A is for ...

another time, another place.

I saw a post on Facebook yesterday.  It turns out that a stranger on a Facebook resale site was attempting to find a new owner for her brown sectional sofa.  Although I don't need a couch, during the course of reading her ad I couldn't help but notice that the final sentence said something to the effect of "...pick up only in Port Charlotte, on *** Street."

(*** Name of street has been asterisked to preserve greatness.)

Cool side story - I used to live on *** Street.  Although I'd never seen her brown sofa before, I took a good look at the picture, particularly the 12" x 12" white porcelain floor tile and the wall jutting out behind the couch.  I saw her small dog in the background, and behind it, a sliding door exactly where my sliding door once stood.  It went out to a small porch, the one with green indoor/outdoor carpeting that used to get soaked every time it would rain.  I remembered how I used to peel back the edges of the wet carpet, thinking that would help it dry faster.  I never spent a lot of time on that back porch despite the aluminum furniture - the front porch was always where it was at.

The house wasn't much when I lived there.  Four walls, jalousie windows, a few attempts at decent furniture.  The bed didn't have a headboard or footboard, and navy blue sheets covered the windows in the master bedroom.  I painted the walls to waive the deposit.  I was so poor, some days the only thing I consumed all day was a pot of coffee and a half gallon of milk.  But of course, I always managed to scrape up change to buy cigarettes.

I was poor but I was proud.  I remember a bright winter day, listening to an Offspring cd while I stood on a ladder outside in January.  The sun was warm, the music was loud.  Things were pretty simple back then.

I listened to a lot of Linkin Park in that house.  This morning, my 2.5-year-old son and I heard some in the truck this morning on our way to daycare - still reminds me of *** Street.  Always has, always will.

I wasn't overly happy with my life then, but I look back now and remember those times and smile.  It was my last time living a life where no one called me "mom."  *** Street is where I lived when I joined the Army:  I left at 5am on July 5, 2001, and I never stepped foot back in that house, yet it was a huge part of growing up and an enormous part of who I am today.

I had to ask.  I emailed said stranger via Facebook and asked if she happened to live at 3662 *** Street.  I told her I had once lived there -

I didn't expect to hear back, but she responded.

She lives at 3667, probably right across the street.

I told her I hoped her life turned out as great as this.   :)

Backyard bliss.

I finished "the semester before the last semester of my bachelor's program" last week, and I'm anxiously awaiting new classes to begin.  I have one week left:  one week of freedom, one week of relaxation, you name it.

What it really boils down to is that I'm playing a hell of a lot of Candy Crush Saga on Facebook, then acting shitty when it's time to pick up the kids because I feel like I wasted the whole day.  Hmph.

(*Note:  I'm not shitty to the kids.  Ever.  Okay, rarely, but only when they deserve it.  Playing "good cop, bad cop" is tough, because I'm always "bad cop."  Always.  Okay, sometimes.)

The spring rains started about a month ago and the backyard is beautiful.  It's a tropical oasis of sorts, complete with non-native trees which I insisted on having because they were different:  Drake elms.  Ugly as sin and bare in the winter, a beautiful, living canopy the rest of the year.  The kind of tree you unconsciously duck your head to walk under, even though you don't need to.  The shade of green that makes you swear the branches are tinting the light underneath.  Breathtaking.

For years, I've been a fan of bird feeders.  I've got two in my backyard that are a few years old that I honestly spent about $60 a piece on, and that might have been back in the days of my 10% off Lowe's employee discount pricing.  I'm a bird-a-holic.  They're peaceful, they're productive, they're chipper, ... they are everything I'm not before 9am noon.

Having time free from schoolwork and APA papers has left me with a lot of time to bird-watch, so I started spoiling them a bit.  I bought three new feeders for the yard:  two of the window variety complete with heavy-duty suction cups, and one long finch feeder for the little guy I see trying to tackle the big seeds in the regular feeders.  To lure the wary travelers to my window feeders, I bought them some dried mealworms.  I thought that sounded rather enticing, if I were a bird.

