Life for Rent…Current Tenant To Be Evicted

One of the really, really cool things about my job is that I get exposed to a lot of really wonderful books, books that I would have otherwise never known about. Shortly after moving here, two years ago, I came across a truly compelling title: I Feel Earthquakes More Often than They Happen: Coming to California in the Age of Schwarzenegger. It was a brand-new title, and the parallel to my own life gave me pause. I checked it out, but never finished reading it. But after this week, I think I’d better.

Before I moved, I heard somewhere, from someone, that they had heard that earthquakes happen all the time, every day, all over California, but that most of them were too small to notice. And damned if that person–whoever the hell it was–wasn’t right. I’ve been here two years, and have only felt three:

1. A 3.8, back when I first moved to California. I called up LoPrete, terrified and crying, convinced that it was time to move back home to Indiana after a whole whopping three weeks. That earthquake rolled from one end of my apartment to the other, and the cats were extremely unimpressed.

2. The next one that I felt didn’t happen until a year-and-a-half later, and I was asleep on a friend’s couch. At 4 AM, something woke me up; I wasn’t even certain it was an earthquake until I checked teh interweb two hours later. That one was a small one, and I only felt it because it was close by.

3. Tuesday. Ah, yes. Tuesday. There was no missing, no mistaking that one. I was on the reference desk, on the phone with a very high-maintenance, chatty patron, and I felt a tiny tremble. My chair bounced just a little–but I suspected I was just imagining it. Then my chair bounced again, just the tiniest bit, and I knew we had had a little tremblor. I resolved to hop on the USGS when I got off the phone with Miss Chatty McChatterson–and then, two seconds later, the floor began to bounce. Overhead, I heard the ceiling shifting, around us, I heard the building groan a little. You know what an earthquake feels like? It feels like your inner balance is off, out of whack, that you’ve got a little bit of vertigo, that you are on a rolling ship. For a tiny sliver of time, solid ground becomes a myth, something you foolishly took for granted all those years. For a tiny sliver of time, you look at those solid walls and think, Wow, those things are really flimsy. They are bouncing around as much as I am right now.

All this time, up until now, I haven’t felt earthquakes more often than they happen. Like most others here, I don’t notice, just like the folks said before I moved out here. There have been a few minor earthquakes that I somehow just completely missed. But not now. Since Tuesday, I have been feeling earthquakes more often than they happen. Maybe that actually IS vertigo, but every time I even think I sense an unsteadiness, fear and apprehension begin to build. I become very conscious of the ground, and how solid it is–and for how much longer it will stay that way. I’ve felt tremblors, and they haven’t actually happened. They are phantoms of my imagination, mental conjurings that maybe are good for me, a way to learn to prepare. Because like almost every californicated person, I’ve been lulled into that sense of security that is so completely stupid.

I’m pretty sure that my California friends–Jeana, Katie, Nando–are reading this right now, chuckling. Yesyes, I am still green, a big wuss. I’ve handled Los Angeles traffic, I’ve developed a love for avacodos, I am even contemplating pedicures–but I guess the Californication process is not yet complete. I am not sure that earthquakes are something I’ll ever really acclimate to. I’m not sure I can really get acclimated to buildings that bounce.

One thing that has definitely improved since I moved to the desert is my social life. For that, at least, I should be thankful–now that I am no longer spending 2 hours a day commuting, and living my life all willy-nilly, I’ve managed to buckle down and make some friends. Seriously, moving out here feels a bit like I have given myself a promotion to a new life–and I’m okay with this!

Tonight’s activity was nothing more flashy than a movie night at my friend S’s house…we ventured out for some very very good Chinese food, and as we returned to her (obnoxiously located in a gated-community) condo, I noticed these little guys:

(This photo is very misleading. That color green you see? Completely unnatural, and the reason California’s having a water crisis. Once you step out of the gated communities into the desert world, everything’s either brown or tan.)

Apparently, Thumper’s got a few cousins that have a thing for cacti and ocotillo. Equally apparently, they don’t need a gate code.

