More Than Miles: Or, How To Keep Moving

Good To Get Away, Good To Be Home

 

 

I measure my life success by the places I’ve visited, and my only life regrets are centered around the lands that I have not yet traveled. (Africa and India are the stand-outs). Traveling outside my comfort zone, witnessing the world beyond my borders, is my absolute favorite thing to do. It’s good to get away.

 

 

And then there’s my other absolute favorite thing to do, which is living a day-to-day business-as-usual life with my (now fiancé) McDuff. After nearly six months of finding and practicing our daily groove in Seattle, McDuff and I were officially engaged on Boxing Day in Charleston SC. Now we have the added pleasure of folding wedding planning into our nesting adventures. Having known and loved McDuff for a decade, we are finally living our bliss. It’s good to be home.

 

 

Proposal at The Gin Joint in Charleston, SC

 

 

There will be no Africa or India this year (and probably not next year), but 2012 will yield a variety of adventures within the United States and around our backyard in the Pacific Northwest. We’ll descend upon a wedding in Vermont, a graduation in North Carolina, and Thanksgiving in Texas. And since some of the most beautiful scenery this planet has to offer is right here in Western Washington, we’ll be micro-retreating to Vancouver, Victoria, Suttle Lake, Lake Crescent and the Olympic Peninsula, Mount St Helens, and Snoqualmie Falls. It’s good to get away, especially so close to home.

 

 

 
View from the ferry to Port Townsend, WA  (McDuff's amazing photo)

 

Though the Seattle forecast currently predicts sun for the remainder of this week, no Seattle-ite can deny that the cloudy season is upon us. We must rely on our (heavily-caffeinated) sunny dispositions to sustain us until July. Fortunately the quality of life here, especially in our neighborhood, is easily conducive to the good life - even for those high in motivation but lacking in follow-through (such as myself). Therefore I’ve compiled a few 2012 Rules of Engagement for Sustaining a Sunny Disposition. I haven’t had much success with resolutions, so I’m hoping that the more formally contractual Rules of Engagement (RoE) concept will keep me honest.

 

1. Live in my own time zone. No one but me is insisting that I must work east coast hours every day. The constant sleep deprivation makes me alternate between t-rex and comatose without warning and at astonishing speed. No one wins in this situation. Zombies are neither fun nor sexy.
2. Lose control. I don’t have to control everything, especially at work. The most rewarding part of my job is bringing out the best in others, but they can’t find their best if I don’t give them the space to be creative and make mistakes. 
3. Cultivate outside of work. I tend to give every ounce I have to work, and then give the tiny bits remaining to less noble pursuits (see CSI:Miami marathon mention below). This RoE requires sub-bullets: 
   1. Rock the mat. I average making it to yoga and/or pilates once a week. I’m not saying I can go every day, but it is totally reasonable for me to go more than one time a week. CSI: Miami marathons are not an acceptable excuse to skip class. Neither is using the excuse that I just had a beer and therefore it wouldn’t be ethical to go to yoga with toxins in my system.
   2. Rock the blog. Finally back in motion after an extended hiatus. Honestly, my blog objective is a little unclear to me, but maybe I should reference RoE 2 and just go with it without trying to control the outcome. We’ll see how it all unfolds. 
   3. Rock the fiction. See, I love to read fiction. But I’m also a non-fiction self-help junkie. JUNKIE. And I’m finding that, if I’m truly honest about it,(and often I am not), those books make me feel more inadequate than inspired. That tells me my balance is off somewhere, so I am therefore prescribing a self-help reprieve for my condition and have resolved to only read fiction in 2012 (magazine articles not included!). My immediate fiction list is ambitious but exhilarating: 1Q84 (Haruki Murakami), Lamb (Christopher Moore), and The Fountainhead (Ayn Rand), plus Edgar Allan Poe and the Juke-Box: Uncollected Poems, Drafts, and Fragments by Elizabeth Bishop. I have posted her most famous poem below to close out this blog post with a bang created by someone else.  

 

I notice that it is no mistake that all of these RoE are in support of helping me (us) solidify our groove here in this new life and this new land. And the more I honor the above RoE, and the more I feel like myself as a result, then the more this roamer will find the “here” just as contented as the “there.” It’s good to be home.

