As God Is My Witness, I'll Never Sit on the Floor Again

Our stuff arrived. Thank the fates. I just...I just want all of you who read this...I just want you to go home tonight and before you hug your children and before you hug your spouse, I want you to hug your stuff. I know we're not supposed to be materialistic and prize objects over anything else, but damn it, stuff just makes life better. So, hug your chair and hug your bed and hug your silverware. Do it!

It's been a looooong day. And our movers were great! Our driveway is a steep and narrow tree-lined pathway, so the moving truck couldn't come down to the house. They had to park up on the street level and carry everything down the steep hill, drop it off, then climb back up the hill for more. They were such troopers. I think I would have taken one look at that hill and just kept driving. I drive up the hill to get the mail every day.

So now, we're going to be unpacking for a while. Each box I open feels like Christmas. We haven't seen our stuff since the beginning of May, so I had forgotten how fabulous all my shoes are.

Tonight we're going to Sante, a wine bar, to relax, have some wine and cheese and take a deep breath. We'll finish unpacking tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day.

A Little Fall of Rain

During my sophomore year in high school, I fancied myself a poet and spoiled reams of paper with my truly terrible poems and song lyrics. Most of which chronicled my unrequited love for my guitar teacher. Here's a sample:

The clouds hover over
Dark and billowing
Like my feelings for you.

I am held back
Restrained
My feelings like the rain.

Yes, I somehow managed to express that my feelings were both out of control and yet restrained, all in one poem. This is just the beginning of this epic tome, by the way. I only bring up this embarrassing literary episode, because whenever the skies are overcast or storm clouds roll in, my brain immediately coughs up my little poem. Carrie Fisher recently said that until the day she dies, the words Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you're my only hope will be stuck in her head. I guess the same is true for me and my meteorological poetry (though I will also have the Princess's plea stuck in there, too).

As you might have guessed, it's raining here. But that did not stop me from putting up my squirrel feeder. We had friendly (and hungry) squirrels in our backyard in Los Angeles, too. They were loads of fun and Michael even taught them to take peanuts out of his hand. But those were L.A. squirrels and probably had some prior training and SAG cards. Here, the squirrels are a bit more...well, squirrelly. But like their Los Angeles brethren, they quickly fell in line once I put up the feeder.

It took them no time at all to figure out how to get the food, and three of them spent the morning feasting, barking and running up and down the tree. Don't worry, I placed the feeder far enough from the house to protect us just in case they're rabid or have the plague.

My next project will be the birds. It's a diverse group. Then there are the chipmunks, but they spend most of their time in the front yard singing pop songs. The one food that seems to enthrall the entire animal kingdom (and humans) is peanut butter, so I will give that a try. As soon as the dark and billowing clouds (and my metaphoric feelings) clear up.

Quiet Riot

Making friends has always been difficult for me. I am what you might call "anti-social." I don't know if I couldn't make friends because I was anti-social, or I became anti-social because I couldn't make friends. In either case, I am now a cold, humorless, unapproachable adult. And that is why we use Michael as our front man when meeting new people.

Michael is warm, friendly, larger-than-life, and people gravitate to him. Luckily, I have been able to harness his genuine, sweet personality and use it for my own sinister purposes. We put Michael out front to lure people in, butter them up, get their defenses down, then we spring me on them and see if they stick around or run. Those that stick around tend to become our friends. Those that run tend to warn others.

Since my birth, the most common phrase used to describe me has been "quiet."

"Oh, he's so quiet."
"Chance is so quiet in class."
"We would have taken him to the hospital, but he was so quiet."

In recent years, I have actually attempted to be whatever the opposite of quiet is. Loud? That seems to be what people prefer. But no matter how gregarious I am or silly or obnoxious, people still call Michael the next day and say, "Chance is so quiet." Since we're starting this new adventure here, I decided that I was going to try to be a "new Jan Brady" and change my ways. I was going to be the warm, friendly one. I was going to smile at people and answer them when they spoke to me and offer to throw water on them if they happened to catch on fire. I was going to be Marcia.

