Last week, on my way to Turlock to surprise Michael, I stopped at a taqueria truck in Modesto to grab a little something to eat. It was 1:00 in the afternoon, and I was famished. By that time, I hadn’t eaten since the night before, and I’d weathered an early morning flight from Denver to Sacramento—including a plane delay, a business meeting, a dead phone, and strings of phone calls and texts once the phone was resurrected.
Given the choice, once in Modesto, I will generally choose a taqueria truck as my preferred dining experience. The smells, the people, the taste of some of the best mole sauce on the planet, and the off-the-beaten-path fare such as goat meat, all draw me in like nothing else I’ve eaten in the area.
On this day, I had something of a cross-cultural déjà vu moment.
The place I stopped was just off Highway 99, and the taqueria truck was parked in the shade, under a tree. The breeze was blowing just enough to make me realize it was hot out. As I approached the truck and ordered food, the two fellows inside chatted me up in a strange mix of Spanglish that seemed to work well for all of us. As I waited for a quick order of nachos, I breathed in the smell of cilantro and salsa. My mouth was watering. I asked one of the guys on the truck for a soda.
The dos hermanos on the truck in Modesto didn’t charge me for the soda. Dressed in a skirt and heels, I don’t think that I was their standard-issue blue collar customer. They helped me with my broken Spanish, and were patient as I butchered their native tongue. They asked me where I was from, and where I was headed. When I told them I was off to see mi novio, they just smiled and nodded, one of them saying, “he’s one luuuucky muchacho!”
As he handed me the soda, I was somehow transported back about 25 or so years to Shingletown. For some reason, the whole moment at the truck in Modesto reminded me of that little hotdog stand that was across from the Shingletown Store for a while back in the 80’s. I think it was called Wheelie Weenie. The two brothers who ran it were always so nice to me. They never charged me for soda, even if it was the only thing I got from them that day. For a while, Wheelie Weenie became the place to stop and visit with whomever else was standing by at the moment. Partly because, well, once a person had checked their PO box and bought a newspaper in the store, there really wasn’t much else to do while one was out on the highway.
I think the real connection between the two moments in time was the fact that in both circumstances I was in a place where not much else mattered but the beautiful day, the good people, and a few moments unfettered by the demands of the rest of life.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
The Chick Cave
So, finally, after much delay... pictures of The Chick Cave. Taken at night, so I'll have to grab y'all some exterior shots when it's light.
In the meantime, for your viewing pleasure, help yourselves to the shoddily photographed nickel tour!
My dwelling is what's called a "walkout basement", which means that I live in someone's basement, but have my own entrance. My "front door" is the garage, with a padded security opener. Upon entering the interior garage door, I land at a shared vesitbule that I share with my landlady, Amy.
From there, my private entry looks down into the Chick Cave...
This is my grandmother's clock, a Seth Thomas, that is over 100 years old.
The living room, as those of you who know me well will note, is decorated far beyond my abilities.
The chair and couch were already in the apartment, and because MC and I could not get the love seat or the "porn" couch down the narrow flight of stairs, I just went with what was in here. For the legions of fans of the "porn" couch, do not fear. It is safely tucked in storage.
My kitchen, in this modest apartment, is bigger than the kitchen in the 1700+ square foot house I came from in California. Strange how things work that way. And yes, that IS my scale on the kitchen floor. It lives there because my bathroom is small. The up side to it is that its current location really makes me think before I eat...
Yep, it's Shelby. When I was packing to move, I couldn't bear to leave this picture behind. At the moment, it's pretty much the only thing on my frig, until I get a little more settled. And it's been a good thing. Every person that has visited me here has asked me about her. Some presume that it's a picture of my daughter, Katie. I eagerly explain to people that Shelby is not my daughter, but she could be. Or she could be their daughter. We all need to continue to spread the word about the dangers of drinking, especially for teens. The message is the same in Colorado as it is in California. Drinking+Vomiting=911.
I've gotten a few pictures up, lopsidedly so. I probably need someone to come in and help me with this. These are the kind of decorative touches at which I regularly fail.
