the voyage out

As Rizzo the Rat would say, "I am in such pain!"

I've been lifting things and stepping over things and lifting things and moving things all night. My back and my knees (my knees! what am I, decrepit?) are telling me quite unequivocally that they have had it for the night. They want to say they've had it for the next week, but they know better.

The apartment is looking pretty stripped. All pictures are gone, the stereo and VCR are in boxes, everything is in some state of disassembly (Disassemble? No disassemble!) except of course the computer.

I will have limited access to the internet till May 11, when my new internet account kicks in for my apartment, so you may see me around spottily at best.

Come to think of it, I'm looking pretty stripped as well. Since the new place lacks a washer and dryer (which I will sorely miss), I'm doing every bit of laundry that I can think of before I move. Subsequently I am wearing no pants. And Marianne and I never did get a curtain for the living room sliding doors (opening onto the balcony overlooking the woods), so any creepy people out there that have been putting off peeking better get their eyeful now. Last chance.

Ow, my knees hurt. Ow, my knees hurt. However, in about thirty-six hours this horrendous, grumpy ordeal will all be over. I don't want to move again unless I leave South Bend or get married.

Speaking of which, I got an e-mail from Wretched Tim, very noncommittal (he offered to help me move and said he'd try to be there) and noticeably not a phone call. I'm beginning to revert to Original Opinion: He's a jerk. You can't be THAT clueless. (Can you?)

And if so, why did he tell me, in our last conversation, to call him if I ever want to go furniture shopping after I move? What kind of crackhead is he? And who offers to go furniture shopping with someone?

Lame-O.

well, then

Right after I finished the last entry I called Ann Taylor to see if I still had to work. It was looking like I did; they were waiting to hear back from one person who never works a closing shift. I said, "Okay," and hung up, thinking, well, better gird up my loins then.

(Oh dear God, my writing is full of horrible vernacular cliches tonight. My deepest apologies.)

I felt a nudging in my brain, that God-nudge with a verse written in shadowy letters in the background ask and you will receive/in all things by prayer and petition with thanksgiving present your requests to God, and I looked up like I was meant to and said, "God, I'm feeling really sick...if there's any way You can work something out, that would be great."

Two minutes later manager-and-friend Ashleigh called to say, "Cherie said she'll come in, so you go to bed and get up and go to work in the morning."

All I had to do was ask.

I'm not even going to pack tonight. I'm just going to lie around and go to bed early.

Hallelu Yah.

blech

So I'm feeling crappy and exhausted on top of much sleep; must have caught some kind of sinus/stomach bug. Thought I was going to toss the old cookies this morning while I was cleaning a kid's boogery nose with a Q-tip. (It was sooo gross. I'm not normally over-fond of mucus, but I'm not normally revulsed to the point of gagging either, so I figure I must be sick.) I staggered around at work all morning and am still not feeling at my best, but I have to work tonight (when will my managers hire a few more people so I'm not stuck when I need an evening off for being ill, like tonight? When?), so I have to grin and bear it.

I don't want to grin and bear it.

I'll be working my (smaller) ass off tomorrow and Thursday getting the rest of my stuff out. I realized that I have very little cupboard space in my new place of dwelling, so I'm going to have to get out there and find some shelves as well. Hooray, moving is expensive!

And yet exciting too. I think though, at this point, I'll just be glad when it's done.

Four more days till I wake up in my new apartment and call it mine.

when a young man's fancy puzzlingly turns to thoughts of...something

The simple stuff first.

I just opened a can of coffee with a hammer, a nail, and a screwdriver, having realized that the can opener resides at the new apartment and the old can of coffee is in fact empty. Never stand between me and my morning cuppa.

Also M's colleague Georges, a third-year in her department, has declared us his surrogate sisters and wants to spoil us. He started by helping M carry some boxes of her stuff to store in his basement for the summer, then bought us lunch; tonight he brought over a half gallon of ice cream in return for cookies M had baked him in return for his basement space.

It's rather fun being spoiled. Now, before you get any ideas, please know that Georges is a devout Catholic and once had aspirations to the priesthood. In fact, I believe he got all the way up to the vow-taking level before he decided he couldn't do it. Having lived in a nearly all-male family (one brother, a father, and a mother who never had much time for "girliness"), gone to an all-boys' high school, and attended an all-male seminary, Georges could use a couple of sisters to teach him about the female gender. It's only fair.

Now onto the complicated stuff.

I never responded to Wretched Tim's e-mail a few weeks ago. Friday night he stopped in at Ann Taylor. I looked up from the register and there he was. And, dear readers, the first thought that ripped through my mind upon seeing him was Damn, he's good-looking. I had forgotten just how good-looking.