So we went to dinner with some new people the other night, and I decided to try on my best smile, small talk, chatter and charm. I asked people questions, genuinely laughed at their jokes, told funny, self-deprecating stories about myself. I knew I must have finally broken down that door and proved myself engaging and worthy of friendship. But as dinner came to a close, one of our new friends turned to Michael and said, "Chance is so quiet."

I have now reached the conclusion that I am not actually quiet at all. The truth is... people just don't listen to me. Socially, I am invisible. I suppose there are worse things to be. As a writer, it's nice to be an unnoticed observer, even when I'm telling a story or hanging from a chandelier or bleeding. It's probably good that no one remembers anything dreadful I said or did. I get a clean slate at every party.

So we'll keep using Michael as bait to lure in unsuspecting potential friends. And I will slink back into the shadows, my frigid, alabaster skin and milky, sightless eyes recoiling at the warm, golden radiance of his popularity.

Weekend Wrap-Up

Click image above to enlarge.

Funny how I can feel disorganized and scattered even when there's absolutely nothing around me. It must be the OCD. Hopefully, I will feel better once I really do have something to organize and arrange. I've learned a couple of things this past week. You really can live without all the material trappings and possessions and things that we all cling to. The other thing I learned is that I don't want to. I can't wait for our stuff to get here. As an experiment, try getting through the day without a chair. You don't realize how much you depend on the lowly little piece of furniture called the chair until you don't have one. My favorite part of furniture shopping has been just sitting in all the chairs in all the stores.

We've been here a week now, though it seems longer. I don't mean that in a bad way. It's just that the local people and the friends we've made have been so nice to us and we have been so busy, that it seems like we've been here for ages.

Quick tragic childhood story: When I was a kid I had terrible allergies. Then when I was 9, I started allergy shots and they helped immensely. On one camping trip, the family and I found ourselves in a campground surrounded by cottonwood trees. The little white tufts drifted in the air like magic, and it was beautiful. But within a few seconds, I was having the worst attack of my life. The parents grabbed me, packed up our stuff and we got the heck out of there. From then on, we stayed away from cottonwood trees. You see where this is going?

Yesterday afternoon, I walked out on the balcony overlooking the backyard and the air was full of tiny little whispy, cottony plumes, like someone had blown the fluff off a giant dandelion into our yard. My allergy attacks have been mild here, but pretty steady. There's definitely something in the air. Somehow, the smog and absence of nature in Los Angeles had dulled my allergy problems over the years. Here, it's like a brand new world of sneezing! I'm going to try some homeopathic remedies, then head off to an allergist, if necessary. Even Michael has been sniffling and sneezing. Damn nature. It's enough to make you want to bulldoze some of these trees and put up a couple of Starbucks.

Culture Shock: Part 1

Funny how the little things that are different about a new location can creep up on you. For instance, I went to Lowe's yesterday, and for a while, didn't know if I was ever going to make it back out. Get this! The layout at Lowe's is completely opposite to the layout at the stores in California. Why? Is it because it's the East Coast, so they flipped it? It's lawn and garden on the right, tools and lumber on the left, people! I spun around in circles for an hour.

If you're in Los Angeles, you are going to freak out at this next part. The cans of spray paint...are just out there in the open! Unlocked! They're not in a cage, and you don't have to get an employee to help you! If you're not in Los Angeles, let me explain. Even the spray glitter at the craft store is behind a big iron gate, and you have to explain to an employee just what you plan to do with the spray glitter once you have it! But here, it's all out in the open! I can gather up all the cans of paint and glitter I want and throw them to the starving masses like they're loaves of bread.

Next on the list is movie theaters. We went to see Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull last night. I haven't been to a normal movie theater in years. In L.A., we always went to Arclight, where you get reserved and comfy seats, lots of legroom, no commercials, movie introductions by ushers, and most importantly, a bar. Maybe it was because the movie was showing on 10 of their 12 screens last night, but we somehow got the smallest movie screen in the world. And commercials. Lots of commercials. But I have to give props to the audience. Well-behaved and respectful, they even stayed for the credits, which is a hallmark of serious moviegoers. So kudos to Asheville movie fans! I'm just going to miss my assigned seat and my cosmo. Luckily, I'm still on the Arclight mailing list, so I can live vicariously through the weekly newsletter.

