not for the faint of heart

Now, I don't mean to be a prima donna....I don't believe in the 5-second rule. Sometimes I wear my socks twice. And I've been known to let Powder sleep next to my face even when she has kitty litter paws.

That being said—a lady has standards.

And expectations.

And legal documents stating that when I arrived at my new rental house on moving day, this would not be in the front yard:

If I'd been in the market for motor oil, unidentifiable rusted objects, or the quintessential junkyard accoutrement—a tire—then this might have been a nice surprise. But I half expected The Sandlot dog to jump out from under the HVAC duct tubes. What I was really hoping for was, I don't know, a liveable space where I wouldn't get tetanus walking in.

I had higher hopes for the inside, until I saw some little pink fuzzies on the hardwoods ... harmless, right?


Oh no wait.

That's fiberglass, people. Not to be touched, inhaled, or (ideally) projected from your air conditioning vents. Some even call it a "health hazard."

Hoping for better luck in the bathroom, I instead found this turd swamp in the sink.

And HIV around the toilet/bathtub.

And then hepatitis dripping from above the stove.

I thought about relocating the homeless shelter there, but instead I started researching tenant/landlord rights, calling a lawyer, etc. Because my "landlord" (I can't even call him that with a straight face) was a lawyer, I figured I'd need to be well equipped to fight getting out of my lease. Even though he was clearly in breach of contract since he hadn't done anything to prepare the house for me to move in. I know it looks nasty, but I've seen a million episodes of Hidden Potential and dammit, I knew that place would be perfect for me if it was just cleaned up. Instead, the two disgusting potheads who previously lived there decided to dump their life in the yard, then the landlord left the house for dead and didn't even have the courtesy to call me before my moving day to let me know, oh by the way—bellybutton hole lint, body odor, and acrylic nails had a baby and named it 403 W. Monroe.

clip ties and aviators

It's amazing how much you learn about someone after the fact. Tomorrow will mark two months since my dad passed away, and I'm finally starting to experience days here and there when the weight is not so heavy. I was anxious about cleaning out his house, because it contains two generations of stuff, since my grandparents lived there before him. The notoriously depressing scene of uncovering photographs and old clothes and knickknacks that spar forgotten memories...I dreaded all of that. And don't get me wrong, it's impossible to make emotional or physical progress without all of that mixed in. But the whole "sifting" process—trash, Ebay, keep, garage sale, appraiser—is starting to be therapeutic. And fascinating. How often do you do an archeological dig into someone's life?

It's so hard as a child to envision your parents as anything but givers of gifts and punishment. They serve a function to you, but they are not like you, in that they couldn't possibly have a "life" like you have a life. Once I left for college, my parents started taking new shapes in my mind. They revealed more of their interests, talked more about their pasts and their mistakes and their relationships. They made lude jokes (hereditary) and cried openly. They couldn't protect me anymore, so they tried to understand me, and eventually that same desire transferred to me. I had learned so much more about my dad since moving last June, but it is still amazing to me that his personality is becoming more and more defined through the remnants I am finding now.

There is a Police Pile, which has weapons (seriously.), a bulletproof vest, ammunition, a BB gun and pellets, department patches, and nightsticks, for good measure. There is a bag full of camera equipment with a tripod and multiple lenses. There are 3 sets of speakers for the hard drive full of classic rock. There are hundreds of burned DVDs and an Excel sheet of their titles. There are flight and driving simulator games. There is a box full of maps from nearly every state, but most are from Colorado. There are pilot charts and photographs from plane shows. Books on everything from whittling to buddhism to bird watching to ... cats. Standard black Bic pens and mini flip-notebooks by the dozen. Hilariously inappropriate jokes printed off the internet. Clip ties and aviators. A lifetime supply of sneakers for a man who didn't run.