He wanted to know all about what's been going on and how I've been, and my internal flusteredness expressed itself in an easygoing and animated chattiness. I told him about my new job and new apartment, and he offered to help me move. I told him I'd keep that in mind, listened to his compliments about my great haircut, and suggested he call me. He suggested the same, then noticed that my manager-and-friend Ashleigh was leaning on the counter watching him, so he gave me a slightly awkward hug and said his goodbyes.

At first, of course, I was furious. He's at it again. Popping up periodically in my life, and to what end? But after a frantic phone call to M, I started to reconsider. Maybe if he keeps coming back, he really is just clueless. Cluelessness can be cured. Right?

So I'm giving him another chance. I left him a voicemail tonight inviting him to help me move like he offered to (I told him -- which is true -- that there would be plenty of people there, from church as well as my parents and a few other friends, so that -- and this I didn't tell him -- it's not a big deal kind of event). If he decides to follow through on that, then well and good; we'll see what happens next. If he hems and haws and backs down (which would be rude; I helped him move) then he'll just have to wait to see me again until he comes back on his own initiative. And then I won't care at all.

Anyway. There you have it. (A letter opener.)

goings and comings

I turned off my computer this morning so that I wouldn't waste time on it this afternoon between jobs, which I forgot I did until I came home and drifted toward the screen and saw it blank. I know myself well.

I also turned the computer back on. Knowing myself is futile.

M and I went to the Fiddler's Hearth yesterday to view the Waiter Who Walks Into Things Who May Also Be One of the Part-Owners. He bumbled around making useless laps around the small dining space to wait on the table next to us that he could easily have reached from where he'd been standing before, about three feet away from it. But no, he circled the entire dining area so he could drop a "Hello" to Marianne (or us; it was hard to tell...but she was the one staring at him at a different bar earlier in the week) without looking at us.

M and I were having such a good time laughing and being noisy that the old couple next to us leaned over and, grinning, asked what was in our glasses so they could have some too. Sheepishly we swirled the ice at the bottoms and said, "Water..." (Which was true.) Hooray for bringing joy and sunshine to strangers.

The Cute Bank Teller was there today when I went to drop off my (first! yayyy!) paycheck; but he was busy assisting someone else, so even though he looked up when I came in, I was helped by one of the nice ladies. Which was just as well; I wasn't wearing makeup. But the Cute Bank Teller is cute.

...And there's nothing much new to report. I'll be busting some tail tomorrow moving out more of my junk, since I have the entire day off, and even though it's supposed to snow (sometimes I'd swear I never left Erie except the land is flat here and the people slower in more ways than one) I expect to get a lot done.

And (insert Hallelujah Chorus here) my parents will be coming to help me move after all!!!

looking up

Today was much better than yesterday. The kids were relative angels -- well, maybe we should say textbook children; they ate when they were supposed to, went to sleep when they were supposed to, woke up when they were supposed to. And were in sunny moods.

I did have an interesting diaper experience. One of the babies was working pretty hard at producing solids in his diaper, so I waited for awhile while he turned red and grunted in his high chair. When I went to change him, there wasn't much to show for all that effort...until five seconds after I unwrapped him. I learned much more than I had really wanted to know about the up-close-and-personal workings of the human intestines, and narrowly avoided a spray in the face immediately afterward; but as I got away unmarred and the kid wasn't upset by any of the proceedings, I counted it a moment of scientific observation and went on with my day.

The real work started when I left my job at a quarter past four. I drove six boxes of already-loaded books to my new apartment, then came home right away to pack six more boxes of "other stuff" and drive that over. Twelve boxes might not sound like much, but when you're carrying them down two flights of stairs to your car, loading them, unloading them, and carrying them up another flight of stairs to deposit them in their new resting place, and doing all of that solo, it's quite a lot.

My back is stiff and sore, and in spite of the ridiculous heat (which we could cure with the flick of a switch but won't because it costs more money) I think I'm going to take a hot bath. I've only allowed myself two books over the course of the next week and a half; we'll see how I survive. (Those two sentences are related because I always bring a book with me to a hot bath.) But all in all I'm immensely pleased with myself; I don't think I've ever done anything this much in advance. And I mean that sincerely.

Rats...that last sentence reminded me of Eddie Izzard, whom I've packed away.

Ah well...time for a soak!

le sigh

Well, the kitten died and the kids at work were awful. One of the mothers freaked out in the infant room over something totally unrelated to her baby, me, or my coworker. I am frazzled. This day was long.