These are two of my bedroom closets. I have no qualms about leaving closet doors open, since all my weird relatives and skeletons are back in California. ::Note to family: time to draw straws to see who has to admit they're my 'weird' relative!:: :-)
The wide closet is the one that had the meltdown a few weeks ago. All of a sudden, the entire rod and shelf came tumbling down, shearing hangers, and leaving a heap of clothes. Apparently, my wardrobe was just too much. Since then, with all the weight loss, I've gotten rid of a lot of clothing, and Amy had someone come in and reinforce everything in the closet so that it should be able to withstand whatever shopping I decide to do eventually in replenishing my wardrobe.
Also note the guitar. Lessons start in two weeks!
This, is my single window in the entire Cave. I am looking forward to the summer when I can keep the drapes and blinds open more regularly. The plant and the empty soda bottle are from MC. He left me the plant the day he flew back to California. The plant came with a card thanking me. He had just driven me 1200 miles, loaded and unloaded furniture and boxes, and he was thanking ME for things. It's a huge blessing to have such a good friend. The soda bottle showed up (full, of course) at my old house, on February 3rd, along with a pretty red rose. It was THE day that I had seriously thought about backing out of this adventure. Fear, criticism, pressure, sorrow, heartache, betrayal, were all pressing in. A soda and a flower reminded me that I don't always hold myself in as much esteem as others do. And for no good reason. Sometimes, just knowing that someone else believes in you makes all the difference. I like to remind myself now that it doesn't matter whether that bottle is empty or full, it just is. And that's more than enough.
That, ladies and gentlemen, concludes this tour. Feel free to come back for a visit any time. :-)
In the meantime, for your viewing pleasure, help yourselves to the shoddily photographed nickel tour!
My dwelling is what's called a "walkout basement", which means that I live in someone's basement, but have my own entrance. My "front door" is the garage, with a padded security opener. Upon entering the interior garage door, I land at a shared vesitbule that I share with my landlady, Amy.
From there, my private entry looks down into the Chick Cave...
This flight of stairs descends into what I refer to as Subterreanean-Chic-Meets-Functional-Bohemian. Look on, and you'll see what I mean. At the bottom of the stairs sits this trinket shelf, highlighted by some recessed lighting.
This is my grandmother's clock, a Seth Thomas, that is over 100 years old.
The chair and couch were already in the apartment, and because MC and I could not get the love seat or the "porn" couch down the narrow flight of stairs, I just went with what was in here. For the legions of fans of the "porn" couch, do not fear. It is safely tucked in storage.
I am still toying with lighting, as the string of fluorescent lights is a little harsh, especially after sitting under them all day long at work.
I bought the pub table set from a young couple before I left Redding. MC and I high-fived over not paying asking price. It fits perfectly in my cozy little space. The built-in desk, as you can see, has become sort of a catch all, as I never really use it as a desk. Most of my lap-top shenanigans happen on the couch, bed, or preferably, somewhere outside in the great viewshed of Colorado's Frontrange.
This is a view from near my kitchen area.
The kitchen shelves just got rebuilt, along with the closet shelving and hanging rods that collapsed a few weeks back. Ladies, of particular note, all-- and I mean ALL-- of the tupperware on that shelf has its appropriate corresponding lid with it. This has been the case for 39 days and counting!
This, some might argue, is the world's least used stove. I seem to only be cooking about once a week. Figuring out portions for one is a challenge, so I eat lots and lots of leftovers.
This is a half-shot of my bathroom, merely to show off the shelf that I assembled all by myself. :-) The bathroom is small, but not the smallest I've ever had. Joanie and Linda and my family can probably attest to the fact that my bathroom when I lived in Quincy was about as small as they come. I'm grateful I have a little more space than that here.
The bedroom is huge, compared to the rest of this place. I love it! I am not entirely sold on the bed set, but I got it at a great price. Funny thing, I found the heart in a box of old stuffed trinkets when I was unpacking. Robbie Geeter gave that to me the summer between 8th and 9th grades. It was on a hot Shingletown day when we were riding three-wheelers. He had gotten it for me from Circus Circus on a family vacation. I'm doing the math... that was 27 years ago. Good grief. Crazy, huh?
