How to Park in Our Garage

Our remotes have become de-programmed, and we keep saying we'll fix them, but the reset button is way up on the gear box, so high that even I, the tallest person in the house, cannot reach. We don't own a ladder. And anytime a car is parked inside and can be used as a step-stool, no one else is around to act as spotter.

Which makes using the garage a difficult process. You park parallel to the door, so any neighbors returning home can still effortlessly enter their own garages. You run around to the front, which is quite a trek since we are 4th in a line of five connected townhouses. You unlock the front door, weave through the hall, open the back door and press the button. Wait five minutes for the door to slowly crank open. Run out to your car, get in and make an erratic K-turn, avoiding all the seemingly random poles sprouting from the asphalt. Pull into the garage, lower the door, and lock the back door behind you.

To leave, you exit the back door and lock it behind you. Wait for the garage door to raise after pressing the button. Back out. Make sure your car clears the path the garage door takes. I cannot stress how important this is. At least equal to the "Never stop on train tracks" rule no one ever follows.

Get out and take several deep breaths before pressing the door button. Make a run for it.

You see, for many parking stints, I thought we just had a smart door. I'd run out to my car, envisioning myself as Indiana Jones in Raiders of the Lost Ark, except not wearing a hat to retrieve at the last second. The door always, without fail, started chugging upwards the second I stepped onto asphalt. I did this three times, thinking I would finally win. Then I'd give up and lower the door from inside, leaving through the front door and walking dejectedly back to my car.

I got fed up quickly. (Or not so quickly, considering it took me at least three tries.) I got on my hands and knees and examined the box on the side of the threshold. It looks like an ordinary gray plastic box, until you hold your hand before it and see a tiny red pinprick. A laser.

Here's the trick - garage doors have sensors. I didn't know this; I've never had a garage so I never thought about it. It's supposed to keep the door from closing on curious pets and wandering babies. The best part of this is that our sensor is set too high. Small puppies and toddlers could lounge on the ledge where the garage drops off to driveway and not trip the laser. Since our household is pet- and child-free, this makes it fun for us. For me, anyway, since I've never seen any of the roommates attempt a high-step.

You still have to pull out and come back into the garage to hit the button. But when you get a few steps away from the threshold, you stop and take two high steps in preparation. This also lets the garage door sink a little lower, adding a thrill to your otherwise bland excursion. Then STEP and DUCK and run to your car as if you are being chased! Get in, start your engine, and turn to watch the door close the last few inches of the gap. If you have a wild imagination, you might see someone's grotesque hand reaching out from underneath in one last, futile attempt to grab for you.

Beating the garage door is both how I spent my weekend and the most personally satisfying thing I have learned since moving here.

Mumble Jumble

Today was a loooong day. Training is exhausting by itself, but then I had five, five, do you hear me?, orientation events to attend. I was going to blog about them because they were amusing and interesting, but Jennifer is going to do that here, and her report will be better than mine. Mine would be a rundown of You had to be there funnies that sound suspiciously like inside jokes, while I'm sure hers will have some sort of narrative flow. She's in the MFA program, you understand.

The only thing I'll mention about the orientations is that the meet & greet portion was held in the Center for the Arts, which boasts large posters of past performances in the lobby. I'm introducing myself for the 87th time when I look up and see...Rockapella smilin' down on me! My heart expanded with love for all of mankind and I knew I'd make it with these guys watching over me. (And when I just Googled "Rockapella George Mason" looking for the poster to show here, I found out that they are performing here again. I think my return to Memphis for Christmas will be delayed. I can't pass this up.)

I wanted to have a drink when I got home, but my roommate was craving Cinnamon Toast Crunch, so I went to the store with her. I got ice cream, though you may recall it was cake I was craving yesterday. Ice cream seemed to be a more practical purchase.

I took this picture because I kept loudly proclaiming it was the Twelve Step Treat™. Then I realized that recovery goes along with No More Blues. It was funny while it lasted.

Let me say that I'm not big on name brand ice creams. Ben & Jerry's in particular has always rubbed me the wrong way - the way people sing its praises when really it's just a bunch of random shit thrown together.

Well, I've changed my tune. I would die for this ice cream. No lie. If a car tire were about to crush this pint of heaven, I would run into the road, carefully yet urgently toss the treat into soft grass, and take the hit myself.

