Don't Oppress Me!

I've had a couple people now tell me they were unable to comment on my blog. I went and checked the "comments" and "permission" section in the Settings tab, and all is as it should be (though i went and 'saved changes' for good measure). Not sure what's going on, but apologies to those who've tried to comment and couldn't.

Smooches,
J.

Intro to Montana: People Are Nice, um, REALLY Nice.

I’ve spent a sizeable chunk of my life in the Midwest, and a much smaller chunk in NYC, so I have a pretty good idea what “nice people” are (and aren’t). I remember how hard it was for me initially in NYC, getting used to the fact that anyone felt the right to say whatever the FUCK *fist pumping the air* they wanted to to anyone at anytime. It just made my heart sad. Yet after 2½ years I did come to appreciate that in NYC, a lot of the bullshit and crap people constantly try to get away with and pull on each other is simply not tolerated and instantly halted. In the Midwest, there’s a good deal of grinning and bearing it, even when someone’s grinding his boot in your face.

Nonetheless, if given the choice, I’d take Midwestern smiles over NYC fuck-you’s. And in Montana, it seems that it’s the Midwesterners who are going to come off as rude. In just a few short days in Montana, Beau and I have experienced a degree of niceness that I’ve never experienced, to the point where it’s almost a mind fuck. A couple of examples:

- We had stopped in one of those massive “travel stops” (truck stops) right on the edge of Missoula. I had purposely gone in to buy a map of Missoula so we could apartment hunt and such. We went straight to the map rack and grabbed one. I walked around the store for awhile looking at stuff, but I really didn’t have any intention of buying anything else. Then the woman behind the counter came up to me in the aisle and said, “I saw you carrying that map of Missoula. Here, take this one instead…for free.” I thanked her profusely, put the retail map back, and then hissed to Beau, “Quick, go buy a cup of coffee or something!”

- Beau and I were sitting in the car in the parking lot of Kinko’s, a map stretched out between us. We were in the middle of running some errands in our job/apartment search. Suddenly, there was a knock on his window. We both looked up surprised; there was a woman standing there. As he rolled down the window, the woman smiled and said, “I see you were looking at a map. Can I help you find something?” We both just sat there for a moment with our mouths open, stunned. What then made the situation comedic is that the woman proceeded to fail in her attempts to tell us how to get to where we were going (we had actually just figured it out by ourselves), and kept making apologetic comments like, “I’m sorry, I’m not actually good with directions.” Hahaha.

- The next day we entered a bed-furniture showroom and were approached by a sales clerk who in and of herself was very sweet. After talking to us for a bit (people seem to frequently ask you your life story here), she asked us for our names and addresses. When I paused, wary of receiving a wave of junk mail, she smiled and reassured me, “No, we won’t send you ANY mail or put you on ANY list. I simply want to send you a thank you note for taking the time to come in today.” All I could say was, “Oh. Okay.” It was so….nice. But, necessary? It didn’t stop there though. When Beau mentioned I was looking for a job, the woman quickly trotted over to her desk and came back with an application in her hand. “You can apply to work here!” she said smiling. Wow. (Note: we did receive just that, a thank you card in the mail a few days later. No further junk mail has arrived).

When experiencing such hospitality, my natural instinct is to be suspicious – I’m a great hater of insincerity. But so far, it seems that everyone we’ve talked to have been just that, sincere. It kind of makes you feel good and allows you to relax a little. I hope it lasts.

Another interesting thing that has come up is the make-up of people we’ve met here in Missoula. We’ve been running ‘round and ‘round town on apartment searches, job searches, furniture searches, etc. so we’ve run into a good number of people, and like I said before, they tend to be chatty. What I’ve found, and pretty darn close to 100%, is that every woman I’ve met is from some other state and has moved here to join a Montana man she fell in love with. I don’t know what it is about these boys from Big Sky country, but they seem to have some sort of magical charm on their side, not only enticing women, but getting them to relocate all the way up here into the beautiful, but chilly mountains. Or else, Montana women must just hate them.