Bright spot: the downstairs neighbor seems really nice. She shops at a health food store which closes at 7:00, and was on her way out when I showed up at 6:30 with a few small boxes of books. She invited me to accompany her (I had a Bible study meeting, so had to decline), and felt badly about leaving me to carry the books upstairs myself. I think I'm going to like being her neighbor. I think she's going to like being my neighbor too, since she and her boyfriend thought that the guy who used to live in my apartment was a drug dealer.

There are benefits to being quiet. Your neighbors will like you more readily.

I'm going to load a few more boxes of books into my van and then end this discouraging day by going to bed.

the benders are restless

I was sitting here at my computer just a minute ago catching up on fellow Grovers' blogs (and totally envying them their weekend reunion....argh, I miss my alma mater! May I repeat that I never thought I would), when I heard a distant roaring that sounded like "WOLF creek, WOLF creek..."

I thought nothing of it. Reading about Grove happenings had me in a mindset to expect creekings and rumors of creekings (a Grove City tradition of dumping the male half of an engaged couple into the creek running through the lower end of campus, normally performed in springtime), but then my better sense kicked in and I thought, "Waaiiit a minute..."

Obviously no one is getting creeked in South Bend, Indiana. If someone is, then I've moved to an even weirder state than I thought. So that leaves a couple of things. Heavy traffic, and mob riots.

All is quiet on the northern front for now, but I think it behooves me to move a few more boxes of books to my new apartment, safely south of whatever strange stuff is going on at the border of Niles.

bliss

No, not the heroine of the horrible cheesy romance novel used as bedtime reading/comic relief by the EMGs of GCC. My sheer joy at my beautiful future residence.

I took a few boxes of books over tonight, after coaxing Juanita to accompany me (she's a coworker at Ann Taylor and lives in my apartment community); I wasn't sure how the neighborhood is at night and I wanted a friend along. She came up the stairs and walked in and said, "This looks like an apartment that you'd live in. It's really cute and it has 'Sarah' written all over it."

Hooray! It has been confirmed.

And if a certain tiny newborn black kitten birthed in Deborah's barn doesn't die like the rest of its littermates, I will soon have a cat as well. (I really want this cat; please pray that it lives, for my own happiness, even if you hate all cats!)

a brief statement of faith

Some of my good friends have expressed their feelings and doubts about Christianity, so it's time for me to put in my two (or four, more likely) cents and say a little bit about why I believe the Gospel, the Bible, and the whole nine yards. I love people's honesty, so I was incredibly excited to see dialogue open up along this line; but I couldn't put it all into a comment on someone else's blog, so it's getting a plug on mine.

I've had a lot of difficulty with the Christian faith in the past few years. Going to a small Christian college, with an overwhelming (how does Bahktin put it? one overriding voice? I've been out of school too long) single attitude toward the faith -- really more like a steamroller than a popular opinion -- made me hate everything about Christianity for a long time. Because I wasn't a Five-Point Calvinist, I was told by fellow students that I wasn't a real Christian. During my time there I saw dozens of people in deep spiritual and emotional pain, and these supposed real Christians did nothing to help them. When I was one of those hurting people, it was the friends who weren't so fist-pounding about the faith, who didn't claim the faith much at all, who helped me most.

That, compounded with an intense questioning, not of God's power, but of His character, left me almost bereft of the faith I have claimed since childhood. The miracles in the Old Testament seemed too far-fetched, the powerlessness of women in the Bible and in today's chuch made me angry, the callous attitudes of the loud-mouthed Christians toward unbelievers and believers alike made me furious, and I wasn't sure God even loved me. For a brief time I didn't really want eternal life; it was more comforting to consider that maybe after death there was nothing. However, my reluctant but unshakeable belief in the existence of God made this comfort more a wishful thought than a belief itself.

So there I was, twenty years old, drawn into my shell early in summer vacation, thinking that perhaps I, like the father in Updike's In the Beauty of the Lilies, had lost my faith. I was standing in the shower letting warm water pour over my face and wondering whether or not I was still a Christian. And the question appeared in my mind like a suddenly-lit billboard, What do you think about Jesus?

It caught me broadside and, startled, I stopped agonizing and pitying myself. I didn't even have to think about the answer. It sprang out of a belief so absolute that it had escaped my questioning: Jesus is the Son of God.

At that point I wasn't even considering the resurrection, the sacrificial death on the cross, any of the doctrines that come along with the deity of Christ. I was only considering the nature of the man on whom the whole faith hangs. Once the admission had been yanked from me, I leaned back against the shower wall and sorted through my options. Either Christ was just a man, deluded or otherwise, or he was the Son of God and God incarnate. I couldn't believe the first, so I faced the fact that I believed in the deity of Jesus, and if I did, then I had to embrace all the rest of it. His death and resurrection, all the doctrines, all the miracles, all the stories.

