Wicked Good

When I was in undergrad my fellow poli sci girlfriends and I took an International Relations course, which was required, and taught by a very energetic professor. She would come to class with UN helmets on the day we were supposed to learn about, well, the UN. Her class was worth getting up for only because it was a comedy routine. There are two things I remember about this class: 1) I know what OPEC stands for, and 2) I learned what a Boston accent sounded like for the first time.

One day she began talking about the Quber missile crisis. The three of us stopped scribing our notes and looked puzzled at one another. Quber? It took another two lectures for us to figure out she was talking about the Cuba missile crisis of the 60's. She was from Boston.

In 3 short weeks, J, Edgar, and I will be packing up and moving to the land of "Ha-vahd," where somehow all "r's" were lost in the English language. J landed a fellowship at the famed crimson establishment and well, its just not something you pass up. So we're trading in the life of playing cornhole (yes, it is a game) and race car ya ya's for the land that is NOT brought to you by the letter R...unless the word ends with an "A" and then you add the "r". (e.g. Cuba-r and Idea-r)

We went out to find housing just two weeks ago. Lemme put it this way, it was an "adventure." I had done my research before going. Because rent is so expensive, real estate agents make their money by charging a fee if they are the ones who show you the property. The fee is usually equal to one month of rent. J and I had less than 48 hours to find housing so we were really pushed for time. I called and found a couple of agents who seemed like they were more than willing to do research for properties matching our requests and take the day to show us around.

Our first appointment on Saturday morning was 1.5 hours late. He showed up in an old SUV with the engine light on, the gas warning tank light blinking, and no seat belt. He lead us to the charming neighborhood of Beacon Hill. Envision brick lined sidewalks and brownstones. Beautiful right? And a pretty penny. Our first "showing" was up a narrow staircase to the front door. This led down a 30 foot hallway with oddly enough, an intercom in the middle. Now why you need that is beyond me. There were two tiny bedrooms at the end of the hallway, a bath, and one tiny kitchen with a window that overlooked the conduit system for the heat. They wanted something like $1700 for that. We figured we only could go up from here.

We couldn't get into the second place and so our guide dropped us off while he was (surprise, surprise) late for another showing with people who were calling him. J and I wandered a bit around the neighborhood to find that the old coal delivery doors are actually now turned into people's front doors because the real estate is so prime. Its like Alice in Wonderland and I seriously needed something to drink quickly.

Our next agent picked us up in his Audi and drove like a maniac out to Alewife (hey, you've got to love the name) while chatting on his cell the whole time trying to make a deal. We saw the "full service, luxury building" with a 24-hour concierge (what in the hell will I need a concierge for anyway?) but only after the leasing manager took our drivers licenses hostage first. As if we were going to lock the door behind him and say, "Dibs! This apartment is mine!" Then after the tour he said they didn't allow dogs. Um, ok, deal breaker.

We drove back to the city and into a place called Brookline to another "luxury" building. Again, what the hell will I need a concierge for? There a quick talking Asian leasing agent was so busy she took a bunch of us and our agents on a group tour to see the "large one bedroom" (600 sq. feet) which came with a parking spot (for a mere $400/month) in addition to the $2700/month rent. I was depressed driving up to the white 1960's building and smelling what other tenants were cooking while walking down the hallways. I seriously wanted to cry by now.

The last place he took us was back in Beacon Hill and the tenant refused to let us enter. At that point, the agent said he ran out of places to show us and proceeded to line up another showing for another client over the phone in the Fenway area. Highly discouraged by the "hospitality" of the agents, J and I wandered down the street looking for lunch at 3:00. We tried the French restaurant by MGH only to be greeted with a, "Veer closed! You read door! Closed!" and shooing motions. I responded, "See, we don't need to go to Paris. We just experienced it first hand here!" We ended up at a tavern for a large beer and lunch. There I began to call whatever craigslist leads I had to schedule our own damn appointments.