And of course, now I am another one to add to the statistic, seeing as how I am from another place and Beau is a Montana boy.

Finally, the last thing we’ve noted, quite happily I will say, is that people really, really seem to like it here in Missoula. With just a single exception (a very surly woman who ended up being our only negative experience so far in regards to when we were apartment hunting), every single person I have talked to has told me, with unguarded enthusiasm, just how great it is here. Okay, they’ll admit that winter isn’t exactly paradise, but that once Spring, and particularly Summer hits, that we’re in for long, beautiful days of sunshine (light ‘til 10pm), and if you’re the “outdoorsy type,” you’ll find gorgeous days of hiking, biking, canoeing, and kayaking. I am a very big fan of canoeing, myself. One woman told me that during the summer, her and her husband went canoeing every single day after work, so that each day felt like the weekend. Residents champion the city’s diversity (“Well, at least compared to the rest of Montana!”), the art scene, the vibrant university, and the city’s wild and unrelenting growth. Driving around, the urban sprawl is pretty obvious. On more than one occasion, people would say, “Did you see such and such area? That wasn’t even there ten years ago!”

I like the idea of being in a place of rapid growth and hope we’ve gotten here early enough to still be able to afford a house in a few years. One thing you will hear Montanians complain bitterly about is those darn Californians (including various celebrities) who come in, buy up large tracts of land and build lavish houses upon them, and then suddenly everyone is experiencing a painful hike in property taxes. Seeing as how there is NO sales tax in the state, the government typically recovers their money through … you guessed it… property tax (as well as vehicle license and registration). It really seems to piss people here off.

Well, looks like we have a few years to build up our own resentment, and a nice down payment. In the meantime, I’ll try to be less suspicious and more accepting.

Dead Presidents

Back on the road, all that was left to do was try to beat the sinking sun to Mount Rushmore. Kind of felt like we were in a movie, because it was already pretty dimly-lit out. At least the fate of the known world wasn’t at stake. I would say about this time, it was about 4:00pm and we knew that anywhere around 5:00pm is lights out. Luckily, like the rest of the state, there were hardly any cars on the road, and with no more Wall Drug signs to distract us (except for the initial ones right as we got back on I-90, desperately informing us that if we got off at the next exit, we could still make it back to the Western emporia!), it was just a straight shot, through flat roads. I was surprised at how nervous I felt. I mean, if we didn’t get to see it, it wouldn’t be THAT big of a deal, but it really did kinda feel like my only crack at the thing.

According to our brand, spanking-new Rand McNally map, once we turned off of I-90, it should only take us 24 minutes to get to Mount Rushmore. Of course, what the map doesn’t say is that a steady, unending, uphill climb through the mountains in an overpacked Honda Civic that’s forced to frequently downshift instead of rolling backwards may not take you a mere 24 minutes. It’s pretty sad when semi’s loaded down with enormous lumber logs pass you in a cloud of dust laughing their asses off at your feeble attempt to ascend (and with Beau flooring it the whole time).

We finally began passing through the small town that harbors the monument, which was akin to a mini Las Vegas for cowboy and Mount Rushmore fanatics. Yet again, nearly every shop, restaurant, and even the hotels were dark. You could tell that the place would make quite a glitzy show when lit up, but again, it was just another ghost town.

But to end what is surely making-you-crazy suspense, I will tell you, we made it. Woo woo! Just as dusk was drifting down, we drove up to the main gate where one lonely attendant stood. We paid our entrance fee (good for a whole year! Ha!) and she directed us to a very specific section of the parking garage, which seemed a bit peculiar considering the entire structure was empty. At least I hoped our assigned space was right under Abraham’s chin!

Well, not quite, but it was close enough. We exited the garage and climbed the many many steps toward the monument. It was pretty clear that in summer they must enjoy enormous crowds, because the place was built with a vastness in mind, dozens of benches, wide open sets of stairs, etc.

