1 year anniversary

September 1 was my one-year anniversary in Providence– though I actually spent the day in New York City. When I recently had a two-hour lunch with Curly-Haired Religious Scholar Friend, she remarked “I feel like you’ve been here as long as I have– three years.” I kind of agreed with her.

How long do you have to live somewhere before you can say you’ve lived there? How long do you have to live somewhere before you can move somewhere else and say you’re from when you just came from, or can you never really say that? I used to know a girl who talked about how she “lived” in Washington state and when I asked for how long, she said “5 weeks”; I knew another girl who said she was from Washington state, but then it came out that she had moved to North Dakota when she was three and had never even gone back to visit.

A year doesn’t seem like that long, but it kind of is. If you asked me if I wanted to go to jail for a year, the answer would be a resounding “no”, but part of the reason I moved to a part of the country I’d never even visited before, is because I was fairly sure that I can handle anything for two years. It’s weird because after I had been here a week, it felt like forever, and then time stopped being something I thought about.

So because I’ve been in a listy mood lately, here’s some of the stuff that has happened over the last year:

• One year of library school is over, my GPA is excellent, and the end is in sight
• I’ve had three jobs and a long stint of unemployment, which is a lot to cram into one year, I think.
• I found a wonderful hairdresser who has big plans for my head
• I found excellent mechanics for both bodywork, and internal car fixings though it is unfortunate that I’ve had to deal with both of those things in just one year.
• No sales tax on alcohol in Massachusetts!
• Visited NYC, Boston, Maine. Montreal, etc.
• Had many superfun adventures including, but not limited to: hiking in purgatory chasm, Moby Dick Marathon at The New Bedford Whaling Museum, Museum of Work and Culture in Historic Woonsocket, Gaspee Days, walking tour of historic churches in Providence, Soundsession etc.
• Slept on a rock in Central Park and discovered that I can still summon up amazing reserves of stamina when it’s important
• Finally went to the beach!
• Painted (or rather, had parents paint), furnished, and decorated my apartment in a way that is very pleasing to me, and didn’t spend much money doing it
• Free cable!
• I have the most ridiculous and therefore best Graduate Assistantship ever that not only pays my overpriced tuition, but also a nearly livable wage
• I’ve eaten lobster, crab, and littlenecks for the first time and almost enjoyed all three though I really don’t get the appeal of littlenecks. They taste like nothing except what you put on them, and have the consistency of extra-slimy hardened rubber cement. So I now know that I dislike them, and I love to have opinions.
• Finally have quasi-professional job that allows me to wear skirts and dresses as much as I want so I can legitimize buying these items and actually wear them instead of them languishing in the back of my closet
• I now know what happens at the end of the Babysitter’s Club series: MaryAnne Spier’s historical house with the secret passage used in the Underground Railroad catches fire in the middle of the night. It was later determined to be an electrical fire. Thankfully, everyone gets out safely including her tiger-striped kitten, Tigger, but the house and all of the family’s possessions are completely destroyed. Kristy’s family (her step-father is a millionaire, an actual millionaire!), takes them in while they get back on their feet. Though the situation is a very emotional one, MaryAnne, who is brought to tears by nearly everything, simply cannot cry. How powerful.
• Found out that Watson (kitty) is asthmatic, which is tragic, but a little bit hilarious since it doesn’t really seem to bother him and he makes the cutest wheezing noises.
• I finally found the Wal-Mart that is right by my house but I could never see it because it’s behind the giant Home Depot. This is very handy when I need some kind of last minute item that I forget to pick up when I do my other household shopping– cat food, garbage bags– but problematic in that I keep going there all the time and now recognize a lot of the cashiers, but still cannot find my way around the place. Also, I really hate Wal-Mart, but it’s just so handy.
• Taught screenwriting workshop to teenagers at the library, which made me feel like a bit of a fraud since I haven’t written for the screen in quite a while, but had fun, and they told me that they liked me and learned a lot.
• Jewish Friend gave me a gunlock, which I have no use for, but is totally hilarious to own, and has taught me a bit more about safety with firearms.

Is that so shocking??