I am trying to instate a Sunday tradition of having some of my Beaumont friends over for Buffy and drinks. So far, we’ve done it twice, and I suspect that this does not a tradition make. Nevertheless, we’re working on it. And in the meantime, I ply them with drinks–with little umbrellas in them! I think once you serve a drink with an umbrella in it, you have officially become an adult:

Seriously, though, what makes one an “adult”? A career? Paying your bills on time? Getting married? Having children? Knowing which glass to use for which alcohol? I tend not to think any of those things make you a grown-up, but then, I have some pretty effed-up standards, like serving drinks with umbrellas in them. Or remembering peoples’ birthdays and sending cards. Or being able to cook an entire meal. And the more I think about it, those actions/habits don’t make you an adult, they make you a competent human being. And either way, I fail.

But what it boils down to is, I am inching closer and closer to 30, and I still haven’t really began running my life in a very competent manner. Most days, getting up and arriving at work 15 minutes early, perfectly groomed, is the best accomplishment for which I can hope. But I have a sneaking suspicion that I soon ought to begin striving for more.

Normally, I don’t like to blame things on my womanly bits. If I am cranky, or bitchy, or sad, it’s not because I have pms, or I’m on the blob, it’s simply because I am in a cranky, bitchy, or sad mood. I don’t like to blame hormones for anything, because it feels like people use that as an excuse, and really, come on ladies, that’s just lame.

Having said that…this week was Blob Week, and I have never had a more unsatisfactory week. Mood-wise, I was fine–just feeling very lazy, unproductive, tired, and useless. I just got nothing done, personally, and I felt like I wasn’t up to my normal snuff at work, either.

And so one has to wonder–what have I done, all week, to justify a lazy Friday evening, in my jammies, with a bottle of red, red wine? Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that we had to evacuate the library this afternoon, and that later on in the evening, there was a fire? Details are still forthcoming, and frankly, I’m not sure I want to know. Just so long as I can go back to work on Monday. I earned my wine, though, dammit–it’s a big building, and I’ve always wondered what would happen in the event of a crisis. And I can honestly say that this little librarian busted her badonkadonk hustling those patrons out. Seriously, a building without a/c, cooking in 110 degree heat? There’s no way we could have stayed–I am half-expecting the books to sue us for hostile work conditions.

Having exerted myself so much, it’s now time for the pay-off. Wine, solitude, movies, and some long-overdue blogging. I’ll leave you with a couple of pictures of my new place, which is sloooooowly coming together…

As each box is unpacked, broken down, and thrown out, life is slowly starting to wind back down into a normal routine. Moving is an incredibly stressful event, and I’ve already decided not to move again until I have enough money saved up to hire movers to do it for me. I’ve also decided not to move again until I am done with my time here in SoCal, or until I get married/shack up with a life partner. Neither are happening any time really soon, and so I can relax and melt into a puddle of domestically-blissed-out Mel goo.

I do like it here. Already I have learned the funny little quirk of life down here in the desert: do it (it being anything) or don’t do it at all, and wait until October. Almost everywhere else in the country, people get outdoors during the summer and hole up in the winter; here it’s the other way around. 115 degrees is simply too punishing. I find myself day-dreaming a lot about places like Seattle and Asheville, places that are mountainous and cool and rainy and cloudy and humid, but when I catch myself, I shrug it off. And remind myself to put on more sunscreen.

The cats are doing alright with the move, too. Maggie doesn’t seem to be fazed at all; Austen, well, he’s another story. He’s not the brightest kitty, but the first thing he learned at the new place was to pry open a kitchen drawer and dive inside whenever he gets scared. Sometimes I wish I could fit in there with him!

Last night I tried my hand at cooking, with mixed results. I found a recipe for ground-turkey-stuffed peppers which looked yummy…I added the correct amount of milk to the turkey-flour mixture, but I found it a little too runny for my tastes. I added rice to the recipe, but added it a little too late in the process so it’s not entirely cooked, and the whole recipe is not spicy enough. I am excited, though…I think this will be a great recipe to experiment with until I perfect it into my version.

Tomorrow I am going off to San Pedro in the evening to visit my cousins before they move away to another phase in their army life. I am not due over there until later, so I think I am going to get a little adventurous and explore the Queen Mary over in Long Beach. Given my penchant for calamity, it will be a brilliant stroke of luck if I manage to sink the old girl.