So I did. I spent the next two years at Grove City still hating the church and the people who comprise the church body, but I knew for myself that I was a believer. I didn't know how to live that out; I didn't want to be a fakey, arrogant hypocrite of gilded perfection like many of the people around me who were so terrified of being accused of not being a Christian that they hid all the sins everyone knew they struggled with and pretended that everything was okay while passing judgment on everyone else. I didn't want to pretend anything. I didn't go to church for a long time and I didn't participate in most of the Christian activities on campus.

But most of that is slowly changing. It's a long process -- my self-inclusion in the church, and my own climb toward holiness (yes, I know, all of you can laugh; I can laugh too; but still, though the incline is very small and gradual, I too am being made holy) -- but it's coming along.

To believe the truth of the farfetched miracles of the Old Testament gives me great joy. We have a God who will not keep His fingers out of His pie. And the things I have trouble believing I can attribute to my own failure of imagination, my own poverty of faith; not to a failure of truth.

As for the church, I still have trouble with the people. But the Christian faith has always been extended to the common folk, to the gutter-dwellers, to the tax collectors and prostitutes, to the thieves and drunkards and gossips, to society's least-contributing members, who are then changed and commanded to live out that change. Half of the New Testament is Paul exhorting the people to live not as they used to live, but to live a life worthy of Christ. Christians have always been jerks, seducers, cheats, liars, and gossips; the challenge is to grow away from all of that, and to grow away from it together. That too is a long and slow process, which is why we must live lives of love, which "covers over a multitude of sins"; not only do we have to hold steady to the progress of holiness in our own lives, we have to bear with the people all around us who are as miserably imperfect, hellishly annoying, and often hurtful as we are.

And for those of us who do believe the Gospel and want to live differently than the backstabbing Christians who hurt everyone, it's imperative that we identify ourselves as Christians. So that everyone else can see that we're not like the stereotypical Christian. So that we can be a good representative of a person who claims Christ, and therefore a good representative of Christ.

For the rest of us who have many questions, I maintain that doubt is good, if it leads you to further questioning, and to examination of every possible answer to the questions. If doubt is an excuse not to think about any of it, then shame on you. (Everyone I know is too intelligent to use doubt as an excuse anyway.) Grow from your questions. Ultimately the crux is not your feelings on eternal life, not your feelings on the miracles, not your feelings on the moral demands, not your feelings on the failings of Christians. The crux is Christ and His nature. What you believe (or choose to believe) about that drives all the rest.

And once you've made your decisions about that, the rest will come. Madeleine L'Engle writes in A Ring of Endless Light that "God is big enough to handle your anger." I've clung to that. We'll never understand everything, but we can understand enough. Right now, living "on the edge" as I have been in South Bend, Indiana, not knowing what my future will be, I nevertheless understand that every moment in time is charged with eternal purpose. This is not always comforting, to know that every decision I make and every word I say has repercussions that I cannot see or fathom. But I also know that I am in the hands of the omnipotent and loving God, who works all things out for good.

Okay, well, this is starting to sound like I-know-better-than-thou, which is not the intent. Everyone's experience cannot be my experience, or we would all be like Mr. Rogers' Purple People. But if we can all learn from each other, as I've learned and continue to learn so much from all of you, then maybe this incomplete enumeration will help.

Hmm....

This just in:

Apparently the cute guy at The Fiddler's Hearth, whom we call The Waiter Who Walks Into Things (because he does), and regarding whom Marianne has told me, "You should totally date him...he's that goofy kind of guy you like," is the owner.

Well, then.

springtime in south bend

...happens like a green explosion. I'm used to slow, muddy Pennsylvania springs where the green creeps in faintly, like a shading of mold on three-day-old bread. Where poems like "Spring and All" truly apply. Here, nothing doing. One week it's winter, the next it's almost May. All of the bare, dead underbrush that I've been looking at for months is vivid with leaves and hiding everything under it. The trees are quickly following.

I'm so happy. I love my Pennsylvania springs, but Indiana winters are so freaking miserable that this overnight lushness feeds what's been starving in my spirit.

I'm also quite sad that everyone I keep tabs on through blogging is voyaging back to the Grove this weekend and I can't go. Hello to all you beloved people, and have a drink for me!