 

 

View of Space Needle from Seattle Art Museum Sculpture Park

 

 

One Art    

by Elizabeth Bishop 

 

The art of losing isn't hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

 

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

 

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

 

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

 

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

 

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident

the art of losing's not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster

Gigs, Da, and The Marvel of the Spoken Word

 

I’m back in Charlotte for 3 weeks, staying with my brother (Gigs) and his rad girlfriend (Da) and their peppy-love-pup (Mia). This post showcases some of their most memorable household quotes, which I have documented over the past few months in hopes of using them to create a best-selling something.

 

Sometimes I bother with including context, but mostly the quotes speak for themselves.

 

 

 
Mia dolled up for Valentine's Day

 

The Many Names of Mia

 

M-I-A

Mia Wallace

Corn Chip

Stinky Winky

Dolphin Head

Shadow Snapper

Godzirra

Sausage

Cujo

Firestarter

Miatard

Snots McGee

Antelope

Greybeard

Dancing Eyebrows (Native American name)

Poopy Eyes

Poopy Face

Poodle

Best Dog in the Whole Wide World

Cutest Dog Ever

Gastonia Girl

Trailer Dog

Junkyard Dog

Mommy’s One True Thing

Robot Tail

Tiny Dancer

 

 

 
Mia relaxing with her beer bottle squeaky toy
 
 

 

Da: This many names is not at all confusing for the dog.

 

 

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

 

Random Household Quotes

 

 

Gigs: Why did you mix up the dates?

Da: Because that's what I do. I mix up dates.

 

 

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

 

 

Gigs: Karma's a bitch.

Da: Who's karma?

 

 

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

 

 

Da: Why are you laughing at me? 'Cause I like to eat chips? Is that funny?

 

 

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

 

 

 Gigs: I'm gonna go in the front yard and throw golf balls at the bats.

 

 
He didn't even come close to hitting any of them, but the property value surely suffered.

 

 

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

 

 

Da: How much you want to bet he comes back with poop on his flip flops?

 

 

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

 

 

Me: (to our host on Fourth of July) How long have you lived here? 

Gigs: She doesn't live here. Just stop asking questions and watch the fireworks until we go to jail.

 

 

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

 

 

(After waaaaay overeating at a local British pub. Da is burping with every step. Gig's pants come off immediately upon entering the house and remain on the kitchen floor for days).

 

Gigs: I feel like I’m getting fatter with every breath.

Da: I'm ready for hibernation.

Gigs: I don't need to eat for the rest of the summer.

Da: I'm gonna go put my fat girl pants on.

 

 

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

 

 

Da: We’ll clean up the house before we leave for the weekend.

Me: Will you clean to my standards or yours?

Gigs: We’ll clean to our standards.

Me: Ok because that’s like 25% of my standard.

Da: Then we’ll do it 4 times.

 

 

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

 

 

(On the subject of sperm donorship.)

 

Gigs: I’d sell some of my seed. I’d sell for $5,000. (He cradles his belly) Look at this profile. I’m a reverend,* I play the guitar, I have athletic ability…

Da: If what you mean by “athletic ability” is the ability to sit on the sofa for hours watching athletes.

Gigs: I was born with athletic ability. I’m a reverend, I play the guitar, I’m a meteorologist.**  I might drink a little beer, but I’m a catch. I’d sell for $7,000. 

 

*He isn’t really a reverend. He just has a Certificate of Ordination.

**He is in school for meteorology.

 

 

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

 

 

And my personal favorite . . .

 

Da: What time is it?

Gigs: Your mama.

 

 
 Relaxing in the driveway

 

 

Emerald City Jewels: Carkeek Park

 
 

There is so much to tell about my first 5 weeks in Seattle (aka Emerald City, Rain City, Jet City) that I almost don’t know where to begin. Almost. Because anyone who knows me knows that I never struggle for very long when it comes to finding words. So after that not very long struggle, I settled on creating a blog sub-series of Emerald City Jewels, showcasing some of my favorite spots around town.

