Between two places

All week long I've been moving into my new condo one car load at a time. I intended to stretch it out over two weeks, but I'm not good at in-betweens. The Rose blood in me demands all or nothing, now or never. So I was up at 7 this morning loading stuff into my car, shuttling back and forth all day. Two friends from church came by in the afternoon to move the only things I couldn't get in my car - bed, desk, couch. Made a few trips to Home Depot. One trip to Goodwill, too. Though that didn't go as planned, since I came back with a car as full as the one I arrived with. The idea is to scale down, but I just cannot resist a thrift store bargain.

Managed to get quite a bit set up around the new place and even made time for dinner and a quick walk with a new writer friend.

Tonight I sleep for the first time in my new place. I always love the first night. It's like being on vacation and being home at the same time.

Later in the week I'll post some photos and a few updates on Adventures in Home Ownership Part Deux.

Jack and Jan

My grandpa swears it happened the instant he spotted Jan on campus in her pink sweater and black skirt. Always a sucker for a classy dresser, that Jack. On one of their first dates, he took her dancing at Balboa Pavilion. In my imagination, the scene has the sepia tones of a World War II film.

Jack in his snappy sport coat and wingtips, endearing her with his unbridled laugh and calling her “Jannie Mae” though he hardly knows her well enough for a pet name.

Her flashing eyes match the near-black of her hair in the ballroom glow. She’s demure. He orders a drink and forgets about it when the band strikes the first few notes of a favorite tune. He jumps from his chair and lets out one of the loud guffaws that charges from deep in his chest when he’s truly pleased.

The bandleader has read Jack’s mind and he has no choice but to dance, though he’s not much for the contagious twirling of the era. He holds her close in a shuffle, only occasionally coinciding with the beat of the music. No matter. She’s distracted by his warm breath on her ear as he sings along. She blushes to match the sweater she wore the day he fell in love.

I wasn’t there. But I don’t have any trouble imagining my grandparents as young lovebirds. They've been like that my entire life. How do you stay so in love for 60 years? If Jack and Jan sold the answer, I’d be the heir to a tremendous fortune.

And I’d give it all away just to know their secret.

Bell Ringers

This news just in from the “Why didn’t they think of it sooner?” department:

A Charlotte high school is putting sensors in the helmets of its starting football players so they can tell how hard their noggins get conked on the field.

“Getting your bell rung” is what the players call it, and from what I hear most just consider it part of the game. For some reason, high school football coaches are just now realizing that hard smacks to the head can lead to brain injuries. . . ?

If you want to know how fragile the brain is, ask any family member of an Iraq War veteran. Or you can ask about my dad’s accident sometime. Heck, you might as well just ask Steve Young. . . didn’t his career end because of one too many bumps on the head?

Now I’m a big fan of watching a football game on a cool fall day (preferably at Cougar Stadium with a thermos full of hot chocolate!) But I really don’t know why mommas let their boys play the sport. Brains are a scary thing to play roulette on.

It’ll be interesting to see what happens with this Charlotte team now that players and coaches will know exactly who’s head is getting hit, and how hard. Up til now, they’ve just watched for the tell-tale loopiness that comes with a concussion. I'm curious to see if they end up pulling more players from the field or changing the way they tackle. . .

Score one for the computer science nerds!

Rainy Days and Frizz Days Always Get Me Down

By the time Tropical Storm Fay arrived in Charlotte today it had been “downgraded to a tropical depression” as the weathermen keep saying. Depressed is how I’d feel, too, if I were downgraded. And it’s precisely how I feel today in the face of growing evidence that I’m destined to look like a Q-tip for the duration of my stay in the south.

Mind you, this frizz-fest is not a result of running around in the rain. It’s a result of the mere presence of rain. Leaving home this morning, my coif was flat-ironed to perfect straightness along the front and sides. I heard the rain splashing violently outside my window but somehow convinced myself that with an umbrella, I could preserve the straight hair I slave for and covet in others.

The reality of humidity is finally sinking in. (Yes, I’m a slow study.)

I've been teasing and straightening my hopelessly frizzy follicles since 7th grade, praying that someday I would stumble on the Holy Grail of Hair and be magically transformed into Brooke Shields from the scalp up (though I wouldn't mind looking a little like the rest of her either).

Once I even had a professional salon straighten my hair with some kind of acid that left oozing boils all over my scalp. I was thrilled. Boils were a small price for the most luxurious straight hair I'd ever known. Then flat irons became fashionable and I discovered what a few minutes of very hot metal will do to curly hair (and any flesh that gets in the way).

