Lately I’ve had a LOT of home reserve. Which means I am on call at home. Where they haven’t been calling me. So I was doing a lot of cleaning. I really hate cleaning my shower, though, so that  kind of fell off the radar. BUT HOO BOY YOU COULD EAT OFF MY FLOORS.

At first it felt really gratifying to be on top of the house work (mostly) and to be able to sleep in every day and not have to find a new neighborhood kid to take Arlo out midday because the old one moved to California at the end of July.

Now, after a good six weeks of being mostly at home all the time, being home most of the time is losing its charm. Cleaning house isn’t enough and going shopping just to get out of the house while virtually everyone I know is at work is rather detrimental to the ol’ bank account. Also Zack told me I need to stop doing that (I may or may not be one all-natural food item away from opening an in-home Whole Foods).

Cleaning is starting to fall by the wayside again because I just can’t bring myself to wash ANOTHER round of dishes that I’ll just have to wash ALL OVER AGAIN  after dinner. “Sleeping in” is slowly becoming “spending half the day in bed reading and Internet-ing” because why not? And every-other-day showers are totally in this summer. I have organizing and settling in projects I could work on but more and more my attitude is “Eh, no thanks” for no particular reason other than because I can put it off, knowing I’ll probably be able to do it tomorrow. (Spoiler alert: It never gets done tomorrow) (And not because I am called in to work)

I am rather prone to having Those Days – you know, the ones where it’s hard to motivate, hard to reach out to people, and you feel sort of down and antisocial and crabby and ICK. Will having a baby make me feel more purposeful at home? Or just more isolated? I’m hoping I just feel really, desperately lucky to be able to stay at home and that I’ll be in love with being with my kid all the time.

Because regardless of what I decide to do, I AM lucky to have the choice that so many mothers can’t afford to make.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – I think the best mother I can be for my children is to be a happy mother. I want to set an example that it’s good to be well-rounded and fulfilled and it’s important to be honest with ourselves, especially as women, about what’s going to accomplish that for us as individuals.

So I’m giving myself permission to have a job if I want one or not if I don’t. Maybe I’ll work part-time, maybe full-time, or maybe I’ll give the working world the finger and not think about having a job until my kiddos are in school. It’s not really something I can decide before I have a baby and know how it feels to be home with one every day, but it helps to think about it now and begin to weigh the pros and cons.

You see, I had this eye thing. I woke up last Wednesday at my mom’s and it felt like someone had stabbed me in the eye with a fork, but my eye looked totally normal. My mom convinced me to go to acute care around noon, when it felt like I’d been stabbed with a fork, then splashed in the face with salt water and punched, all at the same time. Which was exactly as pleasant as it sounds.

The doctor said he was worried about my vision, which was cloudy in the left [forked-sprayed-punched] eye, so he sent me to a specialist, who couldn’t find anything wrong with my eye except some inflammation after many, many tests.* The fancypants specialist also couldn’t seem to understand the fact that I am an adult and he should address information about my medical condition to ME, not my mother who was present as my mode of transportation and supplier of family history (lots of eye issues in the ol’ family tree, big-worded ones that I would never remember). My mom had a pretty rockin’ game face, though, while I was shooting her absurd looks and gesticulating wildly as the doctor continued to discuss the application of prescription eye drops and the fact that I really should probably get some damn glasses with his back fully turned to me.

All of this to say that the good doctors conferred and decided I should be grounded from flight for three days, lest my eye problems worsen while I’m on a plane giving a safety demo – or serving cocktails, whatever – rendering me unable to get to an ophthamologist in a timely manner.

Coinciding with these three glorious surprise days off, in which I felt only the occasional twinge of eye discomfort, were three previous days, which I spent at my mom’s doing wedding things with this lady and hanging out with this guy:

Squishy face!

Then I spent three days at home getting stuff done and getting a kick out of hanging out with my own silly animals.

Sitting on the back of the couch, cat-style, to maintain lookout duties

Accidentally launched herself over the railing and onto the beam in the living room. Approx. .03 seconds before PANIC! set in.

I had one day of airport reserve (one twelve-hour sit? PSH!) in two weeks, on Sunday. And unless Christ was rising to 32,000 feet I was unable to partake of the Easter festivities this year, which were sadly lacking in Cadbury eggs. Then it was my regularly scheduled days off again!