I've gotten a few pictures up, lopsidedly so. I probably need someone to come in and help me with this. These are the kind of decorative touches at which I regularly fail.
These are two of my bedroom closets. I have no qualms about leaving closet doors open, since all my weird relatives and skeletons are back in California. ::Note to family: time to draw straws to see who has to admit they're my 'weird' relative!:: :-)
The wide closet is the one that had the meltdown a few weeks ago. All of a sudden, the entire rod and shelf came tumbling down, shearing hangers, and leaving a heap of clothes. Apparently, my wardrobe was just too much. Since then, with all the weight loss, I've gotten rid of a lot of clothing, and Amy had someone come in and reinforce everything in the closet so that it should be able to withstand whatever shopping I decide to do eventually in replenishing my wardrobe.
Also note the guitar. Lessons start in two weeks!
This, is my single window in the entire Cave. I am looking forward to the summer when I can keep the drapes and blinds open more regularly. The plant and the empty soda bottle are from MC. He left me the plant the day he flew back to California. The plant came with a card thanking me. He had just driven me 1200 miles, loaded and unloaded furniture and boxes, and he was thanking ME for things. It's a huge blessing to have such a good friend. The soda bottle showed up (full, of course) at my old house, on February 3rd, along with a pretty red rose. It was THE day that I had seriously thought about backing out of this adventure. Fear, criticism, pressure, sorrow, heartache, betrayal, were all pressing in. A soda and a flower reminded me that I don't always hold myself in as much esteem as others do. And for no good reason. Sometimes, just knowing that someone else believes in you makes all the difference. I like to remind myself now that it doesn't matter whether that bottle is empty or full, it just is. And that's more than enough.
That, ladies and gentlemen, concludes this tour. Feel free to come back for a visit any time. :-)
Monday, March 22, 2010
Traveling the Great Divide
Yesterday, I drove down to Manitou Springs to pick up a few trinkets for the kids, and for MC, before my whirlwind Easter weekend trip to Redding. MC and I had been to Manitou the weekend I moved here, so I sort of knew the lay of the land. It’s funny the difference that just some weeks can make. When we were there on February 15th, the streets were fairly empty, and some shops were even closed. Yesterday, the place was alive. As if lit by the warm spring day, the streets were a-buzz with musicians busking, kids juggling, lovers strolling as if they were the only ones on earth. I was enamored with the vibrance—the colors, the smells, the sounds of merrymaking at its best.
I stopped in a shop called Taos Maos to pick up some you-know-whats for MC, and was transported to a major déjà vu moment from more than twenty years ago. Working the counter of this shop full of curious things was a middle aged woman, named Mari. "Let’s get it straight," she told me right off the bat, “It’s M-A-R-I, with an ‘I’.”
I couldn’t help but smile as I thought of my own Aunt Mari-with-an-I, and how both she and the Taos Maos proprietor had the same sort of spunk. Some twenty years ago, my Aunt Mari had a small shop in Shingletown, where she sold all sorts of things for which one might never think to go purposely shopping—old wooden boxes, small glass trinkets, and the like.
I asked the Taos Mari if I could take her picture, and she studied me for a moment and said, “Sure, but make sure it’s an ACTION shot. I don’t do any of that sitting pretty portrait kind of business.” So, Mari’s precondition, combined with my less-than-stellar cell phone photo skills resulted in no picture. One of these days I will learn how to photograph stuff in a way that's fit to print!
I also stopped in the little shop around the corner from the Heart of Jerusalem Café, where one can find crystals, oils, herbs, massage, and tarot card readings. I bought some lavender oil to spruce up the dusty smell in the stair well at the Chick Cave.