32 oz of Samuel Adams later, we hopped on the T and rode out to Cambridge to meet another agent. I couldn't help but believe that she is my stereotype for what we will find out there. Here was a young mid-20's female who used words like "ubiquitous" in regular sentences, had two liberal art degrees in music management and music theory, didn't know what to do so got her real estate license and is now thinking she might go back for some "post-bachelors" classes for pre-med. Oh, and by the way, NPR was her station of choice in her father's minivan with the handicap sticker.

She showed us a place for $1700/month that literally had a 3 ft by 3 ft HOLE in the kitchen floor. Yes, a burned HOLE...for $1700 and no parking, no air, no washer/dryer, no dishwasher, no disposal, no nothing. But it did have its bathroom linoleum peeling away from the edge of the bathtub. After showing this to us, the agent had the audacity to ask, "So, do you want to jump on this?" Um, gee, let me really think about this one. Once she dropped us off at the T she called us back to say that it was an exclusive listing and we couldn't call the landlord directly to haggle with him. I think its safe to say we wouldn't be doing that. Then, we watched a drug deal go down. As you can tell, our first impressions of our new city weren't going so well.

Our last showing of the day was out in Allston where we took the T and then caught the bus to land at a loft apartment across the street from the fire station. It was beautiful, but really small. I mean really, really, small. However, it was the best thing we saw all day. At this point we missed our dinner reservations which I envisioned us getting a bottle of champagne to celebrate our new digs. Oh, not so much. We ended up in the hotel restaurant at 10:00 PM just trying to get by.

The next morning, we ate again in the hotel and had the same waiter from our previous breakfast. He asked about our progress to which we said, "It sucks." After breakfast, we took a taxi out to Watertown, Massachusetts. There we saw a duplex. Hardwood floors, a fireplace, crown molding, picture rail, claw foot tub, built in cabinetry in the butler's pantry, and a small yard. I was ready to throw the landlord any amount of money possible to secure this place. I didn't care it was an hour commute in or that it had oil heat. Stick a fork in me, I'm done. She said that she had another couple of parties that were seriously interested and she had to do due diligence checking out references, etc.. She would email us applications and would let us know by the end of the week.

We took the bus back to the T and then off to another agent to see two more places. The first resembled that awful 1960's building only think 1980's and the second was a "triple decker," where we would be on floor two. It was a bit basic (think no amenities), but definitely a possibility. It was also close to the T.

By now, we're both feeling a lot more encouraged and grabbed Indian buffet for lunch to celebrate before getting on the plane. I spent the next week filling out applications, tracking down credit references, finding personal references, and whatnot trying to secure the place in Watertown. I finally heard on Saturday that we got it. Hot damn! Since that time J and I have been wandering around talking to Edgar saying things like, "You're going to be a Beantown Bubba!" However, endorphins wear off quickly as task lists grow. Resign from work (check). Pack. Sell car. Find movers. Complete house sell here. Set up utilities. Rent uhall if needed. Get medication refills. As you can see the list is growing.

While many will be out this weekend by the pool celebrating the 80 degree weather and race day down at the Brickyard. I will be amidst cardboard boxes, Goodwill piles, and trying to keep calm.

Two Stories

I know, I know, its been awhile. Man, do I have some stories to tell you! Sometimes life is like that where events just line up all at once and then you go through dry spells. I guess what I can do is summarize a few of my updates first.