Over and out, folks. Have a great weekend!

So much has happened in the past month…things that seem pretty cruddy at the time, even as you intellectually know that it’s all happening for your own good. But all of it pales in comparison with the biggest event of the year: I moved.

In fact, I am currently hanging out in my own home, my Palm Springs condo (rented, not purchased) sipping champagne out of a shotglass that my colleague gave me. Why a shotglass and not a lovely, elegant, art-nouveau-style glass flute? Well, the flutes are packed away, the plastic shot glasses were accessible, and oh my god give me alcohol NOW!

Moving is effing hard work. And you always find out who your true friends are when you move. This move was such a protracted affair, and when the actual furniture got moved, it was apporximately 1,003 degrees outside. But it’s over, for the most part; all that’s left is the best part, which is unpacking and organizing and cleaning and decorating and making it my home. I will stay here for at least three years (simply because I am sick of moving, and I love my job), and it’s nice to think about what can unfold here in this time. Maybe I’ll write a novel, or find real love and companionship as opposed to a stop-gap measure. Maybe I’ll learn to grill on the charcoal grill the previous tenants obligingly left behind. Maybe I will entertain some, and learn to knit. Maybe there should be no “maybe” about any of these possibilities.

At the end of the day, all I know is this: this is the first place I have wanted to live in a very long time. I moved to California because I had to, because the alternative was staying in Indiana and feeling like a mooch with M. and gambling on a very problematic relationship and giving his mother more ammunition against me. I moved to Beaumont because I needed to be close to work and my colleagues. But I moved to Palm Springs because I found a great place to live, in a great city. Except for the lack of heterosexual men, of course. But I found a place where I wanted to be, and for the first time in 2 years, I feel as though I had a choice.

Now pass me that champagne, please.

My sister told me about this site. She warned me about this site. It’s Internet crack for females. But it’s so wonderful!

My two first Polyvore creations:

Ladies, I pass this torch on to you.

Things have been pretty quiet here on the Western front the last couple of weeks. It says a lot that the majority of my social functions are conducted with people from work…yesterday my boss and I went to a Celtic Woman concert down in Palm Desert. We had a really good time! It wasn’t as powerful as the Riverdance performance I went to a few years back, but it certainly was special. It didn’t hurt that the celtic ladies were gorgeous, either! Afterwards, we scooted down to Palm Springs, parked, and began searching for a great place to eat. Fortunately, this is not difficult in the desert. We finally found the best restaurant ever, a tapas-inspired bistro called Azul. It was, dare I say, fabulous? Swanky decor, funky atmosphere, damned good artsy-fartsy food. An order of asparagus, lobster spring rolls, chicken potstickers, and banana spring rolls later, my boss and I were sated. Our inner cats were purring.

Also, I got my economic stimulus rebate! Sorry, Uncle Sam, it’s stimulating my savings account right now. But no worries, the economy will be getting a Mel-sized stimulus when I move to the desert. And anyway, I don’t think anyone, least of all the guv-ment, thinks these rebates are going to make a difference. I think the guv-ment just wants us little people to be appeased with the knowledge that the guv-ment tried.

But hey, $600 is fine and dandy by me.

One of my many weaknesses is this: I eat out way too much. It’s really quite pathetic, seeing as how there are so few restaurants in Sunnydale. Only Applebee’s, Chili’s, and some local dive places. How I manage to eat out as often as I do, without venturing further than this area, is a little scary. I’m not living beyond my means, of course, but eating out that much is really kind of extravagant. And god only knows what the sodium level is in my body right now…I think there’s saltwater in my veins, not blood.

My point is this: eating out should be a treat, not a habit.

I think most single people will relate to what I am about to say: But it’s so much easier!

When you’re alone, just little ol’ you, it seems a little pointless to cook for one. You end up with too many leftovers, you feel wasteful, and…it’s just you! Why make all that effort?

