#35: Six-Legged Lumps of Ick

You all remember the bat? Oh yes, we alllllllll have fond memories of the bat. Well I have found something much MUCH worse than the incessantly chirping bat. ROACHES. I have ROACHES inside my APARTMENT, my HOME. What the fuck people? This is ME who is fastidious about keeping a clean kitchen; ME who freaks the hell out if Sir dares leave an unrinsed plate next to the sink. How did I get ROACHES?

The first time I ever saw a roach in real life was a few weeks ago standing on my balcony. Sir was a few feet away talking on his new cell phone and I was hanging out, enjoying the view. For some reason I happened to look down just as something about the length of my thumb crawled right up next to my foot. "WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?" I shouted and jumped toward Sir, who attempted to cover up the phone to filter my profanities, reminding me he was on the phone with his mother (Sorry MamaSir). He looked down briefly and shrugged. "Roach," he said, like it was just a normal, every day experience to see the most disgusting bug in the world traipsing along-side your BARE foot. I shuddered and thought, well at least it's outside.

HAHAHAHAHAHA. When will I learn that I should learn not tempt fate?

Not 4 or 5 days later, Sir was helping me carry groceries into the apartment. We had finally run out of food, and had made a late night run to the store. We snapped the lights on in the kitchen and my eyes landed on the paper towel roll standing upright on the countertop. As I watched, I saw one... two... THREE ROACHES crawl out of the paper towel roll onto my KITCHEN COUNTER.

Now I am usually not the sort to freak out over a bug. I have no problem squishing spiders, or smooshing ants. But those nasty bugs were at least 2 inches long and about an inch or two wide, they carry disease, are just plain ugly, and were CRAWLING on my KITCHEN counters! Where we prepare the FOOD we EAT!!!

People, I screamed. Loudly.

Hopping from foot to foot the only words I could form were, "KILL THEM, KILL THEM, KILL THEM!!!" Sir, bless his heart, grabbed the first bug-fighting weapon he saw, which was a soda cup from a fast food restaurant. I ran into the living room and jumped on top of the couch as he chased after the bugs. He followed the one that had made a beeline for the bedroom and trapped it under the cup.

"What are you doing?!" I cried from my perch, "Don't trap it! KILL IT! KIIIIIIIILL IT!" He gave me a look that quite plainly said, "Do you want to come over here and do this?" and that shut me up right quick, because I most certainly did NOT want to go over there and do that. I was quite content with my couch and the rather large training manual I had grabbed in case smashing something was absolutely necessary. I clutched the manual to my chest and sat down on the sofa, knees to chin and kept vigilant watch of the floor around me. With a shoe, Sir beat the hell out of the one roach he had caught and went in search of the other two, but apparently the sly vermin had scuttled away, one under the dishwasher and one under the stove.

He came and sat down next to me, to try and calm me down, but I was still wild-eyed. "We have to get something to fix this," I said.

"Baby, it's 10:30 on a Tuesday, nothing is open."

"We just came from Harris Teeter*. It's open 24-7. I can't sleep in a house with bugs. I can't sleep with roaches, they'll climb all over me... and ... and I can't sleep with roaches." I rocked back and forth. My heart was pounding and my eyes wouldn't close, for fear I might miss seeing one of the roaches advancing. I imagine this is what drug addicts feel like when they're in that paranoid high and start scratching themselves maniacally.

Sir saw there would be no rest until I felt we had won back control from the invading bugs. So we returned to the grocery store. We found the aisle with the bug sprays and traps and Sir asked which one I wanted. Apparently "All of them." was not the answer he was looking for, so he squatted down and read each of the labels, carefully considering which would be most appropriate for our situation. I stood behind him with my arms wrapped around my chest, wondering which part of my home those filthy little creatures were crawling around in now.

He finally picked out a spray, that was not only supposed to keep the bugs away, but kill them on contact. At home, he gently led me back to my good friend, the couch, and sprayed the entire perimeter of the kitchen, bathroom, and entry way as I watched to make sure he didn't miss any corners. The apartment reeked of pesticides (yummy for your tummy!) but, in my mind, it was way better than having the apartment teaming with roaches. I still did not sleep much.

The next mourning, I crept out of bed and turned on the bathroom light to find a roach lying on it's back. I tried to be a big girl and not shriek like a baby as I pulled 10 ft of toilet paper off the roll so I could pick up and dispose of the roach body. As I neared it though, that fucking little ick jumped back onto it's feet and started running toward me. I let out a "Meep!" as I hopped over the bug and ran into the kitchen to get the big green Can O' Poison. I sprayed that sucker until every one of his appendages stopped quivering. Then I beat him with a flip flop. Then I took the 10 ft wad of toilet paper, picked up the carcass and went "Ew ew ew ew ew ew" all the way to the toilet and flushed him.

