Wednesday, May 28, 2014

To Do:


Sign a lease for an apartment in Boston: check.

Make sure the apartment meets your cornucopia of unreasonable expectations like having a gas stove, a pantry, a walk-in closet, a private porch, and residing in hip local: check and check.

Um, actually make that two walk-in closets. Because you're a baller: checity check.

Try to see at least twenty other apartments beforehand.  At least two of them should have peeling paint and burn marks on the floor and make you ponder the fine line between old and quaint and old and decrepit: check.

Do tons of research on finding an apartment online and not see a single one that you researched: oh my, check. 

Work with mostly nice relators but try to have at least one authentically sleezy snake oil salesman experience.  Politely laugh at his jokes, maybe renig on an application, and get the hell out of there: check.

Have a hard time remembering how to spell realators: check.


Take photos of Moses by the reservoir:



Duh.

And goslings:
http://ia.media-imdb.com/images/M/MV5BMjAyMzI0NTU0NF5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTcwODc0MjAwNQ@@._V1_SY317_CR12,0,214,317_AL_.jpg

J/k, I wish.  No, these goslings:


Check.

Eat good Boston food, have good Boston company, drink good Boston brewery beer: check, check, and check.

Go to Harvard Square, window shop, go into quaint little shops with overpriced items;,buy a famed chocolate mouse from La Burdick chocolate and take ridiculous pictures with it:



Naturally.

Like Boston just a little more, even though your baseline level of like was already pretty high:


Check.

Go back to work and replace your obsessive checking of craigslist, with an obsessive checking of higherEd jobs: ugh, check.

Purchase boxes and begin to regret liking clothing, shoes, books so much that you felt the need to buy seemingly enough of those items to fill a small village in the former Yugoslavia: check.

Get lazy about cooking and just keep eating cheese and pickle sandwiches for dinner: check.

Make Moses think you are bearing his child because no non-preggo person could ever like cheese and pickle sandwiches:  um, yes they could and check.

Wish you could always accomplish this many tasks on your to-do list: big fat check.

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Good days / Bad days

Today is a bad day.  I woke up with a bigger brattitude than Justin Beaver and now I hate everything.

I hate how much Los Angeles has made me like juicing.  Especially when kale is involved.  Who am I and more importantly, when I will I get over myself?

I hate how willing someone to contact you, doesn't actually make them contact you.  It makes me wish I had the nerve to peel a page from the every student I've ever had playbook and email and/or call every five minutes until I receive a response. Instead of my per usge approach, which is to wait forever and just passive aggressively check my email every three seconds.

I am sure Beyonce never has to deal with this crap.  And, of course, if she doesn't, neither should I.

Let's see, what else?  So much.  So much else.

I hate the Boston real estate market.  I hate that I did weeks of research and will have to fork over a fee--in the amount of the one month's rent--to a realtor who did approximately zero weeks of research.  Who do these people think they are?  My junior year Hormones and Behavior class?  You know, the one where I did all the work and studying and got a "B" and my friend Drew did nothing and got an "A".  Oh, you don't remember that?  Because it will only be etched in my memory for. ev.er.

I hate crop tops.  Stop trying to make crop tops happen.

I hate how unproductive I've been recently.  It's just that I've been working so hard for so long that the moment the dark cumulus clouds parted and allowed the dimmest sliver of sunlit reprieve to cascade through, my adreneline plummeted and my mind and body be like:


That January Feeling Art Print


UGH.  I hate that I use the phrase "be like." Gross.

In other news...in dry heat, Wendy's hair be like:

http://fc03.deviantart.net/fs71/f/2011/272/8/9/straw_texture_by_texturee-d4b9pkw.jpg



In humidity, Wendy's hair be like:


http://i25.tinypic.com/iv9yzd.jpg

I can't win.

And the bangs v. no bangs debate wages on.  It aims to rival the Hundred Years' War.

Hate.

I hate that in less than two months, I will begin every complaint with: well in Los Angeles...  I apologize in advance for this, Boston.  You don't deserve it.  Just know that I don't mean any of it.  I mean, I will but not really.  Blame my fickle fickle heart and penchant for quibbling.

And I hate that this post so closely resembles another post I wrote...or all of them, but c'est la nature of the beast.

Here's hoping for a good day tomorrow. 

Or a new personality that is more inclined to make lemonade

...that is not filled with vodka.

Thursday, May 8, 2014

The Ulcer Cometh

I knew this was coming.

I knew that eventually, the everything's coming roses excitement would fizzle and leave in its wake a stupor so thick and so pervasive that it would cloud anything and everything I do.

It isn't so bad, I suppose. I kind of don't mind continuously hunting on craigslist for apartments and obsessively pinning shower curtains and tips for packing and covering up nail holes with soap on my pinterest wall.  There is a sort of strange comfort in all that because...hello, have we met? I'm all kinds of Annie Hall levels of neurotic.