After 34 years you’d think I’d be able to accept what God gave me. There's a lot about myself I have learned to be happy with. In the hair department, I’m still in hopeless denial.

Porch Swing

There's a perfect spot for a porch swing on my new patio and I'm now obsessed with finding one.

Dad made a swing for the front porch of our old pioneer house in Provo. It was polished pine and sturdy enough to hold three or four of us sides, crammed side by side, me stretching one leg to the ground every three or four rotations to keep us moving.

It hung from the roof of the porch and swung out over the bushes. Lean too far you’d drop into mom’s flowers. We never did it on purpose – at least not when she was watching.

Five kids and dad’s grad school income left little money for fancy toys. We pooled our imaginations to fill those long desert summer days. The swing was our pirate ship, our space shuttle. The shady crevice under the bushes next to the house – the spot you had to army crawl into on your belly – was our secret hideaway. The dumpster for the strip mall across the street was our treasure chest.

Once we found trash bags full of discarded popcorn from the movie theater in that dumpster. At the end of the night, they had to get rid of the leftovers in the machine. It was perfectly fine popcorn. Couldn’t let it go to waste. We ate until we were sick and never told mom why we weren’t in the mood for pizza at dinner.

The day we found hundreds of rolls of adding machine paper in that dumpster we thought we’d hit the jackpot. My brother convinced us that we could unspool them in a pile on the lawn and dive into them from the top of the porch stairs.

“It’ll be like diving into foam! Or hay! Or soft snow!”

Our littlest sister went first – the most daring of us. She sunk like a rock on the paper, smacking her nose on the lawn. We shushed her to keep it from getting back to mom. The rest of us went butt-first and didn’t have any better luck.

It rains that afternoon. The adding paper disintegrates into the grass. A mushy white paste, blanketing the yard like a miraculous summer snowstorm.

My excited brother calls us to the window. The rain is stopping. We’re already in the basement pulling out our sleds.

Off the Mountain

We stopped for ice cream on our drive down the mountain. I wasn't really hungry for it, but wanted to delay our reentry into Charlotte. The scoop of peanut butter fudge swirl over a gooey brownie was a shock to my system after two days hunkered down in the mountains thinking only of words.

It was my first writing retreat and it will most certainly be the first of many more. I was challenged in ways I haven't been in a very long time - if ever. I'm inspired to work harder at my creative side on the paper. If we're lucky, it'll pay off for you here in my blog.

For now one of my first endeavors at a poem since the sixth grade assignment where I a sappy rhyme about seagulls. Poetry terrifies me. Thanks to this weekend, I think maybe I'm getting over that. Be gentle in your critique.

Facing the final hours of my writing retreat

The sand is getting into my nose,
Little grits working between
My pursed lips.

I’m not ready to pull my head out
Where life can ruffle the feathers
On my face.

Me and the Bank

The bank and I are partners in crime. Condo purchase papers signed. Check delivered. Keys in hand.

And I'm off for a weekend of writing and hiking in the mountains at a place called Little Switzerland, NC. Check out the cool spot where our retreat is happening.


Monday's blues are long gone.

Psst! You Wanna Buy Something?

Today I become a homeowner again. . . supposed to sign the papers in about an hour. I'm using the term "home" loosely here because as I've mentioned before, the place is small. 700 sq feet small. Which is fine for me, since I really only need a corner to drop my stuff.

When I moved out here in January, everything I own fit tightly-packed in a box 8x8x10. But that's still too much for the new place. So I've been getting rid of stuff and before long I may be back to my college days when everything fit in my car.

The need to scale back has plunged me into craigslist. You can buy everything there - legal or not. I've so far sold a table and chair, a bed and a few decor items. Next week I rendezvous with a buyer for my washer/dryer. The thing about craigslist is that if you post something at the right time and with the right price point, you will be flooded with emails from interested buyers and the flood won't stop until you remove the listing. It's overwhelming. I could just donate the stuff to Goodwill, but with craigslist people come and take it off your hands. . . nice when you don't have a truck to haul stuff away in. Plus I make a little money. And so far it's working. I just need to improve my timing so that I'm not unleashing the email onslaught in the middle of a busy week and no time to keep up with the responses!

Back to School

Today was my nephew's first day of the new school year in a new school. My sister posted a photo of him in his new school clothes, spotless new sneakers, ready to head out the door. She said he was so nervous/excited he was nauseous.