1) We (ok, really just I) fixed the blue screen of death on the second computer. I figured it had been long enough waiting for my husband to tinker with it with all of his free time. Read: there is no free time. The sucker had been down since Feburary 6th. Yes, you read correctly: Feburary 6th (but who's counting, right?). I did some research to see who was reputable and hired Bruce from Computer Housecalls to come out without the consent of my husband. I wanted it to be a surprise. 2.5 hours later of Bruce scratching his head from all of the security measures put into place he commented, "Well, if this doctor thing doesn't work out, your husband could have a job being a systems administrator for Fort Knox. I've never seen such security measures on a private computer in my life and I've been in the business for 13 years." I had to laugh. My guy encrypted the system network as a Macintosh (we have PC's), made it invisible for everyone but our computers, and had "creative" passwords on everything that were somewhere around 30 characters long. Yup, this is my husband, God love him. Poor Bruce was so confounded with J's security measures that were protecting our banal photos of Edgar and some spreadsheets from our wedding 2 years ago, that somehow all of our data was lost. He felt terrible and after admitted sleepless nights and another 1.5 hours, he refunded some of our money. He was a great guy who had integrity and I would totally recommend him. Its not his fault that he was disarmed from our own private version of Fort Knox. Some of you may be wondering how J felt about my surprise. "Violated." Yup, that was exactly what he said.

2) My Godmother was back visiting her family and spent time with my mom a couple of weeks ago. She was telling her how upset her children were that she wrote her will and decided to donate her body to science. They were upset that they wouldn't have a place to go visit her...like in the ground. (God, that's creepy) Upon this, my mom shared a story of her own.

Back when my grandfather died (Pop, the one with Alzheimer's, back in Oct 2005), he had his body donated to the local medical school for research. Apparently last Christmas my Aunt got a UPS delivery with all of her other Christmas packages, this one labeled from the University of Utah. Pop's ashes had arrived in a neat small, but dense, box. She has a wicked sense of humor and called my mom to say, "Well, Daddy's here." All 3 sisters swore each other to secrecy not to tell Ginny as it was around Christmas and they didn't want to upset her. Pop got put in the basement next to the wine and canned goods. A few months later, Ginny began to perseverate on where in the hell her husband was. After all, it had been over two years. Well, she called the school of medicine who informed her that my Aunt had indeed signed for his remains. Ginny, also with the wicked sense of humor, called my Aunt to say, "I hear you have an unusual house guest." It took my Aunt a minute to figure out what she was talking about, because by now, Pop's ashes were just hanging out and quite easily forgotten. Ginny was apparently quite upset that none of the girls told her as she had a "right to know, dammit." I don't think she wants to visit the ashes per say, but apparently Pop is just going to hang out next to the cases of wine, old bundt pans, and whatnot until Ginny's remains get returned from the medical school as well and then, we're all supposed to spread them somewhere together.

I've asked that my husband also donate my body to science like the rest of my family. His response was, "Hell, no." He used to be an anatomy instructor and really does not want me to be hung up in a cold locker by my ears until they use me. I figure, why not? God, just don't bury me. This is ironic as I have a death fear of fire, but I couldn't imagine being in the ground where its dark, dank, and icky.

Exercise in Parenting

Ever since I brought Edgar home with me 2.5 years ago, my mother has joked that he has been preparing me for children. From the puking in the middle of the night, numerous favorite toys that have visited the "surgeon" because he's destroyed them (mostly Mr. Quail), houndini's multiple escape tricks and subsequent messes he left in his wake, and even the special food I spent HOURS trying to find the distributor for when I moved to Indy. We even gave him swimming lessons having him watch Hannah, our neighbor's lab, jump in the lake after toys before letting him test the waters. I think yesterday put us over the top.

In the beginning of May, J and I are taking a much-needed "vacation" to the East Coast. I write that it is a "vacation" because we're hoping to mix some pleasure in with the business. Typically we buy Edgar a posh ride with us in the cargo unit of the airplane when we go back to Utah. He even has his special sweater and decorated dog crate complete with a letter to the ground crews and an extra baggy of food just in case (see previous entries where this went completely wrong thanks to Fernando). This trip, we are leaving Edgar here for the very first time.