Since then we have laid traps (eight, in all), had the apartment professionally sprayed, and sprinkled the bathroom, laundry closet, entry way, kitchen and widows with Boric Acid (which is apparently the internet's roach killer of choice). We have since seen only two bugs - one live one that, thankfully, Sir killed and only told me about afterwards, and a dead one that was really dead, instead of merely pretending to be so.

I hate those foul creatures SO, SO much. I'm checking around corners in my apartment, refusing to enter dark rooms before the light is switched on, and muttering prayers when I pick a towel or piece of clothing up off the floor. I could live my entire life contentedly never seeing another roach. My hairdresser says they're especially bad this year because the winter here was so mild. This was an adverse affect of mild winters that I did not take into account when deciding to move. Mama Sir assures me that even the best of homes in the south suffer from roach infestations and that this is not God commenting on my housekeeping skillz. And while I guess that's comforting, battling a roach infestation is definitely NOT the way I pictured my life down here. Although I do admit, it makes for excellent Column fodder.

*Local grocery store chain whose name makes me giggle.

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#33: Assimilation

After producing 3,852 forms of ID, studying, standing in 197 lines, signing over my first born and listing 100 reasons why I deserve to pay the North Carolina Department of Motor Vehicles $280 for highway taxes, I am finally a fully licensed and license-plated North Carolina driver. For the past three months, I've wanted nothing more than my North Carolina driver's license and my new plates. The process took for-friggin'-ever. But now that I'm all plated and carded, I really don't want to give up my Minnesota plates. I actually made the mechanic who took them off for me (they were doing an inspection anyway and they offered to take them off and put the new one on. It's not like I can't figure out how to unscrew the plate on my own. What do you think I am? Blonde? Oh... wait...) The Minnesota plates are sitting in my car in the envelope and I want to keep them, but I just can't figure out what to do with them. I like them. They're... Minnesota.

You know what's not Minnesota, that I'm learning to adore? Spring. In Minnesota, spring is just someone winter picks on. It's gray, rainy and puts forth a wimpy effort at almost warm weather before winter bullies in one more time and dumps two feet of snow on your doorstep on May 1st. Here in North Carolina, the winter gracefully retreated at the end of February and by the first week in March, the daffodils were in full bloom. Since then, something new has blossomed every week. Every time I think the flowering season must finally be coming to an end, I see a bright magenta-blossomed bush blazing up against the white-painted bricks of someone's home.

After the daffodils began blooming, the thermometer has only briefly flirted with day temperatures below 60 and has remained in the mid seventies, to low eighties, for weeks now. I've even been able to convince Sir to turn on the air conditioner when the temperature inside the apartment neared 90 degrees last week.

Of course his decision was probably influenced by the great amount of pity anyone who saw me last week swelled with. My entire upper body was covered in a bumpy red rash that was so itchy I toyed with the idea of just gnawing my own arms off and being done with it. I mean, I don't really need arms. I'd still have two legs and I've seen that Dateline or 20/20 (or whatever) where double amputees learn to do things with their feet that normal people do with their hands, like paint. I could gnaw my itchy, itchy arms off and become a world-famous foot painter. Double bonus! But I didn't remove my arms, and they remained covered in a very diseased-looking rash for at least three or four days. It kept many people at bay and those people I didn't feel like talking to, I let them think it was contagious. I may have even coughed a little in their direction. But the rash was not contagious. It turns out I am allergic to Coppertone sunblock. Therefore I have a fun decision to make this summer: sunburn or rash? I'm really not looking forward to the money and time it's going to take to spot-test all of the other sunblocks on the market to see which ones give me the Bubonic Plague Rash and which do not.

My job is going well. That's about all I'm going to say about it, too. I'd rather not get fired for writing about my job/company/coworkers on the internet just yet. Maybe later.

I'm trying my hardest to do something active every day to avoid office-butt and be able to fit into my summer clothes from last year. Well, I've tried to do something active every day except today. Today, Sir and I went out to eat and then walked around Target for almost an hour (which totally counts as exercise, right?) and now I am tired, so instead of exercising, I'm writing this to you. Don't you all feel special?

Sir is trying his hardest to thwart my goal of physical fitness and fitting into my summer clothes again by taking up a new habit. This new habit of his both makes him the most wonderful man in the entire world and the most evil. He has taken up making cake. Not your little picnic cakes or one-layer sheet cakes, but multi-layer, multi-frosting-can cakes. I have recently finished a devil's food cake almost entirely on my own. Devil's food indeed. It's so moist and delicious and fixes my little afternoon chocolate/sugar craving so well! I think Sir realizes that if he continues to make me cake, he has a mate for life. For. Life. People, I like me some M&Ms, but I LOVE CAKE. Cake, as Chandler Bing would say, is perfection. Cake, is my kryptonite.

