Life in the Slow Lane

The staycation is all the rage these days, but here in the Slowlane we've mixed it up a bit. Instead of staying home and doing all the things you would do on a vacation, we are spending a couple of nights in several beautiful locations, traveling from place to place, all the while going to our jobs. It is kind of the opposite of the staycation. For our purposes we'll call it the workadayroadtrip. Similarly to a vacation, packing is critical. During our workadayroadtrip we will be staying in four or five guest bedrooms, one hotel room, tent camping, traveling by plane, car, and possibly bus, attend a beach wedding and at least one baby shower (where to stow gifts?), and show up smiling and professional looking for the nearly normal work schedule (iron mysteriously not included). Try packing for that workadayroadtrip. Before you credit me with super-human packing skills, let me tell you that I trusted summer stupor to keep people from noticing that I wore the same outfit three ...

What a moon to end it on, eh?

Do you know how many times I have tried to retire the "Nomad" series on my blog? But here I am, at it again. This weekend finds me patriotically packing my things and who knows when I will be able to unpack them? Of course, I've gained quite a few things since I last packed all of my belongings and headed out to who-knows-where. The list of things I have acquired bears a remarkable resemblance to my wedding registries. Toss in a few miscellaneous items of furniture for good measure, the belongings S.O.S. brought to our marriage, and the MEGA-GRILL that suddenly has become the "make-it or break-it" determining factor in what housing situation will work for us... and you can well understand why I had hoped the word "nomad" would not be required. But the time has come to say goodbye to our Cataluna house and I'm back to the life of a nomad. This world is not my home, I'm just a passin' through... but in the mean while, I've got quite the...

I wander into the kitchen to check what time it is. The microwave reads five minutes faster than the stove, so I peak at the clock in the living room. It reads 10 minutes to 8, but I have a vague recollection that it was that time on that clock when I started my laundry three hours ago. The digital clock next to my borrowed bed has to be at least 10 minutes fast, maybe 15, but certainly not more than 20. I know this because it is about ten minutes slower than the alarm clock on the right side of the bed in the master bedroom. The alarm clock on the left side of the head board is half an hour slower than it's twin glaring from the other side of the room. I lean on the door frame in the office, trying to decide whether the clock there is more likely to be on time or not. It's analog, and one of those that have pictures instead of numbers. If it is a canary past a cardinal o'clock, will my laundry be done in the garage where the clock read fifteen minutes after six when ...

In July (or was it June ?) I was given an orchid. I have now managed to keep this plant alive longer than any plant I've tended since my sophomore year of high school. Conventional wisdom says that orchids like the humidity of a bathroom and the gentle sunlight of a window sill. You might remember that I rent a room and borrow a bathroom. The bathroom does not come with natural light, and I am very grateful that my room does not come with humidity. But my solution to the problem was to take my orchid on a walk with me to the shower each morning and then back to my room to play in the gentle sunlight of my room during the day. That is until I began my marathon of house-sitting. But like all good mothers of living things, I had planned in advance for the proper care of my plant and saved the plastic sleeve all orchids are sold in. It is very rare for a plant to come in it's own suitcase, but orchid growers are smart that way, I suppose. And after making my back seat into a c...

There is an organization by the name of National Odd Shoe Exchange (or NOSE), where people who end up only having need of one shoe can exchange shoes with people who happen to need the other half of the pair. I have my eyes open for an organization by the name of National Odd Plasticware Exchange. For most of you, I am sure this is completely self-explanatory. For those of you who are not quite as kitchen-conscious, I had the misfortune of taking my lunch to work in a mis-matching plastic container on Friday. I noticed too late that the lid didn't quite fit the base, but I didn't think it would matter in the long run. And then I forgot that I had brought leftovers for lunch. And Fridays our work refrigerators are cleaned out by the anti-leftover elves. And Monday morning I realized that the borrowed plastic container and unmatching lid had made their way to the great landfill. (Don't get mad, get Glad!) Forget trading for baseball cards, marbles, and Chocolatina Jet B...