I miss that feeling. In all of my adult life I've never found anything that truly compares to the anticipation and anxiety I used to feel going back to school after a long summer of play. Planning the wardrobe. Packing and repacking the backpack. Memorizing my class schedule, locker number and combo when I got to high school.

The first day of a new job seems like the closest comparison, but it doesn't feel the same. Maybe it's because I know I'm gonna be at work way past 2:30 p.m. and I'm going to be expected to do real world stuff with real world consequences instead of practice problems in a workbook.

And there's no chart on the wall of my cubicle with little stars and smiley faces to chart my progress toward year end, when I get another 2 months of glorious summer vacation.

Blue

Started the week off feeling blue-blah, only wanting to sleep and avoid life. I only wish I knew why. This happens and I usually just hole up and hope it evaporates before long. Thought it might help to make a list of things I'm looking forward to this week:

1. New boss in town (and judging from the way it went today, this will be a very good thing.)

2. Relief Society sisters gathering for a potluck social hour on Thursday (they always boost my spirits and potlucks are my favorite!)

3. My condo is set to close on Friday (this could turn into a bad thing, but so far it appears to be set for a smooth run.)

4. Friday afternoon I leave for a weekend in the mountains at a writing retreat (never done something like this before! really looking forward to the guidance and insight others will share. hoping it inspires me to write more/better. plus there's good food, hiking and mountain air in store!)

College Daze

There's a phenomenon in the Mormon world I like to call "home from BYU for the summer." Pretty inventive term, I know. The college kids come home for summer to remind the rest of us how old we are. It's been fun having them around though. They give the ward a nice lift.

But now they're headed back to Zion, along with several kids just leaving home to be freshman at the Y.

I'm not prone to nostalgia, but I had a flash of it today - mixed with some envy - saying goodbye to the BYU bound today at church. They're planning their dorm room decor, excited about their roommates and their class schedules and I couldn't help but miss those days a little. Which is funny, since I didn't appreciate them when I was in them. I hated the dorms. And I was so focused on graduating and going on a mission that I didn't savor college much.

128 credits were required to graduate. I had 130 and was done in 3 1/2 semesters (with an 18-month gap in the middle for the mission).

I didn't linger. I should have. Things may have turned out differently. Better even?

Why am I always in such a hurry to get on to the next thing in life?

From the same idiots . . .

. . . who think it's clever to advertise plastic surgery in the locker room, comes this gem.



Seriously?! I've been working out at this gym for months and I've never once seen the stalls tied up by people getting dressed. These signs remind me of those overbearing gym teachers in junior high demanding we shower in those open-air-six-to-a-spigot contraptions designed to torture and humiliate just-developing girls. The overbearing managers at my gym have apparently forgotten that we are adults who pay very good money to use their facilities.

Luckily I long ago got past any concern for exposure in a women's locker room. But if someone with a modest streak feels the need to dress in private, I think that should be part of her right as a dues-paying gym member. And I hope she demands it. In fact, I've half a mind to demand it for her, just because I'm feeling a little confrontational these days. Sheesh.

Hobby Shopping

I think I need a hobby other than checking out movies from the library, sampling imported snacks at Trader Joe’s or writing this blog. I haven’t picked up the accordion or the guitar in too long. It’s been years since I tap danced. My routine of reading books on the stationary bike at the gym, working all day and coming home to watch lame TV (or library movies) until bed is getting stale. I usually spend at least one night during the week doing church service, so that’s good. But I’m happiest when I’m busy and contributing. More than a hobby, I think I’d like a volunteer gig. Once upon a time I was really good at volunteering for various organizations and it felt good to contribute my time, since my pocketbook isn’t deep enough to make much of a difference.

Then I switched careers and my schedule became unpredictable and erratic, so I dropped the volunteer gigs. Now my schedule is more predictable, rendering the “I can’t make a regular commitment” excuse empty.

Today I learned about North Carolina’s volunteer guardian ad litem program. Every child in an abuse or neglect case is supposed to have a volunteer looking out for their wishes. The volunteer meets with the child at least once a month and talks to all the other people involved – parents, family, teachers, social workers, doctors, church leaders, etc. to understand what the child wants and what might be best for him. The volunteer writes the report and then appears in court with an attorney for the child to argue on his behalf before the judge. It’s a huge responsibility, but really only a 10-15 hour-a-month commitment. And it’s not like being a big sister or mentor – no trips to the ice cream shop, gifts or outings. It’s more of a legal advocate relationship, which is good for me, since I'm not tremendously warm and fuzzy.