Now, I hesitate to even bring this up, because it kiiiiind of feels like I am going to jinx it and I yell at Zack if he so much as breathes the words “crew scheduling” in my general direction, but I’ve had a lot of home reserve lately. Which is exactly what it sounds like: you sit at home, on call, and if they need you to fly they call and if they don’t it’s like a day off. Only where you can’t drink at all because you’re on call from 6AM until 10PM.

I was supposed to sit 12-hour airport reserve shifts today, tomorrow, and Saturday. At 6:42AM scheduling called to change things around, which is almost never good news. Usually it means they have a trip for you, which is good if it’s not a long one, or they are adding to your schedule and trying to work you to death.

Almost never is it to give you a break.

But today! Today the clouds parted and a light shone down from the heavens and God said “Since you didn’t get those Cadbury eggs you wanted, Austin, how about a little less airport reserve?” And I was given evening reserve tonight, which is a shorter shift, and home reserve the next two days.

Which could totally become a long-ass trip or airport reserve every day, because crew scheduling owns my ass and can do whatever they want with me forever and ever, amen.

EDITED TO ADD: I am totally sitting airport reserve today, you guys.

*Side note: Wearing sunglasses around the grocery store for ten minutes while you struggle to decide which desserts to buy for family dinner, then deciding that your dilated eyes aren’t THAT noticeable and you probably look like a douchebag wearing sunglasses indoors and take them off, only to have the woman at the bakery counter stare oddly at you when you ask for JUST ONE CUPCAKE, YOU ONLY NEED ONE (for your three year old niece, you are such a good auntie) might possibly make you look like a semi-deranged stoner. Did I mention The Day of Eye Weirdness was 4/20?

I cannot stop thinking about how purple my crotch is going to be.

Also, I have not been on a bike in oh, about 10 years. Maybe more. I do not own a bike or a helmet or padded shorts that make you look like you’re wearing a diaper and walk like someone just jammed an orange traffic cone up your butt.

You wanna put that WHERE?!

I borrowed a bike from Zack’s aunt. It is a really nice bike, I’m told (not that I would know the difference, but it somehow makes me feel better to know that other people say it’s good). It comes with these swanky shoes that you clip into the pedals and I’m already having daytime nightmares (daymares?) about slowing down and not being able to unclip fast enough and falling sideways when I can’t get my foot undone, taking out everyone around me who just wanted to RIDE A RACE FOR CHARITY FOR CHRISSAKES and I’m the asshole who just broke everyone within a twenty foot radius of my clumsy ass.

I also wonder about the chafing. I mean, I am no twig. I have thighs that rub together and big boobs and while I’ve heard about the chafing that happens with runners, I am unclear about the extent of the biker chafing issues. Do I need some sort of anti-chafe product? Will spandex shorts be enough protection? (OMFG I am going to wear SPANDEX in PUBLIC)

Holy balls. Somebody hold me.

Another issue I’m trying to work around here is that I am only home like…two to three days a week. The rest of the time I’m sitting airport reserve and gone 15 hours a day or I’m on a trip, and believe me when I say that a bike doesn’t work as a carry-on item. This leaves precious little time to train, which I’m told is not really THAT big a deal, except I can’t imagine how that is even remotely true.

Luckily there’s a sag wagon, which is a bus that follows the riders and picks up anyone in distress or anyone who just needs to rest for a little while. In the most ambitious part of my little in-denial heart I like to think that I won’t need to use the sag wagon, but the realist in me knows that I should probably bring my own cooler and some pillows because I will likely take up residence there for the majority of the ride.

***

Part I: LET’S TOTALLY PROCREATE

It’s no secret to anyone who’s talked to me for five minutes in the last two years that I’ve had serious Baby Fever. All I could think about was having a baby and being a mom, but with Zack in school and our life being in a constant state of transition and near-poverty, having a baby seemed a tad irresponsible.

In August we were sort of jolted by events that I am not at liberty to share here to start seriously considering the possibility of getting me knocked up. And we decided to go for it. I chucked my pill pack and we spent September doing it like bunnies (sorry Mom!) and I peed on some ridiculous number of sticks for no reason because I was not pregnant.

Part II: GAAAAH PHBBBBBTNEVERMIND!!!1!

It turns out I am kind of a lunatic. Also indecisive.

While we were trying to conceive our precious snowflake offspring I lived as if I was already pregnant: no booze, vitamins every day, no booze, no artificial sweeteners, balanced and healthy meals, moderate exercise and OH HAI, DID I MENTION NO BOOZE?