We reached the main vantage point, just a wide concrete area below the monument, and far enough back to get a good view. The only other humans around were a modest and boisterous group of athletes from Bismark State, their bus rumbling patiently nearby.

As with the Statue of Liberty, I found Mount Rushmore to be smaller than I’d imagined. I guess when you see photos of things you’re whole life, they take on this giant persona (literally and figuratively). This happened to me a lot in Europe as well, where things I’d seen in books throughout childhood as massive and majestic ended up being interesting, but a bit less impressive when I actually laid eyes upon them. Nevertheless, I really really liked Mount Rushmore. It truly has a bit of grandeur and wonder to it, and like all great structures ever built, there is an interesting story behind it. I was fascinated to learn that the majority of the carving was done by dynamite blasts. I somehow imagined in my mind some guy hanging by ropes with a little hammer and chisel tap-tap-tapping away at Washington’s sizeable proboscis. We continued to stare at it for awhile, and I took photos from every angle I could think of (which weren’t that many), and then there was nothing left to do but leave (and of course, it was dark now). We loitered in the gift shop for awhile, me getting a super cute “Merry Kissmoose” ornament (I’ve been a bit of an ornament freak the past two holidays), and mini flags of a few states and nations. Then, with the night now fully on, we got back into our car and once again headed for I-90 and the nearing Montana border.

The next morning when eating breakfast in a diner, I was reading trivia questions about the monument to Beau, and we both were surprised to discover not a single person died. I have always known great monuments to kill and maim at least a few workers along the way, usually in some truly horrific way. When I was climbing the Sydney Harbor bridge, our guide recounted to us the story of Irishman Vincent Kelly, who fell off during the bridge’s construction and cheated death by his quick thinking (see page two). Five others who fell and additional 11 men with other work-related injuries were not so lucky. I’ve also been told about the construction of the infamous Manila Film Center in the Philippines in 1981. As the story goes, apparently about 169 workers were buried into wet cement of the theater floor when some scaffolding broke, and then Governor Imelda Marcos (the women with all the shoes and the dictator husband), felt it was more important to continue the project which was scheduled to open for the Manila International Film Festival, and so halted any rescue efforts (this has also been claimed to be an urban legend and that only 12 workers died).

I know, horrific. And with that cheerful note, on to Montana.
**********************************************************************

I was a dam builder
Across a river deep and wide
Where steel and water did collide
A place called Boulder on the wild Colorado
I slipped and fell into the wet concrete below
They buried me in that great tomb that knows no sound
But I am still around
I'll always be around..and around...and around...and around...

Bonne Anniversaire a Toi

It's my birthday. It's okay. I'm feeling mixed emotions. As I've said before, I really really like birthdays. I think they're vastly underrated once you pass the age of 12 and it's a complete travesty that once you're over 25, we're supposed to not care anymore, except maybe at 50 when you're given the black balloons and black-frosting cake with Death toting a scythe.

I'm not going to lie, I don't really want to get older. When I was about 25 I said, "Hmm, this is a good age. I'm not too young to be totally stupid yet still young enough to have fun and experience new things." As of today, that was 9 years ago and I ain't getting that time back. Sure, I wish I "knew then what I know now," but otherwise, I wouldn't have minded being frozen at 25 forever, a la Highlander.

The depressing thing about your 30's is that you're supposed to be a grown up now, settled, have a career (not a job), have kids, have a house, have a spouse, and stop getting hammered, getting laid, and getting in trouble.

As of now, I am not really settled, have no career to speak of (nor JOB!), have no kids (though my friends seem to be popping them out like Pez dispensers), have no house (and won't for a long time, though I'd like one), but I DO have a spouse (what's that, 1 for 5???), and I don't get hammered. Yet in all, honestly, I constantly want to get laid, and I would like to get hammered more than I do, which occurs only 2-3 times a year now.