My parents are coming to visit in July. For five days I will have three extra bodies (two of them large, male bodies) crammed into a very hot apartment, three extra people using my shower, and three air mattresses taking up all of my floor real estate. It would be an understatement to say that I’m a little apprehensive about the whole thing, though I am looking forward to free meals (not from Tim Horton’s).

What makes me most apprehensive is the miscommunications we’ve had already in planning this trip. First they were coming in May, but my brother’s work got in the way. Then they were talking about July and asked if there were any dates that didn’t work for me. All I said over and over and over was “end of June through beginning of July, I am going on vacation, I am unavailable those dates. The rest of the whole summer is up for grabs but end of June through beginning of July is off-limits.”

Then I get an email from my mother saying that they’re planning to arrive July 4.

In the subsequent phone call she inquired about the black-out dates on my calendar, and I told her, and I had told my father 1/2 dozen times “I took the time off to go to ALA conference in Anaheim, but that fell through, so now I’m going somewhere.”

“You don’t know where you’re going?”

“Well, we (my Jewish friend and I) were going to go to Montreal, but she doesn’t have a valid passport right now, so we’re re-planning things. If it doesn’t work out that she and I can coordinate schedules– then I’m going somewhere by myself. I have to go somewhere this summer.”

Of course she asked me to switch the days off to coordinate with when they are visiting, but I refused, then she asked, “really, you’d go somewhere all by yourself? Aww.”

This brings to mind another pair of incidents that came one on the heels of the other recently. I was in a class and we had to group up with different people than usual. So I got to meet a couple women from the other side of the room (the room divided itself, rather handily, into the young side and the old side). One of these women had mixed up my friends Mary and Lisa and asked Lisa why in the world she moved all the way to Rhode Island from Texas.

“Actually,” Lisa told her, “I’m from Connecticut, Mary over there is from Texas. But Andria moved here from North Dakota.”

The woman’s jaw dropped and she gaped at me in a way I’ve never experienced before.

“Why did you move here?” she demanded.

“For library school.”

“Had you ever been here before? Why did you pick Rhode Island?”

“No, and because it sounded pretty.”

“You’ve got balls of steel, girl!”

“Erm, thanks ?”

And then she followed with a question that I never thought I would ever in my life hear, “But how do you meet single girlfriends?”

This question perplexed me to no end. I wanted to indicate Lisa, sitting to my left, and say “She’s a girlfriend.” And also assert, “Single or not, I don’t have a very elaborate screening process.” But I was really wondering if she was asking me where to find girls to go clubbing and trolling for men with or something. Do people really do that? Also, she’s a rather tired-looking elementary school teacher, does she do that? What the hell is this conversation about, is she really asking me how to make friends?

“Well, what do you do on the weekends?” she asked.

“Well, I work all week, so on the weekends I do homework and…” These are questions that are very hard to answer. ‘On alternating Sundays I go to pub trivia, occasionally I see movies, or go to parties…’ I mean really.

Thankfully, the professor asked us all to regroup, so I got to shrug off the rest of the grilling, but I was given her phone number along with the offer “I’d love to show you around Providence.”

So that was weird.

Then the following day at work I was having a nice conversation with someone who I genuinely like when she said, “I hope you’ve managed to make at least one friend since you’ve been out here.”

By this point, I’d been in Rhode Island for 7 months– is she kidding?

But I don’t really think that people want to hear that you have a full social calendar and are, in fact, beloved by many. This seems to be a product of never having left a place, and never having had to make friends, although I’m still baffled. Does the woman who asked me where I find single girlfriends actually not have any, or did she just want a new technique? I’m a bit disturbed by the fact that these people seem to picture me sitting home alone, longing for the prairie and the friends I left behind– but that’s their shit.

I am a scandalous woman.

Those partying Pentecostals may be back!

I rolled into Providence on September 1, Labor Day weekend. It was a rather odd way to start live in a new city as businesses had limited hours, and after a ridiculous time of trying to negotiate the narrow, full of people roads during Waterfire on Saturday night, the city seemed to empty out Sunday morning while I slept in. I was so overwhelmed and dazed from being in the car for three days, that I didn’t care about much of anything.

