Actually, that happens every day. I'm a salesman; I talk all day long, five (or more) days a week.
But it's not like I don't have anything to say. I actually have a lot to say - I've just been keeping most of it in my little head. Anyway...
Since I last wrote on this little page:
I have kicked some serious ass in my work - until the past month when closing the business has been more difficult than I expected. I've also been to Atlanta, Miami, Los Angeles, Houston, and DC. All in the past month.
Oh, AND I went to New Orleans with my friends Pam, Ellie, and Sarah. And April and Rachel. And new friends Helen Jane and Mir and Christine. And was photographed by Karen.
We decided to buy a new house, and we'll be moving in this Saturday. We are very excited. And also nervous. And excited.
Also, OH MY GOD, everything always happens all at once!
I'll be very happy to see May 1st.
Life has been slightly turbulent for the past month here at Chez Knighton, and it looks to continue for another three weeks or so. Mainly because I've resigned my position at my current fruit-flavored employer and will transition to another company on August 9th.
To add to the adventure of changing jobs, I'll be traveling to New York next week for BlogHer. Then taking the train from NYC to Boston to meet a new colleague and attend a few meetings, and later in the week flying home to entertain my parents for a few days, just before flying out to Virginia for an entire week of training at the headquarters. August is booked solid.
And while this looks like a lot, and actually is a lot, I'm more excited about work and this new adventure than I've been in a long time. I can hardly wait to get started.
But first, I must plan my wardrobe and shoes!
Last weekend, Husband and I went on a drive through a couple new neighborhoods. We do this from time to time, peaking in on new construction, visiting open houses, and generally dreaming.
Anyway, we stopped at this one place where the builder's cleaning crew was putting the final touches on a brand new house, so we asked if we could look around and they said that would be fine. So, we helped ourselves to a tour of a really lovely place that we could imagine living in.
But, just about the minute I fell in love with the master bathroom, we heard voices in the other part of the house. We walked into the living room to discover another couple there, and we assumed* they were also getting a tour.
Not quite so fast.
Turns out, they're the new owners, having just had this lovely house built and soon to move in. And, as it also turns out, we were officially trespassing. But what really got the lady-of-the-house's goat was the fact that we had parked in her new driveway. She was totally hung up on the fact that "not even they drove in the driveway."
Let's just pause here and consider that statement. Um, isn't the purpose of a driveway to handle parked cars? No? It's just me, then?
So, we made our apologies and got the heck out of her new house, making a new line of tire tracks on her no-longer-virginal driveway. And leaving them with a story to tell for the rest of their lives.
*We all know the definition of assume.
Remember that episode of Seinfeld, where Jerry, Elaine, and George are waiting for a table at the chinese restaurant? Remember how Jerry dares Elaine to eat something from the plate of a stranger. "Don't say anything. Just pick up the egg roll, eat it, and walk away." Remember that?
*Pause. It's kinda sad that I'm taking life lessons from a TV show, but there it is.
Anyway, Jerry tells Elaine that these people will never see you again and that she'd be giving them a story they can tell for the rest of their lives. So, I'm trying to do a little bit of that. To be more daring, to take a few risks. To stop caring so much what total strangers will think of me.
Which is why I walked up to a stranger at a concert a couple weeks ago and rubbed my hands along his extra-tall, super-spiky, purple-died mohawk. Twice. On two separate occasions, in different sections of the arena.
Because I wanted to know what that felt like. And that super polite young man? He'll have a story to tell for the rest of his life.
*Note: at the same concert, we photo-bombed a group shot, and later yelled "Shazam" at a guy in a Shazam t-shirt. He had no idea what the lightning bolt on his red T meant! Kids these days. But, at least we gave them a couple stories.
Dusk.
Neighbor's garage door wide open.
Music blaring.
Elderly neighbor in his garage.
All alone.
Doing the robot.
To Funky Town.
I'm growing a couple butterflies. Step one: feed the larvae copious amounts of parsley. (Warning! Do not pet the butterfly larvae. They will rear their heads and show you their scary orange horns. But don't worry, they're not carnivorous, instead preferring your parsley to your hand.)
First set of allergy shots completed. And the Husband formerly known as Handsome surprised me with dinner on the grill and a big glass of wine, just for being brave.
me. brave.
That's a hard thought to comprehend. Because I'm not brave. I'm afraid of the worst-case-scenario, and having been there, I know it is a very real possibility.