I also feel immature. Though when I recall myself at 22, a complete fucking mess, it may seem like I've come a long way at 34, and yet, I feel as if there are parts of me that are way too childish to be even remotely proper. And i'm not talking about cutsie, child-like antics, which I also seem to have in abundance, but quite enjoy. I mean, I still am way too emotional for my own liking in ways that I'd be ashamed of if it were publicly displayed. I have selfish tendencies, I pout and sulk, and instead of getting angry or being "adult-like," I tend to just get really hurt and feel very sorry for myself.

I'm still not as responsible with money as I should be (though I am no longer in massive credit card debt hell).

And I'm getting fat.

Now, let's end the pity fest. I'd like to be positive, but it's the wee hours of the morning, it's really dark and quiet, and I'm sitting in a room alone while Beau sleeps in another (he could sleep through a bomb raid), typing along like it's my own personal therapy session. This should be the part where I start listing all the great things about me, but that feels indulgent and arrogant. And no, gentle reader, it's also not a fishing expedition. This is not the time to use the comments section to champion me, no matter how completely fabulous you find me. This is late-night "oh shit" venting of one's life.

I know what's going to happen. I'm going to finally go to bed, wake up in the morning, remember I posted it, utter a few choice curse words, and then come erase it from blogger. Or....I'll tell myself I'm being "brave" and leave it on to show that I am emotionally open and honest and not only going to write about what's funny or interesting. I actually did that with a post not too long back, and it wasn't so well-received. I guess we like giggle-inducing blogs over the depressing ones. In all honesty, I do!

I think my life has been so unstable lately that it's made me rather uneasy. And the difficulty in finding a decent job is really quite stressful. The stakes seem so much higher now. But let's see what I do have...Beau and I have a really great apartment, Beau's a sweetheart (he gave me a strawberry-rhubarb pie for my birthday which is awesome since i'm a pie girl and NOT a cake girl), I'm currently siphoning free internet through someone's wireless connection, Missoula is a pretty neat place, I have enough to eat (which is obvious), and well, hell, it's my birthday!

Happy Birthday to me!

P.S. I will post the continuation of the road trip to GET to Missoula tomorrow or the next. Kisses.

Does Anyone Live in South Dakota?

Okay, I think my ego took a bashing since I only got 4 de-lurking comments, but I'll wade through the pain somehow. Onward!

************************************

I don’t know what it was about this road trip, but the drive from Wisconsin to Minnesota to South Dakota to Montana seemed like FOREVER. Strangely, it seemed MUCH longer than driving the full length of New Zealand's north island from top to bottom, the long ferry ride, and then the continued driving on the south island. I guess the fact that it's winter and there isn’t much to look at didn’t help. Not to mention driving in a cram-packed car with your knees up against the glove compartment and a whiny cat climbing in and out of your lap doesn’t make for an especially pleasant ride either. I read aloud from Drums in Autumn by Diana Gabaldon, the current Outlander series book we’re on, though it seems to be slow-going. I think it’s because it’s not one of my favorites and I’m not as excited to get through it. It’s really the first two I love. Once the characters of Jamie and Claire made it to “the New World” I lost a lot of interest. I love historical fiction, but as an American, to have the New World as the setting is just so boring. As an American kid, that stuff is stuffed down your throat endlessly. I’d rather (the story) be in Scotland!

Anyway, South Dakota seemed to go on forever, and there were only two things to divert us from our boredom. One was the strangely infinite number of billboards for “Wall Drug” almost the second you crossed the border into the state. The first one said something like, “As seen on Good Morning America!” followed by others proclaiming their appearance in various popular magazines and TV shows. Hmm, okay, interesting. From that point on they kept coming. Beau thought they ran in the hundreds, though I’m not sure they could possibly have been that high. All I know is that they certainly were interesting and unrelenting. Here’s one of my favorites:

Notice, if you can see it, that it notes the exit is 110. I imagine at this time we were somewhere around exit 38 or so. Wall Drug gave you LOTS of warning. Whoever their Marketing Manager is, s/he needs to take a chill pill.

