The Other Side of the Tracks

When I first landed in Castle Rock for my second job interview (the first interview, thankfully, was by phone), I was rather unimpressed with the environs. Much of Castle Rock's north end is strip malls, shopping centers, big box bonanzas and the like. It feels plastic, forced, contrived. Nothing about that end of town seems to make the slightest attempt at embracing the landscape or giving a clue about its inhabitants.

So turned off by the area was I, that when it came time to begin thinking about finding a dwelling here, my first thought was, "anywhere but Castle Rock!" Only about one-fourth of my co-workers live in town. About another third or so live scattered to the south along I-25 in towns betwixt and between Castle Rock and Colorado Springs, which is about an 45 minutes or so south.

Trying to house hunt from 1200 miles away is futile. The internet is a scary place, as we all well know. In my transition, I finally decided to just wait 'til I got here and deal with the whole episode in real time.

Ultimately, and fortunately within 24 hours of arriving, I found a cute little walk-out basement apartment in the mid-section of town. It's cute, it's quiet, the neighbors are nice, my landlord is lovely, and I'm only about two miles from the office. I sort of figure that I can camp out here until I get my bearings about the area a little better, and make further decisions-- if warranted-- later.

Today, forced out of my already-established daily 'commute', I drove a bit to the south, in search of The UPS Store. Why I was there is a whole other story, involving a certain Senior Logistican, his pants, shoes, jacket, and an airline policy. Picky, picky they are, out at DIA.

While in search of a place to put Michael's pants back in the mail, I discovered a completely different side of Castle Rock. Sitting most literally to the south of the town's namesake, this older part of Castle Rock is filled with smaller shops, more diverse architecture, and infinitely more character than the newer north part of town.

I am looking forward to exploring, starting with this little music store, and continuing on to a curious array of shops around the corner on Wilcox, which is the main drag of this part of town.

Life is Like a Bowl of Soup

One of the consequences of packing up and moving to an unknown frontier is living with the fruit of educated guesses on how best to prepare. Not knowing what kind of place I would be landing—how large or small, how public or private—made for some trade-offs on what to bring and what to leave behind.

Some of my guesses were right on target, like picking up a used pub table and stools for dining. The set I found was exactly the right fit in my new basement apartment.

The same cannot be said for either of my ‘small’ couches. Both are in storage, being too wide to make it through the narrow doorways to my dwelling.

Some choices can only be filed under, “What was I thinking??” A ten-quart soup pot? There is no way that the small nation I could feed with that thing would ever fit in my comfy walk-out basement abode.

A few nights ago, I decided to make a pot of soup as the vehicle for using up the many odds and ends I had in my refrigerator.

I was conceiving in my head something creamy, that would encompass all the vegetables I intended upon throwing in the pot. I opened one of my cookbooks and found a recipe for a creamy cauliflower soup that I thought I could use as the basis for my creation.

Let me first say, making two quarts of soup in a ten-quart pot is just weird. The entire time I felt like I was missing something BIG in the process. And yet, lots of stuff went in the pot: chicken stock, a couple red potatoes, cauliflower, radishes, cucumber, a little broccoli, onion, carrots, celery, a few spinach leaves.

Then, I realized that some of the more exotic spices, I did not have. So I improvised. Cardamom became arugala. Beyond a stretch. Lemon juice became baked garlic. What? Yeah, I know. But as I always say, garlic is the culinary equivalent of duct tape. That stuff will fix whatever’s wrong in the pot! Kind of reminds me of a certain someone I know.

As I began simmering all the ingredients, another key problem hit me. I left all the food processor-y type appliances behind with the other community property holder. Kinda hard to make a creamy soup when you can't cream all the stuff up, no? So, fork in hand, I began mashing the soup along the side of the pan. It took close to half an hour, but I got stuff sort of smashed up. And when it was all said and done, the texture was actually really great—better than pureed.
As I sat eating what turned out to be a rather delicious concoction, I realized that the evening’s meal was something of an allegory for many of the changes going on for me lately.