The memory of that incident induced stomach-churning, heart-racing anxiety that grew to nearly debilitating as the moment of truth approached. In the afternoon, I drove to the clinic and submitted to four sets of shots, two in each arm, over the course of several hours. I came equipped with books, iPod, water, Diet Coke, power bar, and anything else I could think of to keep my mind off The Big Scary Thing.
And it worked. I got those shots and had no allergic reaction to them. And the fear and anxiety abated, at least for a little while. Hopefully, forever. Because I get to do this all again tomorrow.
Update: So, check out the alternate version of this shot, below. The first image, above, used the Holga effect from the CameraBag iPhone App. The one below, adds TiltShift Generator effects. Wow, what a difference! Yay for new toys!
Also, I'm still experimenting with photography and photo effects using my iPhone. Look for more to come.
Before I tell you the story suggested by the title, I have to tell you a different story. (This is, of course, a Southern thing. Telling a story that requires previous information, so you get two stories for the price of one really long one.) Anyway . . .
A little over a decade ago, Handsome and I bought our house. And within a month or so, we adopted two kittens from the local animal shelter. We had only intended to adopt one, but these two were hidden away in quarantine, cuddled together, shivering. They had never adapted to human touch, and were practically feral. Well, there was no way to take the one and leave the other lonely and cold. We took them both. (Also, I have SUCKER tattooed on my forehead.)
They hid under our bed for the next six months.
Well, they finally realized we weren't so bad for humans and that the food was acceptable; they would keep us. They came out to play. Racer, the brother, was gregarious, mischievous, and affectionate. Trixie, the sister, was timid, quiet, and sweet. They were polar opposites and perfect companions.
About a year after bring them home, they were playing out in our back yard - the sum total of their not-so-large territory. That evening, when I called them in, Racer never showed. We haven't seen him since, though we searched and searched and searched. Hopefully he found another loving home with a couple of kids that love him. Hopefully.
Our hearts were broken; we grieved that cat for years. Sometimes still do. Always turn our heads when a black cat walks by. Just in case.
Now I told you that story to tell you this one:
This weekend, Trixie was meandering in the back yard while we fired up the grill. She's still timid and never strays far; she comes when she's called and meows at the back door if we're not paying sufficient attention. At some point in the back-and-forth between the kitchen and the grill, we lost sight of her. This happens regularly and is no big surprise. She's usually around the corner of the house investigating the AC unit.
But not this time.
We searched high and low, inside and out. No cat. We called and called. No cat. Handsome walked the block searching for her. I climbed a ladder to peer into our neighbors' yards. No cat. And that's when the panic set in.
I tried to keep my cool. But inside, I was screaming. Not another one; my little heart won't survive losing both of them.
To console ourselves, we reminded each other that she's wearing a collar. Our neighbors are kind. We'll get a phone call. Eventually. For the moment, we ate that precious grilled meal.
And then . . . two hours later, we hear her cry at the back door. I grabbed her up, held her to my heart. And finally lost it. Crying into her soft fur, muttering "stupid stupid cat. You are grounded forever, you dumb animal."
That was Saturday.
She has been more quiet and subdued than any time in her life. I doubt her little cat brain comprehends the anxiety we suffered at her temporary disappearance; but she's behaving as though she does.
We think it's just a ploy to sweet-talk her way out the back door again. She's probably got a secret boyfriend.
At least she's spayed.
Bikes are a lot of fun. A LOT OF FUN!
Until you fall off and scrape your knee. And bruise your hip and shoulder. Not so much fun.
Life lesson: When you fall down, get back up and ride. Because you'll look like a loser walking your bike home. But you'll look cool if you climb back on and keep going. Especially if you're smiling and laughing. Then the world thinks you're adventurous and fun-loving, instead of a total spaz.
Update: I only THOUGHT my pride was more injured than my body. But do you know what? My entire right side feels like it has been punched by the pavement and then mocked for being so fragile. Anyway, I'm not smiling and laughing so much as whining and cringing. Yay me.
Handsome bought me a bike. A shiny, bright blue cruiser with chrome fenders and whitewall tires.
So we took our bikes on a midnight ride around the neighborhood. And the stars were all shining and the air was crisp and clear. He is my hero.
Hurray Handsome!