The second enticement as we tried desperately to get through South Dakota was Mount Rushmore. Now, I wanted to just GET to Montana and START. I felt like my life was on hold and wasn’t in the mood for one of those ‘stop at every attraction’ road trips. But Mount Rushmore was different. It’s something that really interested me and considering I couldn’t see myself tooling through South Dakota ever again, it seemed like my only chance. But we had one thing against us – winter daylight, or lack thereof. We had started somewhat early enough in the day, but I felt the minutes of light just tick tick ticking away and Mount Rushmore, particularly since the monument is at the far west end of the state and we had started at the state’s eastern border, would be chancy. Not to mention that, like, it’s a mountain and all, so when it gets dark, it’ll kinda suck. Yet, we decided to make a go of it.

South Dakota is also the home to the Badlands, which Beau also wanted to take a look at. I knew we couldn’t really miss this either, though it mattered less to me. Still, we exited the highway and raced down the small road toward the Badlands park. It was kinda eerie. I mean, I know it’s winter and all, but the utter lack of human existence was unsettling. Numerous touristy sites, mostly very cowboy-ish, stood in small ghost town-like groups with large “CLOSED” signs screaming from their doors. Obviously, it’s not the high season or anything, but the fact that every business seemed to have closed up shop was just strange. It was winter, but it wasn’t THAT cold, and I’m a wimp! I guess people don’t like to look at giant mountains of presidential faces when it’s cold.

So, we got the gate with that little guard hut at the Badlands, and it was empty, though it informed us that if we went too far into the park, the honor system would kick in and we’d have to pay a hefty visitor’s fee. So, we went just far enough to reach a look-out point, but not far enough to have to pay anything, cause that’s just the kind of people we are! We stood at the lookout point looking at a big vastness of desolation. Growing up in Arizona, I do have an appreciation for wild, uninhabitable beauty, and the Badlands are certainly interesting, but about two minutes of polite oohs and ahhs, we both kinda went, “Yup, let’s go.”

With the little stick-shift roaring from gear to gear, we drove back to the main highway, and of course, were met with another half dozen “Wall Drug!” signs. This was just too much. We had to see this place, even if it chanced arriving at Mount Rushmore post-sunset. I turned to Beau and said, “You know, there’s been so much goddamn build-up on this Wall Drug, that if this place isn’t spectacular, it’s going to really piss me off.” He agreed.

So, many miles, and many creative billboards later, we made the turn-off to Wall Drug. It was in a tiny town, called (duh), Wall, South Dakota. We parked and got out of the car, me in that sort of restless state where you are already late for something and have to make a stop first. As we walked up to the place, I noticed that it looked awfully similar to a lot of the touristy places my family would take visitors to when I was living in Arizona. The kind of places where you can buy cowboy hats, cactus jelly, and Mexican blankets. Usually it was “Old Scottsdale” we took friends/family to, but by far, the very best place, and a place that holds many dear memories of mine from childhood is Rawhide, “An 1880’s Western Town, Steakhouse, Saloon, and Shops right in the heart of Wild Horse Pass.” It’s a hokey place where you can see a shoot out, ride a mechanical bull, pan for gold, eat rattlesnake, ride a donkey or stagecoach, and dress up in those old western outfits and do the sepia photograph (Beau and I already have the “Shotgun Wedding” one which I use as a wedding photo since we eloped anyway). Even for a Western girl such as myself, a chance to ride a donkey or stagecoach and maybe pocket a little rock candy or a jawbreaker as big as my head was a real treat. When visiting their website, I was thrilled to see they seem to still be going strong and have added a few attractions (camel riding??).

ANYWAY, as usual, I digress. So we entered Wall Drug, which basically was like a Western-themed indoor strip mall. The place consisted of about a dozen shops, each with its own topic. As with everywhere else touristy in the state, the place was dead – a few shops were even closed up. We decided with just the few minutes we’d allowed ourselves to look around, we’d enter the art store. And as always with me, I left the place pissed off. In Arizona, these places always have some amazing art, often with the image of the hardened cowboy, the noble Native American, or the various “Western” animals of coyote/wolf, horse, or bison/buffalo. And just like in Arizona, the prices for some of the stuff was absofuckinglutely through the roof. I have an appreciation for art, particularly tasteful paintings and native textiles, but I’m not going to forgo eating for a week to buy a Hopi placemat.