"Do you happen to know anyone who house-sits?" "Um... well, um... I guess technically, um... I do... ButItrynottoletpeopleknow." "Oh, well, would you consider house-sitting for me? I paid two hundred dollars to put my dogs in a kennel over the weekend and they came back dirty and sick." "Um..." "The little puppy was sick." Folks, how can you say no when saying no means a puppy might get sick? I keep telling myself I am not going to say yes as many times as I did last summer. Last summer I needed a place to live, this summer I don't. Yet already I have eight assignments I couldn't say "no" to. Those big, sad, puppy dog eyes... and I haven't even seen the puppy yet.

Packing is a strange beast. I suppose you may all be tired of hearing my musings on packing, seeing as it comes up every time I pack... and I pack a lot. But if I must endure the trials of packing, you must endure the trial of hearing me muse on packing. Take that in the nicest way possible for the circumstances... like maybe in a moving box. Yes, packing is quite torturous to the indecisive person... and the wish-she-were-organized person... and the oops-I-meant-to-mail-that-four-months-ago person... and the there-is-two-inches-of-space-in-that-box-I-can't-close-it-and-waste-that-space person. But on the other hand, now that I am packing, I am quite relieved that I didn't actually get around to dry cleaning all of my clothes because now I can pack them in a box and not worry about what wrinkles there will be when they come out. And I am happy for the opportunity to organize all of my miscellaneous important papers (Read: pull them out from the boxes and bags that were used t...

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...

I think the next generation of packing boxes should come with a rewind button. "Simply hit 'Rewind' and all of the contents of the box will hurry from the shelves and drawers where you placed them and back to their cardboard home! Guaranteed to make packing a snap... or rather a push of the button!"

I pull to a stop and put on my parking brake, trying to remember which way I am supposed to turn my steering wheel when parked on a hill. I grab my purse from among the bags of food on my passenger seat and teeter on my heels up the steep driveway. As I approach the door, it opens and after the barest of greetings I am standing in "my room". As unfamiliar as it is. So this is it. The end of my months of nomadic wanderings. Today fall hangs heavy in the air and I am glad for the wall of boxes that contain nearly forgotten luxuries like cozy pajamas and sweaters. I gingerly open the box marked "winter clothes" and breathe a sigh of relief that I will not need to hunt through the other six boxes that mention some item or other of warm weather clothing, as I used my wardrobe as packing material. I sigh with relief because there on top is my soft, snuggly sleepwear. And underneath that is a light bulb. I really can't be bothered now by why a light bulb made friends w...

Back when all of my belongings were contained in a 9x10 room, I got into the habit of taking two months worth of gas money out of the bank and keeping it in a little cubby of my bookshelf. Once in my nomadic life, however, it was no longer practical to keep my money in the bookshelf, and thus the problems began. Of course I tried to maintain some of the same thought processes that led me to choose that particular cubby as an appropriate place for my cash, but sometimes it made sense to go with the book theme, sticking the money inside the front cover of the likeliest looking book, and sometimes it made sense to go with the cubby theme, tucking it safely out of sight in one of the boxes, whether it be for Tupperware , shoes, or everything else. But then money technically qualifies as "important papers" so maybe I put it in the bag of mail I need to sort through; but it is also something I should probably have on hand when I travel, so maybe it is with my flashlight and ext...

No matter how cool the nestable Russian dolls may be, I always feel a little let down when I get to the last tiny doll that does not open. I'm not sure what I expect, I still remember learning about equations that represent a value as it approaches zero. I should know that in this sort of situation, it never becomes zero. Which should give me a measure of comfort as I look at my last remaining bag. I think the "packing with a Russian doll" progression began sometime back in May, when I packed all my things into two Buicks and a minivan. I streamlined down to just one Buick which had enough room for me in the driver seat as long as I kept my purse in my lap. Then I could get it all in the trunk. Now all I have with me fits into a carry-on bag that doesn't even have its extension zipper let out. I gave some thought to the possibility of losing my luggage when I was packing. But I've enjoyed a measure of simplicity in the last few months, due in great part to lear...

I've been clutching my agenda recently like Linus holding his blanket. It's not nearly as cuddly, but it's become equally essential for my well-being. It is probably even as dirty. My day planner used to fit inside my purse, where I would occasionally pull it out to jot down appointments or brilliant thoughts or whether the child I was babysitting was supposed to eat yogurt for lunch or not. But then my key chain started collecting keys to houses and the inside pockets of my purse began to bulge with accessories I planned to put on while driving to work. And so my agenda moved out. But even as my purse became as overloaded as a nomad's camel, I suddenly required my planner to remember trash days and pets' names and what I was supposed to do last time I found myself with internet access. Yet there is a problem with such lists of things you are remembering not to forget. The lists get so terribly long and reading through it makes you think that going to bed earl...

