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Over the Rainbow

I spent the better part of my day packing up books and spiriting the filled tote bins to our storage unit.  All this is in anticipation of the painter coming next week, the carpet cleaner I’d like to rent from Home Depot on Friday and then the realtors I’m hoping will jump at the chance to list our condo the following Monday morning.

As many of you know, Dennis and I have decided to build a house out in the middle of nowhere and I couldn’t be more delighted. The air is clean. Neighbors do things like wave at you when you drive buy. I’ll actually be able to find a Girl Scout to procure Samoas from this time next year, assuming all goes well. 

Friends and family have long endured my lamentations about city living, and my desire to head for the hills. After living in cities for the better part of the last 15 years, I’ve seen the light at the end of the tunnel. Of course, before moving we’ll need to sell our condo and this is proving stressful (as a co-worker pointed out yesterday, “Well it is the one thing you have no control over and you don’t exactly thrive in those situations.”). I posted a question to Trulia earlier about the state of the Chicago market and became so stressed out at the prospect of an unfavorable answer that I deleted the post.

I’ve worked hard to manage my expectations and have always felt that purchasing this property was a wise decision - I think it’s retained it’s value and the price we’re hoping to sell at (including parking and maybe either a year’s worth of assessments or cash towards closing) is pretty reasonable. I keep reminding myself we bought this place because we wanted a place to live, not an investment and it's the same reason that we're building the house. There's a difference between making a stupid choice and a courageous one. While the market is certainly challenging life doesn't stop and to wring you hands as time marches on would be a foolish mistake.

Nevertheless I find myself sitting on the sofa, worried and nervous. I’m ready for this change, excited for this change but I can’t help but thinking there’s another shoe that’s going to drop. What good is reading about how to paint your garage floor when you may end up losing your construction deposit because some slack ass realtor can’t pull their weight and market your condo?

We’re heading out there tomorrow to sign over earnest money (which will involve reading a contract). If you keep your fingers crossed, I’ll use my lucky pen. In the meantime I’m fixing myself a stiff drink and already planning to put this in my new home office.

 

It's not you, it's me.

When I was little, I lived in Antwerp and London and Houston and Frankfurt. At 18 I high-tailed it from West Houston to various locales inside the Loop. Shortly before my 24th birthday, I picked up and moved to Manhattan. Dennis and I have lived in Chicago for 6 years.

A great deal of my life has been spent living in apartments, riding subways and scurrying amongst the shadows cast by skyscrapers on sunny days but to say I’m a city gal would be a gross understatement. My heart belongs to suburbia. 

Maybe it’s because as a little kid – unable to get her grubby mitts on simple pleasures like Pop Tarts and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups – I romanticized the big-box American experience. Visiting my grandparents in New Hampshire was nothing short of sublime (The mall! Burger King! KMart!) and when we finally moved back stateside in 1984, I was absolutely over the moon. Suddenly not only did we have a yard, we had a cul-de-sac that openly embraced things like an annual Christmas party, playing baseball in the spring and pooling money to buy an excess of fireworks on the fourth of July.

Anyway, as I stand happily at the brink of middle age, spending my hard-earned bonus on having our condo painted and a storage unit I can’t pretend to be upset as we prepare to put our wee slice of Chicago on the market. We’re heading for the hills. BFE here we come. I obsess about decorating a formal living room I don't yet have. I'm researching how to till soil. I fantasize about the day where I can buy paper towels at Costco and actually have a place to store the 12 rolls I'm not using. I don't particularly care that it's probably the worst real estate market in American history; I'm ready to go.

I laid in bed last night (after a particularly traumatic episode of “Little Miss Perfect” on We. Sidenote: why the recent surge in child beauty pageant shows?) contemplating the change. Friends of ours will surely bemoan our decision – how could you leave the city? The restaurants? The rat-tat-tat jazz-driven rhythm of scurrying across boulevards in the hopes of dashing into charming shops in a mid-summer rain?

Fact of the matter is, to quote R.E.O. Speedwagon, it’s time for me (us) to fly. The city is like the bad boyfriend who promises he’s going to change and never does. Eventually you come to your senses and realize that you deserve better than an overgrown frat boy neighbor who likes watching “24” at a volume better suited for an amphitheater, a parking garage that costs more per month than your actual car payment and paying 10.25% sales tax because the county can’t get its act together.