We continued on, poking our heads in a few of the doors, but feeling almost like intruders since the only people occupying the stores were the owners. There was one kind of apothecary shop which featured many smelly-looking candles (which I like), but I was too intimidated to even check, knowing they’d be like $20 each and I’d have to slink out of the store, swearing under my breath. So, we just continued walking on the authentically creaky “Western” floorboards ‘til we were out the door. “That was pretty disappointing,” I said. “Yeah,” said Beau, and he turned the key and we were off again.

Now I REALLY wanted to see Mount Rushmore. It couldn’t possibly suck as much as Wall Drug did.

De-Lurk, For the Sake of My Ego!

As I've said before, I initially started this blog for two reasons: 1) to record my life as I stumbled around from place to place and 2) to practice the "craft" of writing. I love to write, and I figured a blog was the best way to keep me doing it on a consistent basis considering my UNBELIEVABLE powers of procrastination. It's been okay so far.

Nonetheless, it's fun to get comments, and every once in awhile my email address at solas@dublin.com gets a really friendly email from some total stranger who has unintentionally landed on my page and then proceeded to read it (a couple times from start to finish). I love these emails, because until my comment section really started going a few months ago, I didn't think anyone was reading it anymore. One of my all-time favorites was when I mentioned one of my favorite TV shows, and someone connected to the show googled herself, was led to my blog, read it, and started an interesting correspondence with me that lasted about a year.

Once in awhile I'd ask friends to read it, but like I always do, I'd vanish for a few months, the friends would get bored and give up on any further postings, and I was alone again, writing to myself.

But I just read Beachgal's site and apparently it is "De-Lurk" week in which anyone who tends to pop by and read your blog is supposed to reveal him/herself. And so, for the sake of my fragile ego, I ask, as Beachgal has, for you to post a "Hi!" to my comments section. Then you can go back to your lives.

Awww CRUD! I just googled "De-Lurking Week" and noticed it was January 8-12. Oh well. Dates are just so arbitrary anyway. And besides, I went and nicked these handy little graphics anyway, so humor me. Or placate. Or pacify. Thanks!

Give It Up!

My last day at Target was on the 1^st. Always nice to end a job with holiday pay. Kinda makes the 8 ½ hour shift drift by a bit more smoothly. Then, the plan was to leave early morning on January 2^nd. Well, this was Beau’s plan, but I had my doubts. I’ve been through so many of these moves, that even with the best of intentions, leaving on time almost never happens.

So we got up somewhat early, I guess. We started packing the car. It’s a Honda Civic which is just what I like – small, reliable, good gas mileage. Of course, “small,” is fantastically unhelpful when you’re trying to stuff two individual’s entire mass of possessions within the walls and trunk of a diminutive car. But even I was surprised at just how fast our bags (enormous pieces of luggage we lugged to and from New Zealand) filled up the car. Looking in the living room where our remaining bags still stood, as well as the hastily-stuffed trash bags of those odds and ends you just can’t pack ‘til the last moment, I began to get a bit depressed. In the past 10 months, I have moved from New York to Missouri to New Zealand to Milwaukee and now getting ready for Montana. And of course, Beau was a part of the Missouri—New Zealand—Milwaukee—Montana moves. As I’ve previously mentioned, each time, in particular the Missouri to New Zealand move, we had to sell/give away/throw out copious amounts of personal possessions, including ALL furniture, almost anything that was bulky or heavy, boxes and boxes of books and bags and bags of clothes. It just sucks.

You go through these tiers – the first tier isn’t so bad – the dress you haven’t worn for a couple years, that book that’s been sitting on the shelf, untouched, that present you got that you never liked anyway. Each tier after that, it gets harder. You start separating your clothes into “like,” “really like,” and “have to keep” piles. You start looking at your large collection of t-shirts and wonder if they are ALL necessary (“but but but this one is from high school, and this one is from that great concert, and this one is from my trip to Sweden!”).

It’s about this time, the third tier, that things get really painful. You start making throw-out piles of things you really DO like. That great book you’ve never read, but always sincerely intended to. That beautiful dress you just love, but just haven’t had that many opportunities to wear. All your expensive camping gear that’s unrealistic to take with you. That awesome TV you splurged on. Those neat bags you brought back from Thailand. More piles of clothes, more boxes of books, more furniture. After this goes on and on, and you have a good cry or two, you shock yourself by still being “stuck” with about a dozen boxes of things like photographs, a minimal wardrobe, a few treasured books, cd’s, and dvd’s, and a group of mementos – things you’ve collected over the years from trips, loved ones, and various life experiences that you’re not willing to pitch.

And you know, I've done this now FOUR times (one being more minor than the rest) since March 2006 and I'm damn tired of it. I just don't want to throw ANYTHING away anymore.

Then comes the next painful part. Shipping. One blessing of the US Post Office is their “book/sheet music” rate which allows you to ship those back-breaking boxes of books at a much cheaper rate than the regular truck or sea rate. Of course, I have never failed to slightly manipulate that. I do honestly stuff a box with as many books as I can, but books, naturally not being all the same size, leave gaps in the box, and when you are trying to take as much shit with you as possible, you’re not going to just tape up that box and send it with all that free space floating in there! So, out comes all the little thingie-ma-bobs you can jam in between the books. Sure, technically they’re not BOOKS or SHEET MUSIC, but hey! Is it really SUCH a crime?

I did make one big mistake on our move to New Zealand though. Like many women, I’m a bit of a candle freak, particularly with lovely little candle holders which typically hold a tea light candle. Due to this, I’ve always got a fat bag of tea light candles in a drawer in my house (you can get like 200 from Walgreen’s for like 2 bucks!). Well, I had just packed a book box, and found the sides had these thin lines of empty space. What a perfect place to simply drop in those little tea lights! It was like playing Plink-O on The Price is Right. Then, I placed it in the back seat of my car, along with another box, each I planned to ship on one of my lunch hours when I had enough time and cash. Well, that was the Missouri summer, which is absolutely fucking miserable in its heat and humidity. What happened to those cute little tea lights in the box in the backseat? Of course, they melted, spreading slimy wax across the box. I still tried to send it – and the postal worker basically…went postal and gave me a big fat annoying lecture. Ordered me home to re-pack the box in a new box. FINE!

So, ANYWAY, back to the latest move – there we were that chilly Milwaukee morning, realizing pretty quickly that we weren’t going to be able to get it ALL in that car. So, you do what you have to do, you start jamming stuff into every crack and hole that’s left, and you decide what ELSE you can live without. Our Christmas tree, our cat’s crate, and other various odds and ends (including more clothes) went to the “whomever wants it can have it” pile, and my heart broke a little when we lugged a suitcase filled with photo albums and Beau’s beloved banjo up to the attic, to be once again pushed into a dark and dusty corner to be retrieved another day. I REALLY had wanted to leave my mother’s house totally clean, with not a single possession left in her cavernous attic that I would be reminded of every now and then. But oh well, you do what you have to do.

So, sometime around 2pm I shoved the frightened and furious cat under one arm, and slung the “stuff you need on the road” bag over the other, climbed into my very tight passenger seat (it had to be pushed forward to allow more room for stuff in the backseat), and we set out. With each mile, I felt my body get lighter and lighter. Living with my mother for about five weeks, working at Target, and just waiting for Beau had been incredibly stressful for me. And though I was embarking on this new phase of my life with some apprehension (no jobs, no house, not much money), I felt a kind of relief and happiness flow through me, as if I had been let out of a cage. Beau felt it too.

And so began our 3-day-ish journey to Montana. It gets a little bit more exciting from here on out. Kinda.

On the Road AGAIN (fuck)

Hey all,

As usual, I've wanted to post a million times, blah blah blah ad nauseum. But I just haven't. I have found that 8 1/2 hour shifts at Target can dramatically deteriorate this pushing-34-year-old body. When I get home from being on my feet (and walking and walking and squatting and walking) for that whole time, I take off my shoes and gimp around like I'm crossing a fire pit, complete with "Ooh owie ahh ooh ouch ooh ouch"s.

Not to mention, Beau's arrival about two weeks ago kind of became the eclipse overshadowing all in my life. Too bad I don't see enough of him.

As for the tattoo, it's the first of the three that hasn't evolved into a nasty, pickable scab and except for one slight flake, has been pristine, and finally, pain-free. Hooray! As for Beau's reaction upon seeing it,....well, let's just say he was surprised. There's no return receipt with this baby though, so he's just going to have to learn to love it, I guess. I still do, though my enthusiasm has been slightly dampened, as you might imagine. Like me (originally), he was not a believer in the "name" tattoos, knowing the big curse around it, but unlike me, he has not yet seen the light. (It's all about faith, baby!). In the end, my tattoos are like my ever-changing hair, although it's great if people like it, think it's beautiful, etc., in the end, it's really for me, and I do it because I have so much fun with it, either looking at my tattoos every time I undress or changing my hair color/style once again (which I just did a few days ago).

And now, for the BIG news, though not as big as Lazuli's gender-revelation, we are moving, TOMORROW, to Missoula, Montana.

*waits for cheers, applause, confetti*

Okay, well, maybe it's not New York-New York (what a wonderful town!) or (I left my heart in) San Francisco, but it's a place I can feel excited about. Honestly, if I had to write down five places in the United States I could choose from, Montana would be on that list, so I'm happy about that. Furthermore, it's Beau's home state, and he's been burning to move back there for about 20 years now, so he's obviously excited as well.

My only stipulation was that we MUST land in a city of sizeable...size. As charming as Itty-Bitty, Missouri was (in Spring), it became pretty clear to me that Small Town, U.S.A. was not. for. me. Besides all my own admitted prejudices of small town prejudice, the simple fact is that my particular services (in administration or education) are just not in high, if any, demand in a small town environment. There aren't a lot of immigrants clammoring for ESL (English as a Second Language) classes in White-Bred, Corn-fed, Rural Midwest. Nor are there any large, international non-profit agencies, another field where I have a good deal of experience. Little ol' me is a Lotta ol' useless in a small town. And my uber-complex-to-be-content nature cannot continue my life working at Target since my homicidal thoughts toward the undeniably disgusting thoughtlessness and piggishness of customers (particularly women! GOD!) will explode with the heat of a thousand suns and I will KILL the next person who knocks a shirt off its hanger, onto the floor, and then kicks it under a table!

*pant*

So anyway, *whistle* we talked about it a bit and we decided upon Missoula. Reasons being:

A) Missoula is in the southwest. According to Beau, anywhere in the eastern part of the state is a windy, frost-bitten hell, and the western side is all majestic mountains, sparkling lakes, and "mild" weather.

B) Missoula is a university town (University of Montana), which is a big fat plus to me! I have now had 3 different people who have either lived/spent a great deal of time in Madison, Wisconsin tell me that Missoula is a smaller version of Madison. This is great news to me, since Madison was one of my favorite residences of my life. And now that Madison is beginning to become a monster, it seems the right time to be in a place like Missoula. Also, I loved working at the University of Wisconsin and look forward to the possibility of working at a university again.

D) Missoula is "big" (that is, if you are from Montana and a city of approximately 60,000 people seems massive to you).

E) Missoula is pretty. Well, so I hear. May seem like not a big deal to you, but it is to me.

So, if all goes well, we will be heading out in our little Honda, with each and every crack and crevice stuffed with every item we own (what we have left after all these moves in the past year and a half) and one very pissy cat. Knowing us, Beau will drive, I will read from Drums in Autumn, and we will make it there in one exhaustive day.

But the story doesn't end there. Our first stop? The in-laws.

*gulp*