It also doesn't help that Sir is trying to put on weight. He's trying to beef up, so our freezer is full of ice cream, our fridge is touting cake and full-fat cheese, mayo, and 2% milk, and our cabinet has potato chips.

I have this foggy feeling that I'm fighting a battle I am destined to lose.

I'm also failing at trying to disassociate myself with the southerners, linguistically. I have caught myself saying things like "a good bit," "ya'll," "put that thing up," and I may have, may have let a "sheeeeewwwwwt" (southern-speak for "shoot") slip out the other day. Luckily I'm heading back to my snowy roots in a couple of weeks for a visit and will be able to remind myself how to say things like "don't ya know" and "you betcha." I'll reacquaint myself with all-things Minnesotan like wearing shorts during "spring" (aka, 40-degree) weather, freak May snow-storms and the largest mall in America. Ahhhh.... Minnesota. I kinda miss ya'll.

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#32: Yes, I am a girl. No, you may not be an ass.

Happy Belated St. Patrick's Day everyone! Sadly I was neither drunk on Irish beer nor marching in the St. Patty's Day parade in St. Paul with my fabulous friend Mav and her family on St. Patrick's Day. Those are my two most favorite things to do to celebrate the wee Irish festival but, alas, I worked all day and then went home.

The day was not a total loss though, as now I can tell you all that I have a REAL job! The morning of St. Patrick's Day I accepted a marketing position at a civil engineering firm and it's all salaried and benefit-ed and 401k-ed and everything! I even get a whole hour for lunch! No more of this temp job, with its hourly pay rate and crappy half-hour lunches. (For those of you who didn't know, I have been temping as a graphic designer for the past month and have haaaaaaaaated every minute of it. The majority of the women I work with have made sure of that.) I'll be making better money than I made in Minnesota (not like I'll be rich or anything, but I'll have a nice sum to start a I'd-like-to-get-married-sometime-this-century savings account.) and guess what else? There will be people working under me! Not working for me per se, but there will be people in the marketing department that are lower on the totem pole than I am. Do the Happy Employment Dance with me! "I am not the bottom ru-ung, I'm not the bottom ru-ung!"

I knew I wanted this job the moment I left the interview and realized I had not spoken to one asshole the entire two hours I was there. Hopefully, for you, it is rare to encounter assholes when doing something as stressful as trying to find gainful employment. I, however, have had the unfortunate experience of seeming to find the assholey-ist of asses who are looking for employees. For awhile Sir was actually worried that I would think all southern men were jerks after my experiences.

At my very first interview down here, the CEO popped into the office where the interview was going along just fine without him, grabbed my resume (which he had no knowledge of whatsoever) from the Marketing Director's hands and asked me why I had moved to North Carolina. This interview was before I had come up with a stock answer for that question, so I started with "My fiancé is going to school at..." He immediately interrupted, "Well which one of you wears the pants in the relationship?"

Um... Excuse me?

"I need to know which one of you wears the pants in the family because I don't want to hire someone who is just going to move away after her fiancé finishes his school and he says so."

I had never thought about who "wore the pants" in Sir's and my relationship, but at that moment I was having very clear thoughts of who would be wearing my 3-inch pump. And he wouldn't be wearing it on his foot.

I think I said something along the lines of, "My fiancé and I just relocated here. We like it so far and we're not planning on moving any time soon. In regards to our decision-making abilities, we make our decisions together." Unfortunately I don't think the jackass heard me. He was already puffing out his chest and talking about his own dedication.

I was offered that position. They couldn't pay me enough money.

A week or so later I was on the phone interviewing with another company. That interview was just weird right from the get go. The first thing the president of the company asked me to do was to talk him through my resume. In fact that was exactly how he phrased it, "Talk me through your resume."

"Sure. I participated in two internships during my senior year of college..."

"No, no. Earlier. Where did you grow up? Where did you go to elementary school? Do you have siblings?"

... Seriously? So I told him. Not as much as he wanted to hear. In fact, there were some mighty awkward pauses while he tried to wait me out to see if I would spill more information. Ha. You can't pull that trick on someone who is trained in journalistic interview procedures (a.k.a. how to get someone to tell you something they don't want to)! He wanted to know when and where Sir and I were getting married (dude, when you figure it out can you let me know?), where my favorite vacation spot was, etc. Very, very strange.

Then he started to tell me about himself. He told me that people describe him as "moody" and "hard to work with" and as someone who "doesn't listen." I sat there as he recited a litany of his faults thinking, 'Mr. Guy? A bit of advice, this isn't exactly the way to get people to want to work for you.' Little did I know he had left the best "fault" for last.

"My wife always cringes when I say this," He told me, "but weak women don't do well with me."

Let me type that again for you: Weak women. Don't do well with me.

What. The. Fuck.

I acutally had to write that quote down on my notepad to convince myself that someone would actually say that to another person who is not only female but whom they are looking to hire.