  

McDuff and I shared a lovely Sunday afternoon that began with strolling around the Ballard Farmers Market, a mere 5-minute walk from our home, scoring fresh local produce, seafood, and absinthe black salted caramels. Then we sauntered a few blocks to the Java Bean, the greatest coffee shop on the planet, and chilled in the perfect 75 degree shade with my fabulous friend BadMammaJamma (BMJ) who was babysitting the sweet baby girl of another fabulous friend, Canadaisy. To my surprise McDuff bogarted the baby the entire time. This was the shining highlight of our weekend.

 

Then McDuff and I headed to Carkeek Park, an easy 10-minute drive from our home, to enjoy the sunny late afternoon. Carkeek is a beautiful park situated right on the Puget Sound, with open, airy spaces connected by lush forest trails and wetlands. This Seattle gem reminds me that we have so much here to enjoy, right at our fingertips: cool urban scene, stunning vistas, mountains, fresh water lakes and streams, saltwater lakes and bays, beaches, trails . . . the list of awesomeness keeps growing.  I will let the photos speak for themselves.

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
 

 

 
 

 

 
 
 
  

 
 
 

Someone remind me of this euphoria when the autumn clouds roll in.

 

The Best Way Out Is Always Through

 

Since my last blog post I have lived in Boston for a month, packed-up the remainder of my belongings in Charlotte, participated in various hilarious giggles and hijinks as part of Charlotte farewells with friends and family, drove (rather, rode shotgun) across the country, and (mostly) settled-in to a new home and new routine and overall new life in Seattle with McDuff. I feel exhilarated and still a little bit jet-lagged, even though I haven’t been on a jet plane in over a month – which I think is a new record.

 

Thankfully there is no rule that says a blog must be linear, so I ain’t gonna talk about Boston right now even though I have loads of dining recommendations (and approximately 7 extra pounds on the scale to prove it). Right now the cross-country drive trumps all other topics, while it is still moderately fresh in my memory.

 

The truth is, I never felt truly at home in Charlotte. No disrespect to Charlotte and my Queen City friends. It’s a lovely city with lovely citizens. It just isn’t the exact right fit for me. So for 6 years I was looking for a confident way out, and though (fortunately) my job allows me to work from anywhere, I could never quite settle on my next destination. Patience (no, not patience - that makes it sound like I made mindful decisions to ride out the uncertainty, which I did not), actually just the living day to day over time is how the exit strategy was revealed.  And now with the advantage of hindsight, a reminder of a Robert Frost quote resonated with me: The best way out is always through.

 

I’m a huge fan of the grand, dramatic gesture. But really this grand move went down in a series of small and medium size bites that nibbled away at the past 6 years, all the while I was feeling like the grand gesture that would sweep me away was just around the next bend. But the best way out is always through. That may mean 6 years or 6 whatevers. In this case, I had to go through that era, and all of the eras before, and then through the continent, to get to where I am now.

 

You’re probably thinking, “Um, duh.” But the passage of time never ceases to amaze me. Reminds me of another quote, this one from Richard Strauss’ opera Der Rosenkavalier: Die Zeit, die ist ein sonderbar Ding. (Time, it is a strange thing). Granted that passage is more about a woman trying to come to terms with the aging process and the accompanying loss of youth, vitality, and attractiveness. We'll save that drama for another blog post, but I like the mystical austerity of the quote and I want to use it NOW.

 

Time is most certainly a strange thing when highway driving for 9-14 hours a day across the US of A. Thank you NPR iPhone app, for getting us through the twitchy hours. Another strange thing is observing how I can feel suffocatingly claustrophobic in a land-locked state (such as Iowa or Montana) while at the same time also feel calmed and consoled by the big-sky openness of the visible 360 degree horizon. I’m a complicated beast.

 

More later on the complex labyrinth that is my twisted mind – a great topic to explore during the Seattle cloudy season, when all the local twisted minds are in full bloom.

 

In closing, I present our spectacular cross-country journey in images:

 

 
Charlotte: The cars are all ready to go (this was stressful to watch)

 

 

 

Tennessee: Yes this is a truck with a boat on most sides.

