Sunday, March 7, 2010
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Please, don't come in.
I've always liked the idea of "having company over." The idea of sharing your home with someone sends warm ripples of comfort up my spine, but when the time comes to actually have company over I turn into a nervous wreck. I worry about forgetting manners or common courtesies. What are the rules for having guests over? Do I allow their cups to empty? Should I always have some nibbles prepared just-in-case? Did I properly clean the lint trap? People will see all my household flaws!
Well, I suppose those are the thoughts that would be racing through my mind if we decided to even let people in the house.
In college it was understood that your place of habitat would not be clean. College kids don't have time to clean. You have people over and they just "got it." So I never worried much about having dirty dishes in the sink, wiping up all the loose cat fur strewn around the place, or picking up various art supplies that littered the floor. It was expected.
Now I'm out of the college phase (in theory) and we're in a house. Something we can call our own and are proud to show off. Except we simply haven't settled in. It still looks like the day we moved in. . . boxes everywhere, half-heartedly sorted piles of random stuff, things searching for homes. I think we're both in shock about actually setting up a permanent place. That and the fact we have no furniture to speak of. So we're forced to say things like "We're just not ready for company" or "Sorry, you're not allowed in. Hope you don't mind freezing on our front porch!"
One day I'll be able to invite people over and not be ashamed of the mess. One day our neighbors will unexpectedly show up and we can open the door wide, welcoming them in. One day we won't be ashamed of our maze of unopened boxes and things will have places. One day we'll turn this house into a home. But for now, if you feel like popping by, don't expect a warm place to stay; we'll just send you to the nearest hotel with a bag of cookies and an awkward apology.
Well, I suppose those are the thoughts that would be racing through my mind if we decided to even let people in the house.
In college it was understood that your place of habitat would not be clean. College kids don't have time to clean. You have people over and they just "got it." So I never worried much about having dirty dishes in the sink, wiping up all the loose cat fur strewn around the place, or picking up various art supplies that littered the floor. It was expected.
Now I'm out of the college phase (in theory) and we're in a house. Something we can call our own and are proud to show off. Except we simply haven't settled in. It still looks like the day we moved in. . . boxes everywhere, half-heartedly sorted piles of random stuff, things searching for homes. I think we're both in shock about actually setting up a permanent place. That and the fact we have no furniture to speak of. So we're forced to say things like "We're just not ready for company" or "Sorry, you're not allowed in. Hope you don't mind freezing on our front porch!"
One day I'll be able to invite people over and not be ashamed of the mess. One day our neighbors will unexpectedly show up and we can open the door wide, welcoming them in. One day we won't be ashamed of our maze of unopened boxes and things will have places. One day we'll turn this house into a home. But for now, if you feel like popping by, don't expect a warm place to stay; we'll just send you to the nearest hotel with a bag of cookies and an awkward apology.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Mind in the gutter
When we moved out west we really just didn't know what to expect. Our first year in the Antelope Valley we were met with blistering heat and clear blue skies day after day after day. Then it rained. Then it snowed. They called it a fluke. Then we moved.
Tehachapi is known as the Land of Four Seasons. Initially I found this to be a strange thing to boast, but now realize it's a great selling point. We happily moved to the land of promise in anticipation of familiar skies.
When we moved into the house, the ground was baked and cracked as if it had never seen a drop of moisture. We thought irrigation would be the big issue when it came to landscaping. Oh, how wrong we were.
Our first bout of rain we realized just how badly we needed to work on drainage. We also realized the house did not, in fact, have any gutters. In the southeast, the only reason people do not have gutters on their homes is because they just got ripped off by a hurricane. I suppose we just figured that rainfall came so seldom to the area that having gutters was seen as an extravagant expense.
Well, after a week of rain and snow, we found ourselves practically swimming across the lawn. Obviously, this needed to be fixed. A phone call and an estimate later, we now have beautiful new gutters. Ok, ok, I know gutters don't fix a drainage problem, but it's a start. Call it a kick in the seat of our overly drenched pants.
Tehachapi is known as the Land of Four Seasons. Initially I found this to be a strange thing to boast, but now realize it's a great selling point. We happily moved to the land of promise in anticipation of familiar skies.
When we moved into the house, the ground was baked and cracked as if it had never seen a drop of moisture. We thought irrigation would be the big issue when it came to landscaping. Oh, how wrong we were.
Our first bout of rain we realized just how badly we needed to work on drainage. We also realized the house did not, in fact, have any gutters. In the southeast, the only reason people do not have gutters on their homes is because they just got ripped off by a hurricane. I suppose we just figured that rainfall came so seldom to the area that having gutters was seen as an extravagant expense.
