blues traveler

Can I register for this?

So the moving blues have finally hit. Sad face. I knew it would come, because it always, inevitably, does. Moving is hard. It's really exciting and it feels good to leave your "old life" for something new and exciting, but after awhile, the reality sinks in. You don't know the territory. You don't know anyone. You don't have a network. You don't even have a favorite bookstore.

Sigh.

Today has been a lovely rainy day, a great relief from the blast of heat we've had all week. It's good sitting-inside-and-writing weather, which is what I've attempted most of today. It's also fitting for my mood.

But boy, boy-oh-boy, have I been blue today.

It will pass, with time. It will, I know that. But, man, today is one of those days you have to muscle through.

ffffound

Meanwhile, I love this:

      

(fictional) New York City urban etiquette posters. 

Brilliant.

Arrived in the Mile High and before the internet could get hooked up, my computer suffered some sort of stroke. Crimeny. Right as I'm sitting here with no Web, no car, no job, nothing but loads of time to devote to novel-writing. I suppose I should have impulse-purchased that old typewriter I saw in Chicago. That'll teach me to be frugal.


So the computer is in the shop and it's going to cost me about $300 to fix, and hopefully nothing I've saved there will get erased, like my research, and photos, and wedding info, and the images I've saved for this blog, and my entire iTunes library. I tried to perform an emergency back up of my stuff, but the computer froze mid-burn and went black. Clearly, my computer is an anarchist.

This, apparently, is the typewriter Hemingway owned, and actual descendants of some of his cats. I love how the descendants of Hemingway's cats have been traced, but my family still isn't entirely sure if great grandpa came from Russia or Germany.

Here we go

I'm about to disconnect, and when I reconnect, I'll be in Colorado.

(Unless, I suppose, I go to a coffee shop and use their WiFi)

It's interesting to be going somewhere and not to be outrunning a broken heart, escaping a terrible job, or chasing a dream. To be going, instead, because it's right for someone you love, and you are at peace with leaving.

There are many things that make a modern gypsy, and my list would require an entirely separate post (or blog). I can't believe it, but I'm finally tired of moving. I equally can't believe the word "stability" no longer sounds dirty to me.

Au revoir, Chicago, City of Big Shoulders, gangster's ghosts, deep dish love & red-shoe-blues.

This feels a little bit like breaking up with someone you should have a long time ago, when all you can do is shake hands, smile and say, "Thanks for the memories. I wish you well."

both images via ffffound

I miss my dog

I don't mean to be prejudice or anything, but I have the best dog in the world.

I will get to see her in just 9-10 days. She's been waiting for me in Colorado since March 14th, when she and the Beau took off in advance. Puppy withdrawal is seriously hard, people.

I try to get a fix by shamelessly petting other people's dogs on the street, or trolling petfinder.com, but it's not the same. They're not her. She's my buddy, my companion. She's my happy little face, my bee.

I tell myself "soon." Soon, soon, soon. Soon.

Studio on Fire, MN

Day 1

Well, Beau, Estes (the Westie) and my future mother in law are currently heading west in my Toyota Corolla (damn, you Toyota! Why'd you mess with a good thing?), packed with the previously mentioned china.

Lost with this new freedom*, I found myself at World Market, buying brightly colored magazine organizers that were on sale (to be used for my writings in the new apartment.) Sigh. I have this nasty habit of really wanting to shop when I'm getting ready to move. I just get anxious for the new place. But like I need one more (or three) thing(s) to pack?

But they are cute and I love them. And they are flat and will pack easily.

via world market

sotd: "Don't Cry Baby" by Madeleine Peyroux 

*I expect this will all hit me later and I'll feel lonely. Right now, I just keep looking over my shoulder for puppy, wondering if she needs walked, only to remember--oh, she's not here. 

The Final Countdown

The boy leaves with our puppy this weekend to make the first trek to Colorado.
Sad face.

Actually, I'm taking it fairly well, even though in 24 hours they'll be gone, not to be seen for a month. So, I'm guessing this is the denial talking.

He: "What're you gonna do without us here, getting in your way while you're trying to write?"

Me: "Probably finish my novel."

He: "You'll miss us."