 

 

Indiana sunset

 

 

 
Illinios (for some reason I took no photos in Kentucky, which is beautiful)

 

 

 
Mississippi River

 

 

 
Iowa

 

 

 
South Dakota

 

 

 
Mount Rushmore

 

 

 
Crazy Horse

 

 

 
Montana

 

 

 
Montana sky

 

 

 
Eastern Washington

 

 

Columbia River Gorge

 

 

 
Snoqualmie Pass (about an hour from Seattle!)

 

 

 
Seattle skyline! (best shot I could get from a moving vehicle on the interstate) 

 

 

 
Here's a better view of the Seattle skyline, taken from West Seattle

 

 

 
Seahawks Stadium (left) and Safeco Field (right)

 

 

 
Space Needle: she looks much better against blue skies (which came later that day)

 

We're the 3 Best Friends That Anyone Could Ever Have...

 

We've laughed together, cried together, and bathed together (though not recently). I've been gal pals with Chachi and Zeta* since we were wee toddlers, though they are actually both much older than moi: Zeta by 4 months and Chachi by 1 week. I enjoy reminding them of that unchangeable fact as often as possible, because as a child and teenager I was so bummed to be among the youngest in my class. I was the last to get my drivers license and the last to turn 21 so I could drink my first adult beverage.  At least this explains the emotional immaturity that follows me still today.

 

*Obviously all names have been changed as part of my feeble attempt to protect fragile identities. I devised these sassy pseudonyms because Zeta looks like Catherine Zeta Jones and because Chachi and I used to play a game (I don't know if it had a name) in which we would choose our boyfriends and then I suppose just went on about our business, so I'm not really sure what the game was about. But during the very sensitive boyfriend assignment negotiation process we would always argue over who got to be Chachi's girlfriend, though close seconds were always Bo Duke and Ponch. It was never any fun playing Dukes of Hazzard with 2 girls though, because Daisy Duke is the lone female so that meant the other girl had to be Boss Hogg or Enos. That play session usually ended in shoving and tears and someone calling their mom to pick them up early.

 

I should also add that Chachi requested to be named Candy or Boom-Boom. I think that Chachi Candy Boom-Boom would make a great "alternate career name" if times get tough.

 

These girls are my whole heart. I love them like sisters. There is no conversation we can't have. There is nothing we can't laugh about or support each other through. We have unconditional love that is absent of judgment and filled with understanding and empowerment. Though we see each other rarely, they are always with me because they are part of my DNA.

 

A few weeks ago, Zeta graciously hosted a GNO sleepover for the 3 of us and we had a fantastic good time, the details of which I cannot divulge (some things we haven't outgrown) but I can say that most of the evening was spent trying to catch my breath from laughing so hard.

 

 

A few words over lethal peach mojitos:

 

Zeta: Anyone want another beverage while I'm up?

Chachi: No, I'm fine.

Me: Yes, I'll have another.

Chachi: Well then you might as well top me off while you have it out.

 

 

Zeta: I don't know how much. I don't have my atticus handy. I mean, my abacus. What's it called after many mojitos?

 

 

Zeta (after my admission of a senior year judgment lapse): Aw, you don't have to tell anybody about that.

 

 

Chachi (on swinging by her house to pick up something): Y'all are ok waiting while I have a quickie with my husband?

 

 

H-Less Jon (Chachi's husband): I don't have to be right. I just have to be happy. 

 

 

Me (directed at Zeta speaking to her husband): PAY ATTENTION TO ME! You can talk to him anytime.

 

 

Zeta (after my drawn-out apology for something dumb I did in the 6th grade that she didn't even remember): Well thank you for bringing up that repressed memory. Now I'm going to have to go to therapy.

 

 

Chachi: We've really held up well, girls.

Zeta: If nothing else, we've got Jennifer's blog to fall back on.

 

 

 

It's Never Too Late

 

Being new to the blogging scene, I’ll admit I was getting a little anxious about how long it has been since my last post. I suppose it makes sense that the more I have going on, the less time I have to document it all. Honestly I don’t think I could document it all. But as my wise McDuff says, “This blog’s for you.”  So I give myself permission to write only when I can do so with joy, and not out of obligation or when feeling rushed.