But by far, the trickiest thing about this transition from elation to oh, we have to deal with this now?, is having to confront the blunt, unflinching reality of the situation...which is that we will be moving across country in six weeks.

Six. weeks.

Or as I like to call it: 48 days and counting.  That really get the ol' ticker palpitating.

Maybe a base-line level of stress will result in some extra calorie burnage?  Except it's almost noon and I've already eaten four cookies so....probably not.  Don't judge me.

Okay, fine.  Judge me a little.

There is a small, sensible corner of my brain and in which, I know that everything will work out.  I've moved across country before (with considerably less stuff but still...), Kate has moved twice with a child in utero, and the Wilks' trekked two little kids, dogs, and a house full of stuff from Oregon to Ithaca.  Moses and I, our bed, my clothes, and our kitchenaid will be FINE.  (Because clearly those are the most important things, yes?)

But the problem is that that sensible corner currently accounts for approximately 2% of my actual brain, which at least for the past three days has shifted into full-on melodramatic, panic mode.  In my most of my brain, we are most certainly NOT going to fine. We're talking biblical level of teeth gnashing and hand wringing.   We're talking me considering taking a page out my Polish grandparent's playbook and purchasing an adjoining funeral plot for me and Moses at the tender age of wayyy too young because clearly this move is going to kill us.

I think--I think?--that this phase is already starting to pass; although, I am sure that I still have plenty of meltdownage in my future.  But that's usually how it goes: freak out, recover and deal, freak out again, recover and deal, and rinse and repeat until I'm either mostly bald or coping.  Welcome to my washing machine cycle of lunacy: it gets your whites whiter and your crazy crazier.  Perhaps its normal?  She asks hopefully.

Say yes.

Saturday, May 3, 2014

A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again

Ever since January, when I first learned about the possibility of moving, I've been preparing a little mental checklist of all of the LA things I wanted to do (or do again) before we left.

High up on the list was Venice's first Friday, a constellation of LA's finest food trucks (Kogi, Cool Hauss, Bordergrill, etc) on Abbot Kinney (otherwise known as the border of richy rich and hipsterville, otherwise known as too many dollas for a pabst blue ribbon.)

It's a short distance from our apartment and we've gone a couple of times: once we drove (HUGE mistake) and once we biked (no complaints).  Every time the first Friday of the month rolls around, Moses and I vaguely debate going but usually staying in, lounging on our couch, and watching trashy movies prevails.  What can I say?  It's hard being socialites.

But, since this is the second to last first Friday we will be spending in Los Angeles...slight pause for reaction and for my rising bile to settle. Gasp!  What lovely imagery! I know, it's the poet in me...we thought we may as well deviate from our Friday night routine of beer, talk of the cheap variety, and Nicholas Cage and go out amongst the living/non-Coppola and get us some tasty Roy Choi Korean Tacos.

So we biked down to Abbot Kinney and, upon our arrival, instantly remembered why it had taken us so long to do this again.

Crowds.  Lines.  Hoards of obnoxious undergraduate students having obnoxious conversations and with obnoxious understandings of personal space.

Within minutes Moses and I transformed into our alter egos...


Except less attractive.

We stood in line for our favorite food trucks and mercilessly made fun of everyone: the quintessential unknowingly bigoted, white privilege SoCal college students behind us and the pretentious middle age couple out of a Portlandia sketch in front of us.  I felt like we had somehow landed on a hideous age spectrum, bookended by cautionary tales of what we could of been and what we could become. 

Needless to say, I am now convinced that first Friday is a vortex of awfulness, that brings out the worst in everyone.  Moses and I were at our disgruntled judgiest and everyone else took it upon themselves to model some of the most horrific transgressions of social etiquette, the most offensive of which was line cutting.  And maybe it was the dipping blood sugar, or just the injustice of it all (some of the wait times were Disneyland epic), but I told Moses that if I witness another person budging, I might have to smack a bitch.

Of course, 10 minutes later I saw another person cut and alas!  No bitches were smacked that evening.  At least not by me.  I guess I am just all talkety-talk-talk.  Although, I think when I retell this narrative in the future, I might throw in an impassioned monologue about fairness followed by a slow clap and a rousing chorus of "We are the Champions" a la the Mighty Ducks movies (1, 2, and/or 3).

I guess I am glad we went one last time...sort of...no, I definitely am.  I am glad we went and ate well but now I am drinking a Lagunitas Cappuccino Stout, sitting on my couch, and watching trashy movies trying to forget about it, while simultaneously trying to make up for lost time.  Here's hoping that the next item on our list yields better results...or at the very least substantially less line cutting.