I always suspected there to be only a handful of ways a person could organize their kitchen in a sensible way. And of course, of all places to be sensible, the kitchen ranks high. Which is why when I open what should be the silverware drawer and find the dog's leash, or go hunting high and low only to discover the cooking utensils and the dish towels must have traded spaces, I wonder what sort of nonsense I've encountered. Opening cupboard after cupboard, and drawer after drawer, I'm a sleuth and a snoop, trying to understand the way of things. But in this line of detective work, bravery is boldly confronting the greatest test of my investigative skills: unloading the dishwasher.

Sometimes my choice of wording is horrible. The other night, the lady of the house cooked, checked to see we all got fed, and then left for some event or another. Her husband took his plate into the family room where the TV was on, showing the last few minutes of Notting Hill, while I sat at the breakfast table in the kitchen. Right at the point of the movie where the two love interests (Erin Brockovich and Darcy, I think) are figuring out that they've been dumb and really do love each other, he brought his plate back over to the kitchen, commenting "It's pretty good, isn't it." I must admit that Notting Hill does not make my list of favorite movies. It may have something to do with the roommate I had who watched that movie approximately twice every week on her computer which was conveniently located directly across from my bed. But I don't want to go around offending other people's choice of movies, and so I said "Just the right sort of mush, h...

In between dog sitting assignments, I've been transformed into a princess. Friends from church have opened their home to me, letting the "guest room" become mine, and I feel like a princess. Why? The reasons are many, but let me tell you just a few: I have a full length mirror! My room is beautiful and welcoming And… best of all, I get my very own bathroom. What more could a princess want? But sadly, since 1776, this country hasn't been overly kind to princesses. And since I've heard that guests are only welcome guests for three days, I began to think that I should put aside my princess identity and take out the trash or scrub toilets or something. But I've been told I'm not allowed to do those things. The only time I've ever stayed somewhere for more than three days where it was not my responsibility to clean, I had to worry about eating too much from the minibar and accruing a nightmarish charge. So I ate a cupcake from the fridge and fished out my c...

On the first day of dog sitting my two dogs gave to me A yellow puddle on the kitchen floor. On the second day of dog sitting my two dogs gave to me Two dumpsters full of strewn trash And a yellow puddle on the kitchen floor. On the third day of dog sitting my two dogs gave to me Three shredded couch cushions Two dumpsters full of strewn trash And a yellow puddle on the kitchen floor. On the fourth day of dog sitting my two dogs gave to me Four paw prints on my work clothes Three shredded couch cushions Two dumpsters full of strewn trash And a yellow puddle on the kitchen floor. On the fifth day of dog sitting my two dogs gave to me Five great big howls Four paw prints on my work clothes Three shredded couch cushions Two dumpsters full of strewn trash And a yellow puddle on the kitchen floor. On the sixth day of dog sitting my two dogs gave to me Six hours of whining Five great big howls Four paw prints on my work clothes Three shredded couch cushions Two dumpsters full of strewn trash...

Another interesting part of my life this week is the care and feeding of a small tank of predator fish. In the morning and evening I am to feed them a "pinch of blood worms." It sounds like the secret ingredient in a wizardly stew. And I have pinched many things in my life... salt, bubble wrap, brothers... but I have decided that I will find some other way to measure out dried blood worms than with a pinch.

So apparently my perspective has been wrong. I am not yet ready to agree with the person who said "Oh, it's just like you are on vacation... only you have to come to work every day!" but I do feel a little better about the situation. Maybe. Reason #1: I took the two tykes on a walk yesterday and a neighbor greeted them "Oh, the two amazing escape artists." No escapes from the back yard yet on my watch, I guess the battering rams have experienced more success than failure in the past. Reason #2: A friend of the owners commented "The puppy always sleeps with the daughter." No wonder Gracie thought she owned my bed. Reason #3: The same friend mentioned that she doesn't think the dogs are ever left alone for more than a couple of hours at a time, and rarely. That might explain the horrible whining and angry floor-wetting. All this to say, I guess I should be telling you all how amazing it is that I managed to get three hours of sleep last night wi...