Fare the well, urban living. We’ve had a good run, but I’m ready to move on. It’s not you, it’s me. I know you’ll find someone out there – someone who can give you something I never could. I wish you nothing but happiness. Know that the time we spent together will always mean something to me, but I can’t pretend to love you anymore.

Adventures in Shame: My iPod

Over yonder @ Jennsylvania, Jenn was kind enough to share a cheesy play list with her readers and encouraged us readers to the same. In the spirit of self-disclosure and healing, I offer my premium cheese play list. For those that know me, this will come as no surprise.

In the interest of variety, I have stripped out the requisite tracks by Wham.

“Barbie Girl” – Aqua: Did this come out when I was in college? I don’t know, but I remember listening to this or something like it when I was bumming free tanning bed upgrades from a pal who worked at the local salon, the hysterically named Darque Tan. Never managed to score that free bottle of optimizer lotion though.

“Womanizer” – Britney Spears: Years ago, in the early days of her relationship with K-Fed, my friend Dawn and I mapped out the trajectory of her career. I’m still waiting on the country album, but have otherwise been dead on.

“The Rhythm of the Night” – Corona: For those smart enough to constrain their class schedules to Monday – Thursday, Fridays at the sorority house usually began with Bath and Body Works lotion and Days of Our Lives. By the early afternoon, we’d begin the ritual of preening for the fraternity party du jour. This song was inevitably playing on the radio while we were on route to Contempo.

“Dancing in the Sheets” – Shalimar: As a 9 year old, I sang this out loud in the back of a car on a family road trip. That was the point where my parents took my Footloose tape away.

“Do You Wanna Touch Me (Oh Yeah)” – Joan Jett: Last week I was at a Junior League event and there was, no lie, a woman pole dancing (promoting a lady’s fitness studio here in Chicago). Pole. Dancing. Me, if I were to ever choreograph a routine that had me suspended on a piece of metal tubing, legs akimbo, this would be a first choice.

“I Tried” – Geto Boyz:  You know if Geto Boy Bushwick Bill, a little person who grew up in a tough environment, can survive a self-inflicted gunshot to the eye I really have very little to bitch about. 

“Hangin’ Tough” – NKOTB: I was relentless in my devotion to this band but had enough foresight to put my BOP/Super Teen encrusted poster shrine to them on the back of my bedroom door.

“I Beg Your Pardon” – Kon Kan: I remember dancing to this song after having way, way, way too much to drink. There were strobe lights, I know that much.

“C’mon Ride It (The Train)” – The Quad City DJs: I used to roller blade and, sadly, used to roller blade wearing a unitard. This was on that mix tape which was ultimately destroyed when I wiped out, went ass over tea kettle and landed on my walkman.

“Come and Get Your Love” – Real McCoy: Inexplicably reminds me of Donna and Kelly at the Peach Pit, and how much I hoped Brenda would take a machete to them both.

 “I’m Free (Heaven Helps the Man)” – Kenny Loggins: For those times where you need to thrash around an empty warehouse in tight jeans and a short-sleeved sweatshirt.

“The Warrior” – Scandal: Occasionally I would get my parents to let me listen to Top 40 radio on the way to school. This would always play on the long drive to the magnate school I attended (briefly) in Wichita. I actually cheated to get in, copying all my math answers from my neighbor. You know, I still haven’t ever used algebra.

“Word Up” – Cameo: I only just realized it, but Cameo sounds remarkably like Urkel.

“Good Vibrations” – Marky Mark & the Funky Bunch:  Is it just me or the notion of a bicep curling underwear model rapping really, really funny?

 “You Make Me Feel” – Book of Love: Makes me Jones for an Outback Red Henley shirt and matching scrunchy socks. Fun fact: For years, I thought the lead singer for Book of Love was actually the actress who played Terri in “Just One of the Guys.”

“Don’t Go” – Yaz: I’m  hoping desperately that, before the first season is over, RuPaul makes his “Drag Race” queens lip synch this song.

“Everybody Have Fun Tonight” – Wang Chung: When bad names happen to good bands.