And there’s a huge shortage of these volunteers in NC right now. I have to say I’m really tempted to sign up. Maybe it’s the idea that I’d be doing what I’m best at – digging around for information, asking questions, assessing situations. Maybe it’s the idea of sticking up for a child who can’t stick up for himself. Maybe I just gravitate to the heavy stuff. When I lived in California, I helped run a tutoring program for minority kids in the rough part of town and answered phones for suicide crisis line.

I should probably just take up knitting.

Sometimes they suprise you

When I get a greeting card, I skip right to the handwritten message. The poem or joke printed on the card usually disappoints, anyway. I picture cubicle farms filled with marginally clever people filling daily quotas of trite phrases for every occasion.

So when a birthday card arrived from my mom this week, it took me several readings to realize I was quite possibly the most inappropriate and unexpected card I could imagine coming from my conservative mom - short of one featuring a half-naked beefcake in a speedo. Thank goodness it wasn't that.

The note in my mom's handwriting is a funny apology about how she found it in a box of cards she picked up at a garage sale and decided I was the only person she could send it to appropriately. I don't know what that says about me, but I love her for saying it! The best part is that she signed her name and my dad's to the card. If it's surprising coming from my mom, it's inconceivable to get a risque card from my dad. I'm certain he didn't sign off on having his name attached to it! In fact, he's probably only now discovering the heresy as he reads this. Sorry Mom! Just wait to see what I send you on your birthday!

In other birthday news - this is the card my nephews sent. It's about 5 feet long and filled with drawings of their favorite sports teams. BYU and UofU figure prominently. Luckily I sold my kitchen table recently, so I have a big empty spot on the floor that's perfect for showing this off!

Birthday Dates

Birthday dates were the thing when we were kids. Mom would cook our favorite meal (I could never decide, so usually left it up to her) and favorite cake (again, hard to decide since the only prerequisite is SUGAR) and Dad would take us out for a "Birthday Date" to spend our birthday money. It usually involved a trip to the toy store when we were young, or a trip to Sears to try on clothes when we got older. And there had to be a stop at Baskin Robbins for ice cream.

Birthday dates were just about the best part of having a birthday, because we got something new and we got rare one-on-one time with Dad.

I'm too far away for a date with Dad this year, so my fabulous siblings lined me up with the man of my dreams. I'll be right up front, singing along to every song, giving him googly eyes and maybe if I'm lucky, he'll have his people bring me backstage so I can clam up all bashful and say something lame like "Great show. I'm a huge fan." The show's not until October, so I've got plenty of time to pick the perfect outfit.

So Happy Birthday to me! Thanks to the great friends and family members who've wished me well today. This message from my nephews made my day. I love/miss you all!

I'm off to devour a decadent piece of chocolate torte with calories worthy of my 34 (gasp) years.

One of these things is not like the other

The hazards of dressing at 3:30 a.m. I was at work four hours before I even noticed. This early morning shift should come with a warning from the fashion police: "Getting dressed before the sun comes up can be dangerous to your style."

Praising God

Sundays I'm reminded I really do live in the Bible Belt. This morning I had 15 minutes to kill before leaving for church, so I turned on the TV and found four out of six network stations broadcasting sermons. One preacher from Texas really pulled me in. It wasn't the disturbingly slick and handsome Joel Osteen, though. It was some other guy with a heavy twang, a goofy laugh and a very hearty "Aye-menn." Entranced, I was nearly late for church.

I keep meaning to count all the churches I pass on the way to meetings every Sunday, but I always lose count at around ten. They're all types - and all with full parking lots. One even has an overflow lot about a mile away, with a shuttle and a police escort to direct traffic.

I love Sundays. Aye-menn!

Wild West

I live in a pretty nice part of Charlotte, close to an area where people buy million dollar homes. It's not the hood. I never feel nervous, but I'll admit the following email weirded me out a bit. It's a description of a crime that took place at the shopping mall where I buy my groceries and along my jogging route. Totally random and weird. I was considering taking a jog around the time this happened this morning, but opted to lounge in bed and read. My sloth was inspired!

From today's police report:

An armed robbery suspect fleeing police at a high rate of speed crashed at the intersection of Scott Avenue and East Blvd. Shortly after 9:30 this morning, Saturday, August 9, 2008. The suspect is in critical condition at CMC and the occupants of the van he hit sustained minor injuries.