I realized during this time that I am not ready to give up my whole life to a child, no matter how awesome it would be to have one. If I turned up pregnant tomorrow I would be over the freaking moon, but if I am making a conscious choice, I want to take some time, while neither of us are in school and we have a little extra money to play with, to have fun. I want to be able to go out with our friends and not have to worry about being home in time to relieve the sitter. I want to travel and buy a house and not feel like we are rushing into something and giving up time that we can never get back.

Kids are awesome and I definitely want a couple in the not-too-distant future. Zack is on board with this plan. It just took the real life possibility of being pregnant for me to be able to ‘fess up to myself that I am not quite as ready as I thought.

Part III: SCHOOL’S OUT FOREVER!

Somewhere around mid-Octoberish, I decided that as much as I love kids, I don’t want to work with them full-time anymore. And I certainly don’t want to work with them while I have my own small children at home. Mommy will need a fucking mental break, kids. Now where’s my martini?

I realized that the longer I stayed at my job teaching preschool, the more likely it was that I’d only be qualified to teach preschool. I looked into grad school for teaching older kids, but I am extremely protective of my time off and I know that as a teacher of any age group, your free time is often sacrificed to grading and lesson planning. That’s on top of whatever extracurricular activities you head up. Thus teaching in general didn’t make the cut for my long-term career goals, much as I could have enjoyed many aspects of it (and continue to admire those who choose it as a career).

While all this was happening Zack’s aunt, who’s a flight attendant for a small regional carrier and knew I was looking to make a change, encouraged me to attend an open house in November, which I somewhat reluctantly did. By the end of the open house I had an offer to attend the three-and-a-half week training in Memphis to become a flight attendant, a job that had never been on my radar as even a potential possibility.

The next day I gave notice at the preschool, despite feeling like I was probably definitely going to hate this.

PART IV: TURBULENCE

Training was sort of the emotional equivalent of chewing on rusty nails.

Nothing pisses me off like people dicking around and being unorganized when they expect the utmost level of punctuality and organization from me. Add to the mix a couple of classmates who had no idea how to be students or take tests and I was pretty much one giant ragey beast for the first week. I also spent a ton of time crying on the phone to Zack and devoted an impressive amount of mental energy to wishing I was home. Secretly, I didn’t think I was going to make it.

Sometime around the halfway mark three things happened: I gave myself a mental bitch slap and decided I was going to give the job a chance, I became closer with a woman from my class who’d wanted to be a flight attendant her whole life, and I made friends with the pilot class who was in training down the hall. Getting my own attitude in check happened mostly as a result of meeting people who have a serious love of the airline industry and a passion for their jobs.

I finished training, had a blaaaaast learning to salsa dance in downtown Memphis, and made it home just in time for Christmas.

Part V: NO ONE IS MORE SURPRISED THAN I AM, BELIEVE YOU ME.

Before becoming one (and even during training, a bit) I had perhaps not-so-secretly considered flight attendants to be nothing more than waitresses in the air. I was faintly disdainful and a little nervous about telling people what I was off in Memphis training for. I was even more nervous about what people might think when they found out that *I* was a flight attendant.

The thing most people don’t realize is that while flight attendants are there to make your trip more comfortable, mostly we are there to save your ass in the event of an emergency. By and large my training focused on being prepared to command an evacuation of the aircraft and what to do in the event that someone has a medical emergency in flight, not to mention all the FAA regulations we are required to know and follow for safety purposes. Did I mention that on the particular planes that I fly, I am the only flight attendant? I left training with a new respect for flight attendants and a new pride in what I’d spent an enormous amount of time and energy accomplishing

So far I’m loving the job. Mostly I sit on call at the airport and read, watch movies, sleep, or wander. I chat with pilots and other flight attendants and everyone is welcoming and friendly. When we fly it’s almost always with a different crew so everyone seems to have this wonderful ability to get comfortable with new people quickly. I haven’t had anything too dramatic happen with passengers but I’m sure my time will come.

I’m being stretched and challenged in ways that are really good for me, I think. I’m learning to be more flexible and how to be okay being away from home and away from Zack sometimes. I’m becoming more emotionally independent and that’s something I was looking forward to working on. Can we also discuss the FREE TRAVEL BENEFITS that Zack and I now get?! Because those are a-fucking-mazing.