Back to the Drawing Board

Last night I found myself watching an excellent documentary on the font Helvetica. The film, which explored the history of the font, its role in contemporary design and the artistic responses to its (perceived) over use was fascinating but it was the segment on how the systematic styling of the actual letters - the uniform, almost scientific spacing between them, the consistency of the curvature – created enough routine to provide the brain with a sense of comfort.  

Some designers hold the opinion that this is to the ultimate detriment of society, that it cultivates this embrace of the status quo and that the utilitarian appearance is both uninteresting and even indicative of corporate oppression. I guess, rather predictably, I tend to disagree. The child of a process-loving engineer, routine and discipline were personal qualities to be aspired to. Growing up bouncing around Europe I had a natural appreciation for simplicity, tradition and history (as it happens, the Belgians, Dutch and Germans are big fans of Helvetica so perhaps I have an ingrained bias).

Anyway, the whole thing got me thinking about the need for rhythm in life – that an existence based in structure (whether based on values, goals, whatever) often creates the efficiencies opportunity. Somehow I’ve always understood that and valued it, even in the halcyon days/years I don’t really remember.  The times where I’ve felt lost or - to use the more dramatic term adrift - it’s because I don’t have a plan. Generally speaking the longer it goes on the more it bums me out.

This morning finds me drinking tea, listening to Yo La Tengo and feeling very much like I’m treading water, lacking the vision and diligence to move forward creatively. Specifically, I’ve started thinking about how this affects my productivity with regards to writing – the fact of the matter is I don’t write with the same frequency or level of quality that I used to (this is not to say blogging about “America’s Next Top Model” is rocket science; it’s not). Microblogging tools like Twitter or even Facebook updates are fulfilling in that they’ve allowed me to stay connected to friends far and wide, but I’m not sure that ultimately it’s enough.  What do I write about? What do I say? 

Even if it doesn’t matter to anyone but me, I’ve grown tired of feeling incapable of doing more.  I miss writing and writing misses me. I haven’t even logged into a blog (that I’ve had for five years) since last fall.

Articulating all of this, which I’ve done periodically over the years, is probably as good a start as any right?

 

 

Waxing Nostalgic

A college friend of mine recently posted that she had recently reconnected with a friend who “likely remembers me as a thin, hard drinking, meticulously maintained (nails, brows and hair every six weeks, ladies!) social butterfly that I am sitting here in my PJs with wet hair thinking about nursing the baby, going to Weight Watchers and purchasing and monogramming kindergarten supplies.  Good God, what happened?”

Because, I am in fact, that kind of gal, I’m going to assume she’s talking about me.

Mysteriously, I went from being the gym rat who used to frequent her (now) husband’s tanning salon usually decked out in some meticulously put together, size 2 Ann Taylor ensemble in her shiny red car before complaining about a salad that was inevitably too filling. Quelle horreur.

Facebook is a unique experience, allowing you to connect with people who have known you in all of life’s various incarnations. In my particular circumstance:

• Qbert loving nerd who cut Corey Feldman pictures out of BOP! while listening to Huey Lewis and the News on her bedroom floor
• Globe-trotting, hair metal loving drama queen who mysteriously thought spandex dresses and over-the-knee boots were an appropriate choice for everyday high school wear. I did not go to Hooker Central High School either.
• Speech and debate obsessed honors student who actually read the Christian Science Monitor daily and took herself way too seriously

And then the aforementioned stint as a failed sorority girl (a complicated situation that to this day gives me nightmares to the point where I'm considering paying a decades old bill that's long since fallen off my credit report).

I will gleefully answer her question as to what happened. We grew up and are, despite the added responsibilities of adulthood, presumably far happier than we were sitting on the back steps of the sorority house smoking cigarettes.

If it’s any consolation, I’m wearing a shirt with bleach spots and pants with an elastic waistband. Parts of my anatomy are now only perky through virtue of under wire and pulling the straps too tight. I am so laughably out of shape, that I had to take 5 Advil to cure a headache resulting from a well-intentioned game of tennis (note: I’m much better at PlayStation Tennis than the real thing) and decided to sleep it off instead of blow drying my hair straight. My sun allergy has resulted in a laughable rash on both arms.

Dinner was a Diet Coke and a handful of Fritos.