Me: "Sh, writing."

nostalgia

                                       via ffffound
                                          
Things are busy. Sort of super-crazy-insane busy. My beau has gotten a job in his motherland (aka Colorado) and we are moving. To the suburbs. Not a phrase I ever thought I'd utter. Regardless, it's happening, and it's fine. He leaves this weekend with our Westie, and I follow in a month. Until then, it's packing, working full time for the Irish dancers, working on my novel, finishing my class, and seeing everyone I'll miss.

I don’t know if it’s just the nature of moving (probably) or being engaged (probably) or heading to the home of your person, but a place which is not your home (probably) but I’ve been super nostalgic lately. I’ve even been nostalgic about Cleveland. When mom and I went through my hope chest, sentiment seized me, and I probably optioned to take too many embroidered pillowcases and crocheted table cloths (I will have to filter them out to the beau strategically so as not to overwhelm). And I just couldn’t say no to the surprising amount of aprons that belonged to various generations of women in my family.** I even lamented the fate of the classic old Frigidaire in the little cottage like house next door.* (True, I’d had a some Jack & Coke.)

Regardless, I’m finding myself prepping to move from the big city to a suburb of Denver, with an armload of china and aprons.


SOTD: “High Times” by Landon Pigg


*Back story: the house belonged to a man who was essentially part of the family and had been around my entire life. He was a retired school teacher who never married, and always brought my mother flowers from his garden, and did the most beautiful leather and wood work. When I was a little girl, I decided I wanted to move into his house some day, far down the road, when he was gone. He passed the September I was living in Los Angeles and I couldn’t justify moving back to rural Ohio just for the house, sentimental as it is. So of course, a young family has bought it. And of course, they have probably chucked the fridge. I don’t know this for sure, I don’t really want to know. I don’t want to know if they mow over his flowerbeds. Or take the metal awnings down from his windows. I know things never stay the same, and that’s just how it is, but I’m not ready to let go of some things yet. I hate when I see monuments of my childhood become unthreaded.


**Side note: remember when aprons were in? It was like the late ‘90s, or early part of this century. I remember wearing them over jeans with my Chuck Taylors. So, yeah, I brought them partly for that reason. Partly because they are fancy with lacy details or sheer black overlay, or cute with pink and black gingham print, or my mom remembers tying the strings of them behind my great grandmothers back when she was little. How, I ask you, can you say no to this?

the diary

via Snippet & Ink

This past weekend, during a visit back home, my mom showed me something I didn't know even existed: my grandmother's diary.

The diary begins right at this time of year, late winter, early spring. She is in her early twenties (younger than 23). At this time, she is still single (an “old maid” she calls herself), happy for, but envious of, her older sister Anna (“Annie”) and Anne's impending wedding; she is always palling around with her best friend, Julia (who always has a date with a new boy.) And the thing she wants most is to just be in love.

She talks about showing a Mrs. Clair Annie's hope chest, and her "hopeless chest." She flirts at the church bazaar with John B. She frets about whether or not Karl (not my grandfather) likes her, frets about whether or not Karl is married, gets all-atwitter the day Karl buys a brand new, green “family” car.

She goes dancing at least once a week, attends basketball games, joins her friends skating, and has orchestra practice (my mother wasn't sure what instrument she played.)

But the very best parts are just the everyday-life things. “The bees came out today and many of them froze. Still, so nice to see them. They work so hard. Makes you wonder about life.” (My great grandfather was a beekeeper.) And “Rode the milk truck to Mrs. Clair’s today and listened to the radio.” She was frequently checking out books from the library and would then rate them when she was done: “Good.” Or “Fair.” And going to movies "Saw a movie with Clara Bow in it today." And theatre: “Saw Dracula. Terrible, horrible! Wish I’d never seen it!”

She even has her New Year’s resolutions written on the inside front cover:
1. To get more physical culture.
2. To stop chewing gum.
3. To stop eating candy.
4. To eat better in general.
5. To be nice as pie to everyone.

My grandmother's name was Adeline. I also found out this past weekend that her dream was to be a writer or an English teacher. Instead--and this I knew--she owned a general store with my grandfather, and worked as the Post Mistress in town. (as a teenager, I used to wear her old post office cardigans, blue or red with round wooden buttons.)

I'm crap at keeping journals. And I'm crap at keeping blogs. But I am a hopeful novelist. And having the opportunity to start reading this diary over the weekend has inspired me. So I thought I'd start this little blog up, and dedicate it my grandmother, Adeline. The writer. xo