 

 

Except that McDuff and I are at a busy intersection of life-changing excitements, full of thrilling and noteworthy experiences that are queuing-up for their blog time! I want to capture every angle of this transition without letting too much time pass between mile-markers, for fear that benching the memories will dim their luster and clarity. But the truth is, I believe it’s never too late to tell your story, to set the record straight, to make up for lost time.

 

 

Today is Fathers’ Day in the United States. On this day we celebrate our fathers, our grandfathers, and our friends and relatives who are fathers. On this day we also reflect on fathers we have lost. My father went on to his Great Reward in 2004. To say my dad and I didn’t always see eye to eye is a huge understatement. And when memories bubble-up of times when I could have been more graceful, more patient, more tolerant, I don’t feel like it’s too late to mend those fences now, through the veil between my world and his.

 

 

We certainly can’t change our history, but we can always change our now at any time, immediately even. Through the actions of now we can reframe history to read like a solid movie script: successful conflict resolution, triumph of the human spirit, I’m-ok-you’re-ok, ride off into the sunset, roll the credits while everyone stretches and says “That was so good. I didn’t think it was going to be that good.”

 

 

It’s never too late to reconcile.

 

 

A week ago I was sitting at gate B14 in the Charlotte airport with what appeared to be roughly 500 million other people, waiting to board a flight that marked the end of separation from my McDuff. We met about 10 years ago, fell in love, dated long distance for 2 years, broke up for 6 years, and reunited about a year ago - so it’s only fair that we finally arrive at our delicious, new reality.

 

 

As of one week ago, we find ourselves together after a decade of paying dues, growing, waiting, shedding, wandering, sinking, and swimming. As of one week ago, we find ourselves together after a beautifully human process of forgiveness, patience, and redemption. As of now, we find ourselves 3 weeks from his full-time touring career drawing to a close and the launch of our eagerly anticipated move to Seattle, to begin a cozy life in the home we picked out together 8 years ago.

 

 

This is a joyfully welcomed business-as-usual shift in what is “normal” for us. Because McDuff’s job requires that he live on the road, “normal” for us has meant opposite schedules and no days off together, with most communications being post-midnight phone calls where one or both of us barely has anything left to give by that point in the day. The upside is that it is fun to visit him in cities that are cool, as long as all the travel stars align – like we have a decent hotel, and a decent space for me to work, and either a walking city or access to decent transportation, and a variety of other things that can make or break a trip. But all of these variables that come with the reality of partnering with a stagehand are completely worth it when the stagehand is McDuff, especially now that the light at the end of the tunnel is upon us.

 

 

I would meet him anywhere, though. Any time. Every time.

 

 

 
McDuff is So Money 

 

 

Two years ago I could have never envisioned this current bliss – a bliss that required a reconciliation I had convinced myself was not possible. But through boldness, shamelessness, patience, and grace, we breathed new life into what we thought was lost.

 

And it is so good. I didn’t think life was going to be this good.

 

 

Check Your List

 

Even during normal, business-as-usual times I am a borderline compulsive list-maker. Nearly every detail of my life is matrixed in a series of Excel spreadsheets. Sexy, sexy Excel. But especially during times of upheaval, such as, say, a cross-country move, list-making (and sexy, sexy Excel) help bring some semblance of control and order to my chaos.

 

 For example, I am smothered with various oppressive lists right now:

 

• 5 separate task lists that are work-related
• Shopping list for what I need in the next week
• Shopping list for what I need to purchase for our Seattle home
• List of what I still need to pack
• List of what I still need to ship
• Several lists of what I donated to Goodwill
• Lists of things to attend to, like address changes for all the various entities that need to send me junk mail

 

You get the picture, so I won’t go on about the boring lists. Which is exactly what they are – necessary yet dull dull dull tasks that structure the mundane details of life management. They can’t be avoided, or at least not in my world: a world where lists can’t be avoided.

  

So as I was lying in bed last night not sleeping, tormented by my lists, tweaking from one to the next like the Mad Hatter on espresso and Pixie Sticks, it occurred to me that I wasn’t having fun at all. Zero fun. And if there is one single priority in my life it is to prioritize fun.  Fun is supposed to be at the top of my list.

