Life in the Slow Lane

When we bought our cozy little condo, there was a definite color scheme in place. From the door frame at the front door, through the kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom, anything that could be painted was painted either black or dingy beige. Anything and everything: hinges, electric outlet covers, circuit breaker box (painted shut), phone jacks (painted over), ceilings, cupboard doors and drawer faces. Well, maybe not everything , as the shutters weren't painted shut like they were in the unit across the hall we briefly considered. But needless to say, paint was a top priority as soon as we signed the papers. Now truth be told, you already know the rest of the story because chances are you have at least six stories just like it about choosing paint colors. And I could insert here any obvious statement about paint chips not being entirely reliable and this blog post would be nudged along in the direction I intend it to go. With names like Sparkling Cider , Air of Mint, and Spiced Nect...

I look up from my place at the computer to see my husband squatting in front of two stools, carefully separating out egg yokes into a series of bowls perched on the bar stools. Good thing we registered for the mixing bowls with anti-slip bottoms. He asks where he might find a measuring cup, and since I can't readily direct him, he pulls out the stack of paper cups we are using, notes they are nine ounce cups and calculates how full he needs to fill it in order to arrive at the proper measurement. The microwave beeps over by where it is plugged in, smack-dab in front of our only door. At least we still have a box long enough and wide enough to rest it on. Very much longer and we may decide to add wheels to the box. Speaking of resting on boxes, S.O.S. and I have been doing that for some time. 15 uniform boxes set side-by-side makes an excellent bed frame for an air mattress. And when it comes time to add spices, we know where they are by what position they held in the boxes gri...

The Cataluna House, where SOS and I have honeymooned since our return to the mainland from Catalina, has a back lawn. This lawn, at its widest point, is approximately twice the width of our lawn mower. On the other side of our back fence is a golf course which stretches for acres. The first Saturday that I pulled out the mower to make two back and forth passes over the lawn, I fantasized about picking up the green postage stamp masquerading as a back yard, and throw it over the fence so the custodial staff at the golf course would cut it as they dreamily drove on their riding mowers. Surely they wouldn't even notice such a small addition, and I'd pull the lawn back over to my side of the fence before they even woke up. But in Southern California, a patch of green grass, no matter how small, is a precious priority, and so SOS and I have carefully mowed, and weeded, and watered... anticipating that day when we are told to move out and must leave a showplace of Southern Californ...

I'm spoiled. I haven't had to pay to do my laundry since I graduated from college. (Actually, chances are I didn't do laundry for at least two weeks before I graduated. You know, finals... papers... social obligations...) Even for the first three weeks of married life, when, for the first time in five years I didn't have a washer and dryer down the hall, I got to do my laundry for free thanks to two hospitable friends. And if it weren't for the fact that my dear SOS has a uniform for work and it gets smellier than... well, it gets smelly... I think I might still have avoided a trip to the dreaded laundromat. I mean, one of the first things I demanded of my husband was that he buy more underwear. He didn't even have enough to put off doing laundry for more than a week and a half! (And believe me, I didn't want to suggest the eco-friendly option suggested here .) Not to mention, poor dear, that as soon as we were married I became obsessive about collecting...

When I answered the call of the doorbell on my birthday, I met a man who within the first minute of conversation confessed he was a mortician. I've never had a conversation start out that way and I am glad he rambled on, as it gave me time to realize he wasn't kidding. He went on to say he had a recent career change which required him to come door to door seeking donations. I sincerely hope he finds his way to a career which has happier endings. We ended up having a rather nice conversation, once I confessed that I don't give spur of the moment donations. And before he left he gave me a compliment I choose to count as a blessing. And I consider it all the more meaningful as it was the musings of a mortician on the subject of life.

Eight months ago a cousin of mine scooted next to me at a family party and scolded "Don't you know it's a bad idea to let the family know your boyfriend plays an instrument before you've decided this thing is for real ?" I probably should have known better. Relationships come and go, but music... Three months ago, SOS found time to come play in the itty-bitty chapel at work, where the acoustics make even the worst vocal rendition of "Amazing Grace" sound amazing and the best musician can transport people in every corner of the building into the finest of concert halls. My boss came striding towards my desk and informed me "I'm sorry, you no longer have any say in the matter. You must marry that man just so he will come play here more often." This sentiment was repeated by various others of my co-workers, as they frequently asked when our next date night was so that he could drop by and give a concert, "tell him we miss him" o...