I don’t have as many photos as I would like, as I didn’t think to bring my camera, and was stuck with just my cell phone. I intend to go back and capture more of this charming little place. It’s sort of like Santa Cruz, only without the beach. Lots of alternative clothing—like the guy below with kilt, knives, and dogs; lots of tie-dyed everything, and even those cute bumper stickers urging one and all to “Keep Manitou Weird.” As if even a universe of erstwhile karma could keep it from being anything but.
The day had started out a little disappointing, as my friend Lynne was supposed to come with me, but opted (rightfully) to spend the day with her son who surprised her with a visit mere days before he leaves for the Army. Without a companion, I had decided to try and get my motorcycle started and scooter on down there. That also didn’t work, lacking the right kind of jumper cables to get it started at the storage shed. I had mentioned to MC on my way down that I was a little disappointed by the lack of a companion for the day.
Much as he always does, MC shared that kind of companionable wisdom that comforts and challenges at the same time. He reminded me that sometimes solo adventures are better than those with company, as one can travel where they like, without considering input from others. With that, I drove west from Manitou Springs, up into the Rocky Mountains.
I tried the Pike’s Peak Highway, but found it closed. I continued west along Highway 24, and ultimately landed in a place called Divide. Yep, THE divide. The one that geographically speaks to water flowing east from one side, and west to the other.
I stopped at the highest point in town, and thought about the enormity of where I was. At 9,615 feet in elevation, living in that small mountain town would be very nearly equivalent to living atop Mt. Lassen, at 10,457 feet. At that elevation, I could peer over, almost shoulder-to-shoulder, as it were, at Pike’s Peak. It was a strange perspective. It made the grandiosity of the peak somewhat diminished in stature, and yet, somehow sharper in focus.
The geography did a couple things for me that day. One, it helped to settle a mild case of homesickness from which I’ve been suffering for a couple weeks. The drive up to Divide was along the same kind of mountainous roads that I have lived and loved in Shingletown, Burney, Quincy, Weaverville, and elsewhere. Being in pine trees, with the smell, the sound, the feel, was a much needed respite. That was even confirmed when I shared the observation with MC and he said, “Divide has always reminded me of northern California.”
The other thing I couldn’t get off my mind was the literal sense that I was standing in a place of manifest division. The west is its own bastion, completely separate from the east. It made me think of the many things that have become divided in my life in recent months. Some of the divisions are tragic, like my marriage. It’s a separation that rips at my heart, and makes me question much about my very existence. Some of the divisions aren’t so bad. It occurred to me as I stood afoot of the Continental Divide, that some of the challenges I’ve faced in the past year or so have been a result of my unwillingness to divide some things that should never have been commingled together. Hindsight, fabulous thing that it is, makes me realize that I should have divided the circumstances I knew to my core were right, from the unrealistic expectations of others. I should have divided the need to be true to one’s self from the impervious indiscretions of those near to me.
Like wheat from the chaff.
Like the east from the west.
I stopped in a shop called Taos Maos to pick up some you-know-whats for MC, and was transported to a major déjà vu moment from more than twenty years ago. Working the counter of this shop full of curious things was a middle aged woman, named Mari. "Let’s get it straight," she told me right off the bat, “It’s M-A-R-I, with an ‘I’.”
I couldn’t help but smile as I thought of my own Aunt Mari-with-an-I, and how both she and the Taos Maos proprietor had the same sort of spunk. Some twenty years ago, my Aunt Mari had a small shop in Shingletown, where she sold all sorts of things for which one might never think to go purposely shopping—old wooden boxes, small glass trinkets, and the like.
I asked the Taos Mari if I could take her picture, and she studied me for a moment and said, “Sure, but make sure it’s an ACTION shot. I don’t do any of that sitting pretty portrait kind of business.” So, Mari’s precondition, combined with my less-than-stellar cell phone photo skills resulted in no picture. One of these days I will learn how to photograph stuff in a way that's fit to print!
I also stopped in the little shop around the corner from the Heart of Jerusalem Café, where one can find crystals, oils, herbs, massage, and tarot card readings. I bought some lavender oil to spruce up the dusty smell in the stair well at the Chick Cave.