So now I'm eating ice cream from the carton and watching Project Runway. I am such a girl.

PS: Tonight my grocery clerk asked "Is there anything else?" as she handed me my bag.
I said, "YES! Where is a god damn post office?!"
She looked taken aback, and I saw her hand sneak beneath the counter where I'm sure there was a silent alarm trigger, but her voice hardly shook as she told me to go up to this highway, down to this highway, cross this highway, and turn into the shopping center. "There's Bank of America," she continued, "and JoAnn Fabric. Many, many postal trucks. And post office."
"A physical building?" I clarified.
Yes, she assured me. An actual post office building.

I started a new blog documenting my quest to find it:
http://findthegoddamnpostoffice.blogspot.com
Sponsors welcome - gas is expensive.

Stopping By...

Classes haven't even started, and I'm already drained. Apparently training me to work with the public is very difficult after being a cube dweller speaking only in grunts for the past three years.

I'm being social, which is strange good. Not good for my wallet, though, and not good for my poor time management skills. But I'm having a lot of fun, and people are really nice, really interesting.

G-dawg showin' me some freshly inked verse.
I'm not writing. I wasn't reading, up until a few moments ago when I cracked open a book while eating a bowl of Cheerios for dinner. But if you count articles about tutoring, I am reading an insane amount every night.

I still get lost when I try to go somewhere new. I'm not sure if GoogleMaps is incorrect, or if Northern Virginia periodically shuffles its streets and businesses. Take, for example, my rigorous quest of finding a post office: I Mapquested twice and never found it. My roommate told me where one was - next to Joann's Fabrics - and when I went there this afternoon, there was no post office! There was a mail drop-box, there was an army of mail trucks, and there was Joann's Fabrics, hulking in the center of a strip mall parking lot, just as she described... But the post office itself? Obviously vanished just moments before I completed the turn.

I think once I'm completely unpacked, I'll feel more rooted, so I hope to spend the weekend sorting the last of my boxes. They really just consist of pictures to hang and desk supplies to store. How many rolls of tape does one girl need?

Apparently a lot.

And don't get me started on pens...

Nerd.


I want cake.

the next phase

My life fits into a pickup truck. My life consists of boxes and boxes of books, which isn't fun to unload when your bedroom is on the third floor. But my closet is massive and my clothes are few, so my closet will be my library.

I have three clocks in my room, all reading different times. I have a tub separate from my shower stall. I have a shelf in the pantry, and I am the only one who stocks hers with Spaghetti-Os and Easy Mac. I can't decide if I should grow up or keep eating products that may or may not be real food. Though the 'growing up' dilemma extends beyond food choices...

For a girl who never wears socks, I sure have plenty of them.

I need to remedy this.
My tuition waiver went through, but I've still spent tons and tons of money. Turns out parking passes aren't mailed to you for free, like in Memphis. Campus isn't as big as it looks on the map, but it has tons of trees and wooden walkways, so I still get turned around.

It feels really, really strange to not be working. I don't know what to do during the day, so I nap for long stretches. I stand around, hands on hips, and look at my stacks of boxes. Even right now I'm just sitting in a chair, sipping some tea and reading from a script. The wall is covered in something that resembles egg crates except they're soft and spongy, like a twinkie...like a twinkie.

t minus one

Work threw two parties for me today. Breakfast and lunch. I am so pampered; how stupid am I to leave a place that is crazy enough to love me so?!

They had quite the spread for both meals, including a special cupcake for yours truly. And when I say special, I mean special:

Are you laughing? I can't so much as glance at it without cracking up. Poor thing.
I've never had black icing before, and never will again. It looked like a pen exploded in my mouth. Perhaps it was a practical joke? A tip of the hat to the "writer" in me?

Extremely Late Edit: I forgot to mention that, when photographing the cupcake, my camera's "Face Recognizer" function went into effect. It actually registered this cake as a face.

Public Tomfoolery

I miss how we used to take jumping pictures in public places.

Or semi public places...

Without fail, people would ask what we were doing & why we were doing it. Most would walk off, shaking their heads like we should be using our time in a more productive way. The fun ones - the ones I enjoyed getting to know - would jump for us.
Sometimes they'd stage elaborate jumps, and when they finished they'd pause to catch their breath, then ask, "Have you ever seen one like that?"