Back at the beginning of this month, I thought it would be fun to try and have one post per day, as some people are of the mind that August isn't special, and I wanted to do my little part to make others see more worth in August. But then a few things happened. I think I have gotten more attention this month than I have in a very long time. My image was emailed around the globe and then again it made the printed newsletter which goes into thousands of homes around the country. And people started joking with me about needing to insure my now-famous hands. And yes, I had a birthday (apparently, I turned eight years old) (also, notice my hands are not showing in this picture... maybe it would have violated the conditions of my hand insurance?) And I also spent some time considering how a change in appearance can go unnoticed. Only two or three people noticed the change in eye wear, and no one noticed my change in hair length, but one little change in appearance seems to have been ...

As everybody knows, the best way to get over an embarrassing incident is to announce it to the world. And so I will tell you all the story of the Raisin Bran Incident. In everybody's life there are those days were the easiest thing to fix for dinner is the same thing you manage to fix when your greatest accomplishment of the day has been to get out of bed. And so it happened that a few short weeks ago, after a day and a half's worth of work in the preceding 9 hours, I walked into the kitchen and poured myself a half a bowl of Raisin Bran cereal. I say only a half a bowl because that is all I had left. And I say Raisin Bran because I was too tired to reach further back into my pantry space for Honey Bunches of Oats. And isn't Raisin Bran a more likely dinner food than Honey Bunches of Oats? (Stay with me.) And then, into my step-by-step plodding, intruded my landlady, "You are eating Raisin Bran for dinner? You are welcome to share the pot-roast I made." But by t...

Wisdom is supposed to come with age. And since you will all be a little older when you are done reading this than when you began, let me share with you two pieces of wisdom: 1. Grocery shopping when you are hungry is a bad idea. 2. Costco grocery shopping when you are hungry and only are buying for yourself and only have a vegetable drawer and half a shelf in the fridge is a really, really bad idea. I confessed my bad choices to my landlady and she kindly pointed out: That is why Costco has samples.

Last night my granny car was used by the police. As I sat on the curb half a block away and watched four policemen, in full armor (even a few in those funny space-ship hats) crouch in front of my burgundy car, I kept thinking "At least it's clean." I have my SOS (Remember? Significant Other, Sweetheart) to thank for that. Otherwise the windshield probably would have been more of a hindrance than a help. A split second decision as to whether to park my car on one side of the driveway rather than the other determined whether it would provide good coverage for the police or not. And at least I had cleaned out most of the junk a very short hour before the police informed us we needed to evacuate the house. Sitting on the curb as a police helicopter circles above and police cars creep closer and closer to the suspect... but no closer than the burgundy granny car... as a party of curious passersby slow and stop to ask questions and speculate... amidst all of this I find many ...

In honor of the recent poll results, I thought I would eulogize one of the contenders for "oldest piece of regularly worn clothing" in my closet. One of the low-lights of my eighth grade year (we are talking so low it could be considered subterranean), was PE. The first week of class we were all obliged to shell out $15 or so for a T-shirt and draw-string shorts in eggplant purple and school bus yellow. Then a TA, far too sadistically, printed everybody's first initial and last name so that at no point could you claim the ugly items to not be your own. And we were instructed to wear these items every day, implored to wash them every week, and everyone... boy, girl, prep, loser, or wannabe... could look almost identical in the gray freezing fog of a day not created for running a mile. I frequently suspect that the eggplant and school bus combination was not only a pitiful attempt to approximate the school colors, but a planned strategy to bring similar results as do ora...

I'm beginning to think that I need to schedule "Big Girl Days" on my calendar... days when I will be grown up enough to schedule appointments and fill out reams of paperwork, days when I will not procrastinate for months about making a phone call. Maybe I didn't do enough of this sort of thing in my "pretend play" as a kid. And now my make-believe pretending is that if I put off being a big girl, it will somehow be easier.

I once thought it would be an interesting experiment to connect the number of name tags acquired and required to the energy level of extroverts and introverts. For instance, the week I was given four separate name tags I began to contemplate the fashion value of a paper bag head covering. I have not yet finished the thorough testing required for any conclusive decision, but I thought of this again this past weekend when the name tag made for me proclaimed "Roxanne." Now it might surprise you, but in all of the names I have ever taken for myself or have ever been given to me, Roxanne has never made that list. Nor, as my camp-mates so lovingly nicknamed me, has "Roxie." Nor should it.