Sometimes, we don’t have what we think we need in life to get by, but when we’re open to working with what we have around us, sometimes it all turns out for the better.

Just Passin' Through is Just Catchin' Up...

I haven’t blogged in ages. Eight and a half months to be exact. And it feels like an eternity. A lot has happened in that time, some of it I’ll never talk about. And some things, I’m dying to throw out there.

For the good of the order, let me set a couple things straight for everyone. This is a blog. MY blog. No one is forcing you to read it. If you find it profane, in poor taste, whiny, poorly written, inappropriate, or some other disdainful thing, please feel free to not read it. Not everyone gets my perspective, my sense of humor, or my proclivity for unearthing the absurdities in my own existence. I accept that, and even embrace it. Diversity is what makes us all unique.

I don’t mean to sound bitchy here, but this space is optional for all of us. No one is tattooing it to your person, or forcing you at gunpoint to read it. Stay or go, I’ll love you either way. Please just understand that I may not be as moved by your criticisms as you’d like me to be.

Now, with that said, a few highlilghts:

As some of you may know, the past year has been one of extreme, exacerbating, and excruciating change for me and some of those around me. My son is now living with his dad in Canby. My daughter is in college. I am living and working in Colorado, due in part to California’s shipwrecked economy. I am re-writing the first draft of my first novel because the computer and flash drive that the manuscript was on have vanished off the face of the earth. Or at least that’s what it seemed like after I accepted what felt like an upending defeat.

I am divorced from the man I’d intended on spending the rest of my life with, having learned, among other things, that he is fervently delighted that I and my “considerable ass” have left the state. I will refrain for the moment from speaking about the cross-application of the term “considerable ass.” Life goes on, whether we want it to or not, in ways we sometimes cannot expect and for which we cannot prepare.

Moving to Colorado was initially just for financial reasons. I wasn’t making it on my own in California, due to the economy, my still unfinished education, and the crush of outside factors converging upon my life’s path.

What I’ve come to understand is that this move has had the positive, but unintended consequences of being cathartic, regenerative, and a real time of personal discovery. I’ve learned that I possess a resilience I didn’t know I had. I have learned that northern California is not the only piece of this nation’s landscape that has woven itself into my very being. I have learned that as terrifying as it is for me to trust people, there are some amazing folks rooting for me, and even going to bat for me.

On February 10th, my Senior Logistician and I loaded up a U-Haul with an assortment of my belongings. After a couple stops in the Central Valley so that he could interview for jobs, The Senior and I headed toward Colorado, via I-80, through the Sierras, all of Nevada, Utah, and a bit of Wyoming, before landing in the Rocky Mountains.

Honestly, that much of life’s experience was rather numbing and overwhelming. New job, moving logistics, emotional good-byes to family, friends, and what has been home for most of my life.

On February 16th, I started a new job with Douglas County Human Services. I am working as a grant and contract administrator. A job I know well, and am enjoying. I work with a great bunch of people. I have an honest-to-goodness office. Not a cubicle, not an officle (word attributed to Melissa Janulewicz), not a desk shoved in a corner somewhere. A four-walls-and-a-door office. And if that weren’t enough, a window with a view.


A view of the Colorado “foothills.” That’s another game changer for me. Being from California, my frame of reference for ‘foothills’ are rolling inclines of 1-2,000 feet that meet with their higher, more mountainous counterparts. In Colorado, because we’re already a mile high, foothills start at about 6,000 feet or so.

Strange juxtaposition. And probably just one of many that I will be sharing with you here. Stay tuned.

How Did This Happen?

It's peculiar how personally familiar the picture seems. The girl in the gown resembles me, only more beautiful, and younger than I ever remember being at 17.

It's surreal to think that it's been almost 17 years since she was toddling around, her bottle hanging from her mouth as she crept along the furniture, looking for new things to explore in our small living room.