Well, after a week of rain and snow, we found ourselves practically swimming across the lawn. Obviously, this needed to be fixed. A phone call and an estimate later, we now have beautiful new gutters. Ok, ok, I know gutters don't fix a drainage problem, but it's a start. Call it a kick in the seat of our overly drenched pants.
Who knew this place came with a swimming pool!?
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Fat Tuesday
Three Tuesdays from now, all of the Gulf Coast will be in uproar over strings of plastic beads, doubloons from their favorite Krewe, and, of course, King Cake. What? You've never heard of King Cake? What's with Tuesday being Fat? Oh dear. That's right, I'm in California and hardly anyone has ever heard of Mardi Gras. It's still ludicrous to me to have to go to work on this sacred day, but, alas, I must.
Even if no one in the office will understand my random shoutings of "Throw me somethin', Mister!" and "Mardi Gras Mambo!" I can at least bring them cake to fake a celebration. Perhaps I can educate the masses on one of the traditions of Mardi Gras. Hmm, let's see. . in pre-Christian Western Europe, tribes would bake a "King's Cake," hide a trinket in it, and whoever got the piece of cake with the object, would be King for a year. Now, I suppose it's nice and all to be King for a year and have people bow at your feet, but when your time's up, you get killed. Yep, you're the chosen one that gets to fertilize the soil at the end of the year in promise of a good harvest. I don't know about you guys, but I could go without winning the King Cake Lottery.
Christianity comes along and this tradition is picked up and eventually morphed into what the King Cake is known for today: a delicious obligation. Sure it has religious undertones, but most people just know it as that oval-shaped sugary treat that is indulged in right before Lent. Oh, and the plastic Jesus baby. Can't forget him. Instead of being sacrificed when you get the "trinket" in the cake, you now have to bring in the next cake. That's a lot more tolerable than being a human sacrifice.
Now onto my purposes for bringing King Cakes to the west. Well, they're just tasty. And I miss the fun of sharing a strange looking cake with a bunch of semi-acquaintances. And, perhaps, if this catches on, Mardi Gras will become a National Holiday and I don't have to go to work on Fat Tuesday. Instead, I can spend the entire day trying to burn off all the calories I've consumed by learning to make my own King Cake.
Even if no one in the office will understand my random shoutings of "Throw me somethin', Mister!" and "Mardi Gras Mambo!" I can at least bring them cake to fake a celebration. Perhaps I can educate the masses on one of the traditions of Mardi Gras. Hmm, let's see. . in pre-Christian Western Europe, tribes would bake a "King's Cake," hide a trinket in it, and whoever got the piece of cake with the object, would be King for a year. Now, I suppose it's nice and all to be King for a year and have people bow at your feet, but when your time's up, you get killed. Yep, you're the chosen one that gets to fertilize the soil at the end of the year in promise of a good harvest. I don't know about you guys, but I could go without winning the King Cake Lottery.
Christianity comes along and this tradition is picked up and eventually morphed into what the King Cake is known for today: a delicious obligation. Sure it has religious undertones, but most people just know it as that oval-shaped sugary treat that is indulged in right before Lent. Oh, and the plastic Jesus baby. Can't forget him. Instead of being sacrificed when you get the "trinket" in the cake, you now have to bring in the next cake. That's a lot more tolerable than being a human sacrifice.
Now onto my purposes for bringing King Cakes to the west. Well, they're just tasty. And I miss the fun of sharing a strange looking cake with a bunch of semi-acquaintances. And, perhaps, if this catches on, Mardi Gras will become a National Holiday and I don't have to go to work on Fat Tuesday. Instead, I can spend the entire day trying to burn off all the calories I've consumed by learning to make my own King Cake.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Do you use YouTube?
My coworker asked me this and all I could muster was "No. I don't like sharing." After awkwardly back peddling to explain myself and trying to sum my ranting with a simple "I don't personally upload videos, but I watch silly things people send me" I began asking myself what's so wrong with sharing.
Well, it means you expose yourself to criticism and ridicule. Two things I try to avoid like the plague and constantly fret over. The last thing I want to do is expose my soft chewy center for someone to metaphorically chew up and spit out. How embarrassing. How crushing. How silly. How true.
Hi, I'm Kelsey. I grew up on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi, was raised on fresh seafood, visited the beach often and climbed any tree that allowed it. I now live in the desert of California and although I love what I do, I miss home terribly. I live with my nerdy counterpart who just purchased a lovely house and is graciously sharing his life with me. We share this abode with two overly furry cats that test the boundaries of our patience and love (in the best way possible).