Sometimes we would ask them to hold our bags so we could jump without restraint. We were pretty trusting, and maybe a little stupid. I guess we got lucky. But I wish I could get even the tiniest smidge of that hopefulness back, that willingness to trust someone who was carefree enough to jump with me.

I hope I never grow up.

I'm pretty sure I won't...

Our First Home

Mating Ritual

This one makes me laugh til I cry. Why do I think I'm so funny?

I've decided to start making homemade gifts for my friends and family. Birthday, Christmas, Easter, Labor Day - it's all going to be homemade. But before you call me cheap, listen up:

They're going to be raps. Customized. I'm going to spend a lot of time and effort writing them, and then I'm going to record them on tape - partially to convey a retro feel, partially in hopes you don't own a tape player anymore.

My rap name will be P. Nuttles, not to be confused with a candy I had never heard of prior to snapping this picture:

I think it will go over well, considering I've already had a request to complete a short rap I began off the cuff, and yesterday I got a text saying "You haven't rapped for me in FORev!"



In unrelated news, men working for some department of the city are cutting down tree limbs on my street and in my neighbor's backyard. They look in my window every time they walk by.

Of course, I only know this because I look too, so I can't fault them.

I can, however, close my blinds. I'm embarrassed at how long it took me to realize this.

(a lack of) Journalistic Integrity

I forgot to bring a book to read at lunch, so I borrowed a magazine from a co-worker; the selection included a range of Entertainment Weekly and Allure. I chose an Allure with Amy Adams on the cover, thinking I could read about her instead of being inundated with petty celebrity gossip.

I'm sad to say, I didn't make it very far. I got distracted by Fashion Extras, a page of purses that looked like litter from the beach, roadkill, and torture devices. The cheapest bag on that page, for the record, was $535. The most expensive was $8,050.

There was advice on how to style wet hair and how to care for your swimsuit, and then, squished in between, was an article that I thought I could read without shriveling up and dying.

How to Make a Great Sandwich
The picture showed a girl sporting a jeweled ring bigger than the sandwich, but I still had high hopes. And so I began to read.

Give a good toast. We toast bread only on one side and flip it so the toasted side faces the inside of the sandwich. You still get a lot of crunch, but you don't risk scraping the roof of your mouth when you take a bite.
[[Who is so frail, so sensitive, that toast scrapes the roof of their mouth? I pictured a whole audience of feminine ladies nodding approvingly, running their tongue along their gums, remembering that pumiceous toast that turned them off of crunchy bread altogether. Meanwhile a handful of us take the first bite of pizza while it's still steaming and eat salty chips with chapped lips. Compared to those ladies, we rebels could endure the most extreme reality-show boot camp.]]

Go in order. To keep things from getting sloppy, put dry ingredients on the outside and wet ones inside. The bread will stay intact, and slippery foods like tomato won't slide around as much. And placing cheese next to the bread acts like glue, reinforcing the sandwich's architecture.
[[A bunch of wet ingredients in the middle of a sandwich sounds like a mess just waiting to spill into my lap. I would suggest layers - put tomato next to one end of the bread, which will act as sandpaper and keep the slimy fruit from slipping out. You can keep the cheese next to the other end, and use it to 'glue' the lettuce in place. Put your meat next, so it's between lettuce and tomato - not too much slickness all together. If you're putting anything else "wet" on your sandwich, it's not a sandwich anymore - crumble that shit up into a salad bowl. Well, that's my advice, anyway, but I'm no expert in "sandwich architecture."]]

The next column was about packing lightly for weekend getaways. Sure, I don't take weekend getaways, but I thought I'd see if there were any good packing tips. This woman's goal was to have readers trim belongings down to fit in just one bag! I don't think I've ever travelled with more than one bag. I should have known then to skip ahead.

Load up the accessories. If you keep the clothes simple, you can dress up your outfits with big, bold pieces of jewelry. I always bring a fun bubble ring; or a summer watch that can get wet; a big necklace in coral, wood, or turquoise; and a gold or silver clutch for evening.
[[I own none of those things, and have no desire to. Regardless, for the rest of the afternoon I kept saying "fun bubble ring" to myself. It didn't even make me giggle, I just couldn't stop repeating it.]]