Yesterday, she loaded an overnight bag, her brother, and some friends into her Toyota Camry and drove some 150 miles to go see her dad.

I'm sad at how empty the nest feels, and so thrilled and proud that she's learning to fly.

Only Shadow Knows...

Or, Last Friday’s Pizza Incident.

It was a warm and sunny, spring-like evening when the three teens at my house convinced me that ordering pizza would be a good idea. I conceded, only because I had coupons.

So, I ordered two pizzas—a veggie with sausage, and an olive and bell pepper—while Katie, Jesse, and Leathon went back to their adolescent endeavors in The Man Cave.

When the pizza guy pulled up, I was stricken by the sheer size of the vehicle. It was a jacked up Chevy Suburban. The kids, all recognizing the pizza guy as Shadow, a former school mate, came to the door and chatted with Shadow while I transacted cash and coupons for savory pizza pies.

They learned that he was now attending continuation school. And that the behemoth vehicle he was driving actually belonged to his dad. Something was amiss with his usual ride.

Somehow, in the course of the transaction, we wound up with the wrong pizzas. As soon as one of the boys opened the box, I was on the phone with the pizza company, asking them to phone Shadow and send him back to swap us for the correct pizzas.

The kids began cracking ‘stay in school’ jokes, noting that apparently continuation school does not give one “mad” pizza delivery skills.

Shadow showed back up some minutes later, and exchanged pizzas. The new ones were much closer to what we actually ordered, minus the sausage on the veggie, but at that point, I wasn’t going to complain. Especially when Jesse told me, “Mom, I took a bite out of one of those other pizzas.”

Yikes. I’m now wondering if the people who originally ordered the multi-meat marvels noticed. Or if we’ve been crossed off the good customer list at the pizza company.

Hmmmm… Probably only Shadow knows…

Butt Dialing is Not for the Weak

So, we've all seen the T-Mobile commercial where the guy sitting on the couch moves his hind end just so, and the buttons on the phone in his pocket dial his girlfriend's phone.

Funny stuff. Funnier still when the call comes in to my desk, and its from a back pocket or a backpack or something at my daughter's school. I listened to five minutes of high school life between passing bells today.

I learned that **** and ***** are going out this weekend, and that ***** is mad because she never meant for the two of them to hook up in the first place when she introduced them.

I learned that no fewer than four people failed to do their homework for the class that was about to start, and that one female actually did her homework, but, "Ohmigawd it was SOOOO hard and it was almost impossible to get it done and still have time to finish uploading all the new iTunes before the prices go up," and then ***** called her and she so f***ing couldn't believe it because she's been wanting him to call for f***ing EV-ERRRRRRR.

And I learned that my daughter cracks good jokes.

All this was very intriguing, but sort of a strange way to peer into another's life as well.

The Texters' Dilemma

I know that we live in a more tribal culture these days—sharing small, day-to-day details about our lives, via FaceBook, MySpace, Tweeter, texts, blogs, and so on. On some levels, I think it brings about a sense of connectedness that we wouldn’t otherwise have.

And there’s convenience. I thoroughly appreciate that I have the ability to text family members with quick messages. I don’t really need a whole phone conversation to say, “Don’t forget to take out the trash.”

This being said, there are some things that shouldn’t be shared via text. Sometimes it’s a case of just too much information. Sometimes, it’s a case of technology’s inability to replace a warranted face-to-face conversation. Below are some real life examples culled from my own experiences, and those of friends.

Things That Should Not Be Texted:

“No baby yet… just got an epidural.”

“I’m in the airport bathroom taking a dump. Gonna go now, it stinks in here.”

“My pants are wet. You know, THAT kinda wet. Gotta go.”

“It’s not you… it’s me… this just isn’t working out.”

“Will you marry me?”

“I’m with XXX in his car. I’ll call you when I get my pants back on.”