So Human Traveling Companion and I walked downtown every day to get the lay of the land, coffee in the morning and beer in the afternoon, etc. En route to what was called “Downtown Arts District” when I moved here, now is called “Downcity Arts District” (why? why? who cares?), I walk by a rather non-descript Pentecostal church . It’s not a pretty church, like every building in my neighborhood it has a chain-link fence, and it looks like it was designed for some other purpose, but the people who go there seem to have some of the most fun I’ve ever seen.

Not being of a religious persuasion myself, I really don’t know much about organized religion. I took “World Religions” as an undergrad, but that covered mainly the non-christian religions of the world outside of America and Europe. Frankly, aside from having a friend of family in the town one grows up in, I don’t know how people know anything about these other Christian denominations. I know that this church is Pentecostal because there is a sign on it.

Anyway, when I had heard the word Pentecostal before, it was generally referring to the more strict, skirt-wearing religions (correct me if I’m wrong). The people who go to this church do not fit the descriptions I’d previously associated with Pentecostal. They’re all African-American, most wear these all-white outfits complete with a kind of hat one might use to deflect the sun at the beach– and they feast.

For two days they were inside the chain-link, in what looks like it should be a parking lot eating, and dancing, and generally making merry. There are tents set up, and giant silver buffet dishes– it’s very elaborate. In the late afternoon, things would be quiet and we’d see a couple people setting up, but as soon as the sun set– the revelry began. It was a sight to behold, and made me feel more positive about religion than I possibly ever have.

Then they vanished.

Since September 4th, I have not seen anyone going in or out of that church. The sign is still up, I assume they haven’t moved, but I just don’t know. I looked forward to walking by their celebrations, or hearing the whooping on nights when my windows are open, but I didn’t get to, sadly.

The other day though, I walked by, and there were two men in the faux parking lot/party space looking like they were making plans of some kind. So I don’t know if the partying Pentecostals are coming out of hibernation, but I certainly hope so.

Armchair Traveller

It’s that time of year again where I really, really want to go on vacation. As a result, my travel documentary watching has gotten a little out of hand (again). I was at friends’ house on Monday for dinner and the hosts were telling tales of far-flung locales and trekking up mountains. My contribution: “In Indonesia, for a nominal fee, you can watch a pack of Komodo Dragons eat a goat.”

Host replied “That’s true, have you been?”

“No, I just watched a travel documentary about it.”

Now, I don’t want to go watch Komodo Dragons eat a goat (certainly I wouldn’t pay for the privilege), but it would be nice to hang out in Indonesia (or anywhere, really) for a while. I know this time of year does always get to me because this is when I was in England two years in a row, and various spring break destinations other years– but it seems too, that I tend to surround myself with adventurers. That’s cool, I wouldn’t have it any other way, but it makes me jealous. So, Best Friend by Proxy (BFbP): I’m glad you had fun in Bali and Thailand; Boss lady: I’m glad Granada was lovely, Hosts from Monday night dinner: I loved being able to try a bunch of weird-ass food, and I WILL come visit you in Jakarta– try and stop me.

In other culture shock news, I now live in the most Catholic state in the Union– who knew. Also, not caring much for organized religion, who knew that it would affect me? Yesterday was St. Joseph’s day. I didn’t know there was a St. Joseph, but apparently he’s Mary’s husband– father of Jesus, makes sense that he gets a day. He’s the patron saint of workers and Sicilians (interesting combo). Presumably, he’s had this day as long as I’ve been alive, but not being Catholic, and not being one to learn about saints, I had never heard of him.

Yesterday, I got schooled in Italian pastry. Rhode Islanders love their pastry as evidenced by all of the Dunkin Donuts in the state, and the fact that they all seem to do brisk business, but Italians, apparently have pastry needs above and beyond that of the average Rhode Islander. On St. Joseph’s day, you must eat zeppole, which is a cream filled pastry (I have one sitting on my counter, but wasn’t hungry enough to eat it last night– I’m such a heathen).

I shouldn’t be totally surprised because I’m sure a lot of these people don’t know what lutefisk or lefse are… maybe. I honestly have no idea where the pastries I ate growing up even come from because my dad’s family is Norwegian, my mother’s is English, Irish, Swedish, and Bohemian, and Minnesota and North Dakota have a lot of Germans and Icelanders.