Zack is in his third week at the law firm now, speaking of new jobs. We can hardly believe it; he’s been looking toward this since the beginning of our relationship, almost five years now! So far he has a lot of work and it’s interesting and he likes it. His hours aren’t as treacherous as we feared but that could change depending on his caseload.

On the job front, we are 2 for 2 at the moment and we feel very, very blessed.

PART VI: OH MY HELL, WE ARE INVESTING IN REAL ESTATE, TOO

Oh my God, you guys. There is a level of crazy up in here that is likely toxic. On top of both of us starting new careers, we decided to go ahead and buy a house. On the Mississippi River. Like, a mile down the road from Zack’s parents. Because we are crazy.

We signed up to receive emails about listings in a particular area on the river and have been watching that market for about two years now. In early September this little gem appeared on the list, but waaaay out of any price range that would be doable for us, probably ever. And then we proceeded to watch that price free fall over the next three months until it was listed at a price that we could realistically consider. We attended an open house and fell hard. It is THE DREAM FOREVER HOUSE. It has everything we both want in a home, right down to my silly wish of having exposed brick in the kitchen. THIS HOUSE HAS AN ENTIRE BRICK WALL IN THE KITCHEN. It needs some updating but we could honestly live in this house for the rest of our lives.

We close February 4th.

***

As you can see, the stress levels are pretty much through the roof around here lately. It’s good stress but still. STRESS!!!!! We are so busy with our jobs and trying to find time to pack and worrying about mortgages and schedules and OH, RIGHT, PROBABLY WANTED DINNER TONIGHT, HUH? We are holding on for dear life and telling ourselves that it’ll all be worth it in the end.

And it will be.

The thing is, though, we need to talk. About the snow.

First glimpse of snow, 2010. *SOB*

I never thought I’d settle as an adult in a place where snow happens so early or so much. I pictured myself in California or maybe somewhere in the south-but-not-too-southern part of the country, where it gets cold enough to warrant long sleeves and jeans – because I look great in a good pair of jeans – but doesn’t really snow. Or at the very least, snows so seldom that everything shuts down when the weather even threatens it. Because why bother unless we’re getting something out of it, like a surprise day off work? But here everyone is ready for snow beginning in September and we never get a day off for bad weather.

I don’t like snowmen or snow angels. I like hot toddies in August just as much as I like them in January. Or November, as the case may be. I am perfectly happy ice skating indoors and visiting Colorado to ski (not that I ice skate or ski, but you know, IN THEORY).

His nose? Is a baseball bat, y’all.

You can imagine my horror when, while preparing to head home from Chicago on Sunday, Zack mentioned we should hit the road early so we would miss the snow.

I am still mentally preparing to wear a fucking COAT, Minnesota. I am not at all ready for blizzards and power outages and digging my car out in the mornings, not to mention the jumping up and down to keep blood flowing while Arlo looks for a shallow spot to take a dump.

Psh, I thought we were cool like that, Minnesota. I thought you understood me.

I was so depressed I couldn’t to do my hair or put on makeup. Nor did I remember to take a decent photo of myself.

I had to buy a SNOW SHOVEL yesterday. You know, because I will be NEEDING TO DIG MY WAY OUT OF MY HOUSE AT SOME NOT-TOO-DISTANT POINT. Which is so two thousand and late. For some reason our new neighbors downstairs enjoy spoiling the hell out of us when it comes to yard work and had cleared our sidewalk and porch by the time we arrived home yesterday. Point for you, Minnesota, with your Minnesota nice. Now I have to think of something nice to do for them, like buy them a bottle of wine or give them a lap dance. Shit. I don’t have a fancy enough bra for lap dancing. I hope they like wine or maybe the heartfelt gift of not letting my dog drop his enormous bone on our hardwood floors 87,000 times a day.

The good news is I think we can work this out. You give a little, I’ll give a little. We’ll compromise. You try to keep the snow to a minimum number of downfalls and I’ll agree to be okay with the few times it does snow being epic, school-and-work-closing events. It’s win-win, right?

Also, if you could work something out where it snows on mornings when Zack has to wake up first, that would be totally awesome. I mean, I’m just sayin’.

Very sincerely wishing I didn’t have to be yours for the next five months or so,

Austin

Also, I was given a stern talking to about how The Company Will Find You On The Internet And It Won’t Be Good when I was hired at my job so I’ve struggled with what is acceptable to write here and what I should maybe keep my fat mouth shut about. Which has, I’m sure all three of you have noticed, resulted in a prolonged silence. All this to say, I’m sorry I’ve been absent here and I’m trying to do better, but it may take some baby steps to get back into things.