It's all so endearing that I have to wait a few days between each session, not because my heart can't take it, but because I want it all to just rest in my mind so each detail can find its own nook to settle in. I laugh out loud more than I cry, and I think that is the genesis of progress.

the shadow

So you know how everyone has those weird thoughts every once in a while, the ones where you think, I wonder what would happen if I just didn't stop at this stoplight and plowed straight into the back of that car? Or like when you're on a roller coaster and you have this flash of oh-my-god-i'm-pretty-100%-sure-my-lap-bar-is-missing-a-screw and then you spend the whole eight minutes frozen in fear of either flying off the ride or actually making it through but then having to walk through the park after peeing yourself? OR (this is my favorite) you glaze over while someone is talking to you and you wish to God that you had an egg to smack over his/her head right then. Just to see the look on their face.

Since Brian brought the hog down to Austin (just kidding, I would never say that...except in super professional situations), this kind of stuff is all I think about. I don't want to say it takes the fun out of riding, because it doesn't. But you kind of have to stop and wonder if it's worth enjoying the wind and sun and freedom when you're mental reel keeps looping these scenes in which you get sideswiped by a car and go flying off the bike and slam into {insert nearest object}. Sunday it was a concrete sidewall, a cliff, a lightpost. Yesterday I decided the best place to get thrown off would be the bridges crossing Town Lake, because you'd totally just fall into the water! Of course they have those concrete supports that might cause some problems on the way down. But you have no idea how excited I was to realize that for those 35 seconds on S 1st, I was totally in the clear. That bridge is my new binky.

I know, I know, these are horrible thoughts and why the hell am I making you read them. I think I'm secretly (or now, very publicly) hoping that if I put them on paper or make someone else think them, then maybe they'll be out of my head. Expunging, if you will.

After a few eye-opening highway rides—one in which Brian was certain that at any second the wind would rip right through the one open snap on his shirt and his button-down would turn into a black cape—we've decided those are just bad bad bad. When we're just riding on normal city streets, I rarely envision my body as a twirling Gumby flipping through the air (in my imagination, I'm super acrobatic. Because it's not really worth becoming paralyzed if you don't execute a perfect 3 1/2 on the way down, right?). Seriously though, I know it's dangerous, and I'm being careful, and I only get to ride it a few times a week, if that. Plus, my dad rode for well over 20 years and never got hurt, so I'm hoping its hereditary...

Fortunately, I'm about to get a three-day break from my mental morbidness while I stick to a different mode of transportation in San Fran called feet.

non-maternal instinct

Oh my gosh you poor blog you. If you were a child, they'd have CPS knocking on my door. I seriously will start paying more attention to you. Just as soooon as I finish a few other things.

this is how I roll

Sometimes you just know it's gonna be one of those days. The kind where you're tearing off your shirt because that tag is so f-ing itchy or you're trying to untangle your headphone wires so viciously that you look like you're starting a lawn mower. The day always gets less awkward and clumsy, but the opening act is just exhausting. Well, I've had a lot of these lately. So many that I sighed out loud just from typing that sentence. After four mornings like this in a row, I forced myself to get a full eight hours of sleep last night, because I couldn't stand the thought of starting off another day wishing I was my Mii so I could triple punch knockout the neighbors cat next person who walked by.

I figured eight hours would do the trick. I wake up, put on my ugliest shirt as a test, didn't immediately want to rip it off, and think yes, this is going to be a good one. I then move to the kitchen because I deserve breakfast on this by God good day, and obviously there's only one thing that would make me happy: a Blanton Blaster McMuffin. I have exactly seven minutes to get out the door—plenty of time to get the goods on the grill, make myself look decent, and be on my way. And I'm alarmingly dexterous this morning! Selecting a pan while grabbing salt from the cabinet, balancing the fridge door with my hip while spraying the skillet. I'm rocking and rolling. Turning on the burner while breaking the—

—only reliably unexpired egg yolk in the house slithers out of its shell and in between the stove and the cabinets. Where did that space even come from? And why the hell did the kitchen designer put it there? I'll tell you why. It was made for this, this eggtastrophe that would set the tone for my day. That space in the cabinet was sent from Satan himself to magnetically suck the goodness out of my Thursday. I watch the viscous blob slow until it clogs the crack, and the yolk breaks upon hitting the floor, leaving me with nothing but a gooey Rorschach test and one minute to spare.