Maybe what I’m reacting to is just the fact that I came from the land of Germans, Norwegians, Swedes, and Icelanders to the land of Italians, Irish, Portuguese, and Cape Verdeans, or maybe I’m reacting to the fact that the bloodlines in this state seem to have mingled less and there are distinct communities. Although Mountain, ND is apparently the most Icelandic city in America, and I got schooled on Italian pastry by a woman who admitted that she is neither Italian nor Catholic, and she had also made Irish soda bread.

So, this week I have eaten, as far as food I had never eaten before: Irish soda bread (plain and with raisins); Kimchee; some fermented tofu that I don’t know the name of; a fermented rice dessert that I don’t know the name of, but the liquid tasted like sake (which makes sense), I have a zeppole at home, and a pot-luck on Saturday (who knows what I’ll find there!). I guess even though I’m not traveling abroad, I’m still experiencing new cultures and trying new foods– and watching tons of travel documentaries.

A Marvel of Engineering!

I lived in Providence for about 2 months with only a chair, TV, and bed. Finally, schedules were co-ordinated, a U-Haul was rented, and I got stuff. In one day, I got a sectional couch, table and chairs, desk, and lounge chair with bamboo on it. The table was a bit rickety, but when one is unwilling to spend money– one deals with these things. I dealt with it by making the table into something different

I use my desk as a bedside table, so I turned my table table into a desk, This required that I pull it apart, unscrew the metal bits that hold two side of a table together (to add the leaves, you know), break off the wooden dowels (that hold the leaves in place), and move one leg from the unused half of table to the new “desk” table creating a tripod-style desk. I set it next to my windowsill, and it makes a wonderful, quirky little desk that I never actually use. It’s pretty amazing. Everyone who has seen it has been quite impressed (or pretended to be), most people don’t care one way or the other, and one person said “that’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard of, what is wrong with you?” I say– jealous?

I may not use it for desk-type activities, because as much as I’d like to try to be, I just can’t manage to be a desk-type girl  (also, it’s still a bit wobbly). This desk exists to keep my actual table (acquired about one month later) from getting too cluttered, and to hold the two pictures that I can’t quite decide where to hang, but don’t want to set on the floor. Also, I usually set my filer on top of it because I file things frequently (bills, bank statements– I AM super cool), and it’s a lot of hassle to reach down and grab the thing from the bottom shelf of my bookcase.

When I came home today, my desk (half table) was lying on the ground. My filer was on its side and my bank statements were EVERYWHERE. It was alarming, but less alarming because the desk (half table), was completely intact. I had figured a leg popped off or something, signaling the end of my experiment, but it was fine. I propped it back up, and set my filer back on top. Now it’s not only a desk, it’s a source of constant intrigue. Will it fall again?? How far will the bank statements fly that time?? Was their a minor earthquake in Providence that only registered on my desk (half table)?? It’s a testament to my ingenuity and awesomeness that it managed to fall so thoroughly and not break, of course, I’m not going to set my laptop on it.

Anal Leakage

I expressed to my boss the other day that I need to get a wall calendar. The last time I bought one was two years ago, but I left it hanging on my wall until I left Fargo. Actually, I left it hanging on my wall after I left Fargo because years ago, in a fit of rage, an ex-boyfriend punched a hole in my kitchen wall. Not being a carpenter, or wanting to pay for one, I patched the giant, gaping, conspicuous hole with a combination of spackle, duct tape, and an old poster of a Parisian scene. The wall appeared solid, but over the years started to get wavy. I disguised my handiwork with a wall calendar of more Parisian scenes and called it good.

Naturally, after a year, the calendar went bad. The dates it gave me didn’t correspond with the new days of the week in 2007, and my last-minuteness prevented me from buying a current one. I would still consult the calendar, even though it was still on December of 2006, then I’d remember that it could not give me true information, and get out my checkbook register.

Since I left this calendar in Fargo, and it would be nice to have an accurate one, I decided to suck it up, wait until after the New Year, and then get one (most likely lame) for 75% off at Border’s or some such place. When I told my boss that I needed one, though, she said “Oh, I have quite a few, I’ll bring you in one.”