I'm off to Home Depot and a few comic book stores today, so we'll see what other cultural differences are in store. Maybe Asheville's Superman is a villain instead of a hero! I will let you know.

Food, Glorious Food

Everything we shipped, ordered, ferried or sent by carrier pigeon is scheduled to arrive at the exact same time, approximately 10 days after we actually arrived here. I don't know how it happened exactly. I thought we planned so carefully. But that's the way it is. So we've been sitting on the floor, discovering back pains we never knew existed. We've also been eating off of plastic plates and using plastic utensils. Our breakfast and lunch consist of anything that doesn't have to be cooked, since we don't have any pots or pans yet. Frankly, it feels like I'm back in college or in my first apartment where the contents of my refrigerator included water and Slim Fast and nothing else.

For dinner, we've been exploring the foodie offerings of Asheville. Asheville boasts some really fantastic restaurants. The people here seem really excited about food, and you'd be surprised at the diversity and creativity of the menus here. As Michael mentioned in his blog, we went to a place called Scully's on our first night to try their onion rings. I had the black bean veggie burger, and it was delightful. I also indulged in a special vodka and lemonade concoction that was both sweet and refreshing. I was too embarrassed to order the drink I really wanted, which was called The Freddie Mercury and was described as "fruity."

Monday night we revisited our favorite vegetarian restaurant in Asheville: The Laughing Seed. As vegetarians, we're used to going to restaurants and having maybe 2 or 3 choices. So when faced with an entire menu of choices, we are practically paralyzed with indecision. After reminding ourselves that we'll be here for a year and have plenty of time to try everything, Michael had the mushroom risotto cakes and I had the yellow curried Napoleon. Both were sublime. We sat outside on the patio and took a moment to breathe and relax and contemplate what exactly we think we're doing with this whole kooky project.

Last night, I Googled "the best pizza in Asheville" and found a place called Marco's Pizzeria. It's a family-owned restaurant with a warm and comforting old-school Italian restaurant feel to it. Michael had the pesto pizza and I had the white pizza with fresh mozzarella, ricotta and garlic. Lots of garlic. We had a 2004 Monte Antico red wine, which was a blend of sangiovese, merlot and cabernet from the Tuscan hillside. I described it as caustic, but in a good way. Michael described it as red and drinkable. Really, it was very good and much better than either of us has described here.

When our cookware, dinnerware and cutlery arrive, these nightly restaurant jaunts will probably slow down quite a bit. There are still so many places to try and quirky little specials to discover. So when the moving truck finally arrives, I might just wave them on and tell them to keep going.

The Rest Is Silence

Since arriving in Asheville, when I've woken up in the middle of the night, I've had to remind myself where the heck I am. And I've only been waking up because of all the noises. Michael doesn't hear the noises, of course. Nor does Henry. I heard similar noises back in Los Angeles, but I had lived in that house long enough to identify and classify all of them. The medieval creaking of the heater. The floor boards settling. Henry getting up and turning around before settling back down for the night. They still woke me up, but I knew them all.

New house. New noises. I've identified the heater and floorboard noises here. I've also identified the refrigerator noise, which I can hear all the way from the kitchen downstairs. But there are all these other noises which will need to be investigated and cataloged so that when I wake up, I can tell myself, "Oh, it's only the refrigerator," then go back to sleep.

Then there are the morning sounds. A cacophony of nature in surround sound. In Los Angeles, sometimes we'd get a bird or two in the tree outside our bedroom window, but we were much more likely to wake up to the sounds of passing traffic or construction from down the street. Here, there is nothing but trees all around us. So we have chirping and tweeting and whistling and warbling, as well as a little honking and quacking from the lake. There's also this bizarre twanging sound coming from the edge of the water. It's like the strumming of a banjo string. Before you start thinking of Deliverance, let me assure you that it's not "Dueling Banjos." Just an occasional twang, twang, twang.

Before, I might have told people, "We moved to a small mountain town in North Carolina. It's so quiet here." And it is quiet here, if you consider the absence of big city noise. But all the other sounds are practically deafening. It will be interesting to see (and hear) how soon I get used to it all, and it just becomes white noise to me. For now, though, Michael and Henry are both in a deep sleep, while I'm wide awake and blogging about sensory overload.