There has been lots of discussion about faith lately, and I must participate, but I think that's going to wait till tomorrow. Right now I'm exhausted (I worked with the toddlers this week and it's been a trial adjusting my curriculum to their abilities and attention spans, but I love Meg, my supervisor, and the kids are cute too), faintly in disbelief that it's Friday, and intending to stuff my noggin with all the network TV it can handle. My second stomach is causing its monthly pains, so I don't think TV is such a bad thing.

Oh, I'm also immensely content because I destroyed the hugest blind zit that my chin has ever seen. Gross, yes; but is anything ever more satisfying? Be honest. (On second thought, maybe don't be honest; just admit that zit-popping has its satisfaction.)

a funny thing happened on the way to....wherever

I finally heard from John, so I know he isn't dead. I called him back on the way home from work (it's ridiculous how, every time I get in my car, I scroll through my mental list of loved ones and think, "Hm, whom can I call?" I used to use car time for quiet and reflection, or worship music, or really loud absolutely-not-worship music accompanied by silly in-car dancing; now it's my conversation time with all the people who live far away from me, which is almost everyone).

The phone rang a few times, then stopped. As I was turning left into a busy intersection, I didn't notice till thirty seconds later that the line had been cut off. "Stupid Verizon," I thought, as I am wont to think (or say, usually accompanied by some expletive which, when I use it thinking I've been cut off from a conversation with my mother, she always hears), but then I shrugged and went about my day.

On the way home from my second job tonight, I checked my voice mail to hear a rather flustered message from John:

"Hi, sorry about what happened earlier...I answered in the shower and the water's really soft and I slipped and dropped the phone."

I can just picture it. It's a scary image, but definitely worth a laugh.

Today I changed five poopy diapers. Oh, the joy. I know I'm settling into my job when the sight doesn't send my stomach into heaves, I can use a wipe for more than one swipe, and my nose automatically forgets to smell.

happy happy happy

I love my apartment. I got the keys today, so that I can start moving my stuff in before I actually take up residence there.

It's half the upper floor of an old Victorian house, so there are windows facing two directions in every room but the bathroom. My kitchen, my living room, and my bedroom are all full of light. There are little quirks -- no sprayer in the kitchen sink, separate hot and cold faucets in the bathroom sink, a tub with clawed feet and a shower curtain that goes all the way around, no fan in the bathroom -- but it's charming and unique and the perfect size. (Ha, probably I'll be cursing all of those factors in a month or two, but for now the blush is still on the rose. What's a good way to ventilate an unventilated bathroom, though?)

Hm, I want some chocolate.

this is it

I just signed my lease. The apartment is really mine.

Now if only the keys will work so I can get in...

I also have requested a second bolt put on the inside of the door at the bottom. Since the door opens to the outside, I would feel more secure knowing that there was a bolt in the middle and at the bottom of the door. (Having looked at it, I concluded that it is impossible, as I at first thought it wouldn't be, to turn the hinges around to have the door open to the inside. Unfortunately. A door opening to the outside is a security hazard in any situation imaginable to an imaginative cop's daughter. I'll have to secure it with bolts and chains and lots of well-forged prayer. I know, I know, the likelihood of me ever being in any danger is minimal at worst. But still. Odds aren't odds unless there's one negative outcome to make them.)

Well, at least I'll never have to complain about the neighbors' TV being too loud. Apparently the guy who lived in my apartment last was, in the words of the landlord's wife, "clean, but a partier," and the downstairs neighbor called frequently to complain about him. I laughed and said, "Well, he won't be doing that about me."

And -- I've been reading the comments on my nicknaming post -- I'll end with a sunnier memory...that of being twelve years old at summer camp, sitting with the girls in my cabin after lunch waiting for the announcements of the morning mail, and hearing the coolest counselor read off in a tone of amused disbelief, "Sarah Beth Bonnie May Becky Sue Billie Jo Peters..." and feeling my heels slowly stop drumming the floor as I realized with dawning embarrassment that the letter was addressed to me...and yet (it was a hilarious letter from my dad in the voice of a total hillbilly) being so proud of my father's creativity and sense of humor, so that I was smiling even as I walked up in front of the whole camp to claim the letter with a red face. I'm sure I still have the letter somewhere, whether in Pennsylvania or Indiana I can't say.

expediency!

That's why I'm moving.

I guess I forgot to mention some of the background particulars; Marianne is going home this summer, and rather than find some random person to live with (cheers to Lindsay for her practicality and courage) to cover her share of the rent, we're just packing up our bags and splitting ahead of time.

Plus, M wants a dog and I want a cat, and, as she says, "never the twain shall meet." We both like our kitchen space and our quiet, and although we have worked together extremely well as roommates, we're hermiting ourselves away like we've wanted to from the beginning. (At least, I believe I'm speaking for both of us. If not, she'll correct me.) This way we can pop over for coffee (or, in my case, I can pop over to her apartment for cable) and enjoy our own lives.