This is odd, who has quite a few calendars just lying around, waiting to be gifted to a cheap co-worker? So I figured that these were free calendars that her husband’s business gives away, or some that she got free from the bank. Imagine my surprise when she bought in a pristine calendar (still in the plastic) of Monet paintings. I don’t have the boner for Monet that most old ladies seem to, but his work is soothing on the eyes, and in this case, free. I accepted it graciously, and ran it out to my car so I didn’t forget it at work, and hurt her feelings.

A little later that day, I wandered by the circulation desk, and she said, “Andria, I found this calendar in VOGUE magazine, if you want another one.” I looked at it, white background with bright lettering in a variety of colors, and a nice, plump, smiling woman over the words “New Year, New You. alli”

“Isn’t this the weightloss drug that causes anal leakage?” I asked.

Without missing a beat, she replied, “I believe so.”

If anyone is unfamiliar with this product, here’s what it says on the website:

The active ingredient in alli attaches to some of the natural enzymes in the digestive system, preventing them from breaking down about a quarter of the fat you eat. Undigested fat cannot be absorbed and passes through the body naturally. The excess fat is not harmful. In fact, you may recognize it in the toilet as something that looks like the oil on top of a pizza.

Some people would rather poo oil, than be fat. Why am I surprised at all at this?

I flipped though the months and saw that at the beginning of each month, you were supposed to record your weight, then again at the end, doing the math as to how much you lost. For a brief moment I thought hey, that could be kind of fun. Then I realized that while, yes, I have indulged in cookies, fudge, baklava, ice cream, and mixed nuts over the holiday season resulting in my pants feeling a little tighter—once I stop eating all that crap, I’ll go back to normal. Also, I don’t have a scale, so partaking in the dieting adventure that the calendar holds, would requiring me buying something, which negates the joy of a free (second) calendar in the first place.

I passed on the free second calendar and all of its anal leakage propaganda. I’ll stick with Monet. According to the alli readiness quiz, I may not be ready for alli, but I can retake the quiz, or come back when I am ready– to poo oil.

New England made me tall

Since moving out here, I had met some truly tiny people; people that don’t clear five feet, but hover around the 4’8” and lower mark. I didn’t realize that people came that short, especially not so many. It seems logical then, that since so many people I’ve met are short, that makes me tall. For the first time in my life I am described more often than not as “tall” rather than “average”, “short”, or in the drunken words of a friend who seeing me without shoes on for the first time “oh, you’re so little!”

 

It’s a strange phenomenon, especially now that I’ve started to accept it, and actually feel tall. I bought some average length jeans instead of short ones, and they don’t drag on the ground (can it be that Old Navy cuts jeans differently according to region? That doesn’t make any sense) I have the attitude of a girl who is above-average height, and I don’t want to let that go. I even quit wearing heels for a time, although that was more because of cobblestones, and it didn’t last. I guess I can never move again unless I go to a place known for short people, and what place is that?

 

Another New England, more specifically Rhode Island quirk, is the notion that everything is so far away. I really wondered about this before coming out here, actually, if smaller size makes trips seem longer. Interestingly enough, one reason that I picked Providence was because if by some chance I didn’t like that city, it’s close to lots of other cool places.

 

My dad and brother often go on male-bonding road trips across chunks of the U.S. They visit historical sights, eat a lot of hamburgers (cookies in my dad’s case, who while on vacation comes to regard cookies as actual food, for reasons unknown. I’m sure there’s a blog about that coming sometime as I find it fascinating and disgusting). It’s something they do and enjoy, and have invited me on more than once, but I refuse to spend so many hours cooped up in the car with them listening to Lynard Skynard, and finding ways to incorporate a visit to the Baseball Hall of Fame into every trip. The point is that my brother said that when he and Wayne were on their “New England, Niagra Falls, and Some Canada” road trip, they drove across Rhode Island and it took about an hour and half.

 

In Fargo, I know of people (I do agree this is crazy, but whatever), who would drive to Minneapolis in the morning, shop all day, then drive back at night. 8 hours round trip. People in Providence think Boston is sooooooooo far away (an hour, usually less on the train). When I tell people that I work in Newport, they feel so sorry for me; and the people who live in Newport and the surrounding cities on Aquidneck Island, absolutely cringe in they have to cross the bridge to the mainland. I invited a co-worker to trivia night at a local pub, she said, “That sounds really fun, but it’s all the way in Providence.”