  

Guess what I started thinking about then? I’ll wait while you guess.

 

…

 

Yep. Lists of fun. Lists of things I love. It energized me so much (albeit not really what one wants in the middle of a sleepless night) that I had to turn on the lamp and write down the fun lists that bubbled to the top of my mind. An unexpected benefit of this exercise was that I now realize how little time I devote to these areas that are apparently most meaningful to me.  Like many folks I know, most of my life is spent working and recovering from working. I need to make more time to enjoy these things I love, and exploring the new and interesting roads they tend to lead me down.

 

But I can’t just go making fun lists all willy-nilly. A compulsive list-maker needs limits when making lists. I had to choose a finite number of subject matters and a finite number of items for each list. I didn’t fully comply with these limits, but came pretty close. And I chose to order the lists alphabetically rather than in order of importance. This keeps me from obsessing over the merits of whether “I Know What You Did Last Summer” outrank “I Still Know What You Did Last Summer” in my list of favorite movies.

 

At this point you may be asking yourself, “Why should I care about Jenn’s lists of faves?” The answer is, you don’t have to. You don’t have to read them either. But I would love to hear about your lists of favorites. Maybe the process will have the same effect on you. Making a list of things that bring joy, or relaxation, or whatever it is that we seek, may remind us that our lives are far more than just the tasks on our To Do lists.

 

  

Therefore, without further ado, here begin my lists:

 

 

 

Songs I Am Completely Crazy About

• Analyse (Thom Yorke)
• Angel (Massive Attack – really everything on Mezzanine and Protection)
• Barabas (Hooverphonic)
• Christiansands (Tricky)
• Frontier Psychiatrist (The Avalanches)
• Hate Me (Blue October – along with everything else on Foiled)
• It’s a Fire (Portishead – along with everything else on Dummy)
• Lose You (Pete Yorn)
• No Surprises (Radiohead)
• A Poem for Byzantium (Delerium)
• Porcelain (Moby)
• Run (Snow Patrol)
• Sand (Einstürzende Neubauten)
• This Night (Black Lab)
• Windows (Black Rebel Motorcycle Club – along with everything else they’ve ever recorded)

 

 

Books I Read Over and Over

• Alice in Wonderland (Lewis Carroll)
• The Gashlycrumb Tinies (Edward Gorey)
• Nine Stories (JD Salinger)
• On the Road (Jack Kerouac)
• The Secret History (Donna Tartt)
• The Unbearable Lightness of Being (Milan Kundera)

 

 
Alice in Wonderland, Tea Party Scene

 

 

My Most Admired Musicians

• Cecilia Bartoli
• Maria Callas
• Glenn Gould
• Moby
• Mstislav Rostropovich

 

 
Maria Callas (right)

 

 

Composers I Can’t Get Enough Of

• JS Bach
• Moby
• Arvo Pärt
• Astor Piazzolla
• Richard Strauss
• Dmitri Shostakovich

 

 
 

 

 

Visual Artists Who Totally Captivate Me

• Jordan Crane
• Salvador Dalí
• Antoni Gaudí
• Edward Gorey
• Frieda Harris / Aleister Crowley
• Mark Rothko

 

  
Jordan Crane, from Uptight All Night

 

 

 

And I couldn’t resist including my favorite TV shows and movies, because I am American and I spend way too much time in front of a screen.

 

 

TV Shows That Rule

• Buffy the Vampire Slayer
• Dexter
• Family Guy
• The Killing
• Sons of Anarchy
• The Walking Dead

 

 

Movies That Don’t Really Rule But I Still Watch Them Over And Over Anyway

• The Beast (formerly referred to as Giant Squid or Killer Squid because I didn't even know the actual title until I Googled it just now)
• I Know What You Did Last Summer
• I Still Know What You Did Last Summer
• Mary Poppins
• Stigmata 

 
 

 

 

 

What I've Learned

• I might be a little dark - but it's a friendly, happy, shiny dark.
• I am blessed to have family and friends that love me despite my terrible, terrible taste in movies.

 

Here endeth my fun lists. I would love to read yours!

 

Weekend Cramming

 

One of the best things about living in Charlotte is proximity to Charleston SC. In just a little over 3 hours, I-26 deposits you right into downtown Charleston.