So far, nothing but a random night-time frog has been brave enough to visit the window feeders.  He (or she) was a mess, with bird seed stuck all over him/her.  It was enough to warrant an Instagram photo, that's for sure.

Say "cheese."

Anyway, it had come to its senses by morning and was nowhere to be found.  +1, frog.

The problem, which I haven't even begun to touch on, really topped out today.  Squirrels.  In the trees.  On the fence.  On the ground.  Squirrels were everywhere, and suddenly my fury with them has come to a head.  It's a standoff.  I've considered adding squirrel baffles to the feeders in my trees, but I can't figure out how to make them work.  First off, they're expensive.  Second, I have my feeders hanging in a tree.  There's really nothing to "baffle" the baffle around.  Plan B.

I tried shooting them.  All of them.  Every squirrel.  I even watched a few videos about how to field dress a squirrel so we could eat them for dinner.  (Waste not, want not and all that.)  But that's too aggressive.  It got my blood boiling today, and who wants that when they're supposed to be relaxing?  (Side note:  time to adjust the windage on the pellet gun.  I didn't hit squat, PETA.)

Plan C:  going to Lowe's to purchase materials to build my own bird feeder pole.  Safe, easy, relaxing, squirrel-free.  Plan goes into effect tomorrow.  Once it's finished, the only thing to piss me off for the rest of my "vacation" will be Candy Crush Saga, where the drama continues to unfold.

Also, shouldn't I be writing or something?  Wouldn't that be more relaxing?  More productive?  More riveting?  Yes.  Andddd yes.

Cherstin, out.

Update: The Desk.

Update:  The Desk is worth at least $3,200.  There is one on Ebay right now for that price that has been refurbished and half the drawers don't work.  I found out it is Asian Rosewood.  An Asian Rosewood Partner's Double Pedestal Desk.  Un-freaking-believable.

Moral?  Good things come to those who wait.  Hooray!   :-)

Cherstin and Desk, out.

The Desk.

If I were a superstitious person, I probably would have given up yesterday.  I would have turned around in the parking lot of the 7-11 and just come home.

I have been searching for a desk for quite some time, utterly convinced that the L-shaped, glass monster in my office was giving off nothing but bad mojo.  If it wasn't the desk, it was definitely the chair.  It was in the style of a tractor seat.  Plastic.  No arms.  Plastic.

Did I mention it was plastic?

When I left the house yesterday morning, nearly a half-hour late, I stopped in at the 7-11 to pull some cash out of the ATM.  Okay, I can't lie:  I also wanted a Starbucks Frappucino (in the glass bottle) and two Krispy Kreme donuts.  I pulled into the nearest available parking slot and grabbed my planner from my purse, flipping through the plastic "customer loyalty" cards to find my bank card.  It wasn't there.

I checked the entire contents of my purse:  there were a pair of sunglasses with one lens popped out, but no bank card.

Hmm.  This was a conundrum.

I realized there was a Publix behind me, and I had a check book.  Terrific.  I knew "cashing a check" was pretty old-school, but I always remembered that Publix had a Check Cashing service back in the day, so I pointed the truck in that direction.

Publix does, indeed, cash checks, but they only cash a personal check up to $75.  Not good, as I needed exactly twice that, and there went my idea of Krispy Kreme donuts.

Back to the truck I went, headed to the bank.  If anyone in town knows what an upstanding, responsible citizen I am, it must be the bank.  Indeed, I was able to cash a check at the bank, although I admit I had to ask the teller how to do it.  ("Write it out to 'cash' or to yourself, then sign the back," she said politely, smiling as only bank tellers do.)