So I was late, hungry, and bitter because I know when I get home, I will have to flush out the vortex of evil with disinfectant so that my apartment doesn't smell like one giant fart.

The good news is, I was inspired to film a documentary called Counting Crows: 1993-2008, starring this egg.

home sweet home

Guess who has a home?! That's right, this big hunk of meowing love is safe and sound at the kitty farm. No, not the same farm that Penny and Duchess and Cassie all went to...that farm is just for tired doggies who miss playing with other doggies all day long. This is a real live farm in Brenham where Sammy will hopefully run off some of his winter weight once he discovers that no not every meal is delivered right to your bowl, some can be properly tortured and decapitated before enjoying. Between meals on wheels and a new black brotha named Spooky, I think he's all set.

national what day?

Today is National Ride Your Bike to Work Day! Which I didn't know until I was pulling out of Whole Foods this morning and nearly hit a biker...with my car.

I'm also proclaiming it National Resurrect Your Blog Day and National Dick Day. Not directly related of course, but I've abandoned the blogging world for a few weeks and I feel bad. As for the other...

National Dick #1: The smoothie guy.
I was early for work today and was desperately cranky and deyhdrated, so I thought maybe I could kill all these birds with one delicious stone: a Whole Foods smoothie. For those not familiar with the 5th/Lamar branch, it's basically the Ikea of grocery stores...I would buy everything in there if it weren't for that impending panic attack. I was ready to slit my wrists by the time I found the smoothie bar, but I got in line like a good, patient customer and watched one-by-one as each person was turned away. Explanation? "We don't open until 8:00 a.m." It was 7:59. And he was standing at the register, waiting. Very Meet the Parents. I don't know why I was suprised one minute later when I ordered and asked him to not add sugar if it called for it, and he laughed. LAUGHED. Because, how dare I think Whole Foods of all places would commit the cardinal sin of adding sugar! Mmmmkay.

National Dick #2: Roid-Rage Dude
Sometimes I like getting flipped off for no reason, I really do. Just because it's so absurdly unwarranted that it makes me laugh out loud. So after the smoothie, I'm just chilling in my lane, going the speed limit, wondering why the right side of the street is so backed up when Dick #2 peels out of the clog and into my lane in front of me. We weren't close to hitting, I didn't honk at him (this took great patience), and I didn't tail him afterwards (again...great patience). But still, I got the finger. No clue why, it's not my fault he's driving a Dodge Caravan.

National Dick #3: Me
Sammy (i.e. Dad's big fat cat that needs a home) and I had a battle of wills early this morning. I knew he needed to go to the vet and he knew he hated me. You'd think having a 6:1 advantage weight-wise would've made this a pretty easy capture, but you don't know how scared I am of clawed felines. There was a lot of fumbling, hissing, and straight up resourcefulness (who knew you could use a drapery rod as a cattle prod?) but ultimately Sammy found his way into a duffel bag. I felt terrible zipping it closed but after escape attempt #1, what was I supposed to do? If he'd been my cat, I would have drugged him with some kitty valium. But he's not, and I didn't, and now he thinks I'm the devil. If it makes it any better, I actually cried...that's right...cried when I zipped Sammy's ghetto carrier shut. I knew I was soft when it came to my disciplining strategies but seriously? I'm going to be a terrible parent. Anyone else want to play bad cop?

But anyway, my blog hiatus is hopefully over for now, and I'm hoping Dick Day was just a half day. Many props to you if you rode your bike to work! And if you needed one more reason to celebrate, it's also the anniversary of the invention of the first laser (see Google logo). Can't beat that.