I finally broke down and went to the spa last week because months of trying to save money with Sally Hansen’s home waxing kit left me with eyebrows the shape of sperm. The 70-hours of work on my plate will render me unable to get a pedicure so I’ll spend yet another week with hobbit feet or will embark on trying to do it myself (a scenario that will likely involve me cutting something I shouldn’t, spilling nail polish on the Pergo and at least two Band Aids). Thank Jesus for the closed toe shoe.

And at the risk of sounding all Dr. Phil, I’m weirdly ok with it. Deep down, I hope she is too. She certainly doesn't need me to tell her she has a wonderful family and a successful career she should be proud of. Brows can always be waxed, nails can always be done but living life in the now is a fleeting chance you'll miss if you blink. Should she want to escape for a self-indulgent weekend of girly debauchery our guest room is always open. I could use the excuse.

PS: Monogrammed school supplies are a necessity. How else is darling princess going to tell her stuff away from the other riff-raff? :)

Wild Rabies Cat of Chicago

Video by Dennis:

Organization Dweeb Battles Drawers, Closets

This weekend, I went on a little bit of a cleaning frenzy. That doesn’t necessarily make it a weekend different than any other – without a yard to tend to, children to chase or a pool to clean, I have to tinker with areas within the condo.

Here’s what I did. Saturday I tackled a bevy of drawers. Behold my handiwork:

Kitchen Utensils
I really wanted to get rid of this canister that I had in the corner of my kitchen because it was crammed full of crap I didn't use. Lesson learned: just because Gaida DeLaurentis has eight spatulas and 60 different kinds of slotted spoons doesn't mean you need them too.

So I emptied out everything on the counter, sorted out the stuff that could be donated to Goodwill and voila:

Junk Drawer
Next up was the junk drawer. Yeah, I had tons of tape. Invisible tape, packing tape, mover's tape. I don't need any more. I put stuff in this plastic "junk drawer" organizer I picked up @ the Container store years ago. The result is slightly less junky:

Other Junk Drawer
Yes, I have two junk drawers. This one holds adhesives (Goop, super glue) batteries and sewing supplies. And my new label maker (I killed my other LetraTag last week). I put tiny stuff in snack-sized Ziploc bags and labeled them. It helps keep stuff out of the corners.

Sleepwear Drawer
I had bought some spring loaded drawer dividers in the hopes of using them in the kitchen. As it happens, they were too deep so they made their way into my dresser. I used the first of the two sets in my sleepwear drawer to create three areas: PJs, sets and other stuff.

Also notable in this picture is my Van Halen shirt (which always reminds me of that scene in "The Wedding Singer" where Robbie wants Linda to take his VH shirt off lest she curse the band and they break up):

Gym Stuff Drawer
For someone who doesn't regularly go to the gym (any more), I sure have a lot of workout clothes.

Sunday I confronted the hell closet in our Guest Bedroom. I suspect everyone has this closet in their house - the one where they just shove stuff to get it out of the way. It's a hodgepodge of husband's clothes, guitars, random computer stuff, etc.

And we shoved stuff in every last corner:

The first step was to get everything out of the closet. I dumped it all on the bed and started sorting through what was trash, what we'd keep in there and then what would be moved into other bedrooms/closets. Then I sort of sketched out what we needed and headed to Wal-Mart for supplies.

Powered by Diet Coke, I managed to churn this out in about four hours:

You'll notice the box of envelopes is no longer spilling out. I bought cubes to store the pants that hand been hanging (I used a magazine to fold to a uniform size; finally my time working the stock room @ the Disney Store pays off!). I also bought a hanging hat rack to store the husband's growing collection of baseball caps. Suits are housed in garment bags to keep them dust-free.

By putting the cubes on the right hand side, the guitars are still accessible but completely out of the way. I rule.

This is what happened to the stuff I dumped on the bed. I created a storage area of 12 15-gallon clear totes. Each is labeled with it's contents for easy sorting.

My purging yielded an unbelievable number of cables and cords. If you need to plug something in, chances are excellent I have something to help. There are other containers filled with software, peripherals and office supplies. I'm also happy to report that I had two EMPTY ones for future use:

Full set is up on Flickr with notes if you’re interested. I’m proud of my handiwork, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t wake up completely sore and exhausted today.