 

“yeah, it’s like 45 minutes.”

“yeah.” She just shrugged. We’ll see if she decides to attend.

the envy

Anyone who is willing to listen to me talk, and those that don’t get away fast enough, have undoubtedly heard me complain about the lack of furniture in my apartment.  “1100 square feet and just a chair! Said he would let me know and didn’t!” are two common refrains.  Well, I have furniture now.  I have a kick-ass sea-green sectional couch that is no doubt older than I am (galaxy designs), a rickety kitchen table, three chairs to go with that table (which looks a little silly), a child-sized desk I’m using as a bedside table, a broken drinks cart I found on the curb and managed to make sound with a couple bricks I found in a wheel barrow in the backyard, and a bamboo lounger.  It’s a motley assortment, but full of character.

 I started my new job the same week I got the furniture.  My new job is in a beautiful, historic library stuffed to the gills with books, sculpture, paintings, and furniture.  Beautiful, dark cherry wood desks with individual reading lamps, chairs from the 1800’s, a giant piano, oh and the bookcases, tall and beautiful with those cool little stairs that you can move around—and I want it all.  I go to work and covet.  I see a desk sitting empty, and I think “If that was mine, I’d use it.”  I’ve never seen anyone play the piano there, but I’d play it—if it was mine.  I’ve been contemplating getting a hatchback because it’d be easy to park, but easy fit a lot into.  You see where I’m going with this.

 There’s a 3 million dollar table in the vault that would be perfect in my sitting room.  I mentally place other pieces around my home as I’m supposed to be shelf-shifting.  I promised myself that I wouldn’t acquire so much stuff this time around because I don’t know when I’ll move again, but this apartment could be so cool.  One promise I will stick to though, I’m not paying for a damn bit of it.  If I can furnish my huge apartment for no money (except the cost of a couple lamps and a small shelf from Target)—that’s pretty resourceful, and awesome.

I’m set

I moved out to Providence with only what fit in my car.  I found out that it would cost $2000 to rent a truck that I wouldn’t be able to drive, and then Jill and I would have to ride in separate vehicles thereby ruining the whole “roadtrip” aspect of the moving.  My stuff was not nice, it was not worth even $500, as I found out when I tried to sell it.  So I arrived in New England with some clothes, cookware, and my cat.  My landlady was nice enough to lend me a bed and TV for the duration of my tenancy, and she gave me a wingback chair.  I figured that I’d just sort out the rest once I got settled.

 When I arrived, landlady’s boyfriend said that he has a couch and table and chairs that I can have, but he has no truck so I’d have to figure something out. I said “yes” I will rent something, no problem.  Then I never heard anything else about it.

 I called and left a message asking if I could still have the stuff; I don’t want to be too pushy since this is a huge favor, but I want to know if I can still have this stuff or if I need to make other arrangements.  Then I called again, and found out that he may have a friend with a truck and he’s trying to sort that out.  That’s cool.

 Meanwhile, my apartment is 1100 square feet, and all I have is a chair and a trunk that is serving as my desk.  I’ve got stacks of stuff to put on the walls, but I don’t want to pounding holes if I need to move it after I get furniture. Sometimes, I move the chair from the sitting room to the living room and work at the kitchen counter so I don’t have to have my laptop on my lap.  A while ago, when I had one of those irritating hangovers where reading hurt and all I wanted was to watch TV and overeat, I dragged my mattress into the sitting room and laid on that all day, then dragged it back to my bedroom when it was time to sleep.

 Then I ran into landlady’s boyfriend on the stairs and he asked, “Do you still want that stuff?  I have a couch, a table and chairs, and I think, like a lamp, maybe an end table.”

 ”Yes, I will take whatever you have.  All I have right now is a bed and a chair.”

“Well you got the TV, right?”

“Yes, I have to TV too.”

“You get your cable set up?”

“I don’t need cable.”