I almost ended the interview right there. I wanted to slam down the phone. I wanted to lecture him on the "art" of talking to people. I wanted to tell him that the fact that his wife hates it when he says things like that might be sign that he, I don't know, shouldn't say them? And as Sir pointed out later, you just can't say, "I'm not a chauvinist" and then follow it with, "but your only assets are your boobs." The "but" negates the assertion. Also, actions speak louder than words. And I love that in his head it's the women who don't do well with him. It couldn't possibly be his fault that women (including his own wife) don't want to be around him.

There were so many things wrong with what he had said that by the time I had started listening to him again, he had completely changed subjects and now wanted me to come to the office and meet people there because he felt that I "really had something" and that I would fit in there. Guess I'm not a "weak woman" then, huh, Bucko? Asshole.

You'd think it'd be over, right? That there is no way I'd set up another interview with this guy? But I was still sort of convinced that maybe I was hearing things because no human could possibly be that asinine for crying out loud, or maybe I was overreacting and he was... joking or something, so I agreed to meet with him the following Tuesday at the office.

"Great! I'll be looking forward to you coming in. We're in the building across from The Hotel. In fact, after you've met people here, I'll take you across the street to The Hotel and we'll some wine."

Whoa. What? That sounds highly inappropriate, but strangely in-line with the way the rest of this interview went but I still don't think that's such a good...

"See you then!" *click*

He mailed me a stack of company brochures a couple of days later containing a note that said:

In addition to the interview I'd like for you to go to The Hotel for
drinks and dinner at 6 PM with me. My wife may attend (she also works for
the company).

Heh. Yeah, your wife may be there until she suddenly comes up with a "prior" commitment and then it just happens to be you and a woman young enough to be your daughter (me) who is anxious to please you so that she can become gainfully employed and maintain her M&M habit, in a hotel, where you will buy her drinks. Please, please, please can I put myself in that situation? Please?

God.

I emailed him that day and told him that I didn't think I was right for the position (or any other position he was considering me for). (ew. EW. I just majorly squicked myself out. eewewewEW! Sorry.)

Do you see how after those interviews I just felt like giving up? And how I could have buried myself under the covers while proclaiming there were no decent, respectable business men anywhere south of Des Moines? But I did not give up. I kept my chin up, my head on straight, my feet pointed forward... my arms... swinging...jauntily... you know. And I got rewarded! Job! No assholes! Whoo! Rock on!

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#31: I'm no Indiana Jones

Everyone wants to know about my big moving to a new place "adventure." Well I'll tell you, it's not that adventurous. I wake up between 10:30 and 11 AM every day. I eat breakfast/lunch. I park myself in front of my computer and browse for jobs (read: play World of Warcraft and shop for shoes). In the late afternoon I move into the living room and watch one of the three TV stations we get because we are poor and do not have cable, often eating M&Ms straight from a one-pound bag. Sometimes, when I'm feeling dangerous, I'll pour myself a glass of grocery-store wine and drink it. In the middle of the afternoon! Because I can drink in the afternoon, for see, I am unemployed. I usually stay put in front of the television until Sir and I get hungry for dinner, at which time I go into the kitchen to boss him around, even though he is a grown man and cooked for himself the whole four months before I got here. Then I go back to my computer. Then I get sleepy. And go to bed. Doesn't the excitement of all that make y'all want to up and move, too?

Currently, I am spicing things up and sitting in front of the computer in the living room. There is bill-paying and college studying going on in the "office" (Sir's second bedroom) and I want no part in either of those things. The laziness has gotten bad, people, so bad that I have not yet put on real pants today. And it is 7:56 PM. I am currently using the excuse that it is a Saturday and even if I was a real-live contributing member of society, I would be spending the day much the same way. The only problem with that validation is that I didn't even realize it was Saturday until a few hours ago.

I really have been looking for work though, I promise. Even I know the M&M eating, middle-of-the-day drinking, pajama pants wearing days cannot continue indefinitely (at least not until I win the lottery) (or enroll in grad school full time). I've had a few nibbles from the workplace, but nothing that has been promising. Currently I am anxiously awaiting the Sunday employment section, which always provides many mind-numbing hours in front of this very laptop, copying and pasting my cover letter and resume into emails to different employers, only to realize on the 15th email that I've spelled something wrong in my cover letter. That I've copied and pasted. To 15 potential employers. Who are looking for someone with excellent copy-editing skills. D'oh.

Other than the no-job/no-money thing, I actually like it here quite well. All but two of the last eight days have been blindingly sunny and in the 50s. The two days that weren't were rainy and cold, but no snow yet! Although the fresh-faced meteorologist on ABC keeps optimistically chirping, "Maybe next week!" I've never seen a news crew so excited about the remote possibility of snow. They all act really disappointed that the snowstorm passing through Tennessee isn't going to hit us. "Oh darn! We are going to be able to get out of our driveways this weekend folks. Sorry!" This seems twisted to me, especially since one of the reasons I moved down here was that I did NOT want to see much snow.

