It's all coming together. We were approved for the apartment (not a simple task, since we will both be technically unemployed when we move). I think I've finally identified a legitimate mover (not a simple task, since they all seem to be whacked-out scam artists around here). We finally made a dent in the thank-you note mountain (not a simple task, since we're both, um... whacked-out scam artists).
Now, if only I could manage the simpler stuff, like not scheduling hair appointments for when I'm actually supposed to be working... for my mother-in-law...
I totally forgot that she asked me to work this morning until late last night. Is my Halloween costume finished? No. As a result, I will be a chef today, and a bat tomorrow. Luckily, I've got the chef hat and apron just kicking around. Yeah, I'm that kinda wife.
I'm so messed up about this whole daylight savings time business. My other half has changed all the clocks, so it's not that... I've just lost all concept of what time it should be. Like right now, it's pitch black out, and I only realized thanks to the Channel 7 TrafficCam. Sunday was the longest day of my life. And my watch is doing something weird, something like advancing five-seconds at a time.
Incidentally, if you're all homesick for NY, I wouldn't recommend clicking the traffic link. You'll totally tear up.
When I was seven, I could finish Atari Adventure with my eyes actually shut. (This is the real reason I still read Metafilter.)
I have a phobia about vomiting. I know what you're probably thinking, and you're right, this doesn't bode well for my frequent tendency to vomit. First of all, I'm not good at the actual act of retching. What I am very good at is lying miserably still in bed, praying for respite from my discomfort, and in the process prolonging the bellyache. I just can't initiate. I can't, er, bring it up. I also can't fake-burp, and I'm pretty sure the two go hand-in-hand. And to add misery to misfortune, I can't do it in a toilet. There's something so awful about the walk to the bathroom, kneeling on the cold tile, hanging my head where my ass should go, and waiting for the rain. So I arrange for the presence of a bucket, or a garbage can, whatever, with a double-bag, placed bedside whenever I retire with a burning belly. And when it finally comes, I am snuggled from the waist down under my blankets, and I never miss the target, but it isn't a pretty sight. I vomit with my entire body. I puke from the mouth and the nose, and I weep. If I've been specially attentive, I've procured a box of tissues and a glass of water ahead of time.
A Hard Know to Think is moving to http://punkly.com/know. See you there in five minutes!
(Please update your bookmarks... I don't know how long this blogspot site will be around.)
I don't know if you noticed, but Halloween is coming up pretty soon. Here in New York, Halloween has a different name, and that name is October. The freaks have got their, um, freak on, and have been parading around for weeks. Maybe this contributes to the excitement in my classes, I don't know. Maybe it's the way that their parents have been promising them an unlimited supply of candy for just one day. Whatever is driving these children to harbor such manic urgency about the upcoming holiday, I want to get me some.
I can't mention anything remotely Halloweeny (bats, witches, ghosts, the color orange...) without several children screaming back at me. These are good kids, normally quiet and reserved, patient, sharing, and kind. When it comes to Halloween, however, they are like rampaging elephants in a crystal factory. Next Wednesday and Thursday at the school are not going to be pretty.
I worked three "full" days this week, and I am exhausted.
But not too tired to take a moment to wish Nicholas a happy birthday. I would like to chime in with Marc here and say that Nick is a great guy. An all-around super brother-in-law. He really does have everything. He's a successful architect, a social butterfly, and he's funny like a John Cusack movie. And, ladies, batten the hatches, he's single! If you're in the New York area and you're interested in meeting this handsome bachelor, just let me (or Marc) know. You must be stunning, confident, and a laugh riot. And since I know most of my readers fit these three categories, I figured this was a good place to advertise.
Just before Columbus Day, we tried to teach the kids at the nursery school about Christopher Columbus and his three ships. The emphasis was on Columbus' bravery, his importance to the history of the United States, and, since we live in a predominantly Italian neighborhood, his ethnic background.
To illustrate the mechanics of "sailing," we had the kids build little boats by sticking a coffee stirrer into a bar of Ivory soap and affixing a construction paper "sail." We created a miniature "ocean" using giant plastic tubs that we filled with water. The kids put the boats in the water and blew on the sails to send them across the ocean.
Of course, giant plastic tubs, when placed in the context of a three-year-old mind, really do look like oceans, and their hands, arms, and faces represent giant monster appendages just ripe for the dunking. So we pushed up sleeves, stepped back, and let them have at it.
