Life's good in the big city. My apartment is still full of boxes, and my refrigerator is still empty save for a beer and leftover hot wings. But I now have a microwave, and a broom, and a brand-new bed with a brand-new comforter and a bunch of those matching throw pillows that I've always wanted to have but never bothered to buy.
I'm also digging through a mountain of boxes rescued from my storage unit, many of which I haven't seen or touched in about three years. It's a little bit like Christmas, especially when I found my favorite coffee mug with Santa's sleigh crashed into an outhouse and Santa yelling, "Dammit, Rudolph, I said the SCHMITT house!" Life's little pleasures...
I have to put in a plug for my friend's first novel, Into the Wild, which was released today. Sarah Beth Durst (I knew her way back when she was Sarah Angelini and writing plays for college theater) is incredibly talented and really just one of the best people you could ever hope to meet. Especially when you're a timid college freshman working on your first production (I was a stagehand, and I got to play a maid in one scene). Sarah and her book deserve their own post, devoid of off-color humor about flying reindeer, and I will do my best to write them one soon. The cable guy cometh to my apartment this Saturday, and I'll be back online for real then. In the meantime, check out www.sarahbethdurst.com.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Friday, June 15, 2007
VacationBlog, Interrupted
Someday I promise I will finish the tale of my vacation adventures. But, as I said, so much for plans.
I returned from vacation a day late, because I foolishly violated the fourth rule of travel:
I promised myself when I started this blog that I would never whine about my boyfriend unless I could find some humor in the situation to offset the whining. So let's just say that I'm still looking for something to laugh about here. Soon as I find it, I'll let y'all in on the joke.
We're not breaking up completely; we're just moving from committed cohabitation to semi-committed semi-cohabitation. As in I'll still make the trek down to the sticks sometimes, and he says that he'll come spend some nights in my new apartment. But that may just be because he knows I got cable...
I love my apartment. I answered the ad on Monday, saw the place on Tuesday, and signed the lease on Wednesday. When I decide to turn my life completely upside down, at least I'm quick and efficient about it. But I have a sunroom in front and a deck in back, and a walk-in closet somewhere in the middle. I don't think I paid much attention to anything after I saw the closet. My landlord probably thought I wasn't impressed; I was just mentally arranging my wardrobe and imagining a life where clothes come off the hangers without wrinkles from being shoved into a space the size of, well, a non-walk-in closet.
There are still great vacation stories to be told. Like how, after two skin-cancer-conscious days at the beach, I got a raging sunburn from sitting in traffic with the SUV's sunroof open, and about my great relief that most of the guys at my 10th college reunion still had most of their hair. But I must depart. After two years of cohabitation and several before that with well-supplied roommates, I am lacking in many basic necessities of the single life. Like a broom. And a microwave. And a pint of Ben & Jerry's.
I returned from vacation a day late, because I foolishly violated the fourth rule of travel:
- Never book yourself on the last flight out of town; it WILL be cancelled.
I promised myself when I started this blog that I would never whine about my boyfriend unless I could find some humor in the situation to offset the whining. So let's just say that I'm still looking for something to laugh about here. Soon as I find it, I'll let y'all in on the joke.
We're not breaking up completely; we're just moving from committed cohabitation to semi-committed semi-cohabitation. As in I'll still make the trek down to the sticks sometimes, and he says that he'll come spend some nights in my new apartment. But that may just be because he knows I got cable...
I love my apartment. I answered the ad on Monday, saw the place on Tuesday, and signed the lease on Wednesday. When I decide to turn my life completely upside down, at least I'm quick and efficient about it. But I have a sunroom in front and a deck in back, and a walk-in closet somewhere in the middle. I don't think I paid much attention to anything after I saw the closet. My landlord probably thought I wasn't impressed; I was just mentally arranging my wardrobe and imagining a life where clothes come off the hangers without wrinkles from being shoved into a space the size of, well, a non-walk-in closet.
There are still great vacation stories to be told. Like how, after two skin-cancer-conscious days at the beach, I got a raging sunburn from sitting in traffic with the SUV's sunroof open, and about my great relief that most of the guys at my 10th college reunion still had most of their hair. But I must depart. After two years of cohabitation and several before that with well-supplied roommates, I am lacking in many basic necessities of the single life. Like a broom. And a microwave. And a pint of Ben & Jerry's.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
VacationBlog, Part One
The plan (and there always is a plan, though it rarely ever works) was to make regular blog posts from vacation. So much for the plan.
I left town a week ago Friday, giddy with a sense of accomplishment at having packed nine days worth of vacation necessities (including my one-quart plastic Ziploc bag of 3-ounce containers of liquids and gels) into two carry-on-able bags. I had managed to achieve three of the primary goals of stress-free travel:
Saturday dawned hot and sunny, so we headed for the beach after making an appearance at the annual church picnic. Virginia Beach was much like I remembered it: crowded with tourists and noisy kids, but still a beach. Which is good enough for me. Bring on the sunblock.
Post-beach, we headed out for the next item on my vacation must-do list: seafood. A pound of shellfish and a margarita later, I was trying to remember exactly why I had moved to an all-but-landlocked state. Then we were ready to really party.
We headed out to for a night of dancing and drinking, bringing along my old roommate's newly-divorced friend. We promised her a crash course in 21st-century dating, and did our best to deliver. Unfortunately, we couldn't convince her to have a "Tie Me to the Bedpost" (tastes kind of like fruit punch -- very dangerous), but she did try the ones we were drinking. We also sent her out to two-step over her protests that she didn't know how, and were pleased to see that she almost seemed to be enjoying herself by the end of the song. By that point, I was enjoying my second large fruity drink and the occasional attentions of a sailor who made it his personal mission to see if he could dip me low enough to make my hair touch the floor (he did). Note to those who were at my bachelorette party lo those many years ago: this was not the same bar. Unfortunately, there was no bull in this one. At least not the mechanical kind.
More on my coastal adventures in a later post.
I left town a week ago Friday, giddy with a sense of accomplishment at having packed nine days worth of vacation necessities (including my one-quart plastic Ziploc bag of 3-ounce containers of liquids and gels) into two carry-on-able bags. I had managed to achieve three of the primary goals of stress-free travel:
- Never check luggage.
- Never fly a bankrupt airline.
- Never travel with a person who hates to travel.
Saturday dawned hot and sunny, so we headed for the beach after making an appearance at the annual church picnic. Virginia Beach was much like I remembered it: crowded with tourists and noisy kids, but still a beach. Which is good enough for me. Bring on the sunblock.
Post-beach, we headed out for the next item on my vacation must-do list: seafood. A pound of shellfish and a margarita later, I was trying to remember exactly why I had moved to an all-but-landlocked state. Then we were ready to really party.
We headed out to for a night of dancing and drinking, bringing along my old roommate's newly-divorced friend. We promised her a crash course in 21st-century dating, and did our best to deliver. Unfortunately, we couldn't convince her to have a "Tie Me to the Bedpost" (tastes kind of like fruit punch -- very dangerous), but she did try the ones we were drinking. We also sent her out to two-step over her protests that she didn't know how, and were pleased to see that she almost seemed to be enjoying herself by the end of the song. By that point, I was enjoying my second large fruity drink and the occasional attentions of a sailor who made it his personal mission to see if he could dip me low enough to make my hair touch the floor (he did). Note to those who were at my bachelorette party lo those many years ago: this was not the same bar. Unfortunately, there was no bull in this one. At least not the mechanical kind.
More on my coastal adventures in a later post.
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