Did you know that weather happens down south? When it rained the other day we "had some weather." Weather is apparently not something that exists all the time down here. You know, something that describes the state of the atmosphere at any given time. Instead, weather is something that happens that causes you not to see the sun anymore. It's an interesting frame of mind. One I can see myself getting behind.

Know what other interesting differences there are? The people here (and I'm talking here, where I live now. I don't presume to blanket the entire south with these observations) have no regard for speed limits. AT ALL. The speed limits are usually 65 or 70 mph on the highways around here, but ya'll, I was driving back from an interview the other day and I merged onto the highway. As one usually does, I sped up to match the speed of the cars going in the slowest, right hand lane into which I was merging. Now as I tell you the rest of this story, keep in mind that cars were still zooming past me in the three left hand lanes. A couple of miles after I merged, I glanced down at my speedometer and I was going 90 MPH. 90! People! I am prone to speed slightly, on occasion, but 30 MILES OVER THE SPEED LIMIT IS NOT NORMAL FOR ME MOM, I SWEAR. This is a daily occurrence on the highway (not me going 90. Other people speeding). At least it is on the days when I make it out of my PJs and away from the M&Ms. And I have not seen one person get pulled over yet. Where are all the highway patrols?

Apparently they are at the DMV. (That was a nice transition wasn't it? I have to pat myself on the back every now and then, because no one else will.) Because when I went to pick up a copy of the NC Drivers Manual, I walked in and was confronted by eight uniformed county patrol people milling about their cubes and all seeming very bored. I assume they were bored anyway, because when I walked in they all jumped from their seats and said, in unison, "How can we help you ma'am?" Now I don't know about your DMVs, but the ones I'm used to are staffed by civil servants who look like crosses between your Sunday school teacher and that crazy woman who stands on the corner telling you to repent and then takes a swig from her schnapps bottle. They are usually not in uniform and usually do not care whether they can help you or not. But these highway patrol people were ready for action. I was actually a little disappointed when there wasn't a high-spirited tussle over who got the honor of pulling a copy of the driver's manual from the desk drawer for me. I would have liked to see that.

Let's see. What other new and interesting things have I encountered? The grocery store has been a place of intrigue for me. They sell instant grits. The grits are stocked near the instant oatmeal and there are so many different flavors! I think I've had grits once in my life and probably thought it was Cream of Wheat at the time. Why would someone want to eat something called "grits" that tastes like Cream of Wheat when they can just have Cream of Wheat and call it a day? I may have to investigate further. The grocery store also sells these little desert cakes called "Moonpies," which Sir claims are the best invention since chocolate milk. I'm pretty happy with my M&Ms right now, but he may convince me to try one yet. The grocery store also sells wine (as I mentioned before), which is dangerous because a) it is cheap, b) the grocery store is within walking distance from our apartment complex and c) the M&Ms are only five rows over. Luckily Sir is good about making me get up in the morning (or afternoon) with him to go for walks and then do weights in the complex's workout room. This is the only reason I do not currently weigh 300 pounds.

So that is my exciting life people. And I do not exaggerate for your entertainment. This is what I've been doing the past nine days. Now my drive down here, that was an adventure. I'll have to tell you about it sometime, but my notes are down in my car and my car is a really far walk from my M&Ms right at this moment. You understand.

P.S. Congrats and Best Wishes to my friends M & T who will soon be boarding a plane for their own real-life adventure to New Zealand where they will be married!

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#30: It's not you, it's me

Minnesota, we need to talk.

My darling state, with your adorable little summers and Twin Cities, we've had a good run, haven't we? Twenty years is a long time, for any relationship. We should be proud we made it this long.

But... (there always is a 'but,' isn't there?) we've been growing apart. I think we both knew it was only a matter of time until your snowy, cold side pushed me over the edge. Now, now, don't cry. I didn't mean that in a bad way! It's really not you. It's me. No, really! Some people love your cold, snowy side. The side that dumps two feet of snow in the driveway and makes driving to the grocery store an arctic expedition. But I've done some serious soul searching and I think I need a little more sunshine in my life. A little less flannel and down and a little more linen and bikinis.

You've taught me so much, Minnesota: how to build snowmen, drive on black ice, how not to merge onto a highway and the importance of keeping a winter survival kit in my car. Now I need new learning opportunities, a chance to grow in new directions, to learn how to cook okra and properly pronounce "ya'll." So I think it's time for us to take a break, Minnesota, and see other states.