Today I was thinking that it was about time for another oil change. I checked the miles... sure enough over the 3,000 miles recommended.... and then I checked the little sticker which recommends what month to come back in. So much for being VIP : The mechanics gave me a very, very generous 3-4 months before they recommended I return.

So I missed the premier showing, and I am not listed in the credits, and it has not been ranked the top viewed video on YouTube, and I don't have any speaking parts, but if any of you are interested in seeing me look deep in thought contemplating critical issues, you can visit this link here and scroll down to click on the 6 minute "Who will be their voice?" I'm in the last 45 seconds or so. The greatest irony in all of this is that the professor was one of my professors for my undergrad and the serious discussion we were having for the film crew was about how nerdy my friends and I were.

I am one of those people who will read the same exact refrigerator magnet every time I open the fridge because it has words on it and words are for reading. I am one of those people who think that bumper stickers and billboards are a road hazard because I must read them and therefore I take my eyes off of the road in front of me so that I can read the words. Today I noticed a billboard with very hard to read print on the far left side of the freeway, tucked among some trees and I spent quite the effort trying to read it because I was sure it had some dumb thing to say about the car it was advertising and the car I was tailgaiting didn't have a bumper sticker. However, I wasn't able to make sense of the ad. It read: Actively Safe Tip: Don't read billboards. What does that have to do with selling cars?

On my last birthday I received an address book, beautifully bound and tempting to anyone fond of books and paper. I am one of those perplexing creatures who wander through book stores to stroke books I will never buy and no aisle in discount department stores tempts me more than the stationery aisle, but this address book haunts me. If I knew that any of the friends who joined together to purchase this book read my blog, I would not admit this, but many times I have considered returning the gift... or worse, re-gifting it. Day after day I have eyed it on my night stand, like an untrusted acquaintance , waiting to make a tenuous peace. In my mind there are two types of books: those which are full of words and are not to be written in, and those which are empty and are to be filled with words. But this address book confuses me. It is not empty, as it suggests 32 address entries for every letter of the alphabet, but it is meant to be filled with the flowing script only possible with per...

At my place of residence, I have a lot of time to think about molasses in January when I endeavor to get on the great world wide web. I was walking through the house the other day wearing three layers of clothing, a scarf, a knit cap, gloves, socks and slippers and my house mother asked, shocked "Are you going out?" "No, I'm going to go check my e-mail." The room really is that cold. I'm not sure whether the cold contributes to the speed of the connection, but I do suspect that it affects the speed of my blood flow. After waiting ten minutes to load half a page of any of my four personal email accounts, I feel very sleepy and I come close to looking for a snow bank I can curl up in to get warm. Fortunately, because the room has no comfortable place to curl up, I am saved from the danger of hypothermia. If only I could get some molasses out of it all.

I'm VIP at the place where I get the oil changed in my car. Every three months, on my lunch break or at 5 when I get off from work, I dart around the corner to Lube and Smog. I'm sure they are always very pleased to see me, as they cut short their lunch break or realize their day isn't quite done. And that is even before they open the hood. Every time I come in, they tell me how difficult it is to change the air filter and polite frustration turns to more colorful language as the entire crew remarks on how long this routine service is taking. Frankly, I was surprised when they handed me the VIP card after my first LOF . I thought for sure they would not go out of their way to encourage my return. And I secretly suspect that they regret that particular gift each time I flash the card. But then, maybe anyone who manages to find this place (just off of New "Unnamed" Road) is VIP.

It's been more than two weeks since a real post made its debut here. Back in January, Caedmonstia wrote my New Year's Resolution to read "Go 2 weeks without blogging." (It is listed in between "Wax her legs" and "Take up an extreme sport".) Because, obviously, they all seemed equally likely. And it took an international flight (spending September 11 on three airplanes), fighting against tropically contracted ailments (I think I passed one of them along to a dog. So embarrassing !), and three name tags -worth of events to do it, but I did go 2 weeks without blogging. And so please pardon my silence as I remember what sorts of things we expect to find here, Living in the Slow Lane.