While they were splashing around, we provided various examples of "obstructions" that Columbus may have encountered during his sail, such as rocks, ice (bergs) cubes, ... wadded up paper towels... orange candles... crayons... pretty much anything that wasn't nailed down. This gave us a great opportunity to discuss with the children the concept of density, or relative water displacement. Do you think the rocks will sink? was followed by a resounding chorus of YES and a couple of timid NOs.
During the morning session, I was lucky enough to be teaching in the adjoining room, and was privy to dialogue led by my (genius, seriously) cousin who was "in charge" of the lesson:
Teacher: So, which do you think is more dense? The rock? Or the candle?
Children: THE CANDLE
Teacher: Really?
Children: THE ROCK
Teacher: That's right! That's because the ratio of the mass to the volume of the rock is greater than that ratio in the candle. Understand?
Children: HEY, THIS ROCK FLOATS! HA HA! LOOK AT THIS FLOATING ROCK!
Teacher: That's because that rock has air bubbles inside, effectively removing some of the mass. It is less dense than the other rocks.
During the afternoon session, however, I was switched to the (now completely waterlogged) "ocean room" to lead the lesson for the second group of kids.
Kate: So, which do you think will float? The rock? Or the candle?
Children: THE CANDLE
Kate: Really?
Children: THE ROCK
Kate: That's right! That's because I got this special floating rock from the moon. Most rocks will sink, but I brought back this special floating rock just for you guys.
Children: YOU'VE NEVER BEEN TO THE MOON!
Kate: Then explain to me how this rock floats, smarty-pants! (with that, I dropped the rock in the water and watched as their faces lit up.)
Children: WOW! I WANT TO PLAY WITH THE MOON ROCK! GIVE ME THE MOON ROCK! CAN I SEE THE MOON ROCK NOW?
Which teaching method is better? You be the judge. Personally, I think a three-year-old is a lot more likely to remember that most rocks usually sink in the context of their teacher's moon rock not sinking, but maybe I'm wrong and a more complex definition of relative density was the way to go.
One of the more pressing jobs on my to-do list is finding movers. We're springing for the cost of movers because we're both so sick of relocating that we can hardly stand to discuss the actual details of the job. And since I'm supposedly the world's worst packer (what's wrong with packing books in a box meant for dishes?), we're going all out and hiring packers, too. This gives us the additional luxury of living this relatively calm lifestyle until the last minute, without having to add to the box-farm that we're already cultivating in the living room.
Is there something seedy about movers? A few burly men show up at your house, early in the morning, remove all of your possessions, pack them into a big truck, and drive away. You stay behind and sweep up, pack up your unmentionables and your aerosol cans, jam them into your tiny trunk, and hope against hope that when you arrive at your destination, those same burly men will be there with your same burly pile of worldly goods. My last roommate lost a desk chair in a move. How do you lose a whole desk chair? Yes, there is something decidedly seedy about the entire process.
So I called three moving companies just now. One is in Brooklyn, and guarantees their estimate. This is an option I was specifically seeking, since my last moving bill came to about 1.8 times the estimated cost. (My movers also appeared lacking the knowledge that they had also been hired to pack -- but that's an even sadder story.) They'll call me back tommorrow to arrange a time to come for the estimate.
The second was recommended by some of Marc's co-workers, and sports nothing but a Westchester area code and voicemail. I may never hear from them again. We'll see.
The third I found in the phone book. The intriguing, androgenously-named "Helen and Sons" specializes in domestic-abuse moves and offers discounts to senior citizens and veterans. I was told, hastily and via speakerphone, that a pack and move for a one-bedroom apartment, Bronx to Connecticut, will run me $580 (about one-fifth the cost I expected). Period. "No visit required?" asked I... "Nope, $580," replied Helen, or his son.
I don't know what I'll do. I guess I'll wait to hear from the other two, or at least the first one, and see if their estimates are even in the same ballpark.
I'm still trying to learn the spousal lingo, but who knew I'm going to work on the bills meant I'll be under the covers in the dark...? It's been a stressful week around here, and he does need some sleep, but I'm totally going to wake him up in a few minutes. He can sleep over the weekend.
I can finally stop being all playful and coy, and just put it out there: We are moving to Groton, Connecticut.
Marc's leaving his consulting company, and becoming an independent consultant. He's been working for his old boss for more than 5 years, so we wanted to make sure he didn't find out from anyone other than Marc. That's why I haven't been able to post about it, just in case. The link to our photos floats around (they are mostly here) and he could potentially (if he was really nosy) have wandered his way over here.