Lord knows I'll miss you, even while I bask in the sunny 65-degree days well into February. You've given me so much. Even though I wasn't born here, you opened up your frigid little heart to me. We've got some good memories, you and I, and even weekend trips to the ocean won't make me forget 20 years of white Christmases; annual fall trips to the apple orchard amid consistently beautiful red, gold and orange leaves; the view from 394 eastbound just past highway 100 that makes the Minneapolis skyline look like a cross between Oz and a pocket-sized New York City; and the lakes! Of all your beautiful features, I think I'll miss your lakes most of all, Minnesota. Unlike many of your other residents, I can't claim to have learned to swim on your shores (I think the first pool mom threw me into was in Chicago) but your lakes have always brought peace to my troubled mind, a shiver of excitement on a long weekend with my friends and a feeling of stability in my life. No matter how much I misplaced or lost through my years, your lakes always stayed where I left them.

Of course it's not just the way you look on the surface that I'll miss, Minnesota. You have introduced me to high school and college friends I will never forget. And, of course, I have not forgotten that you were the one who made meeting Sir possible. Unfortunately he just couldn't handle your extreme winters. So really, if you want someone to blame for this fissure in our relationship, blame him. Or yourself, really. You're the one who lured him here with your seductive employment promises. Oh, come on now. Don't act like that! I was only joking!

You must know that you've made a permanent imprint on my soul, Minnesota, (I will never be able to tolerate anyone [even myself!] who complains about the "cold" weather when the mercury sits anywhere above 20 degrees.) and I hope that, somehow, I'm leaving a piece of myself with you. Let's not end this relationship with hard feelings and abandonment issues. Face it, we're still going to see a lot of each other. My friends and family still run in your circles, and try as I might, I just can't believe that I won't be planning my next trip home the moment I shut my car door to leave. You'll always be my home, Minnesota, no matter how many other places I find myself at home at along the way. Yours and mine is a special love/hate relationship that is surely everlasting.

So I guess this really isn't a goodbye, Minnesota, more of a thanks. So... Thanks.

I'll miss you.

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#29: Flexible (adj.): Capable of being bent repeatedly without damage.

I am a quarter of a century, as of December 1st. Ugh. I am O-L-D. Laugh at my infantile repulsion of the aging process if you must, you older friends and family members, but as I get older, just keep in mind that you do, too. Ha! Now come mourn my lost youth with me. It’ll be fun! I’ll make cookies.

Luckily, I have never been one of those people who has a Life Plan. If I were, I would currently be freaking out about how I was going to manage to write a symphony by the time I was 27, finish and publish a novel by 28, and still manage to have my 2.5 children, picket fence and spotted dog before I turned 30. I have enough to worry about right now thank you, what with all the instability of The Stupid Plan, the longing for Sir, the insanity of the logistics of The Move and the boxes (OH MY WORD, THE BOXES!) that have completely taken over my life.

I have no idea how a small, one bedroom apartment filled a five bedroom house with boxes; boxes blocking the hallways, boxes cluttering the basement, boxes spilling out of the bedrooms, garage and living room and completely driving the dog and cat nuts with new smells and things to jump on/off of.

Having completely disrupted my parents’ lives and turning their house into my personal storage space, I have recently had to ask to infringe on their hospitality a little longer. Remember how I talked about The Plan and its constant fluctuation? Well, it has changed. Again. All you Minnesotans have me for one more month! Let the celebrations begin! I’ll be here until the end of January! Of course this sucks because a) Less Sir, b) Because of the deficiency of Sir-ness, increased whining, and c) I love my family, but having to dig through boxes at 5:30 AM just to find clothes and shoes for work is, not matter what you have heard, NOT FUN. (I know some of you are thinking, “Why don’t you just unpack? Or pick your clothes out the night before?” To those of you, I say, “Hush. I’m talking.”) But postponing my move a month is also good because a) I don’t have to go wedding dress shopping by myself now, b) I have a REALLY nice bonus check coming to me, as well as a raise, and c) The 10 inches of snow over the past three days and the continued promise of SUB ZERO weather has further convinced me that Winter is not so much for me. Especially when the daily weather reports from North Carolina via Sir continue to contain such phrases as, “the grass is still green” and “I wore shorts yesterday.”

I kind of want to break up with The Move. It’s been in some sort of “process” for three months now and THE BOXES. I HATE THE BOXES. I just want to be done with it already. But then everyone tells me that it’s always like this when you move; nothing ever goes as planned. So I’ve had to learn to be flexible. Fine. But people I have to admit that learning to be flexible is seriously starting to conflict with my “It’s all about ME” world-view.

Another thing I have had to be flexible about is the freaking wedding planning. God. We just want a simple wedding and there is SO MUCH you have to do. I didn’t even realize. On top of that there’s the ridiculousness that goes into trying to plan a wedding when you only get to talk to your fiancé once a day, over the phone, and are trying to figure out how to appease families and friends from at least half a dozen states. Yes, we are planning. No, you may not ask about it. We’ll let you know when we figure stuff out. In approximately 2008.