Let’s face it: there’s nothing like hearing you have a tilted cervix to remind you of the blog post you so desperately need to write. Because what self-respecting blogger doesn’t immediately post such news?

I went to the doctor for a routine physical and TB test (required for work) and apparently there was some miscommunication as to what my visit was about. I walked in and  noticed the speculum (multiple sizes for your vaginal convenience!) and jelly and that brushy-thing and was immediately suspicious. Sure enough, they had me down for the wrong appointment which, you know, not impressing me here, new doctor. But the doc offered to do the exam in addition to my physical and since I was pretty much due for one and I was already there and it’s not like I already have a gynecologist in Minneapolis, I said why not.

Doctor begins the exam.

Austin: (huh, that kinda hu-) OUCH!

Doctor: Oh, does that hurt?

Austin: Yeah, it usually doesn’t hurt but that really pinches.

Doctor: Let’s try the smaller speculum.

Austin: YOW! That is…really uncomfortable.

Doctor: (Looking confused) I am not sure why this is so painful. Have you had intercourse in the last 24 hours?

Austin: (BLUSHING FUUUUURIOUSLY) Uh, ah, well…you know… maybe kinda?

Doctor: Sometimes intercourse can make everything more sensitive down there. Do you want to stop and do this another time?

Austin: Actually, you know, just go for it. I mean, we’ve already started and I’m here, so I think it’ll just be good to get it over with.

Doctor roots around down there for another couple of minutes while I cringe and try not to fling myself off the table.

Doctor: Actually, did you know your cervix is tilted today? Sometimes that happens. I won’t be able to finish the exam today after all.

Austin: Stunned, disbelieving silence. Also lots of soreness.

I think it goes without saying that I will not be returning to that quack. She was very nice, but omg. And OF COURSE I DIDN’T KNOW IT WAS TILTED. It’s not like I keep a mirror on hand to track my cervical changes.

I found out later that while yes, sometimes a woman’s cervix can tilt depending on where she is in her cycle, there are women whose cervixes are permanently tilted (I know one!) and they are still able to get routine pap smears (she told me so!).

It seems that my first medical experience in Minneapolis was kind of fucked up. Or sideways. Just not 24 hours before a pap smear, ladies, okay?

Even our dogs are pals. If you consider flinging themselves at one another and copious amounts of humping “friendly.” Which we do.

We share yard work responsibilities and we are both trying to coax some goddamn herbs and maybe a vegetable or two from our respective patches of garden. So far I am sporting a pretty serious tomato plant, some champion bell peppers, a slightly chewed cantaloupe plant and some scraggly basil. I think it’s going pretty well for a first try, okay?

They loaned us a window unit AC when my family was here over 4th of July weekend and the nine of us sat melting into little puddles of beer and sunscreen on my hardwood floors. Nothing says friendship like peering into the desperate, sweaty face of another human being in 95 degree weather and agreeing to give up delicious cool air in some portion of your own living space. Loving me for my faults, psh. FRIENDSHIP IS ALL ABOUT MANAGING MY PHYSICAL COMFORT. They also loaned us a deck of cards so we could play drinking games.

Now that you are all excited for me because I clearly have the best neighbors ever and you totally want to come over and drink with us, I have to tell you the bad news.

They are moving. At the end of July.

SADDEST. NEWS. EVER.

They’ve been struggling with our landlord for some time now and are at their wits end.They are ready to move on and have found what sounds like an awesome place not too far away.

My immediate reaction to the news that they’re leaving is, of course, to scramble to make them love me! Cling! Laugh too hard at that joke and offer them booze every time we chat while the dogs hump each other play in the yard! Invite them out and then check my phone 400 times an hour to be sure I didn’t miss their call!

In Charlottesville I was desperate for friends and had no idea how to meet people. I was just out of college, needy and miserable, and people could smell my desperation like week-old B.O. on a 300-lb. linebacker’s jockstrap. It was unpleasant. Looking back I am embarrassed by how hard I tried to make! People! Like me! Which of course backfired and led to one very cozy year with my husband and almost no other social interaction. Win!