 

 
Charleston Battery
 

 

Countless times I’ve driven the black stretch of road between Charlotte and Charleston. Countless times I’ve asked myself why I never moved back to Charleston since I love it so much. And countless times I remind myself that it is my brother’s fault entirely. I moved to Charlotte because he lives here. We tend to prefer to be in the same city. So now the heat is on to convince him and his rad girlfriend to move to Seattle.

 

These family dramatics and hijinks are all fodder for later posts.

 

 
My brother (Gigs) and his rad girlfriend (Da)

 

 

Back to Charleston.

 

I went to college in Charleston, and then stuck around after college for a few years, and then moved back for a summer a few years later. One might call it a recurring theme in my geographical history. It feels more like home to me than any other place I’ve lived, so I felt the need to squeeze in one more weekend before I relocate to the other side of the continent and that easy 3-hour drive morphs into a much longer and much more expensive ordeal.

 

 

 
Your basic Charleston house

 

 

It’s no coincidence that I chose to visit during the Spoleto Festival. I love theatre as much as I love Charleston. And the Spoleto Festival actually produces shows that don’t annoy me. For the most part, they are fresh, edgy, and bold productions that challenge traditional notions of how theatre is typically presented and received. I love the juxtaposition of the gritty, underground feel of these shows against Charleston’s conservative lean. And while Spoleto audiences run the gamut of age, race, and political/social/sexual preference, I relish those moments - such as last night - when I overhear post-show fuddy-duddy comments like “Well. I just didn’t care for that at all.” Cracks me up. Why it is so difficult for some to be open to new ideas confounds me. Progress requires innovation.

 

You kids these days with your MTV, and your experimental opera, and your electric lights.

 

I am tempted to the extent of foaming at the mouth to go on and on about the four shows I saw, but in the interest of brevity I will limit my assessment of each show to six words.

The Red Shoes: Fabulously bizarre, macabre, bloody, energetic deliciousness. 

The Medium: Fantastic story, set, lighting. Bad acting.

The Cripple of Inishmaan: Hilarious, raw, touching. Actors nailed it.

Emilie: Best opera production I’ve ever seen. 

Across the board commentary:  The music was perfect in every show. The orchestra, singers, recorded sound – all top quality, world class talent.

 

 

 
St. Philip's Episcopal Church, view from the entrance of the Dock Street Theatre. Charleston is called "The Holy City" because of its many-steepled cityscape. 

 

As if spending a weekend seeing four Spoleto shows in three days isn’t heaven enough, I had the good fortune to spend it with 2 of my best friends, Dexter and Trixie*, who live in the heart of the historic district and who also happen to own a boat. (No, it does not suck being friends with them).

*If you haven't figured this out, all names in this blog have been changed in a most likely ineffective attempt to mildly protect identities and delicate baby monkey feelings. 

 

 

Being on the water around Charleston is its own very special experience. Many rooms of my mind are filled with memories of being on this water, in this town. These are memories of experiences that shaped who I am today, and continue to shape who I will become. They are also memories of when I didn't get hangovers and looked way better in a bikini.

 

 

 

On the Intracoastal Waterway, just off the Charleston Harbor

 

 

Looking to the near future, I am reminded that one of the many things I love about Seattle is a shared trait with Charleston: water on all sides. In our daily lives we walk beside it, we drive over it, we play on it. We watch our water reflect the sun, moon, and the changing skies, as it stretches to the places we’ve explored and to the places we’ve yet to explore.  

 

What the Health?

 

Everyone knows there are no doctors or dentists anywhere in or near the Seattle area. In Seattle, the sick and injured are referred to their primary care coffee shop, where they may choose from a variety of delicious treatment options on the menu. Severed limb? You're gonna need a Venti.

 

Why else would I be scrambling to fit in all of my routine doctor and dentist appointments before I move? It's not like I need to have a railroad spike removed from my skull before I can be cleared to leave the state. Is it really that much more difficult to set yourself up as a new patient than it is to get in as an existing patient? I think not. I know not. I practically have to beg my doctors to fit me in. And in North Carolina my Southern accent gets me zero special attention. Yet I subject myself to the horror of 4 medical appointments in 3 weeks and now I can't chew on the left side of my mouth. It's looking like beer for supper tonight.