I pulled out of the bank at the same time I was supposed to be arriving to pick up the desk, so I decided it would be a good time to call the shop and let them know I was on the way.  The guy I was meeting answered the phone -- I asked him, "Hi, is this Mister X?"  (Not his real name.)  He said, "Yes."  I said, "Hi, this is Cherstin, I'm the one who is picking up the desk this morning?"  (I'm not sure why I said that as a question, but I did.)  He said, "Yeah, okay, I'm on the other line right now so I'll have to call you back."  All I could say was, "Uhhh, okay, bye."

Now, I'm not sure about you, but at this point, I really questioned why I was about to drive 30 miles to pick up this desk.  So far, everything in its entirety had been working against me.  Was there even a desk?  Was I walking in to some sort of Craigslist trap?  Should I alert the authorities?  Should I stop to set up some kind of Last Will and Testament?  Even better:  I decided to stop at Dunkin' Donuts.  (I'd written the check at the bank for $50 more than what I needed for the desk.  Brilliant.)

Eventually, he did call back, and when I finally found the Auction House where the desk was located, I did have an initial "second thought" when I first saw this monstrosity.  It sat alone in a packed warehouse full of other people's discarded items, and it was huge.  Was it too big?  Is there such a thing?  I wasn't sure.  I just knew that I'd come to far and been through too much to turn around.  I said, "It's perfect.  I'll take it."

We--the desk and I--made the trip home and I only had to stop once to fix the straps so one of the three desk pieces wouldn't fall out of the truck bed.  I say I only had to stop once, but in reality, it was a double-duty stop:  I also had to turn around because I was headed the wrong way on the interstate.

If that was fate telling me, "DO NOT BRING THIS DESK INTO YOUR HOME," I pretended not to notice.

After some cussing and heaving by me and some rolling of eyes by my husband, we managed to get the desk inside to its new home, where it belongs.  Now I might be biased, but after a nice coat of furniture polish, I'm fairly certain we got this desk at a steal.  It's solid wood (which goes a long way to explain why it nearly broke my arms and back), it is a double desk for two, complete with drawers all over the place.  It has carvings and wooden handles that are also carved and it is absolutely the bomb.  It is the desk of all desks.  It is a behemoth.  If I were going to sell it, I'd ask around $4,000.  I'm not even joking.  It's 72 inches long, 42 inches wide, and it is going to keep me happy for years and years and years.  I love it, and that's what matters.   :-)

The moral of this story should be something like "don't give up on your dreams," or "never settle for less than the best," but it could also be "big desks rock."

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Cherstin and Desk, out.

  

Et tu, Brute?

While my mind swirls around thoughts of "Emergency Management and the Terrorist Threat" (that's chapter 9 from Introduction to Emergency Management, 4th ed.), I have come up with a short list of, oh, about thirty household projects to distract me from the joy of schoolwork.  One of these projects has come in the form of an office renovation.

Thanks to a new book I haven't even cracked yet, Daily Rituals:  How Artists Work, I have decided that the majority of my procrastination episodes have to do with this uncomfortable desk and chair I've been using for the past year or so.  The L-shaped, glass-top corner desk seemed like it was going to be the right desk for me, as did the plastic, modern-looking white armless chair I decided to order at the same time.  Let me tell you:  If you spend more than 3 hours a day sitting at a desk, do not opt for the modern, minimalist look.  It's all about comfort, baby.  You don't see commuters driving a plastic bicycle with a steel seat to work, so don't kid yourself that a plastic chair is going to be comfortable even if it does have a built-in butt groove.

In all reality, this beast of a desk I am going to pick up today at 11am could probably not be more wrong for this space.  My office is approximately 8' by nothing, and I'm putting in a six-foot desk.  I'm not even sure how this monstrosity is going to get through my front door.  But the picture and accompanying photo on Craigslist says it all:  ornate, vintage, $150 or best offer.  These are all things I can work with.

Finishing the painting and baseboards in the office?  Ehh, not so much.