As is often the case with me, I just need to chill out. Stop trying to control how people feel about me and let whatever’s going to happen happen. Either we’ll stay in touch with our soon-to-be-ex neighbors or we won’t, but I am not desperate for friends. I am not lonely. I have a startling number of friends for a person who’s lived here only four weeks. Plus I enjoy my co-workers enough to maybe hang out after work sometimes and I start volunteering at a local cat rescue in two weeks. If things sputter and die with the neighbors it’ll be disappointing but not shattering. I just need to relax and not pull another Charlottesville.

It might not hurt for them to know I’m a teensy bit neurotic, though. I mean, it’s part of my charm.

The good news? We’re invited to their joint birthday party in mid-August.

Nope, lower. I am pretty ramble-y.

I doubt you are much interested in the scintillating details of our unpacking and lo, our packing is unfinished and there aren’t many details anyway. It’s mostly the putting away that is not done at this point. We have about 30 broken down boxes or so and holy Christ the movers used my body weight in packing paper you guys, for real. I was all “Let’s recycle it!” because I am trying to make up for not recycling the past few years because it was haaaaard (translation: I am lazy). Zack doesn’t think we can recycle the packing paper, though, because it is weird and kinda…sticky? Not something-spilled-on-it sticky, but it’s-made-like-this sticky. Tacky? Um…I am out of words that mean sticky. You get the idea. ANYWAY. All that to say that I have a lot of packing paper to get rid of and I’m not 100% sure how that’s going to happen. Garbage seems the mostly likely candidate, though we are also considering posting an ad on Craigslist for free packing materials and see if anyone bites. That is kind of like recycling and I would feel lots better about that option.

I have a new job! I’m molding young minds once again. Only, what I’m actually doing is changing diapers and wrangling kiddos and reminding toddlers eleventy billion times a day not to take toys from their friends or, you know, eat paint. It sounds kind of lame but I’m really enjoying the change of pace (no desk, woo!) and I’m working at a back-up facility, so each day brings new kids and new challenges. It helps that I can send the frustrating children home and know they will be someone else’s problem tomorrow. This job has most definitely curbed the baby fever for awhile, thank you Lord.

At nap time one day (two weeks after my starting, mind you) I sidled up to this seemingly empty critter container with some brown mossy/dead twig crap in the bottom thinking someone had had a bug in there but it died and maybe I should clean it out and OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK JUST MOVED? WHAT IS THAT THING IN THERE? I not-so-calmly asked a co-worker what the hell that thing was and she replied that they (they! multiple!) were hissing cockroaches. HISSING COCKROACHES IN MY CLASSROOM, Y’ALL. THIS SITUATION DESERVES SO MUCH CAPS LOCK ACTION BECAUSE OMG COCKROACHES, EW.

Today I felt sorry for them and fed them a carrot. Because even cockroaches don’t deserve to starve to death unless they have invaded my space in an unwelcome manner. Since obviously someone thought it was a good idea to bring them in and treat them as pets, I feel obligated to not be cruel. Because I am a weirdo who likes to completely skeeve herself out, apparently. I have not ruled out trying to pawn them off on another teacher.

Friends, there is a pair of rollerblades in my entryway. Rollerblades that are MY SIZE, and may or  may not involve some hot pink. I may or may not be dying to try them out, but first I have to wash the inserts because I borrowed them from my mother-in-law and let’s just say that they’ve been living in her garage for a good long while. No, I did not find evidence of mice having lived in them, ahem. I will consider the endeavor a success if I don’t break myself in some serious way.

Alright, time to sleep or I might have young children choking on small objects while I snooze on the floor pillows tomorrow. Perhaps next time I will have something more coherent to share. Perhaps also next time won’t be three more weeks from now.

I worked half a day so my anxious ass wouldn’t be around biting my fingernails and pacing while the movers went through and packed our stuff. The apartment was empty by 3:00 and we were out the door by 4:00. Our stuff arrived yesterday and it seems everything made it to Minneapolis. I will never ride 8 hours in a car with my cats again unless either I or they are heavily sedated because OMG the yowling. And the thrashing. And the mashed up faces against their crates looking pitifully at me from the backseat.

Luckily, they love the new place and have forgotten all about the big evil car.

I am couch surfing this week. I am also training my temporary replacement at work. All this to say: I have been pretty absent from the blogosphere, but I hope to be back on a regular basis as soon as I am in Minneapolis for good and my life settles into a dull roar. I am checking in with my regular reads as I can and I miss you all!

I will write more soon. But I’d love to hear what’s going on with you in the meantime.