What's For Dinner (7.22.08)

Take a look at the TV screen behind my plate of food. It's a shot of one of the suitors on Bravo's "Date My Ex: Slade and Jo" (or "Jo & Slade: Date My Ex"). There are few people with my appetite for bad television - I used to liveblog "Extreme Makeover" for God's sake - but this is almost pathetic in a way I almost can't accept.

The stud farm is out of central casting (the shy quiet guy, the personal trainer, the schmaltzy Beverly Hills talent agent), her ex-fiance's eyes are close together to the point where it's distracting, and there are fireplaces. In LA! This is to say nothing of the "best friend" with the spontaneously occurring British voice. And the theme song, Jo's single, "You Can't Control Me." OOH! Irony! Because, like, you know it's her EX who is trying to CONTROL her love life.

Anyway, the only way to get through the show was with more of the Mano A Mano from last night, chicken parm and garlic bread (it was white trash garlic bread from Aldi - the kind that comes in the foil wrapper, pre-smeared with fixins). And let me tell you, it was RAD.

What's For Dinner (7.21.08)

At work today we were discussing my love of Kath Eats (a colleague went to BlogHer). Anyway, after putting dinner on a plate I decided it looked good enough to photograph and here we are.

Pictured are a piece of grilled lemon pepper salmon (half a fillet; the rest will be lunch tomorrow), some mixed greens and Uncle Ben's Long Grain and Wild Rice. The most important part of the meal is the Mano a Mano Tempranillo. In case you were wondering, the second glass was way better than the first.

Sparkle Sparkle

Although I’ve always enjoyed thinking of myself as an artsy, creative, free-spirit time full of whim and whimsy, the fact of the matter is I’m a creature of habit. Whether or not it’s, as my friends say, just me being German I don’t know but whatever it is I like the notion of routine. Freedom through structure, all that jazz.

Anyway, while reading (cough) Organize magazine, I come across an article about this woman named the FlyLady. Apparently overwhelmed by this comprehensive index card system for household management (and we’re talking 1800 index cards), she came up with a more simple approach that has garnered quite the following.

Was I particularly swamped with housework? Well, no. But with a work schedule that’s becoming increasingly hectic, a series of (sad though it sounds) social obligations, etc., I figured it was worth a shot. The premise is easy enough: you do a little bit every morning and every night to keep your house from dissolving into a pig sty. Then, each day of the week you spend a little extra time on a specific set of tasks and then you focus on a particular zone every week. So you have daily chores, weekly chores and then monthly ones.

To wit:

• Every morning I get up, shower, make the bed, eat breakfast, make coffee, feed Truman, blow-dry my hair, wipe down the counters and get dressed (in that order).
• Every night, I eat dinner, load and/or run the dishwasher, clean the counters and sink, put out clothes for the next day, wash my face and read my book before going to sleep.

On a weekly basis:

• Monday is the weekly “house blessing” (their term, not mine), where I run around dusting surfaces, pitching old magazines, cleaning the sliding glass door/mirrors and vacuuming.
• Tuesday is clothes day where I iron stuff and make sure I can find all my shoes.
• Wednesday I clean out the fridge (the first time I did this, I found some Bragg’s purchased in 2005)
• Thursday I hit the grocery store. No more dealing with picked over Lean Cuisines on Sunday!
• Friday I pay bills and write cards.
• Saturday and Sunday I do absolutely nothing but sit on my ass and watch VH1.

Then this week’s challenge for the monthly stuff is the bathroom. Every day you do one thing to make your bathroom less of a sty. Yesterday we washed the shower curtain, today I wiped down the exterior of the john (although! One woman suggested using denture tablets because they do a good job of cleaning porcelain! Who knew!).

And yes, I put each sequence of tasks on index cards and laminated them. They hang near my front door on a book clip. And a label that may or may not read “Amanda’s Chores.” Shut up.

Admittedly OCD as all of this sounds, I’ll be damned if it doesn’t work. My house doesn’t smell like shrimp, I can see the bottom of my closet and I’m not dressing like I should be manning the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese. It generally doesn't take me more than half an hour. I don’t know that I buy into the whole “loving yourself” that's big on the FlyLady scene but I am digging life in the newly-sparkling can-eat-off-the-floor Camp Yupsicle more than usual. Much as I bitch and moan about adulthood, it occasionally has its privileges.