Anywho, she's leaving the first of May, which thus became my deadline also. So it was critical to have a place to live, and it looks like I've found it. If only I could find the receipt for the check I wrote putting a down payment on the first month's rent...

You never know.

the future relocating of sarah

I found an apartment.

The day started off badly. I slept ill, woke up late, and had a headache from the first moment of waking. Still, M and I saw the cute teller at the bank (and he has no wedding ring, so there's hope) on our way to do my apartment-hunting (my roommate is so great to come with me), so it wasn't a horrible beginning.

I had three apartment-viewing appointments. The first apartment we couldn't find. It was like looking for Platform Nine and Three-Quarters; it wasn't there. The street number was 727. We found 725 and right next to it 729. Peeking furtively around corners for possible hidden numbers didn't help. But as the front lawn of 725 was decorated with Astroturf, gnomes, and vinyl-covered rusting chairs, we didn't feel it was too terrible a loss.

So after failing to locate the landlord on his cell phone, we skipped out and went on to Appointment Two. The neighborhood was nice and so was the landlady. The apartment, however, was miserable. We walked through the front door into a palpable wall of cigarette funk (Marianne's comment later was, "It smelled like a casino."); the place was tiny and the kitchen so small I had to scoot into it sideways. The carpeting was an awful poopish brown and the yellow plaster walls made the place dinkier and more oppressive than necessary. I could picture myself sitting on the couch at night crying.

We breaked for lunch at a fabulous Mexican restaurant, where I broke down in tears. (So stressed, so stressed...I have TWO WEEKS to move out.) I was crying on the phone to my mother when the people at the next table leaned over and asked Marianne if they knew me (yet again, I look familiar to anyone I meet), so after I got off the phone they asked me what I was eating because it looked good; then my ex-manager at Gymboree showed up and turned out to be the aunt of the woman who thought she knew me. They gave us apartment advice and we left for Number Three. From that comforting moment of serendipity I derived the truth that God loves me and felt somewhat better.

The neighborhood of Number Three was run-down but not terrifying. The landlord was waiting for me on the sidewalk. He was as super-nice in person as he had been on the phone. This rent was the cheapest of the apartments I had on today's list. It was also beautiful. A one-bedroom with an enormous kitchen, a generous living room, and an adorable bathroom. It has high ceilings, lots of windows, and new carpeting. There are two bolted entries. It's on the second floor. There is a yard which I share with the other tenants (who sound nice and not skeezy), where I can garden. Quiet is mandatory. There is a police officer, the mayor, and a lawyer living down the street. I can have a cat. I can pay the security deposit in installments.

I signed for it immediately. Asheigh at Ann Taylor has verified that it's an okay neighborhood. I am so excited.

I have a place to live that I can afford. And a job. The next two weeks are going to be a financial squeak, but dude, I have a place to live and and a job. It's like I'm a grown-up now.

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. I am so blessed.

the naming of cats

Since I'll be getting a sleek bat-killing machine of my very own sometime in the near future, I have begun contemplating the naming of cats...

We have a pattern in our family of giving our animals, particularly our cats, bizarre nonsensical nicknames that have almost nothing to do with their given names.

Take, for example, Alex. Christened Alexander Pennington Farnsworthy, he is now referred to most commonly as "Greubie." In fact, he's never called Alex unless we're discussing his health or yelling at him. And as he is one of the most adored, spoiled rotten animals on the planet, he's seldom yelled at. It's a miracle he knows his "real" name. We also call him "The Cat with a Thousand Nicknames" because he's got so many. MacGreuber, Greubinski, Greubimov, Gruebinski-bimov, Alexi Nimov, Bimi, Greubie-oobi, Greubi-oobi-Alex, Greubers, Alexandroober, Alexanderbilt, Big Head, Keetie. And these are all used on a regular basis.

Then there's Cassie. Full name Cassandra Grace MacLean. Rather less adored, she jumps at the slightest movement and still lives in the terror that one of us will forget ourselves and eat her. She's fluffy, wide-eyed, vacant-headed, and unfoundedly snotty. Her most common name: "Fleuffer." Secondary nicknames Cassiminov and Mauvers. I don't really talk about her.