It feels like there is so much to be done, yet I continue to flounder. And generally get nothing done.

I feel like we should be doing more around the apartment to get ready for the movers, but I have no idea what mover etiquette says should be done. Do I just leave everything as it is and make sure the place is pretty clean before they arrive? Should I sort and organize beforehand? That seems like cleaning before the cleaning lady comes, in a way, but I have no experience with other people packing my things and thus no idea what to expect. I don’t know what the expectation is of me and that makes me uncomfortable. I don’t want to do it wrong! (And I thought hiring movers was going to make moving stress-free! HA! HAHAHA.)

What if they think we are gross? What if they stumble across something embarrassing? Like the midget porn I got as a gag gift at my bachelorette party. Does Goodwill accept donations of adult fetish films? The package is still sealed and everything.

The thought of someone pawing through my things is totally awkward. I feel like I need to somehow prepare it all to be seen, even though I am not a particularly private person (HELLO, I just admitted to having midget porn in my possession). I worry the movers will find dried cat puke in my closet and think that I am disgusting (hey, it’s possible I missed something). But really, Sappho is just super awesome at squeezing herself into random small openings where I don’t fit. I think she is part octopus.

*****

Yesterday I came down to meet Zack with the car and go grocery shopping. I stepped outside my building to wait and came across a pigeon that was hopping sort of weirdly, so I took a closer look. It became clear that it had flown into the window. One of its legs was broken, twisting painfully upward to appear as if it was growing off its back. It seemed otherwise okay, just off-balance and probably in a large amount of pain.

I proceeded to FA-REAK THE FUCK OUT, which included running inside and demanding that our doorman call someone! Do something! The pigeon is hurting!

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever spent time in a large city, but here pigeons are basically considered to be the equivalent of rats with wings. James, our most awesome doorman, had already called animal control and there was some ambiguous promise that they’d try to get out there if they could but don’t call us, we’ll call you, kthxbai.

I was on the phone with my sister when I first saw the pigeon and, knowing me as she does, she immediately told me there wasn’t anything I could do. I hung up on her in order to flail around at James about the situation.

Then I called Zack, who told me I could do nothing.

I also called my mom, who told me I could do nothing.

HI, AUSTIN. YOU ARE NOT A VET. YOU CAN’T DO ANYTHING.

I knew there was nothing I could do as soon as I saw the bird. I also knew that animal control would just kill it, which probably would be the kindest thing for an undomesticated bird such as this. But dammit, I don’t like to give up. And it’s really, REALLY hard for me to walk away from someone/thing in pain.

Eventually the dogs coming in and out of the building scared the pigeon into some bushes in the park. Animal control still hadn’t come when we returned from the store and I looked for the pigeon this morning where I’d last seen it, but it was gone. I’ll likely never know what happened to it but I hope it’s somehow okay now. I am not sure what okay would be.

There just wasn’t anything for me to do.

*****

Last Friday I took an unfamiliar Metra line to meet my mom in the suburb where she now works (she has a new job). In some small town I’d never head of, my train suddenly came to a stop, with a collective groan from the passengers because great. Now we are going to be late and the world will probably end.

It turned out that a man had lain down on the tracks and we ran over him.

Yes, he died. It has since been ruled a suicide.

As I was standing on the platform waiting for the train to move again, frantically texting my mom because they were predicting huge delays and we were supposed to be on the road to Minneapolis, it began to slowly edge forward. We were told it was moving to allow traffic to flow again, as it was rush hour and we were blocking a major intersection. And all of the sudden – without a word of warning – I was looking at the sheet-draped body of the poor man, still partially on the tracks, police standing all around. There was a crowd of onlookers craning their heads to get a look and all I wanted was to turn and run.

Now that I work downtown, where many of my co-workers take public transportation to and from work, I hear way more often than I ever expected to about people choosing to lie on the train tracks and kill themselves. It’s not a monthly occurrence but it happens enough to not really be shocking for most people, seemingly.

Except me. Because I’m nothing if not thorough in what I cry about.

*****

It has been a long couple of days and I am still thinking about the man on the train tracks, what his life must have been like to choose such an awful end. I compulsively Google his name to try and glean something – anything – that might make his decision make sense even though I know it never will. I think about the pigeon, how it will either learn live with a horribly broken leg and overcome the pain, or die by a human hand or because it can no longer care for itself in the wild.

And all of the sudden, my moving stress doesn’t seem like such a big deal.