Sir is coming to Minnesota for Christmas this year, so hopefully we will get some face-to-face time to talk about the nuptials. (That’s a weird word, “nuptials.” It’s not spelled like it sounds and saying it makes my mouth feel funny, “nuptials.” Don’t mind me, I’ll just be over here amusing myself… “nuptials.”) Of course this will only happen if he has time to talk between chewing. I am cooking up a STORM! I have been hit with an insatiable urge to bake and am in the process of producing cookies, loafs, pies, cookies, desert bars and COOKIES!!! I’m not traveling this year for Christmas, so I get to actually bake all of my favorite deserts and try new ones and I actually have real live people in the house who will eat them!

Because I am paranoid and a perfectionist, I have been doing “test runs” of new recipes that I’ve stolen from other people, just to see if they turn out right, what tweaking they may need and if they pass the Mom and Dad taste test. So far all are good to go. This weekend I’ll be whipping up batches of cookies as holiday treats for my coworkers. There are nine fellow employees I plan to bake for, and I’d like to give them about three cookies of each recipe and I’ve got four recipes, which means… wow… I have to bake nine dozen cookies this weekend. That’s… a lot. Maybe I’ll just give them all Starbucks gift certificates.

I have already promised to try some of Sir’s favorite recipes. He likes weird stuff like, coconut and walnuts. Ew. Nuts are not meant to be in deserts. They are a salty snack that goes well with beer and baseball. But he is going to be with me instead of his parents this Christmas and I want him to feel at home, so I guess that means I have to be flexible.

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#27 The Migration

You know what I hate about Minnesota? How on Monday of last week it was 80 degrees. By Wednesday afternoon, it was 37 degrees. It SNOWED in St. Paul people. We haven't even hit Halloween yet and there are already flurries. I used to think Mother Nature allowed me a few weeks at the beginning of October to enjoy the fall foliage, maybe head out to the apple orchard and see the leaves before I had to dig out my space heater. But if this weather pattern continues she'll have us buried in snow by November first. So I've decided to move.

No, seriously. Sir and I have been talking about doing this since last winter. Both of us are not fond of deadbolting our doors against the - 30 degree wind chill and encroaching snowbanks in October and staying put, wrapped in wool wrapped in down wrapped in electric blankets until May. So we're heading south to Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Sir is leaving in a couple of weeks, and I'll be following either as soon as I find a job or after Christmas, whichever comes first.

That's right, the Yankee girl is migrating south.

I know this comes as a bit of a surprise to some of you as, until recently, Sir and I haven't really discussed it with anyone. It's not because we don't love you; it's because we weren't sure of the where, when and how. And there are few things more annoying than explaining The Plan to someone one week only to have to re-explain it again the next. Because if there's one thing I've learned from this whole process, it's that The Plan is in constant fluctuation.

Why Chapel Hill, North Carolina, you ask? Why I have list explaining just that. Look at how prepared I am! (Can you tell I've had to rationalize this decision to others recently? Several, several others?)

The top 10 reasons why Sir and I chose to move to Chapel Hill, North Carolina:
1) It's warm
2) It's near the mountains and the ocean
3) But not close enough for blizzards or hurricanes
4) It's warm
5) It's southern
6) But not too southern
7) It has a lot of educational opportunities for both of us
8) Many of our family and friends will be within road-tripping distance
9) The average snowfall is 7 inches. All. Winter. Long. Total.
10) Did I mention the WARM?

Maybe it was the heat exhaustion or the giddiness of Getting Out of the Damn Rental Car Already, but I fell in love with Chapel Hill at first sight. Approximately 25 steps from the parking lot, I turned to Sir and said, "I love it. I want to go here. Right here."

The first thing you'll notice about Chapel Hill is the trees, the trees and the, look at that! Trees. You really can't miss them. They surround the rolling hills of the city like a green army, marching into Chapel Hill, roofing the quads and parks surrounding the University of North Carolina. Only the sidewalk can keep the trees back from invading the roads. Still, if you aren't careful, branches will reach out to rudely push you into the street or grab the hat from your head.

Seeming to coexist with the trees is a commercial district catering to Sir and my age group. Unique shops and dozens of family-owned restaurants line Franklin Street and fill the nearby town of Carrboro. If ever you tired of the chain-owned stores, Chapel Hill would be your haven. Small boutiques sell original clothing, jewelry and furniture, while you can eat your way through cuisines from around the world, not to mention two microbreweries and a wine bar. (All three of which I plan on visiting post haste after The Move. Moving is really hard you all. Someone forgot to tell me that when I signed up.) And I'll tell you from experience that the walk from one end of Franklin to the other is a piece of cake. I can do it in my Italian kitten heels without even getting a blister.