There was a long pause as he digested this bit of information, finally, when it got awkward, I threw in, “I have an antenna.”  I’ve only remembered to actually watch TV twice because this is the first time in 3 years that I’ve gotten any channels. I don’t even know what’s on besides the news and Heroes, but I didn’t tell him that.

“Well, then you’re set.  Maybe we can move the stuff on Friday, I’ll let you know.”

Friday has passed, and I’m still without options as to what to sit on.  But I have the TV–so I’m set.  I just don’t get that.  I can’t sit on the TV, I can’t eat off of it, I can’t keep my clothes in it, it doesn’t provide very much light.  I’m glad I have it, I’ve watched lots of DVDs on it, but I’d trade it for a couch.  I’m not trying to be one of those “I don’t need a TV assholes,” like Vincent from Pulp Fiction, but it is clearly a luxury item.  Isn’t it?

 When I told people that I was selling my TV and reluctant to spend money on a new one (I’ve never paid for a TV and I don’t ever want to), they were horrified. More horrified it seems that when I said I wouldn’t have a bed.  Then I’m made to feel extravagant because I have 2 Ipods.  My best friend LeAnn, just moved into a new apartment and had to leave her bed, but took the TV.  She’s sleeping on the floor, but has a TV and DVD player.

 I don’t get it, but at least I’m set.

you gotta go there to come back

Late one night, a few months ago, I stopped at Cashwise foods on my way home from work. As I approached the cashier I heard an unfamiliar shriek “Annie! Oh my God!” I had no idea who person was, but the fact that she called me Annie means that she is someone from Hallock, where I lived when people (aside from my parents) called me Annie. I glanced inconspicuously at her name tag and realized that this was crazy Katy.

She is the friend that I never liked, but had to spend time with because our moms were friends. She was always tiny, but made up for it by being incredibly bossy and loud; clearly that hadn’t changed.

“Katy, oh my god, I haven’t seen you in years. What are you up to these days?” In moments of false sincerity I always really, really wonder what my face actually looks like, and how good an actress I actually am.

“Oh, I’m just working part-time and raising my baby.” This was punctuated by a quick flash of the baby picture stuck in her name badge, all the while keeping the rhythm of scanning my groceries. Slightly impressive, actually, but still crazy. I suddenly heard my mom’s voice in my head ‘that Katy has baby fever.’ Clearly, that hadn’t changed..

“But you,” she broke into my reverie, “I just can’t believe you’re still here. I thought you’d be long gone by now.”

“Well, I had to stick around to finish my MASTERS last spring, and now I’m just hanging out and saving money, getting ready to move out east.”

By this point she had my total for me, and I’m fairly convinced that she heard nothing I said. She handed me my receipt, and I started to say “It was nice to see you again.” but she was already bantering with the person behind me in line. So I pushed my cart away, marveling at the fact that I got so owned by a stay-at-home mom who hasn’t even succeeded at that.

Before that, when I was initially applying to schools, a customer came up to me at the coffee cart. He is a doctor at the clinic, very self-important, always tips, but makes you feel filthy for wanting his money. He had never said more to me than “low-carb chai”, leaving me to guess the size.

“So, you’n college?”

“I was, until I graduated.”

“With what?”

“I have a B.A. in English and an M.F.A. in fiction writing.” Seeing that he had no idea what to do with that, I decided to throw him a bone, “I’m going back in the fall for and masters of library science.”

“Where you going?”

“I’ve applied at University of Maryland, and the University of Rhode Island.”

“East coast huh? I lived out there when I was in the service. It’s different there. You should go out west.”

I tried to defend my decision with substantive evidence, only so many accredited programs in the US, Canada, and Puerto Rico, I don’t want to live in California, everyone moves to Washington or Oregon etc. I could see his eyes glazing over and he just grabbed his drink, and said “well, good luck to you.”

Now I am leaving, I am leaving Fargo and moving out east, even though it’s different there. If it wasn’t different, what would be the point of going there? I have a plan, I have registered for classes. An entire University is expecting me. This is something that is not a whim, or a passing fancy; it is happening.

Now all people can ask me is when I’m coming back. “You’re going to move out there and get another master’s and then come back here right?” “How long do you think it will be before you come back?” “You are coming back?”