Trip-to-Goodwill Day

As we learned in the entry, My excuse, I’m not real domestic. Or, I am, but only in fits and starts. Actually, I seem to do most things in fits and starts–taking blogging, for example. I average two entries a month for six months and then suddenly, I flood your inbox with “New entry!” e-mails. Like I said: Oh, to be consistent.

But back to domesticity. I periodically decide that our apartment ought to have some sort of decorative Theme, which it presently does, I suppose, if you count “mismatched” as a theme. Don’t get me wrong, I have no problem with “mismatched” at all–I find it quite cozy, and I know Mitch does too. Books stacked to the ceiling, odd candles all over the place, big orange wing-backed chairs, paintings and posters and a National Geographic world map on the walls–it’s good. I love it. But sometimes I need a trip to Goodwill in order to freshen things up.

I’ve learned this about myself at Goodwill: my very favorite things definately fall in the category of “So ugly they’re almost cool,” and generally possess that strange quality of being simultaneously one of the most hideous things you’ve ever seen, while also being one of the very coolest. This is how I come to have an orange-and-white-striped velvet chair in the living room, and how I came to purchase some dingy old brocade (possibly? I’m not really sure what “brocade” is, but it sounds right) curtains, with a white-on-yellow pattern for the bedroom windows. They are absolutely awesome, and grotesque, while still being awesome.

Also, I found a faux gilt-edged mirror (pick it up and you’ll notice right away that it’s fake), and a faux brass candelabra, all for under $10. Some other finds: a $.50 pearl necklace (fake), two brass picture frames, more curtains (these ones are burgundy satin-esque material), some mismatched silverware, and a chair so far beyond ugly that it made me sad to realize that we couldn’t possibly fit another chair in our wee apartment without breaking some law of physics. I had to pass that last one by, though it grieved me to no end.

The best part? I bought all this, plus a few less interesting items (slotted spoon, salad bowl), for $25.16. Rock on.

Listening in

I love other people’s conversations. I am not ashamed of this, or if I am, it doesn’t stop me from listening in, because other people are far too interesting and, occasionally, educational, to pass by. This is a big part of why I love riding the bus–it’s a veritable minefield of interesting Other People to spy on.

For example: tonight, as my bus passed through campus, three enormous young men got on. I took them to be football players, given their buzzcuts, mode of dress (T-shirts and gym shorts, all emblazoned “WWU Football”), taciturn expressions and sheer bulk–one of them had his right shoulder wrapped in a sling of syran-wrap; another sat down in front of me and fairly obstructed my view of the rest of the bus.

After a moment of brooding silence, the guy in front of me asked one of the others, “So, how long do you think I should cook those potatoes? Twenty minutes?”

“Dude,” came the response, “I’d say more like thirty. Otherwise they’re still a little crisp in the middle, and that’s no good.”

The third chimed in: “What else are you serving?”

“Chicken.”

“Drumsticks? Breasts?”

“Breast meat. I got some really good stuff cheap at Cost Cutter.”

They proceeded to discuss different methods of cooking chicken breast. It absolutely made my day.

My excuse

I sometimes forget that I have a kitchen. Sometimes, I remember, and that’s when I go on these sprees. Whole months go by when Mitch and I eat cereal for dinner, or quesadillas, or spaghetti (it’s usually one quick item for several months straight).

I’m telling you this in a moment of vulnerability. For a girl who doesn’t care much one way or the other for “keeping house,” this is actually embarrassing–at times, we do dishes maybe once a week, and only then because we’ve run out of bowls. If you’re picturing dishes stacked to the ceiling, that’s not quite right (though it is close), because eating cereal for two meals a day doesn’t generate much beyond dirty bowls and spoons. So. Sometimes that’s the state of things.

But then I remember about the kitchen, and I go nuts baking brownies and bread and fruit crisp and cookies and cheesecake. I make soup, homemade spaghetti sauce, curry, tofu stir-fry, baked eggplant–all kinds of stuff. I dig out the recipe books and go to town, making dinner, dessert and sometimes even drinks (like homemade hot chocolate–yummm…) from scratch. I clean up after myself and everything.

It’s awesome.

I’m in one of these phases right now. In fact, as I write I’ve got onion soup simmering on one burner while croutons bake in the oven. I’m multitasking. It’s rad. And every time this happens, I hope like crazy that it sticks, but then I get tired of coming home and spending a hour-and-a-half making dinner, and it’s back to cereal.

Oh, to be more consistent. Or, oh, to have a bigger kitchen.

That’s usually my excuse.

What I love about kittens

To them, everything is a toy. Be it a fruit fly, their tail, my toes, a CD case, a drawstring, or the reflection of a wristwatch on the wall, they will play with it.

I might be a bit jealous.

I might stop functioning entirely

Besides moving to a dry climate (no) and taking more antibiotics (I won’t do it! I won’t!), does anybody know of any miracle cures for stubborn sinus infections? I’ve had this one almost two years, with some brief months of respite, and it’s getting unbearable. On Friday I finally went down to the hippie tea shop and asked some advice–they loaded me up with powders and tinctures and teas and essential oils, but still, I feel horrendous.

If you say so, I’ll drink three gallons of orange juice a day. I’ll hop on one foot backward three times around the grave of an unbaptized puppy on the eve of the next full moon, if you tell me it’ll relieve the pressure in my head. I won’t move to a drier climate, and I won’t take anymore antibiotics (I’ve done seven rounds in the past twelve months. I think that’s quite enough).

For now though, I’ll go bury my eyes under a silk lavender-scented sachet and sniff peppermint oil for a while. Maybe that’ll help.