Then our newest, Simon. He doesn't have a full name; he lacks the dignity and is the darndest kind of cute. I adore him beyond adoration, and instead of preening under it like it's his due (as Greubie does, and rightly so), Simon perks up his ears and trots along after me wherever I am going, as if saying, "Whatcha doin? Can I come too? I like you." He's only been living with our family for a year, so he doesn't have a bizarro nickname yet, just a few crooned variations on his given name. Mom is the giver of nicknames, and it hasn't struck her yet.

Our dog: Given name Lantz. Nicknames "Goggie" and "Stubbinswager." My childhood cat: Given name Nessa. Nickname "Nitters." My childhood dog: Given name Zack. Nickname "Boofers."

My sister: Given name Laura. Nickname "Laura Lynnie Grinny." And then me. Given name Sarah. Nickname "Beezer." (But not on a regular basis; and it is, in fact, the only nickname that's ever stuck on me longer than a month or two.)

So I guess the truth of it is, Mom is crazy. (Gotcha, Mom!) I only hope she's passed the nicknaming gift on to me, because I think it's really cool. It would also be comforting to know that any name I give my future cat will be in the end futile, because I'll call it something else entirely for the rest of its life.

and we're off!

Okay, so I have at least three (most likely four) appointments to view apartments tomorrow afternoon.

All of them are private (or in a quadruplex), allow cats and have a rent within my price range. Only one of them has laundry in the building though. As for the neighborhoods, we'll see about that.

I'll keep you (heh heh) posted!

and the search is on

Today is the day I call everyone I saw from viable-looking ads in the newspaper about unfurnished apartments. I'm hoping for five things: 1.) Private apartment in a house. 2.) Cats allowed. 3.) Decent neighborhood. 4.) Washer and dryer in the apartment. 5.) Affordable (as in no more than $500 a month, preferably $400-450).

I wouldn't normally put dollar amounts on my blog; I have this weird sense that such things are private; plus I know that all you East Coast dwellers reading my blog are hooting at how cheap that is. Out here in the Midwest, however, that's moderately expensive for a single person making my income. Especially paying my own utilities and internet, if that turns out to be the case.

Anyway, prayer is welcome and appreciated. I do have faith that since God gave me a job, He will also give me somewhere to live. I'm just looking at how little time I have left (till April 30th) and starting to panic.

hmm...

A preview for this Sunday's Charmed (which I never, I thank you, watch; I'm too engrossed in good shows like Smallville and House -- ouch, I just bit my tongue) featured a brilliant statement of insight and clarity:

"We can't have a demon in the family."

No, I guess not. The best part was the tone, that of an upper-crust (FAKE) British woman whose daughter wants to marry the garbage man.

Anyway, I thought it was hilarious.

i am a kleenex

I love the kids at work. One of them, a nine-month-old boy with huge brown eyes and beautiful chocolate skin, is a drool king. He spends all day soaking wet; I don't know how he doesn't have a rash. But he is so darn cute I love to hold him anyway. (I very quickly got over any heebie jeebies regarding spit and boogers and poo.) This has the added benefit of dramatically reducing my Ann Taylor bill, since whatever I wear to work will inevitably be used throughout the course of the day to mop up the more harmless variety of bodily fluids.

So far I truly like my job. It has made me annoyingly happy. And it's springtime and the grass is rich and vibrant and the pricker bushes outside the window have little fuzzed-in strokes of green, and all in all I'm satisfied and thankful.

Now I just need an apartment. (Oh yes, please pray for that. I need an apartment within the month and a lot of things are too expensive.)

And thank you for the successful poll; I am grateful for all your advice and am not going to follow any of it. (Isn't that the way advice-giving works?) I was going to have Brandon Rockwell drive up from PA to be my boyfriend for the night (he'd be GREAT in the roll), but he has to work this weekend, so my bout of cruel immaturity will have to wait. Basically the party will suck no matter who is there, and if I hadn't gotten the e-mail from Wretched Tim I wouldn't have thought about going. And even a casual, noncommittal relationship to me means something more along the lines of contact once every other week or so. Two months doesn't cut it. Plus when it comes down to it, I don't really care to get to know someone I've epitheted "Wretched" anything. So, I'm not going to respond to his e-mail. It'll be like I never received it.

Sorry, everyone; the beautiful Chinese-American babies will have to descend trailing clouds of glory to someone else's womb.

Plus I don't really like the name Tim. And there's a cute guy who works at the used bookstore I've just discovered who might be worth investigating.

ack!

I love my new job. It's going great. The kids are adorable and the girl I'm working with is fantastic.

I'll post about all that later. Right now is a moment for my apparently on-going guy saga. (Why can't these guys' attentions just die quietly? Why must they resurface to throw me into yet another quandary as to how to get rid of them? Oh, and while I'm at it I will freely confess that I try so hard to get rid of them because I don't know what I would do with them if I didn't. I've never dated; what do I know about it? And be vulnerable? Ew.)