The incident began when the suspect attempted to rob a woman at gunpoint in a parking lot across the street from Park Road Shopping Center. The victim, who received minor injuries as she fought off the suspect, flagged down a CMPD officer who was driving by. The suspect fled that scene on foot, taking a path through a breezeway of a nearby church and headed toward a parking lot on Ashcraft. Witnesses showed the officer the direction in which the suspect headed and he pursued on foot. The suspect tossed the gun he had been carrying up onto the roof adjacent to the breezeway. That gun has been recovered.

The suspect got into a blue Mustang and took off northbound on Park Road at a high rate of speed. A second CMPD Officer was in the vicinity and spotted the suspect vehicle. The officer turned his marked police unit around, activated blue lights and siren and began to follow the suspect vehicle, which at this point is estimated to be several hundred yards ahead of him speeding down Park Road.

The officer lost sight of the suspect vehicle until he came upon the crash site at Scott and East.

Is that a Law and Order episode, or what? Like I said, I actually live in a very nice, safe part of town. I know it's just a matter of time before I get a call from my mom telling me I'm not allowed to go jogging any more. Don't worry mom. I hardly need an excuse to stop jogging. I hate it anyway.

Idling a few hours with Will

I found this BBC series at the library while picking up another DVD I had on hold (The Outsiders - can't remember ever watching it, popped to mind for some reason and decided to request it.) This afternoon I watched two of the Shakespeare Retold mini-movies. They're delightful and they feature some of my favorite lesser-known Brit actors. James McAvoy, Rufus Sewell, Damian Lewis. Some people are suckers for Jane Austen re-tellings. I love a good modern-day Shakespeare. The Macbeth one was intense though. Lots of blood and sadness, set in the blue-lit kitchen of a high-end restaurant.

Kitchen Confidential

This is what the kitchen in my new condo looks like. A few words come to mind: Dated. Utilitarian. Dull. I'm not terribly particular about my living quarters - no need for the trendiest, latest and greatest. But this is a very tiny condo and the kitchen is right in the middle of the main living area. Which is great because it makes the space seem very open. But it also means that unless I'm in the bedroom or the bathroom, I am within sight of the kitchen. And I simply cannot spend the majority of my time at home looking at this kitchen.

So I'm going to remodel it. Update, is perhaps a better word. And right now I'm going to admit that I'm in way over my head. I've been getting estimates, visiting counter and cabinet shops, talking to my brother and mom (who know much more about these things) and really it's quite overwhelming, both in scale and price. Even if I opt for just refacing the cabinets and bottom-of-the-line granite counter, it looks like it's going to cost as much as I paid for my car. Oh dear. I think all of those home makeover cable TV shows have ruined me. They make it look so cheap and easy, you forget they are pros with a lot of resources at their disposal.

I'm convinced it will be worth it - both because it will increase the resale value of the condo and because I'll be able to sit in my living room without having to avert my eyes. But oh dear.

It's none of my beeswax. . .

. . . but seriously, John Edwards. You've run for president twice. You've seen Bill Clinton and Elliot Spitzer and endless other politicians go down the same path. Did you honestly think you could get away with it, all the while boasting to the world of your steadfast support for to your cancer-stricken (and amazingly well-spoken) wife? And to risk it all on a campaign floozy, fergoodnessake! I know floozy's a strong word. But if your story's true, she was carrying on with you at the same time she was off allowing another of your staffers to father her child.

And now I hear that tonight you'll try to make it all good by declaring the whole mess a "terrible mistake" on national TV. And you'll even try to regain our trust by vowing that you "didn't love her." And right there's my biggest gripe with this whole thing. It's your business if you want to go around ruining your life and family. But to suggest that the rest of us will be okay with your stupidity as long as we believe you didn't put your heart into it. You may as well just go on TV and call us a bunch of idiots. Yes, we are way too obsessed with political sex scandals. But we're not too dumb to realize that if you're willing to risk so much for something you never really believed in, you're probably not the right guy to run the country.

You've been a favorite North Carolina son for a long time, John Edwards. I'm sure glad I never voted for you, and it's got nothing to do with your politics.

I Scream, You Scream . . .

The ice cream truck didn't come through our 1980s Provo neighborhood often. We didn't live in the most kid-infested part of town. And when it did come jingling along 300 West, Mom's answer - with five kids and a tight budget - was always "Have a popsicle from the freezer." If this had come to a stop on our corner, I bet her answer would have been different!