By now, you’d think I’d learn

Everyday, on my way home, I pass two buildings: a high school, and a Catholic Church.

The high school, lately remodelled and done up with some odd carvings of cellists and trumpeters in an angular, modern style, takes up a whole city block unto itself and is bordered along the front by a solid line of trees. Walking past the school around the time the students are being picked up after class gives me that disconcerting, if slight, feeling of age. “Oh my,” I think, as I study the kids who file into the front door, bags bumping against hips, heads down. They look awfully young, which makes me feel old, and then ridiculous, because by nobody’s standards but perhaps a high school sophomore’s is twenty-three old. But it’s a curious feeling nonetheless, and one that I have a full city block to ruminate upon.

Just before the Catholic church, however, is when my rumination is inevitably cut short, because it is here that the sections of pavement have shifted, leaving one slab a good inch or so higher than the other–perfect for tripping up a preoccupied pedestrian, which it inevitably does. Every single day.

The other day, in fact, I tripped over it with such force that my foot ached for half a block afterwards. Only a clever handful of times have I succeeded in noting the approaching hazard, identifying it, and lifting my foot free of harm’s way and thus avoiding disaster. The rest of the time I slam into it, stumble forward a few feet, right myself awkwardly and blush for a good long while as I imagine what the whole thing must have looked like from a passing car. This cheers me up a little, at least.

But then comes the church, which is big and beautiful, and though I am not Catholic, I am always drawn to this building–particularly the steeple, with its weathered green Cross, jutting dramatically into a clear blue sky. It’s lovely. The arched doorways, segmented by the bare branches of trees; the little garden with its statues of saints; the view of Mt. Baker through wrought iron fences–all these things make my heart go still for a small moment, particularly if I time it right and pass by when the bells are sounding. I get to feeling downright reverent.

Awkward Turtle Moment of the Year

Somehow, my brother discovered this great hand signal. It’s called “Awkward Turtle,” and it comes in handy for a variety of social situations–more than I’d care to mention, actually. To perform the Awkward Turtle, follow these simple instructions:

1) Place your left hand palm down on the table in front of you (these moments generally seem to occur in restaurants and bars), with your thumb perpendicular to the hand.

2) Place your right hand palm down on top of the left, with the thumb perpendicular to your hands.

3) Your hands should now, albeit vagely, resemble a turtle–you may have to think about it pretty hard, but bear with me. Okay. Turtle.

4) Now, raise your thumbs off the table slightly and rotate them in full circles (counter-clockwise is best) to make your turtle “walk.”

As you get better at this, you’ll find that you won’t need a table, but can perform the gesture in mid-air. At this point you might feel like improvising–it’s up to you.

Now, when would you want to use the Awkward Turtle?

Well, an excellent example could be given from last night. Morgan and I have a table in the window at the Temple Bar. We’re eating dinner, drinking wine and talking when a former professor of ours strolls in (for those of you that know, we’ll call him “Professor Lockhart”) with a woman that I assume is his wife. They order a bottle of champagne and sit at the table next to ours, and because it’s still early, ours are the only two taken tables in the bar.

By the time Prof. Lockhart makes his way over to our table to say hi, he’s lapped us several times in the drinks department (they’ve polished off the champagne and are now into rounds of beer–we’re slowly savoring our second glasses of wine)–an overly enthusiastic, but hugely awkward conversation ensues, made extra awkward by the fact that the last time I saw him he was also a bit tipsy, and admitted to a large group of people that he had lied to my class (and the college) about one of his kids being sick in order to quit his post before the end of the quarter.

Whoa.

A few years pass. The conversation draws to a shuddering, painful halt and he’s still standing at our table. “Okay!” He says loudly, and claps. “I’ll leave you guys alone!” And off he goes.

This an excellent opportunity for the Awkward Turtle. I do not let it pass.

Well, what do you know

I finally made a webpage (how many online hobbies do I need, anyway?). It’s primarily for my music, with a full calender and photos and probably some boasting, I don’t know yet. It’s bound to come out. But it does have the coolest host name ever: “bravehost”. Here it is:

http://thearosenburg.bravehost.com

Crime Scene Investigation

As we speak, there is a Bellingham Police Crime Scene Investigation truck parked in the alley behind my building. Guys in yellow zip-up suits have made brief appearances, opening and closing truck doors before disappearing again, and I’ve stood in my window, gawking, trying to see what it is that’s happening–but they managed to park their enormous truck right between me and whatever they’re doing. Yes, I’m a no-good voyeur, but I’ll tell you what–there’s something far more disturbing about have a Crime Scene Investigation (wait. Isn’t that a TV show?) truck parked behind my house, rather than a plain-old everyday ambulance.

What? We have crime in Bellingham now?

But seriously. Not a laughing matter, I know. I always feel compelled to run up to stuff like that–accidents, ambulances, big Police trucks–and ask if I can help somehow, but I’m always held up by the suspicion that I don’t really want to help, I just want to know what’s going on. I’m just nosy, not helpful. And besides–what could I do? The one time I was actually able to help in an “emergency situation” I was terrified–and all I could do was hold somebody’s hand. What I felt was not heroic, but helpless.

Here, however, one could assume that the crime has already taken place, the injured have been whisked away, and now there’s just that tiny matter of Investigation to clear up before everybody goes home for the day. Meanwhile, all the nosy neighbors peer out of their blinds and make up excuses to go out in the backyard, just to, you know, check things out–I mean, throw away that single bag of old, rotten lettuce.

So, yes. It’s a fine line between wanting genuinely to help others and wanting to dig up a good story to tell over lunch the next day–and I suspect that this is one of those “good story” moments. In fact, yes, it is, because I’m telling the damn story right now. Ha! Case closed.