Both of us have been quite anxious about this. Edgar? In a metal cage? For almost 3 days? It just seems cruel. (Says the ex-vet tech who took care of many animals that boarded in the clinic.) We found an alternative: cage free boarding. The dogs get to run around, play, have someone there 24 hours a day, sleep in the beds with the humans, etc. Sounds ideal, right? (Ok, ideal would be bringing him with us but I do realize he is a DOG.)

Last weekend I inquired about making a reservation. The lady told me that he had to come for an evaluation/interview where they could see how he does with the other dogs, introduce him slowly to larger breeds, and judge his temperament to then assign him a colored collar which we would pay for, of course. If he passed the evaluation, then he would need to come for a full day of doggy day care before we could make the reservation for his stay. I felt as if we were interviewing for the city's most elite private preschool...with our dog.

Our evaluation appointment was at 11:30 yesterday. My husband filled out the 4-page questionnaire about his diet, his playtime, his preferences on size/gender of other playmate dogs, how he expressed happiness, commands he knows, etc. I was pretty amazed actually to see how he filled it out so completely without raising an eyebrow. We then had to leave him for an hour. We ended up in one of the most she-she suburbs of Indy grabbing a trendy wrap for lunch and cafe au lait before returning.

We got a tour of the place and I secretly worried what color-coded collar Edgar would get.

"Red is for dominant, blue is for even tempered, green is for timid, pink is for special needs, and orange is for medication." The behavior specialist explained. "Edgar is a blue."

I let out a sigh of relief and pride. I swear it was like someone telling me that my kid had been accepted to the private, most expensive, Jesuit college prep preschool where only PhD's teach the 3 year olds and are certified in child development. We paid our handsome fee for the privilege of passing the evaluation and booked his doggy day care for later this week.

To reward Edgar for his fantastic behavior we took him to the local organic dairy creamery for some ice cream and to sit out on the deck so he could watch the free-range chickens. Ok, so we ate the ice cream, but he did get a lick of my organic strawberry flavored bit of heaven. We even took him to the dog park after, but he was too exhausted to really interact with the other dogs and in fact was more of an only child wallflower hanging out with his parents. Reminded me of Sixteen Candles where the parents are taking their child to the dance and barring the doors to the gym while he yelled, "I just wanna be with you guys!" Alas, he was tired. So we went to Brugge Brasserie for Belgian beer and to sit on the patio (Edgar on the outside of the rail for Health Dept standards) where he sat just like a good dog the whole time.

Two conclusions from my experience: No doubt in my mind, Edgar is the best dog ever; and Oh.My.God what kind of a parent am I going to be?!?

Wii Porn

Before our trip to Australia, my husband spent hours if not, days, surfing the Internet and drooling into the keyboard. Things like pixel size, DX crop mode, expanded sensitivity range, and auto focus got his blood pumping. We began to call his small obsession with underwater digital cameras, "J's porn." After months of browsing and actually visiting mega electronic stores, we finally agreed that we should purchase a camera. We had one, but it started acting up days before we got on the plane. Somehow indulging my husband's fantasy of having a new James Bond gadget seemed more rational than just buying a new battery for our existing, non-waterproof camera.

My one big worry with buying this new gadget is which new porn item will compete and successfully take over his interest? Well, for awhile it was the iPhone. I believe most women can relate to this, especially my girlfriend who sends me my own version of porn (oooh, Sims expansion packs...) and calls to check in on me from her iPhone that her husband gave her. She, by the way, loves her new gadget. J still has his old phone from the early 2000's that still works beautifully and is rationalizing keeping it until the new version of the iPhone is released so he can run things like pharmacy software on it.

The other competing interest has been the Wii. I believe part of his preoccupation can be blamed on the fact that it is in such high demand and you can't find it anywhere. J has checked Costco's website faithfully every week for over a year to see if they are in stock. They never are. Why Costco? Because it is his mecca. And truly, what could be better and more emotionally fulfilling than not only getting a Wii, but getting it WHOLESALE and bundled in a package only meant for those with membership at the mecca? This is true vindication for my man. It would be meeting that primal instinct of going out and killing a woolly mammoth and dragging it back to the cave...only this would be a lot less messy and has the promise of things like Guitar Hero III.