We'll be leaving New York, sadly, around November 15th. We applied for an apartment in Groton last weekend, and we should know this week if we've got it. It's the kind of apartment I've lived in several times over the last almost-ten years or so, and the kind of apartment that I always say I'll never live in again. But this time, it's in a place where we can actually afford to have more than just the teeniest-weeniest ground-floor hovel. And it's just for a year, after which we plan to buy something, somewhere, maybe, if we like it there. Otherwise we'll pack it up and move on again.
Will I work there? Who knows. Options include a nuclear submarine plant (no thanks), a pharmaceutical plant (can you say carpool?), and some other equally possible but not likely scenarios. I plan to look, but I don't know what I'll do. Design jobs will be hard to come by, I think. I'm considering getting certified to teach Math or Science (or maybe just Pre-K). Connecticut has a program where you can obtain your certification without getting a Master's degree, if you've already worked.
I'm not making it sound too great, but the truth is, I'm really excited about going. It will be nice to spread out in our gigantic apartment, see stars, hang around with suburbanites, and get that feeling of release that comes from moving out of New York City. I love that feeling, even though I love living here. I also love that the last time Marc and I shopped for an apartment together, we were defying our parents and looking for the cheapest two-bedroom in the East Village. This time, instead of accomodating our roommate Andrew in the spare room, we'll be housing visiting parents... take that!
I suppose this was inevitable. I don't see that paint job as an option on BMW's "build your own" website.
There is an event. Visualize a fire truck passing on the street. The lights are flashing, but the siren is silent. You (you are our protagonist, for now) face away from the street, toward a window. It is night. The window is reflective. The facade of the building catches the light from the truck. The image of your face is reflected in the window.
Do you
a) turn around and look at the fire truck?
b) watch the reflection of the truck passing?
c) watch the reflection of your face as the truck passes?
d) look away, watch your shoes or the bushes, etc.?
We'll see if Marc is brave enough to wear his Realtors Suck tee shirt tomorrow as we go apartment hunting.
I can't say anything else about that now. Except that he says the shirt is dirty, which sounds like a convenient excuse. Wouldn't a punk wear a dirty shirt? He is also standing next to me now.
2 excerpts from an old journal, inspired by Sarah B.:
1-31-91 Moral question:
Now that I'm mad at S., should I ask her for the $3.00 that she has owed to me for 3 months?
"Excuse me, S., woud you bring in the $3.00 that you owe me because after this, I only plan to speak to you in dire emergencies, like, if the school was burning down and you were trapped inside, and even then, I'm not sure I'd help you because that would be like seeing you rot in hell, which is exactly what would fulfill my fantasies, but anyway, I wouldn't want you to forget or anything, because then it would be like I was giving you money, which would really be awful." (pause for breath.) "By the way, I'd like it soon, because I might want to do something with my real friends."
1-15-91 In an hour and a half:
President George Bush is going to declare war upon Iraq.
There's something about a man who'll drag himself out of bed at 5 AM to swat a mosquito and present the bloody evidence of success to his wife, who is cowering under the covers, trying to perfect a hermetic seal around her bite-prone body.
I keep feeling like I can look up the future on the internet. Like, a search on Google for "Maryland shootings" should bring up the identity of the sniper. Or, "Iraq threat to U.S. nuclear" should let me know if Iraq is a real threat to the United States. Or, "bad haircut Kate 2002" should let me know if I'm going to look back on these days and wonder what I was thinking (I'm in the middle of an awkward phase).
Have you ever signed a non-disclosure agreement? Do you remember the terms? How about a non-compete clause? I was recently handed a contract to read over for a friend, and it contained both. At my last job, I signed an agreement regarding the ownership of my intellectual property without thinking too much about it, and then pretty much forgot about the whole thing until I started reading stories of part-time writers being fired left and right for having weblogs with silly stories about their co-workers. As far as the non-compete clause goes, I think it's a pretty tough thing to require of an engineer. There's not much hope of advancement within the technical departments of many small companies, so people end up moving up by moving on. What do you think?
me: Okay, we're going to color some pictures of words that start with G!
child: Oh, ugh! Do we have to?! I'm so so tired!
me: What? Come on, why are you so tired?
child: My new baby sister is nocturnal.
"It's like... I dropped my ice cream cone. And then you picked it up, and stabbed me in the back."
me: Bats are nocturnal. Who knows what nocturnal means?
child: Well, I know it's not a turtle. It's a bat.
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