Why is it that we I can become so excited about the out-of-the-ordinary tasks, like driving to pick up a new desk that probably weighs 300 pounds, but I can't seem to finish the mundane, boring tasks I start?

Probably because I'm so awesome, that's why.

Anyway, I'm on the hunt for an Allen wrench to begin the taking-apart of my current desk.  I think I have the perfect spot for it in the kitchen, replacing a small table I spray-painted last evening.  Now where am I going to put this table?

Cherstin, out.

Resolutions: 2013

Is it too late to begin?

My stomach hit the floor as I checked my blog, the stark reality hitting me square in the jaw:  I haven't written a blog since November of 2012.

Ouch.

So much for "daily updates."  So much for "just shut up, grab some coffee, and write."  Those words have fallen along the wayside, right next to "keep the house clean" and "everyone pick up their own mess."

I had the best intentions.

Realizing I hadn't had the opportunity to sit and write anything in a while, I had planned to get a few stories down on paper in 2013.  Maybe bring the characters in my novel back from my self-imposed limbo.  But 2013 hit with a vengeance and hasn't let up one iota since the calendar flipped.

I write:  oh, yes, I write.  I write papers about Quality Management.  I write discussion posts about Computer Crime.  As a matter of fact, over the last five weeks I've written a total of 30,000 words...but not a one had anything to do with anything related to fiction.  No plot, no characters, no dialogue.  So I sit, I plan.  I tell myself to schedule time for writing...and here I am.

I can always tell when I'm on a hot streak when it comes to creativity.  When I'm working on a story, my mind never shuts off.  Those are the nights I'm incredibly thankful for keeping a notepad on the bedside table.  My dreams become stories.  My bad habits become stories.  My brain throws up on paper, and I'm usually prepared to catch every last thought.

When I'm not working on anything, I don't dream.  I wait for them, but they don't come.  I ask myself why I don't dream.  What will I write about if I don't dream?  Then I realize it's a catch-22 and that in order to dream productively, I need to write.  Start with the writing, and the rest will come.

I'd like to make a resolution--right now--to start writing, but we know where those end up.

Until next time,
Cherstin

Geocaching.

Today, we are going geocaching.

It's something I heard about a few years ago.  I was pregnant with Caleb, shopping at the outlet mall up in Ellenton, when the cashier asked me where I was from.  I told her I'd driven up from North Port to go shopping for my husband's Christmas party.  (Read:  I needed a maternity dress that didn't make me look like a Christmas tree, which I had no luck finding anywhere in town.)

She exclaimed, "Oh!  North Port!  We just did some geocaching there."

Some what?  It sounded sort of illegal, but she also stated it in such a matter-of-fact tone that I figured I should know what this is.

"Geocaching.  Right on."  (I'm pretty sure that was my reply.)

Wondering what there actually was to do in this town besides "Be Pregnant," I looked it up online when I arrived home with my new dress.

In layman's terms, Geocaching is an outdoor activity involving GPS coordinates and a hidden box full of trinkets.  It's a treasure hunt, of sorts.  You pack some supplies, find the box, take something out and replace it with something of equal value, sign the log book, log your find at the Geocaching website, and be on your merry way.

Fast-forward to last night:  a backyard campfire, S'mores, some stories about the Myakka Skunk Ape, and we are ready to get out there and Geocache.  I'm excited.  Aidan is excited.  Caleb is still asleep.  (Par for the course.  He only gets excited about breakfast, lunch, and dinner.)

As much as I love my children, I'm tired of being the only parent on the weekends.  No more "waiting around" for dad to get home:  we're doing our own fun shit.  And we're doing it outdoors.  No more cleaning, sweeping, mopping, laundry.  We're getting out, we're getting dirty, and we're not coming home until naptime.   :-)

Have you heard of Geocaching?  Given it a try?  Any tips for us noobs?  I'll post an update later, hopefully with some pics of our first treasure.  Have a great Saturday, all.

Cherstin