These are basic points that most people don't think twice about sharing, but they are personal items I wouldn't dare volunteer in casual conversation. Knowing that these things won't be read by many, I'm still hesitant to just put it out there. But I'm going to put it out there. I need to.
Well, it means you expose yourself to criticism and ridicule. Two things I try to avoid like the plague and constantly fret over. The last thing I want to do is expose my soft chewy center for someone to metaphorically chew up and spit out. How embarrassing. How crushing. How silly. How true.
Hi, I'm Kelsey. I grew up on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi, was raised on fresh seafood, visited the beach often and climbed any tree that allowed it. I now live in the desert of California and although I love what I do, I miss home terribly. I live with my nerdy counterpart who just purchased a lovely house and is graciously sharing his life with me. We share this abode with two overly furry cats that test the boundaries of our patience and love (in the best way possible).
These are basic points that most people don't think twice about sharing, but they are personal items I wouldn't dare volunteer in casual conversation. Knowing that these things won't be read by many, I'm still hesitant to just put it out there. But I'm going to put it out there. I need to.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
The EAFB Airshow Debacle
Last Saturday, October 17, we decided to attend the Edwards Air Force Base Airshow. Unfortunately, so did the entire Antelope Valley.
We left at 9:30 in the morning anticipating minimal traffic and exciting flybys only to meet a line of traffic that went on for miles and miles. After about two hours of crawling traffic, we felt a surge of hope when we spotted this:
It's amazing what a little signage can do for morale. Of course, that quickly faded when we snapped out of our airplane daydreams and once again laid eyes on the ceaseless line of cars before us. To make matters worse, we didn't bring snacks and we didn't fill up the car. As the hours ticked away, our stomachs became quite aware of the lack of food of our surroundings, as did the car's fuel gauge.
Somewhere in the midst of our hunger and fuel fumes, we glanced out the windows and spotted a few airshow planes performing. Knowing that the show was going strong, we snapped what photos we could and forged ahead, promising our bellies mass quantities of food and our eyes much desired flight scenes.
By the time we made it to the parking area, the flight portion of the Airshow was nearly through, the E on the fuel gauge was glowing a bright orange, and the clock forced us to make a decision. If we chose to stay, we would have to park on the lake bed, walk the long unknown distance to the actual static displays, and hope there was food waiting. We would have a maximum of an hour to take in what goodness we could, walk back, and fight through another four hours of traffic on no gasoline. The cheer of "But we came all this way!" was quickly silenced with "We'll have to push the car to the nearest gas station. . . off the base." Without even stopping (well, we had to stop due to the incessant stop-and-go traffic), we followed the parking signs to the exit signs and after about 45 minutes more of crawling, made it to a Mojave gas station and refueled. We then made plans for food at the nearest "nice" restaurant and spent the rest of the evening forgetting the day existed.
Somewhere in the midst of our hunger and fuel fumes, we glanced out the windows and spotted a few airshow planes performing. Knowing that the show was going strong, we snapped what photos we could and forged ahead, promising our bellies mass quantities of food and our eyes much desired flight scenes.
By the time we made it to the parking area, the flight portion of the Airshow was nearly through, the E on the fuel gauge was glowing a bright orange, and the clock forced us to make a decision. If we chose to stay, we would have to park on the lake bed, walk the long unknown distance to the actual static displays, and hope there was food waiting. We would have a maximum of an hour to take in what goodness we could, walk back, and fight through another four hours of traffic on no gasoline. The cheer of "But we came all this way!" was quickly silenced with "We'll have to push the car to the nearest gas station. . . off the base." Without even stopping (well, we had to stop due to the incessant stop-and-go traffic), we followed the parking signs to the exit signs and after about 45 minutes more of crawling, made it to a Mojave gas station and refueled. We then made plans for food at the nearest "nice" restaurant and spent the rest of the evening forgetting the day existed.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Sunday News
When we first moved in over a year ago I saw some rather odd looking patchwork on the walls. I understand that tenants may attempt to fill holes they've put in the walls before they move out (although more than likely it was the guys who gut out the apartment before a new tenant moves in) and some may actually do a good job.Unfortunately, whoever did the work apparently used what I believe to be toothpaste to fill pin holes. A year ago the "work" looked like melted icing dripping down the wall. Finding this quite disturbing, I wiped at the mush; it smelled rather minty fresh. After cleaning the obvious blemishes, I went on with life.
A year later one can now see several other "fixed" areas where the "patch" has turned yellow on the bright white walls.
That's definitely not wall putty.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)