Yesterday, the Wii was at Costco. J stood next to the 11 year old boy in his karate outfit staring at the disappearing consoles snatched up by mostly grandparents.

"I've been here for 5 minutes and that they are almost gone." Said the little boy.

"But look, there's another palate underneath this one. There are still a few more left." J replied as two more people put the bundled package in their carts and wandered off.

"I never see them. I always look, but they are never here." The little boy didn't take his eyes off the dwindling supply but never got enough courage to touch one of them.

"I saw them here once in August of last year. It was a Tuesday." J replied. (I'm so not making this up...this is exactly what he said.)

I finally asked if J wanted to put one in our cart and wander around with it, contemplating the pros and cons of buying it. He reluctantly declined. By the time we were getting our weekly supply of milk and yogurt J mentioned that he felt really bad for the little boy. My social work side kicked in and I asked if he was projecting. Did he really feel bad for the little boy, or just himself? Both, he decided. We wandered back to the Wii. We passed the little boy and his father.

"Look, his dad has about $80 or more in wine in his cart, but no Wii." J lamented and passed a sympathy glance to his karate compadre.

By now the last palate had been exposed and an employee was collapsing the cardboard. J had a small discussion about the supply/demand and shipment regularity. In there eBay was mentioned by the employee and I swear I saw my husband shudder a bit.

"They are never here. Good idea: getting a Wii. Bad idea: paying $350 for a Wii when we have a lot of expenses coming up." He said logically.

"Wait a minute, we also have a lot to do in a very short amount of time and this would suck the time. And, we still have the blue screen of death on our other computer. We've bought an external hard drive, but we still haven't fixed our other computer. That decides it. No, we will not buy it until we have our first computer fixed." I said and began to push the cart away from my husband who was still standing by the Wii's.

"That's your addiction talking." He retorted. "You just want the computer up so you can play the Sims!"

"No, if it were up to me, I would have trashed our computer and bought a new one already." I was also dreaming of a faster processor.

"Well, I feel good about backing up your files with the external drive."

"We've done it once."

"How many new files do you have?"

"I don't know. I don't keep track. Quite a few I'm guessing." Its not like I'm keeping a log of what new documents I'm creating. "Ok, lets go."

J is now dragging his feet behind me towards the checkout. His brow is furrowed and his sighs are heavy.

"Ok, fine. Go get the Wii." I said and he was off lickety split almost skipping back to retrieve his beloved electronic console.

I ended up checking out, paying, and then waiting for him to not only show up with the Wii but also the cedar planks for our favorite salmon recipe. He was beaming, friendly to everyone, and I was a bit afraid he would burst into song and dance. He does this often when he's happy or tired. I'm always amazed by his confidence and lack of really caring what others think about him. Our kids when they are in their tweens and teens will HATE him for it. Oh well.

As we were leaving the store, J commented, "Well, now I feel better. We can decide if we want the Wii in our own time and get the option of taking it back in 90 days." Sooooo my husband. His theme song should be "I like to take my time" by Mr. Rogers.

"You're right. Its much better to have the option of feeling vindication versus just regret."

"Exactly. I'm 33 and I have my very own Wii."

Just call him Azrael

Our conversation last night getting ready for bed:

"Did I tell you what happened when I was on call?"

"No, what happened?"

"Well, I had this patient and she seemed to like me. Earlier I went into her room she was on the phone and she said she had to go because 'the nice doctor was there with the good beside manner.' So I decided to have a conversation about her code status. Well the next time I saw her she told me that I frightened her."

"What? You frighten her?"

"Yeah, weird, right? So I asked her why and she said, 'Sometimes I wonder if God has sent me the Angel of Death and I've met him.'"

I swear I laughed so hard I peed my pants just a little.