Painted up like the Scooby Doo Mystery Machine and outfitted with the loudest sing-song chimes you've ever heard, this truck is roaming Charlotte's streets all summer handing out FREE BOOKS. Honest-to-goodness, brand-spanking-new paperbacks on the hottest topics of the day. Hannah Montana, High School Musical, vampires, pirates, mysteries, romances, picturebooks for non-readers. Something for everyone. Even some used books from the public library's adult collection for the parents who feel left out.

I'm a colossal bookworm and never had much use for playmates when there were pages to turn. I read through the entire Nancy Drew collection at my elementary school library three times and developed a secret system for marking my favorites. I would pore over the booklet they'd send home in advance of the yearly Book Fair when the lucky, rich kids could buy books on-the-cheap to start their very own collections.

Books in our house never came new from the fair. They came from the racks of nickel and dime bargains at the thrift store once they'd served a tour in the library. They usually still had the check out cards and pockets glued inside their covers. Playing library was one of my favorite games.

This truck - sponsored by the Charlotte Public Library - visits the same neighborhoods several times a week and kids can get a new book every time. They go mostly to the projects where kids usually don't get to spend much time in the library. By the end of summer, they'll have a shelffull - their very own library. Beats ice cream any day.

Don't use that tone with me!

Someone I spoke with today for a project I'm working on had her handler call me back to chastise me for the tone of voice I used in our conversation. Apparently I sounded too confrontational and she didn't like my line of questioning.

Luckily that call came at 6:30 p.m. because it totally ruined what was left of my day.

I had no intention of being confrontational. I was a bit stressed, though, and sometimes that can come off as cutting. My parents used to get on my case, too, about a certain tone of voice that seems to lurk inside of me. If I'm not careful, it has a way of bursting out - often without me even noticing.

There are some people in my line of work who cultivate a "gotcha" approach and pride themselves on being disliked/feared. I'm torn. On one hand, I don't want to be seen as a pushover, afraid to ask the tough questions or stick up for herself. On the other, I'm deeply insecure and want - even need - people to like me.

And now I'm going to be paranoid about my tone of voice during every conversation I have for at least a week.

No wonder I prefer spending time alone. Being nice to people is exhausting.

Hummingbirds!

Did you know that hummingbirds don't sing, so they communicate with each other through acrobatics? And every year they start their migration on the exact same day. Somehow they're able to know what day it is by the length of time the sun is in the sky. They fly hundreds of miles from Canada to Mexico, stopping at many of the same backyard bird feeders and flowering gardens. Isn't that remarkable?

We know all of this thanks to about 100 hummingbird banders in the country. They trap hummingbirds and put little aluminum bracelets on their legs with a unique number, so the next time a bander catches the bird, they can note its location, weight, length and so forth. It's intricate work, since hummingbirds are the size of a small plum and weigh little more than a dime. To keep the bird still while putting the band on, they put it into the toe of a woman's nylon and flip it over on its back.

Yesterday I met two of these banders at the botanical gardens here in Charlotte. It took me back to those summer mornings watching Grandma carefully mix sugar water for the hummingbird feeder on her SoCal patio. Those bright-red plastic flowers on the feeder seemed to gaudy to me, but apparently hummingbirds can see red from 3/4 of a mile away. And I was quite the skeptic when Grandma claimed she would see her same hummingbird friends come back each summer. Yesterday I learned that she was totally right!

Here's a cool video of the bander releasing one of the hummingbirds. First she sets it on the little girl's palm. Several of them actually sat still on the child's palm for a few seconds before flying off. This one was anxious for freedom.

I'm Back

Today I rejoin the land of the living where people drive to work with regular morning traffic, watch prime time TV at night and go to bed after the sun sets.

For one week, at least. I get to work a regular day shift for 5 days before doing another week on this nutty 4 a.m. shift. Phew!

I wonder if it'll be easy to get back on a normal sleep schedule? It's 6:20 p.m. and I'm already nodding off. . .

Today I watched another movie to fill the late-afternoon-exhausted-nothing-but-junk-on-TV hours. "Bella" was so NOT what I was expecting. The cover art looks like one of those dreadful Nicholas Sparks sugar-fests so I've ignored it on Redbox for months. My sister even told me to see it (but our tastes rarely coincide, so that was a point against it).

It's a lovely, sad film with a dreamy Latin leading man. A low-budget indie success story. And it's not even a romance! See it if you're feeling tender, thoughtful, introspective.

I've had my fill of movies for awhile, now. Or at least a week. Not sure how else I'll fill my afternoons when I have to do the mornings again in 7 days. For now I'm just going to focus on the thrill of knowing that I don't have to hit the sack while the sun's still high in the sky!