 

But (indirectly) speaking of my dentist office, I'm gonna give a shout out to the cool folk at Dr. Shapiro's office.  I love it as much as one can love a place that has come to remind me of personal failure every time I come within a 2 block radius. I don't floss enough, ok? I bet you don't either.

 

Anyway, my dental technician (if that is her real name) is originally from Poland. I asked for her observations on the most notable differences between living here versus there. The first thing she said was that the dinner plates here are huge. She's tiny, by the way. Must be the tiny Polish plates she eats off of. But she brings up a valid point, that we have probably all read or heard many times: our plates are too big because our portions are too big.

 

But you know what? The better, healthier version of me that is waiting in Seattle eats off of those magical Polish plates. And I am trying to prepare the now version of me for that eventuality. And I'm also trying to prepare McDuff, who loves to cook delicious, elaborate, king-sized meals that his won-the-genetic-lottery-physique can burn off simply by opening a bottle of Viognier. Pop! Poof. Calories incinerated.

 

 Which brings me to my point. I hate running.

 

I hate running, but I am forcing myself to do it anyway. Because you know what I hate more than running? Muffin-top. And as far as I can tell, no cardio burns it off like running can when we start climbing the wobbly, saggy, ow-that's-my-bad-knee ladder of middle-age. And don't try to sell me any crazy about P90X because I will never want anything that bad.

 

Calling what I do running is very generous. It's more like stumbling in a relatively straight yet labored forward motion. But everyday after my running episode I feel a little less traumatized and a little more proud of myself for not dying. And I already have my stumbling route picked out in Seattle, which stretches a little under 2 miles from our home to Golden Gardens - a beach/park/marina with stunning views of the Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains. A most worthy and inspiring cardio destination.

 

Did I mention that this is the only nearby route without hills? Bonus.

Looks Like We're Really Doing This

 

Me: Where should we live?

McDuff: Do you need to stay in Charlotte?

Me: No.

McDuff: Well, I do own a home in Seattle.

Me: Ok we can live there.

McDuff: You sure?

Me: No.

Me, again: You? 

McDuff: No.

McDuff, again: Want to do it anyway?

Me: Sure.

 

Ok that may not be exactly how the conversation went, but it covers the highlights. We'll call it autobiographical fiction right out of the gates so I don't end up scorned by Oprah and her minions (aka the entire television-viewing global public). Don't get me wrong. I dig Oprah. This blog is not about Oprah.

 

In 49 days McDuff and I set off on a journey toward our exciting future. A future rooted in Seattle.

 

Washington.

 

I've done this before - lived in Seattle, dwindled my worldly possessions to less than a dozen (heavy, large) boxes, driven across the United States, run out of gas outside of St. Louis because my constant talking distracted me from the gas gauge (not my finest moment).

 

We will be transported by my kickass Honda Civic Hybrid, named The Vaporizer because it is a vaporous light bluish-silver color and because I think I might have hit a bunny on the highway one evening. I am sorry for that unconfirmed casualty.

 

Our mode of transport is ironic for several reasons that to you, dear reader, won't necessarily be obvious.  (I use the term ironic because funny makes me seem insensitive to the comfort of my darling angel). Some might consider my car compact. Tall, dark, and McDuff is 6'4" and barely fits vertically between the seat bottom and the ceiling, and, as if that weren't enough, he also barely fits horizontally between the seat back and the pedals.  It is also important to include that, with a passion that may or may not be directly related to the ill-fit, McDuff despises my vehicle. Anyone who knows him, or has ever seen him, even in passing, could understand why a light blue Civic might not be his first choice. Or his ever choice. I am grateful for his sacrifice.

 

5 days on the road. Good thing I've downloaded lots of Lady Gaga and Glee soundtracks to keep his mind off the discomfort. Ahhhh. Togetherness.

 

So I have 49 days remaining to really make it count on the East Coast. I am hoping for your sake, dear reader, that the expectation to post means I will feel compelled to do more than just watch Without a Trace reruns with the time I have left.