The apartment complex where we'll be living is new-ish. The outdoor pool is small, but is surrounded by a big sunning deck and two gas grills, available year-round. There's also a putting green, which really does it for Sir. Me? Not so much. (Unless we play some sort of Ultimate Putt-Putt. Maybe with fire. That would be so cool!) The grocery store and bank are within walking distance and there is a big recreational lake about 5 miles down the road.

The apartments are big with HUGE bathtubs (think, big enough to line with candles!), balconies (where I can grow stuff all year long, because WARM!), central air, and the ability to have a washer and dryer (which I think we're going to put off until we can secure jobs since the complex has laundry facilities anyway). Oh! And arched ceilings! How could I forget the arched ceilings? They are what totally sold me on the apartment. I think I'd live just about anywhere if it had a nice arch.

So all of this is the reason I've been quiet recently. Because I didn't want to have to retell The Plan sixty times in The Column. And because The Move is all I've been thinking about. It's become a third person in my relationship with Sir. "Hi honey, how was your day?" "Fine, fine, but The Move has really screwed up how I was going to do 'X' thing before 'Y' time." "Yeah. The Move can be a bitch like that. I mean, just today The Move was making me want to rip my hair out, it was being so annoying." "Let's ignore it. Maybe it will go away." Which it never, ever does. Rude Move.

As much as I'm excited about everything, it's going to be really hard to leave. I grew up here! A lot of my friends are still here! My FAMILY is here. I wish I could put all of them in my pocket and take them with me (and if any of you discover some sort of shrinking technology before Christmas, let me know). But then, Sir is my family, too. And I get to keep him. Which is particularly advantageous for my heart and my sanity because I could not do this without him.

For a part of me, Minnesota will always be home. And as long as they let me, I'll be coming back lots to visit. But getting to start over in a new place is exciting and The Move is calling. And I'll be damned if it doesn't keep hanging up when I answer. (I don't know what it means either, but it sounded like a good way to end this entry.)

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#17: 10 things I learned on my vacation "Down South"

1. Flying with Sir is sooo much better than flying by myself.

I'm the type of person who will freak out if I think the plane makes a funny noise, dips a little or does anything besides what I deem "normal." Sir was very good at preventing me from flying into a screaming, flailing, maniacal fit when the landing gear was deployed.

2. Riding around in a 1966 Candy Apple Red Mustang makes me at least 10% hotter.

Damn, I looked good in that car. (And so did Sir.)

3. Mama Sir suuuuuure can cook.

We were constantly eating at her house. It sort of reminded me of my grandmother's house where you say "Naw, I'm not hungry right now" and a plate appeared at your elbow. Except that Mama Sir is much, much too young and good-looking to have grandchildren. She kindly shared some of her recipes with me and I'm looking forward to trying some of them out. (I can hear Sir salivating as he reads this.)

4. 1,000% humidity can literally steal the breath from your lungs.

It can also take a surprisingly well-behaved head of superbly manicured hair and turn it into a big ol' ball of fluff. In 0.23 seconds.

5. Catfish is surprisingly tasty.

Huh. Who'd've thunk it?

6. Sweet Tea is really, really, really sweet.

It's just like ice tea only plus 20 lbs of refined sugar. Good for that extra "Whoo!" feeling. You get your caffeine and your week's allotment of sugar all in one cup!

7. Terms of endearment are... endearing.

I was called "sweetie," "cutie," "darling," "baby" and "honey" everywhere I went. Cashiers, Sir's friends, his mom, everyone had a pet name for me. It's much nicer to have someone refer to you as "Cutie" rather than "Hey you!" when they didn't know your name. It also made me much more likely to want to do things for them.

Wait...


8. When you're a girl, doors in the south magically open for you.

Mama Sir actually yelled at me when I tried to open the car door myself. At first I was very feministic about the whole situation. "I can open my own doors. I am an independent, strong woman who can do anything I want, thank you." But can I tell you a secret? It kind of grew on me. I am now spoiled forever and will expect all future doors to open without me having to lift a finger.

9. Southern boys sure do dress strange.

I noticed this most at the dance club. The girls were dressed the same way any girl going out to a night club would dress. But the guys... they wore everything from polo shirts with the collars flipped up (Hello 1985!) to cowboy hats and boots. The most interesting outfit I saw was overalls with no shirt underneath. I would just like to take this moment to say, "No."

10. It does, in fact, take 15 Mississippi State graduates to grill burgers and brats.

I'm telling you, the sight of 15 grown men hovering around one tiny little grill is hilarious. As soon as we arrived at Sir's friend's house all of the men seemed magnetically drawn to a 1 foot radius around the grill, where they each offered advice regarding the best way to cook meat. I choose a chair out of the way and just laughed. Boys are such suckers for anything involving fire, food and/or mechanical components.

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