So, for those of you who don't already know, here is a recap of Wretched Tim. He is a tall, gorgeous Chinese-American 27-year-old from California, working his butt off and traveling a lot for his job in South Bend. I met him while I was still attending the Boring Church in November, just after he bought a new house (which I helped him move into).

I saw him around at church, he seemed really to like me at least in a hormonal sense (I've never gotten so many intense compliments on my physical appearance), he called me once or twice, I visited him at his house once or twice, I met his tall and charming (too charming) cousin, thought things were taking off, but then he declined to accept cookies I had baked for his housewarming party right before Christmas (I had to work that night but wanted to send along the cookies for everyone else...they were fantastically good, too) and didn't call me again afterward. I knew he was going home to California for a couple of weeks at Christmas, but when three weeks had gone by I simmered, shrugged, and got on with my life.

Five weeks after our last conversation he showed up to see me at Ann Taylor. I was furious, overly polite, and overly bright and cheery. I also stayed a good twelve feet away from him. He caught on to the Ice Queen act, though I don't think he understood why, and I haven't heard from him since.

Now Chris the German (a sort-of colleague of Marianne's at grad school), who attends the Boring Church with Wretched Tim, is throwing an I'm-done-with-Notre-Dame party this weekend and sent out an e-vite to several dozen people that he knows from everywhere. Wretched Tim noticed my name on the e-vite list and sent me an e-mail saying, "Hey Sarah, it's been awhile...how have you been? I saw your name on the list and was curious if you'd be there." Yadda yadda yadda.

Augh! This guy has an inability to use his phone. (Into which my cell phone number is programmed, mind you.) I've had a feeling that this business wasn't over. Here's the thing. He doesn't read much of anything and loves working out too much, California-style. He's also one of the "cultured" middle-class who cares about which wine glasses you use for which wine but doesn't really know much about Van Gogh.

On the other hand, he is courteous and well-bred, with the exception of his phone etiquette.

Poll! What do I do?

i've met my doppleganger

She is a rather quiet, almost-but-not-quite mousy-looking woman in her thirties who stopped in at Ann Taylor today to shop with her mother-in-law...which is really touching as her husband died last year and they're now really close. Anyway, as I was ringing and wrapping their purchase, the gal mentioned to her mother-in-law that she wanted to go see Sin City this weekend. I started chatting about how I would like to see it too and the visuals are supposed to be stunning, etc. The woman then went on to talk about how she had seen Van Helsing and it sucked, so we got to rant about that for awhile. She said Constantine wasn't as bad as V.H. especially considering that Keanu Reeves was in it. I said one of the aspects of Sin City that excited me was Jessica Alba's role; she knew who Jessica Alba was and we got to talk about Dark Angel. Then she randomly mentioned how cool it was that Tru Calling is back on TV after they'd cancelled it. She updated me on the two-hour premiere which I missed this past Wednesday.

Within a two-minute span of conversation, this woman mentioned several key highlights of my movie- and TV-watching pleasure. Granted, they're not the highest level of art (except Dark Angel, which is great -- a pox on Fox for cancelling it); however, most of my favorite works are of the weird sci-fi/anime/fantasy/cheesy romance genres. I haven't in a long time met many people who are as into that glorious crap as I am. (I don't know why I like Tru Calling; I foretold the end of the first season at the beginning of the third episode.)

Anyway, it was one of the better points of my work day. I'm drop-dead exhausted. Maybe that's why I didn't burst into flames or whatever you're supposed to do when you meet yourself.

This is my life.

Today I was carded at Wal-Mart while buying Underworld. The woman behind the checkout stared at my driver's license and said, "Whoa, you look way younger than your age." Which apparently means that when I walk into a place wearing no make-up I look seventeen. Anyway, it was an absurd episode but it made me happy. Looking young runs in my family, so hopefully I'll still be hearing that for years to come.

I also bought The Muppets Take Manhatten, which has an audio track in Portuguese. I can't wait to listen to it. It also has subtitles in Korean and Thai.

This morning the father of my manager-and-friend Ashleigh looked at my brakes, which have been squealing horribly for the past month. He cleaned a rotor and drove it a bit and said there's nothing wrong. And he's right; they're fine. This man is so much a dad; you can tell he loves his daughters and he said there's no reason why they can't add one more daughter to the family. So now I have the hook-ups for car issues and someone to look out for me so that some mechanic doesn't rip me off.

I'll post more on my job later. Right now I'm enjoying the only downtime I've had since last week.