Edit your toiletries. Beyond the basics like toothpaste and skin-care products, bring the absolute minimum number of toiletries - just what you can't get by without. For me, it's a [name brand] eyelash curler, mascara, blush, and body cream in my favorite scent or a sample-size bottle of perfume.
[[I read the first part and thought - toothpaste, toothbrush, face wash... additional toiletries? Oh, like deodorant? I certainly would have forgotten my name brand eyelash curler, which I looked up - it's a mere $20.]]

I did learn a lot about packing from the article, so I'll give the author credit. I learned that, judging by the way I pack, if I show up at the airport with more than a brown paper lunch sack, I'm bringing too much.

The theme of the day apparently was horrible journalism. I can't decide if it's hilarious or sad when reporters get their facts wrong. I guess you have to consider the sources - one article is from MTV.com, and one is Canadian.

According to James Montgomery @ MTV.com, Steven Tyler is recovering in Boston - so says his wife's Twitter account. Wait, isn't Steven divorced? Why yes, yes he is. The Twitter linked is /BilliePerry, yet you keep calling her Billie Tyler? Oh wait, you get it right later in the article: "Perry concluded her tweets..."

I tried to leave a comment mercilessly mocking the reporter, but work blocked that feature, dammit. Someone else commented a little nicer than I would have, and the reporter was blasé in his reply - as if he knew the truth all along and his erroneous facts were mere typos.

And, in fact, he doesn't look like the best typist - he clarified that Billie was Joe's wife and corrected her last name - except in one instance, where she is now Billie Berry. Hey, I think that's a great nom de plume.

See the two articles side-by-side

The other instance is from a Calgary paper updating readers about the Canadian tour dates.

Compared to this, getting wives' names mixed up is understandable. But Steven Tyler with a guitar? Even if you were dumb and didn't know about his trademark accessory, you can see in the video that he sets his mic stand down on the catwalk. Unless you're blind. In which case, why are you writing a newspaper article?

EDIT: That entire paragraph has since been taken out, but when the article is loading the URL still calls Steven a guitarist - guess they couldn't edit that boo-boo.

Who had August 6th?

I have a sixth sense when it comes to things that don't matter. At work this morning, I suddenly felt like I absolutely must check Google news.

So I did. And was greeted with this:

The last time I had that feeling, I found out (after searching for his name) that Steven Tyler's mother had died. This time, I didn't even have to type in his name. We're clearly linked, me and ST. We're tight on the spiritual level.

It sounds like he's going to be ok - minor neck, shoulder, and head injuries. But he is sixty-one, and head injuries are always a little scary because he might seem fine, but something could happen later as a result. Fingers crossed, Rockstar. Get well.

Million Dollar Idea

I made a typo at work today. I was going along too fast, adding file names to some contact sheets, and accidentally spelled "ornaments pattern" as "pornaments pattern."

Well, all the best inventions are an accident, right? Penicillin, Reese's, Silly Putty. This was it. This was my Million Dollar Idea.

I quickly freehanded some designs in Illustrator and printed them off. I mocked up a few bags: one included a 3D penis tip-on wearing a fuzzy Santa hat, another featured an oversized labia tag (the grommet looks like a piercing! Delightful). My art director returned today from a 3 week trip to China so I skipped over middle management and brought my idea directly to her.

At first she was a little grossed out. I figured that would happen, so I had a sales pitch ready:
        In today's economy, all businesses are having trouble staying afloat. Gift wrap is being hit especially hard, because it's such a pointless portion of people's budgets that it can easily be eliminated. Therefore, if we add a line of adult novelty wraps and bags, we'll be exposing ourselves to a new audience. It will be so whimsical, so off-the-wall, so naughty, that no one will be able to resist.
        And if they can? Well, we tried.

She bought it, hook, line and sinker. She wants me to design an entire collection and prepare a Power Point with my sales pitch, possible stores/outlets, and appropriate packaging (mimicking black plastic wrap on girlie magazines). She's going to let me present it to the company next Monday! I'm really excited for the experience, though I think she's doing it in case it goes over like a lead zeppelin - she can pass all blame to me, since I'm leaving anyway.

But if you're looking for the perfect gift bag this Christmas and see a Santa peenie winkin' back atcha, think of me rolling in all the cash I made.