School of Rock

Recent conversation in the car with BAD Indiana radio on in the background. Song playing: Van Halen's "Panama."

"Dude, this reminds me of something on Guitar Hero." J begins to bob his head. "Where did this kind of rock go? Have you heard the new Eddie Vedder songs? I mean, they don't even sound like this."

"That's because this isn't Pearl Jam." I reply.

"Yeah, I know, its Van Halen."

"Eddie Vedder played in Pearl Jam. Eddie Van Halen was Van Halen."

"No wonder it doesn't have the same sound."

"Yeah, ok, I'm going to start calling you after my Mom. She kept calling Bon Jovi, Moonjavi."

"Shut up, dude." J immediately turns it up and begins to make up lyrics to sing along with the squealing David Lee Roth.

Synchronicity

I firmly believe that everything happens for a reason. I also believe in the power of manifestation and synchronicity. Once I took a strengths profile test and one of my largest values was connectedness. I guess you could say on a scale of 1-10 for spirituality, I'm about a 56.

Today we are one step closer to being a Pottery Barn magazine layout house. The painter has come and gone and I now have fresh walls, bright ceilings, and an accent wall. The color itself is Restoration Hardware's Cappuccino although I, myself, might have called it "Putty." Its a muddy green. That's about the best I can describe it and although I remarked to our painter, "Wow, I feel like I should dress in camouflage to match the army green walls," (it was wet and a lot darker at the time), he replied, "Its very hip and in." And, it is. The room looks amazing.

Side note: one of my original childhood dream jobs was to name colors. I would sit and look at my mom's makeup colors: seashell pink, dusty mauve, iris. I would study the colors and wonder how I would rename them. I thought this would be a fun job as it was a great blend of writing, style, and marketing. I reflect on it time to time when I buy new makeup (like Diva lipstick or I'm Not Really a Waitress nail polish) and recently with the paint colors. Anyway, moving on with my story...

Both J and I were on call Thursday night. It wasn't restful for either of us and I was actually late in meeting our painter at our house in the morning. As I shook off my sleep inertia, I brewed a pot of coffee and sat down on the floor to chat with our painter, Tom. Within about 20 minutes I learned his story: a social worker who does part time organizational development consulting. Are you freakin' kidding me?!? This is THE field I want to break into (preferably in health care) and the Universe sends me a career coach to make over my home and perhaps my outlook on my career.

There are moments, perhaps even full experiences, where your mind engages so quickly you can't even stop to take a breath because it is so filled with inspiration. My morning with Tom was that kind of experience. I took notes, I asked questions, he challenged my assumptions and raised the bar. It was synergistic and I realized that paying this guy almost $600 for 10 hours to paint was a bargain compared to with how much a career coach would cost for the same amount of time. I ended up running to get burgers and bought the guy lunch; it was the least I could do and he was appreciative as no other client had done that for him. Remember, I am my mother's daughter and if my kitchen wasn't torn up I would have baked cookies.

After 8 hours of painting and consulting my brain grew weak especially on 4.5 hours of sleep. One of my finest moments of impressing my new found mentor was stepping in the tray of paint and tipping it over. I'm not kidding. Somehow it all just remained on the cardboard box and my one white sock (now not so white). Embarrassing 101.

J stumbled through the door with only 30 minutes of Z's under his belt on a 33 hour shift. He fell into a sleep coma shortly after his arrival. Tom and I chatted away and then he taught me painting tricks. For instance: no need to wash the walls before painting unless you are doing the kitchen, which you need to degrease. Of course, J and I did it the hard way because the Orange Bible said so. But then again, we typically do things the hard way. Ok, let me rephrase: I don't do things the hard way, but he does and managing his OCD tendencies is more time consuming than just doing the 15 extra steps. We talked about primer and primary colors and brushes and, well, you get the picture. Truly, what an amazing day: a nice blend of head and physical labor. It was better than therapy.