And then today, I had the epiphany. Why make the effort? Because it’s worth it, whether you’re cooking for one or two or ten. It’s time to stop denigrating the single state, and embrace it as long as it is my life. It’s okay, it’s not a reflection on me as a woman or a human being. It just…is what it is. I have my apartner, Arash, and that’s okay, too, for now. What matters is that I still am living with a singles-mindset, and I need to reframe it a little so that I treat myself more decently so long as I am still in the single way. Because let’s be honest, I could be single for a very long time, even my entire life, and I shouldn’t be spending that time living a half-life in which I treat myself shabbily and don’t embrace things because I am waiting for a family to come along and make it a little more worthwhile.

All of this was a convoluted way of getting to the description in which I wax poetic on how I had dinner: I took the trouble to sit down at the kitchen table, as opposed to the bed or the couch; I lit a candle; I took little steps to make it a nicer experience.

We’re just going to ignore the fact that the food I consumed was a lean cuisine meal and water. Hey, I took it out of the microwave packaging and put it on a plate; that counts for something, right? Guess I have to start somewhere.

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Last week Eric and I were catching up on the phone. I happened to pull a little crazy out of the hat, and the following conversation ensued:

Eric: Mel, put the crazy down.

Me: Okay, sanity is restored.

Eric: Oh my god, you women! You’re crazy! Either you’re crazy or you’re shallow!

Me: At least if we’re crazy, we’re deep.

Eric:….Sometimes it’s an abyss.

Lately, I haven’t been sleeping well, at all.

I used to be able to sleep like a log, and sometimes I still do. But a lot of the time, I have a hard time getting to sleep, and an even harder time staying there. Too, my dreams are so vivid and intense and sometimes dangerous-feeling that they further keep me from sleeping soundly.

A lot of it has to do with anxieties over certain wildcards in my life, certain situations that are fine in the short term but untenable in the long term; situations that will require honest introspection, confrontation, and maybe causing someone pain. (Not fun.) And then, career anxieties keep me up too, although at the end of the day, “worry makes small things have a big shadow” and when you are a worrywart, slightly OCD, a tiny bit paranoid, and a neurotic perfectionist, everything seems big and fatal to a career.

Yesterday, I had a long overdue talk with one of my sisters; she provided me with an interesting perspective. She works to fund the things she likes to do outside of work. “I hate to work! If I could go on welfare, I would!” I got a chortle out of that, but her words did make me think a little. Right now, it feels as though I am working for the sake of the work I love…I love my work, and therefore take it home with me (at least in my head) every night. I am not focusing a lot on the more selfish rewards that come along with work–i.e., the money and the fun that can come along with having more of a discretionary income. Every spare cent I am socking away to pay for the move, get some nice stuff (television, anyone?) and still have a nest egg left over. So I am not really enjoying the rewards of my work, and  I certainly don’t do much outside of work.  I guess that can make a girl lose sight of things, a little.
But what is saving money but delaying present gratification in anticipation of future reward?

That will be all good and well, so long as I do start to live a little more and reward myself when I move. At the very least, I should find some activities to fund!

Not to re-hash the past or anything…
Back in Indiana, I had a boyfriend. Boyfriend’s mother hated me. For many reasons, none of them particularly logical, I might add. Her original beef with me (other than the fact that I was dating her son) was that I wore too many black shirts. Or something. And it just went downhill from there.

It didn’t help matters that I am a rather blunt, flippant person, and sometimes make offhand remarks that really offend hypersensitive and illogical people people with delicate sensibilities. Lifelong enmity was established after Pope John Paul’s death, when I absentmindedly made the remark to Boyfriend’s mother that I didn’t see what all the fuss was about; after all, it was just a stupid man in a stupid hat.

Never underestimate the lack of logic in a lapsed Catholic. You don’t go to church for years, don’t do confession or Lent or any sort of thing, but god forbid I mock your pope-man. Boyfriend’s mom eventually became (Ex) Boyfriend’s mom (such a devoted Catholic, she was, she ended up going evangelical Protestant) who threw a party in her heart the day we parted ways. Little children, love one another, and all that.

Water under the bridge, now…

…except Busted Tees.com is trying to start World War III here. Because there’s a shirt that I think would be just perfect for letting her know there’s no hard feelings: