My new favorite thing is my full-sized ironing board. I've been using a very annoying tabletop-sized one because I haven't had room for a real one since I graduated college and left Bowling Green. (Which does beg the question, what happened to the one I had in college? Why did I just buy a new one? Shouldn't the old one be waiting for me somewhere?) The first thing I did this morning was iron a tablecloth. I literally woke up and thought, "I can iron a tablecloth now!"

You must understand though, the tablecloth still looks pretty crappy. And my mom is going to tell me I should iron it. And when I tell her I already did, she'll tell me to wash it and take it out of the dryer when it's still damp and do it again. Should I do this? Yes, yes, I should. But not today. Today is a day my kitchen table will no longer be naked. Besides, John would never notice and he's the only person who'll really see it.

We also have a washer and dryer now. (They're the ones I had in college... They knew my old ironing board. Why are they still here waiting and the ironing board is gone?) No more searching my car's floorboards for quarters for the dank and scary laundryroom in our old building. No more having to go to the bank for rolls of quarters.

By the way, I'd forgotten about drive-through windows at banks. They're sort of genius. And there's no bullet-proof glass anywhere. I could actually reach out and slap the teller. Not that I'd want to, but I could.

The washer and dryer have been eclipsed by the ironing board. It's really too bad that I suck at ironing, because I'm super excited. The little tabletop one's legs would start to fold in while I was ironing. Not at all convenient. This is a new era.

Labels: apartment., family.

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Our lease is up in the middle of November and our rent is going up again--from high to ridiculous. We spent Saturday apartment hunting, which sounds, going into it, like success means something will end up dead at the end of the day. And that's pretty much what it felt like, minus the "success" part.

Low point #1: Tiny apartment with carpet stolen from some poor grandmother shown by Mr. ReallyOld and his wife, Cranky ReallyOld, with the fantastic selling point of my being able to choose my own stove. Because it didn't come with one. And we would be buying one.

Low point #2: Being greeted by a brassy manager (in the movie version of my life, she'd be played by an over-tanned Jean Smart) who, upon seeing two people, said, "Oh...is it for both of you? Oh, no. That won't work." She then proceeded to show it to us anyway, while regaling us with lovely stories of couples whose marriages had fallen to pathetic bits at the feet of this teeny hole, which was currently occupied by a sullen-looking artsy lady with a shiny gray leather couch covered with purple velvet pillows and a furry thing that I think was a blanket.

Low point #3: Today I visited a building that is literally in the shadow of a new behemoth of an apartment complex. The new building is gorgeous and contemporary and probably has a pool on the roof. The building I was looking at was short and squatty and I actually worried that the wooden staircase was going to collapse with me on it. Oh yeah and the apartment was #13. They didn't put a number on the door though, so the doors were numbered 11, 12, blank, 14, 15. Surely no one will notice, right?

Labels: apartment.

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Yesterday, in the check-out line at Von's (buying a cart full of groceries I will, in fact, have to actually cook at some point, starting tonight), I was made a victim of smart merchandise placement. I impulse-bought a magazine on interior decorating with the most adorable pillows I've ever seen on the cover. Lavender, sky blue, lime green, and teal. Patchwork. Plus, the couch they're on looks a lot like mine.

The thing is, of course, that my couch already has purple pillows on it. And the entire magazine, though breathtaking in some points, led me to similar conclusions. For example, there is this really neat spread on how to make curtains with maps. Our windows have blinds. Huge blinds. Vertical blinds that smack each other and make obnoxious noises when we have our ceiling fans on (which is always, because we live in The Valley). Each slat is about 3 inches wide. Even Rand McNally himself couldn't cover these windows.

Everything in the entire magazine was adorable. And I can't incorporate any of it in my apartment. Before I went to Von's yesterday, I thought I had a cute apartment. I hate Von's.

Labels: apartment.

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I was late for work today because I couldn't shower. Our building was having plumbing problems. Again. Water/sewage came up from under the toilet and up the drain in the tub. It gurgled and bubbled all morning. Pretty gross stuff.

It's the second time this has happened, too. The last time, I felt really self conscious and washed my hair (and the rest of me) using the kitchen sink before anyone came to fix things. Today, we had last night's dirty dishes in the sink. Plus, more of the maintenance guys came and with more frequency than last time, so being naked in the kitchen might have been a little..."Inconvenient." They ended up turning the water off to the whole building anyway, because apparently when other people used their water it made my bathroom a bigger mess. The guys were all really nice though. And they cleaned my bathroom when everything was fixed. (So, except for missing a half a day of work, I came out sort of ahead.) One of them told me that we didn't have it nearly as bad as the people next door, whose apartment is right next to where there's a problem with the line.

I let, I think, six different men into my apartment today while I sat on the couch in my pajamas. Not my general practice.

It makes life seem so much better, in general, to go a day without running water. At least, when it seems like everything sucks, I can wash my hands.

Labels: apartment.

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I've been cleaning out the over-the-clothes shelf of our bedroom closet. Two boxes of college stuff.

Purple, leopard-spotted cat ears--circa the Josie and the Pussycats movie--that Sara and I bought at Target and wore around, in public, for the rest of the day while hanging out with a friend and her friend, neither of whom Sara and I talk to anymore. Because the friend went kind of crazy. And her friend was overrated.

A sitting porcelain doll of the "little girl dressed like a witch" variety. My grandmother gave her to me. Probably the last thing she ever gave me.

About twenty CD cases for CD's I've long-ago stopped listening to.

College was two years ago. Two years of marriage ago. What am I going to do with all this stuff? I can't thow anything away. But now I have all the stuff John can't throw away (considerably less stuff, by the way, because he's not as sentimental as I am) to deal with and all the crap we've collected together over the past two years. All of this leads up to the following conclusion: Our apartment is freakin' tiny!

Labels: apartment., friends.

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I'm hiding out in the office at work, on break. There's this customer here that scares me. Because he looks and, more importantly, laughs like a clown. I'm not kidding. I can't stand the guy.

"The In-laws" are still in town. I've been sleeping on the air mattress...and I now formally apologize to any and all of our guests that have previously spent the night in our apartment on that raft.

I'm cranky.

Labels: apartment., company., work.

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So. This week I met two celebrities at work, nearly my etire family came to LA and left, and I caught a mind-numbingly bad cold.

My parents brought out (pretty much) the rest of our belongings, including my car, which apparently still has a problem (or perhaps a new one) with the transmission. The apartment is full now. Complete with Christmas trees. Trees. Plural. Five fake ones throughout the apartment that take up less space than one real one would. Hopefully I'll have pictures soon.

I'd write more...but my head feels...fuzzy.

Labels: apartment., family.

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John and I have officially moved to Burbank. My commute went from being over two hours a day to about a half hour or less, which is really great. Lately I was spending more time with Robert Siegel than I was with my husband.

We've done some actual, grown-up furniture shopping. Pretty exciting stuff, buying a couch. Our new refrigerator is supposed to be delivered this afternoon.

Labels: apartment.

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Yesterday I went to Bowling Green with Sara to visit the old office. Today John and I went to Camden to see my father-in-law. Tomorrow we're going to Atlanta to see our friends there.

This all amounts to, for me, final good-byes. Well, not final. These people aren't out of my life. But we're still leaving.

I walked around campus yesterday feeling a little disoriented. Could this really be my life? Am I really moving to California? Did I really even graduate college? It's the middle of August--shouldn't I be buying paper and folders in the back-to-school aisle at Wal-Mart? And Sara and I were kind of quiet on the ride back to Nashville. I wonder when I'll be in her car again.

The land around Camden looks like a swamp. Wesley took us to Bruceton, the town where he grew up, and these huge expanses of puddled fields and large-leafed ground plants surrounding dead, branchless, colorless trees lined the highway. How can something that looks so nourishing have so much stagnation and death in it?

I'm leaving the South in the summertime. The humidity has gone back up, now that Hurricane Charley has run its course. And everything is sticky again. My skin feels dry and flaky from my not slathering lotion all over myself after I shave. And, of course, I have to shave or my legs would suffocate.

The first time I ever saw Sara, she was wearing a Cats T-shirt and she looked bored. I was bored. We were in this weird meeting in our dorm during orientation week in which the RA's and the Hall Director kept trying to convince us that we were living in the best dorm on campus, referencing their own inside jokes as often as possible. Even though the dorm hadn't been renovated since the 70's. Even though it still didn't have air conditioning to justify moving to Kentucky in August. Even though it was painfully obvious no one liked it there.

The second time I saw Sara, I asked if I could sit with her to eat my breakfast when I saw her in the cafeteria. All I really remember about the conversation was that we talked about going to Barnes & Noble together sometime. (Going to Barnes & Noble would later become a social activity for us.)

The first time I ever saw Wesley, he had a mullet. We were at the Irish Parade in Erin and were all supposed to look for John's sister when the band went by. I don't remember anything he said to me. I remember what John was wearing. And who was standing down the street. I remember the fluttering feeling in my stomach, like something important was happening.

When I came back from New York, my parents' house looked drastically different because they'd ripped out the bushes in front of their house. They were huge, overgrown bushes that needed more room and a backdrop other than the house. I watched my dad pull what was left of their roots out of the ground with his new tractor. It looked as easy spooning the stewed cabbage my Grandma used to make out of one of her big, green and brass pots.

I wonder how long the roots of palm trees grow. What could hold those lanky, California palms in place? What could keep something so iconic from tumbling over, off the cliffs into the Pacific?

The field by my Grandma's house, where my life is being stored, is full of Queen Anne's Lace. By November, hay bales will be there instead. They'll sit there, spread apart, looking neat and clean, like a village awaiting the Big Bad Wolf.

Labels: apartment.

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I hate all my belongings. A few minutes ago, I was looking at mugs with contempt.

A note to remember: When running the dishwasher, washing machine, and dryer with all three huge machines crammed into a kitchen the size of horse trailer, packing your dishes will make you sweat more than if you were running a marathon.

Have I just compared my self to a horse? Can't think about that now. I have to go scale Mount Laurasclothes.

Labels: apartment.

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Our DVDs and videos are now sitting in boxes in front of the TV. When I see them like that, taking up so much physical space, I'm shocked. They fill up boxes that would be big enough to mail my nephews, if mailing nephews was something that could be done.

The two boxes that are big enough for me to fit in are still completely empty. What do you put in something that big? I'm afraid I'll pack wrong and (albeit indirectly) break someone's back.

Labels: apartment.

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John and I are moving. From our sweet little apartment in Atlanta (the interior of which we love, the exterior of which--due to a crazy amount of construction--makes us want to take turns jabbing his fancy art pencils in our eyes) to the The Big Smog. My favorite town. The city of angels.

The very words "los angeles" being about the only Spanish I know, I am super excited about learning a new language. Of course, I took three Spanish classes. So. That might not go well.

I found out that it's going to cost around $900 to rent the smallest truck U-Haul has and a dolly to tow my car. I also found out that I can buy a sofa, a stool, six chairs, four tables, a bed frame, a TV stand, two computer desks, two night stands, a chest of drawers, and two lamps from Ikea for $980.93.

Can I get an Amen?

Now, I said to myself, "Holy crap! I can buy the coolest furniture in the world for the price I'd pay to get our current furniture to L.A."

Our current furniture. I mean that in a transient sense. Because very little of it was ours to begin with. Like, our current apartment, which was first used by other people...and will soon become something totally depressing--a $90,000 condo...ahem...and will be used by others after us. Our tables were originally at home in my parents' first apartment in 1972. Our entertainment center belonged to my sister and her husband. They have now built a house and have an entertainment center strong enough to withstand a cow dropping out of an airplane and landing on it. The couch and the bed belonged to my dad's parents. I really have no idea how old they are.

The furniture that does belong to us fits into two categories: 1) furniture my parents bought for me when I was ten and 2) more reasons for us to love Target.

I not-so-secretly want to blow every penny we make working in New York this summer on Barbie dolls and furniture that will be so insanely in-the-moment trendy, we'll be forced, by our own will or that of local officials, to replace it all in no more than five years.

Fortunately for those who love me, I rarely ever allow myself to give in to such purchases. Which reminds me, I know more Spanish than just "the angels." I also know most car dealerships offer "credito facil."

Labels: apartment.

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You know those windows that got smashed to bits yesterday? Apparently they liked John and I so much, they didn't want to leave. At least, that's the only reason I want to accept for why there were shards of glass in our bed last night. Maybe it was an early April Fool's joke.

Country-music-loving-guy-with-the-hammer: I know, after I'm done beating their house to death and scraping up their walls, I'll put little pieces of glass and wood in their bed...and under their pillows! Yay! Today won't be as boring as I thought!

John was determined to curse at someone when he paid the rent, but the only someone we know to curse to wasn't at the office yet when he went by before work... So. I had to do it. I didn't curse though. I just handed her an envelope of glass and pinky-finger-sized splinters. Then I said, "These people made a mess," and pointed into the envelope, "That one was underneath my pillow."

Labels: apartment., atlanta.

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By the way. John (dear boy) left for work around 11AM. So. Because I always sleep way too late, I took a shower alone in a house full of hammer-happy maniacs.

That was my ever-so-melodramatic lead-in to this awesome memory I had in the shower...

When my numb hands went under the water, they got that burning feeling little hands get when put near a heater after playing in the snow. My family used to have this big, ugly, wood-burning heater that took up, like, 1/4 of the room. When my sister and I would come in from playing in the snow, which didn't happen all that often, we'd put our mittens and/or gloves (depending on the year) on top of it to dry off. There's nothing like the smell of snowy wool gloves drying on top of a stove. We'd change clothes, then both squeeze into the big arm chair beside the heater, sideways, so our feet would dangle in front of the heat.

I wanna make a snow angel.

Labels: apartment., atlanta., childhood.

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Okay, so, for a while now our apartment complex has looked like a war zone because they're kicking out all the current tenants and turning the place into fancy-pants condos. It started with the roof. These workmen would come at what felt like dawn to take down the shingles and plywood from the roof...and then they'd fling it down to the helpless ground below. Woke me up every day.

My dad came to visit then. It was raining and those fools were working like mad. Damn straight. Fix my roof, fool. When we were leaving to go have dinner, we opened the door and a huge sheet of plywood landed about four feet in front of us. My dad clung to the side of the building, like any smart person would, so the eave would cover him up.

Now. Now they're replacing our windows. They told us they were doing this yesterday. That's right. Not even 24 hours of notice. I'm sure glad we were home.

But this is the best part: they're taking out the old windows by scoring them with a super-duper-cuts-glass-like-butter knife...and then breaking them. The guy who's doing the breaking went upstairs first and John and I were downstairs. Then I hear what I'm sure is him banging up our bedroom window with a hammer. Luckily, it is a bit more systematic than that. But only a bit.

So I give you this wisdom: it can get really cold inside a house that has two 5'x4' holes in it.

He's working in the kitchen now. Beating the living crap out of my window frame. Oh yes, I didn't mention that. When the glass is gone, they beat the frame and all that's left out of the building with a hammer. A hammer, people. Talk about scaring a poor country girl into wanting to go back to her native land and hide under the kudzu... I want to go take my dishes and put them in a safe. Take a hammer to my kitchen, will you? Screw you, buddy.

I'm freezing. And I can hear his twangy country music coming from his too-crazy-loud headphones. Over the hammer. God, protect me.

Gotta stop typing, the breeze is numbing my damn fingers... Great. They're outside freaking out 'cause it might rain. Oh. Don't I know it will.

Labels: apartment., atlanta.

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