I don’t have as many photos as I would like, as I didn’t think to bring my camera, and was stuck with just my cell phone. I intend to go back and capture more of this charming little place. It’s sort of like Santa Cruz, only without the beach. Lots of alternative clothing—like the guy below with kilt, knives, and dogs; lots of tie-dyed everything, and even those cute bumper stickers urging one and all to “Keep Manitou Weird.” As if even a universe of erstwhile karma could keep it from being anything but.
The day had started out a little disappointing, as my friend Lynne was supposed to come with me, but opted (rightfully) to spend the day with her son who surprised her with a visit mere days before he leaves for the Army. Without a companion, I had decided to try and get my motorcycle started and scooter on down there. That also didn’t work, lacking the right kind of jumper cables to get it started at the storage shed. I had mentioned to MC on my way down that I was a little disappointed by the lack of a companion for the day.
Much as he always does, MC shared that kind of companionable wisdom that comforts and challenges at the same time. He reminded me that sometimes solo adventures are better than those with company, as one can travel where they like, without considering input from others. With that, I drove west from Manitou Springs, up into the Rocky Mountains.
I tried the Pike’s Peak Highway, but found it closed. I continued west along Highway 24, and ultimately landed in a place called Divide. Yep, THE divide. The one that geographically speaks to water flowing east from one side, and west to the other.
I stopped at the highest point in town, and thought about the enormity of where I was. At 9,615 feet in elevation, living in that small mountain town would be very nearly equivalent to living atop Mt. Lassen, at 10,457 feet. At that elevation, I could peer over, almost shoulder-to-shoulder, as it were, at Pike’s Peak. It was a strange perspective. It made the grandiosity of the peak somewhat diminished in stature, and yet, somehow sharper in focus.
The geography did a couple things for me that day. One, it helped to settle a mild case of homesickness from which I’ve been suffering for a couple weeks. The drive up to Divide was along the same kind of mountainous roads that I have lived and loved in Shingletown, Burney, Quincy, Weaverville, and elsewhere. Being in pine trees, with the smell, the sound, the feel, was a much needed respite. That was even confirmed when I shared the observation with MC and he said, “Divide has always reminded me of northern California.”
The other thing I couldn’t get off my mind was the literal sense that I was standing in a place of manifest division. The west is its own bastion, completely separate from the east. It made me think of the many things that have become divided in my life in recent months. Some of the divisions are tragic, like my marriage. It’s a separation that rips at my heart, and makes me question much about my very existence. Some of the divisions aren’t so bad. It occurred to me as I stood afoot of the Continental Divide, that some of the challenges I’ve faced in the past year or so have been a result of my unwillingness to divide some things that should never have been commingled together. Hindsight, fabulous thing that it is, makes me realize that I should have divided the circumstances I knew to my core were right, from the unrealistic expectations of others. I should have divided the need to be true to one’s self from the impervious indiscretions of those near to me.
Like wheat from the chaff.
Like the east from the west.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Come to Me, My One True Love...
Dear, Sweet, Trader Joe…
You know how I love you. Surely, you have not forgotten the days when I would travel, ice chest at the ready, all the way to Sacramento just to take in your goodness, and bring home some small tokens of our time together, have you? Despite the pitfalls of our long-distance relationship, I was faithful and ardent in my love for you. I even introduced you to other fans and followers. We all loved you, even when it was from afar.
Then, you (and that darling friend of yours, Chuck) intoxicated me beyond my wildest imagination—you came to Redding, California, so our relationship could grow and deepen. Remember those last-minute, surprise flings we would have? I would just stop by out of the blue, pick up a little vino, maybe some exotic cheese, share a few laughs and be on my way? Gosh, those were great times.
Well now, as life tends to do, things have changed, and I must say, not entirely for the better, between you and me. When I decided to move to Denver, I guess I just took for granted that you would be there with me, and for me, in my new life’s adventure.
I’ve looked everywhere for you, and you’re just not around. I’ve even called your mother, and the corporate office, and they confirmed. You are not in the Denver metro area.
