse.  Since I don’t have the power to reroute a moving van, I guess I have to grin and bear it.

One of the things that has really helped buffer the process, and in turn keep the FNRS score low has been a steady stream of music blaring into my ears.  This has helped pass the time while I’ve been crazy busy packing my stuff.  Of course it hasn’t stopped me from occasionally bouncing from room-to-room as I see something sparkly that distracts me from whatever I was packing and sends me spinning off in a different direction packing some other, random household item.  I kind of wish I could watch myself (from a safe distance) while I packed up.  I would have probably had many snarky observations about me and about my organizational skills.

Hint; I have none.

On the plus side; I have made many new friends at the local U-Haul Store…

As the realization that last night was literally the last night I’ll spend in my humble, little apartment, one that has served me so well for the last few years, I naturally look back on one of the best parts.  As realtors like to say; it’s location, location, location.  And it’s not just the proximity to downtown or mass transit.  It’s about the neighborhood.  At least in my case.  The people in this neighborhood are pretty great.  Sophie (pour one out for a great dog) and I met so many of them, and I’ll always have fond memories of them.  Marie, Ken and their boys took Sophie in for me a couple of times when the Boy Child and PhojoMama™ were unable to take her for me.  And they doted on her.  John, from upstairs took care of her, and gave her great care, while I was on shift.  And, for the last couple weeks, Amy and her kids have kind of taken me in and kept me fed.

And entertained.

This is the family I referred to recently, the one whose dogs I help walk.  Amy is an absolute sweetheart and the kids are a trip.  Case in point; I was down there the other evening doing a load of laundry while the kids were doing their homework.  Aviator (not her real name because obvs) was working on her spelling.  As you may have figured out, I’m kind of a word guy.  So I was looking over her shoulder as she worked on it.  One of the assignments was to write a paragraph using five of her vocabulary words.

She wrote it about me. (sniff, sniff)

She not only wrote a funny piece, in addition to her vocabulary words, she managed to incorporate all three of my names.  Joe, Joel, and Joelson.  Yes, I’ve added a new nickname as that’s how the Aviator refers to me.  I’ve got to hand it to her, it made me laugh when she threw that one at me.  She’s a bright kid, they both are, no question, but with this one’s wit, one day she’ll either make a lot of money making people laugh or rule the world.  She may not be the funniest kid I’ve met, but she’s the one photobombing the class picture of funny kids, no doubt.

So, briefly, to Amy, Aviator and to my dog walking partner in crime (DWPC) I can’t thank you all enough for the kindness you’ve shown me.  I so wish we had gotten to know each other sooner.  I promise we’ll stay in touch (as I told my friend Wendy, it’s up here in public now, so the pressure is on me to stick to it!) and I hope your futures hold nothing but wonderfulness.  You’ve got my digits, as the cool kids say (at least they used to.  Do they still?) so reach out any time.  If you come to NC, you’ve always got a place to stay.  You’ve touched my heart at a time when I needed it most and I hope you all (I guess I have to start saying y’all eventually but now is not that time) enjoyed hanging out with me as much as I’ve enjoyed hanging out with you.

Peace