1. drywall anchors are important and necessary
2. gardening tools are both heavier and sharper than you thought
3. no one will hear you scream because the garage door is closed
4. your pride doesn't really suffer (much) if no one sees it happen
5. grass clippings, dirt, dead leaves, and miscellaneous garden detritus accumulate in the little gap between the garage door and the wall
6. so do spiders
7. you should clean out the garage more often
8. and use drywall anchors
For Christmas, Handsome gave me a set of Peugeot U'Select variable salt and pepper grinders. Kinda like these. They have six (!) settings, ranging from super-fine to extra-course.
And just let me say that I have used these every single meal. And sometimes I lose myself in the smooth grinding action and smother our food in way too much seasoning. Though I think my husband kinda likes that part. The seasoning part, people! Come on!
Well, ok. You're right. I LOVE the smooth grinding action, the way the pepper or salt meets my exacting demands of size and consistency. Cooking in my kitchen will never be the same.
Presently, two dozen maturing Live Oaks are liberally dropping their bounty upon the driveways and sidewalks of this suburban neighborhood, much to the ecstatic, apoplectic joy of the squirrel families who inhabit our backyards. The sheer abundance of food and ease of collection sets their tails a-twitch.
Makes one wish human happiness was as easy to achieve.
It's official: I am allergic to Central Texas. To ALL the trees, ALL the grasses, ALL the molds, and BOTH cats AND dogs. Every single thing they test for. EVERY. SINGLE. THING. It is any wonder I suffer year-round?
Wanna see a picture? Sure you do! At least I want to share it with you because if I got nothing else out of the experience, it's the opportunity to prove what I've been whining about. Caution: partial dorsal nudity ahead.
That was at eight o'clock this morning. And it STILL hurts. And sucks, actually.
The upside to all this allergy testing and prick tests and pain is that I have a perfect excuse for moving to the beach . . .
It's for my health.
. . . they each put on a Santa hat . . .
. . . and walk out.
For the past year or so, we've been suffering an increasingly debilitating case of atrophy. Or, well, our car has. Our hatchback, to be specific. The StrongArms have been slowly losing their strength, resulting in quite a bit of frustration and hilarity.
At the supermarket: Use one arm to prop open the hatch, while using the other to load groceries into the back of the car. You can't actually do that if you're loading large items, say like a case of water. So you let go and move really really quickly to grab the case of water with both hands, while the hatchback thinks about collapsing. You turn around, you reach inside the car, the hatchback bonks you on the head. And laughs.
See? I'm getting frustrated (and bruised.) And the hatchback thinks it's funny.
So. We talked to our mechanic about it, and they want to charge us a couple hundred bucks to replace two hatch lifts. We come home and consult Dr. Google, who tells us we can buy two new StrongArms for under $40 total, plus we'll need an extra special $5 screwdriver with a star-shaped screw head. (This is where that math degree comes in handy.) $200 versus $45. Easy to see who wins this match-up.
We order the lifts and super-special screwdriver. And this past Tuesday night, we did it ourselves. Let me tell you about that.
We pop the hatch, and I'm given the enviable job of holding up the back while Handsome handles the tough stuff, like unscrewing a couple odd-shaped screws. Anyway, I'm standing there, gently holding up the back, when he finally wrenches the screw free from the body. And that's when then the full weight of our hatchback fell on my back. Arms straining, sweat pouring, back muscles crying in pain.
Do you know how heavy a hatchback is? Friggin' heavy, people! Heavy like there's a reason we call them StrongArms. Because they've gotta be. They're even gas charged, says so on the label. I am not gas charged; I am weak. I am not powerful enough to hold up a giant chunk of metal, over my head, without moving lest I crush my husbands skull.
And you do know what happened next? Well. We may be weak, but we're not stupid. And by "we," I mean "I." I grabbed a rake and used it to help prop open a giant piece of my car. So me and the rake, we're holding up the car while Handsome reads the instructions to figure out how to install the new StrongArms.
We'll pause just a moment while you read that last line again.
Anyway, after a few minutes, he finally gets all the bits and pieces arranged in the proper configuration and attaches the first shiny, new hatch lift. And lo, the weight was lifted and I was free, or almost free. Because you know what? It takes BOTH lifts to hold that sucker up, and the crushing weight returned the moment he got the second dead StrongArm free. But this time, we've got a system, and it works because in less than a quarter of the time it took to install the first one, the job is done!
And then we spent the next half-hour opening and closing the hatchback for the sheer pleasure of seeing a hatch hold itself up. (Sorta like the first time your toddler figured out how to flush the toilet.)
It was a Christmas miracle!