I know that some will say I should just move on, and Lord knows, I’ve tried. I tried hooking up with Natural Grocer. I don’t really want to kiss and tell, but let’s just say, his produce isn’t as firm and juicy as it ought to be. You know how I feel about those things.
I tried hanging out with Sprouts, and while socially, it has been a good time meeting people there, he just seems a little lost and unfocused. He says, “healthy foods”, and yet, virtually everything in there is sugary and too well refined. You and I both know that someone like that just isn’t good for me.
I have tried a few l’il independent guys as well, and you know how they can be—just so inconsistent in their relations. Some days things are okay, the next day, they’re just not around, or they’re out of the very thing I’m needing at that moment. And you know how I am, Joe, I just want that one guy I can count on.
So, I ask you again, my love, my dear, true, Joe… won’t you please, please consider coming to Denver?? I miss your sauciness—the piccata, the masala, the vodka tomato. I miss your occasional starchiness—fine rices and pastas. And I’ll admit it, I really miss your delicious Pirate’s Booty. Yes, I know, I should be above that, but I’m not.
I have done some initial reconnaissance for you, my love. Denver is a veritable implosion of empty retail space, just the size you would need, with ample parking, and great access. Demographically speaking, Denver is one of the most health-conscious cities in the nation… we are a people here who are literally hungry for your foodie, healthful goodness.
Trust me, my sweetness, you would have no problem making a go of it here. And you know that I’d take care of you.
Please, won’t you come?
Forever yours,
Susanne
You know how I love you. Surely, you have not forgotten the days when I would travel, ice chest at the ready, all the way to Sacramento just to take in your goodness, and bring home some small tokens of our time together, have you? Despite the pitfalls of our long-distance relationship, I was faithful and ardent in my love for you. I even introduced you to other fans and followers. We all loved you, even when it was from afar.
Then, you (and that darling friend of yours, Chuck) intoxicated me beyond my wildest imagination—you came to Redding, California, so our relationship could grow and deepen. Remember those last-minute, surprise flings we would have? I would just stop by out of the blue, pick up a little vino, maybe some exotic cheese, share a few laughs and be on my way? Gosh, those were great times.
Well now, as life tends to do, things have changed, and I must say, not entirely for the better, between you and me. When I decided to move to Denver, I guess I just took for granted that you would be there with me, and for me, in my new life’s adventure.
I’ve looked everywhere for you, and you’re just not around. I’ve even called your mother, and the corporate office, and they confirmed. You are not in the Denver metro area.
I know that some will say I should just move on, and Lord knows, I’ve tried. I tried hooking up with Natural Grocer. I don’t really want to kiss and tell, but let’s just say, his produce isn’t as firm and juicy as it ought to be. You know how I feel about those things.
I tried hanging out with Sprouts, and while socially, it has been a good time meeting people there, he just seems a little lost and unfocused. He says, “healthy foods”, and yet, virtually everything in there is sugary and too well refined. You and I both know that someone like that just isn’t good for me.
I have tried a few l’il independent guys as well, and you know how they can be—just so inconsistent in their relations. Some days things are okay, the next day, they’re just not around, or they’re out of the very thing I’m needing at that moment. And you know how I am, Joe, I just want that one guy I can count on.
So, I ask you again, my love, my dear, true, Joe… won’t you please, please consider coming to Denver?? I miss your sauciness—the piccata, the masala, the vodka tomato. I miss your occasional starchiness—fine rices and pastas. And I’ll admit it, I really miss your delicious Pirate’s Booty. Yes, I know, I should be above that, but I’m not.
I have done some initial reconnaissance for you, my love. Denver is a veritable implosion of empty retail space, just the size you would need, with ample parking, and great access. Demographically speaking, Denver is one of the most health-conscious cities in the nation… we are a people here who are literally hungry for your foodie, healthful goodness.
Trust me, my sweetness, you would have no problem making a go of it here. And you know that I’d take care of you.
Please, won’t you come?
Forever yours,
Susanne
Monday, March 1, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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