Declaration Acclimation: Project Slither

I know I haven't written in a while, but I just couldn't figure out what to write about. Not much new has happened other than I have a job now which is causing my beer intake to increase exponentially. That's another story though. Now, the cold weather in Oregon is setting in, and I'm looking at it from one angle: acclimation for Alaska. In case you didn't catch it in a previous post, I'm living in my parents' basement. The heating unit for our house is on the ground floor, and if I learned anything from science class, it's that heat rises. Long story short: my room is never graced with a square inch of warmth or that sweet smell of hot air moving through dusty vents.

I've been calling my room the "Batcave" for two reasons: 1. it allows me to escape from my parents, and 2. it just sounds cool. Now, I can look at it in a new light. I'd say I was hibernating down here, but that doesn't seem right since it's freezing down there. So, I'm calling it hyper-acclimation. As many people have been so kind to point out to me, it's going to be COLD in Alaska, freezing actually. Who knew? Thank you so much for bestowing that knowledge on me, by the way. So, now you can all rest in silence knowing that your dear Natty is practicing for that "cold weather" you speak of, thanks to my basement bedroom. (Not to mention the 2 years living in South Africa in a cinder block house with no central heat and leaky windows.)

My parents have supplied me with a space heater for my bedroom, but I've decided not to use it. Space heaters are for the weak. I still sleep with the window open every other night, partially because I like the sound of the perpetual rain, but mostly because I seeing your breath in the morning is good for you. Better than smelling it anyway. I never wear socks, so my feet are quickly becoming used to being numb. And most importantly, I'm mastering the art of the slither.

Yes, the slither. You know that moment in the early morning, when it's still dark outside, and you really have to pee, but you don't want to get out of bed because you've spent all night creating that perfect cocoon? Well, I've discovered that as long as you slither out from under the blankets quickly enough and run (with squinted eyes, of course, so it's easier to fall back to sleep) to the bathroom, and then slither back under the blankets in exactly the correct way, then the warmth stays exactly where you left it. Also, the cocoon feels even better after a quick dash down the cold, dark hallway. And that, that is how I'm acclimating myself to Alaska. I hope your minds are now and forever set at ease.

Creeponomics

The other day, I dropped by the county library, got myself a library card for the first time since I was like 12. I think I mentioned this in some previous entry, but the last time I had a library card, I'm pretty sure I held out on paying a 50 cent fine I accumulated at the age of 12 until I moved away at the age of 17. So, this was a big moment for me. I still had a slight fear these librarians would know somehow. I know that I'm on a completely different side of the country and these librarians have never seen me before. But still! Isn't that a requirement for librarians...they must know all? They're old enough.

Plus, I've decided I don't trust small towns and their gossip. They have such crazy networks and magical powers, I'm starting to think that small town mayors everywhere collaborate, meet every year and relate all the goings-on in their respective towns. How Jane dared to marry a boy from the town 30 minutes down the road and how that would mess up the dynamics of next week's football game, how Jake is moving to Mayor Jones's town but that Mayor Jones should know that Jake has a drinking problem - he likes to have beer once a week, shame. I might be paranoid. But surely I am in a computer file somewhere as being a library fine dodger. Or, did that go away when I turned 18? If so, I've wasted a lot of my time worrying about 50 cents.

Anyway, after getting my library card from the little old lady, I wandered around the rows of fiction, trying to figure out their system. Not that it's different from any other system - that's just my excuse for walking around aimlessly and smelling books. Don't judge me.

So, I'm innocently standing there in the middle of the fiction section, looking at a sign, trying to remember my alphabet, when this dude in his late 30s comes up. (That's me being generously young. I've never been good with ages. I'd talk to an 18-year-old thinking he was 25.) Anyway, this guy pauses in front of me for a second blocking my view, and just kind of whisper mumbles, "You're pretty." At least, I think that's what he said, he was awfully quiet. Not inside voice library quiet, but like, send chills up your spine creepy quiet. I kind of looked at him for a second, half-way smiled - I didn't know what else to do! - and moved on down the aisle. I peeked at him through the gaps in the bookshelves, and I saw him glance over his shoulder a couple of times as he walked in the opposite direction. Perhaps, he was hoping I would follow him to a dark corner for some sort of library fantasy of his. I DON'T KNOW!

Okay, normally, I might be a little flattered, grateful that I'm not actually invisible. But this guy was like 40-something with a really really bad goatee. In my automatic bright side moment as a die-hard optimist, I thought, "Well, at least I somewhat interacted with a real human today." But then, I started to really think about it, and I decided that anyone who just walks up to some random stranger, in a library no less, and whispers, "You're pretty," has got issues. I don't care if he's 24, drop-dead-gorgeous and has a million dollar trust fund. It's just creepy.

I've Been Glory-fied

Wow, I'm behind. I've been doing a lot of other writing in the last week...and pressure washing. I spent a total of like 10 hours pressure washing last week. I have no inclination of turning it into a business though. (Confused? Check out Dream Come True?) For one, I can't seem to go more than 5 minutes without getting tangled up in the cord, the water hose, or the hose of the pressure washer. This leads to curse words, water spewing everywhere, and a red-faced Natty. I'm not cut out for this crap.

The other day, I was attempting to wash my sheets in that bleary-eyed state of I-just-woke-up-and-I'm-not-quite-sure-of-the-world's-existence, and I accidentally dumped the fabric softener into the compartment for detergent. First of all, my parents have some fancy new-fangled machine that supposedly saves water and there are way too many compartments. Second, I'm not used to using fabric softener. When I was a poor college student, that was one of the first things I skimped on. Why have soft clothes when I could, you know, eat, or drink beer?

Well, shit. How did I know if this mistake wasn't going to fuck something up in the inner-workings of the fancy machine. So, I ran up the stairs into my mom's room and said, "Mom, mom, I made an oops," like I was five years old and she hadn't just spent a kajillion dollars on my college education. Turns out, it wasn't that big of a deal, but still...

When my parents and I lived in South Africa, we inherited a live-in housekeeper from the people who lived in the house before us. Her name was Glory, and her story is pretty fascinating...and depressing, but that's for another time. She was incredible. She mopped two or three times a week, washed all of our clothes almost daily, washed dishes, cleaned the bathrooms and kitchen all the time...basically, she spoiled us. We'd never had this luxury before. (Not to mention, we also had a gardener named Fanny who kept our yard BEAUTIFUL.) Every once in a while she'd majorly screw something up though. She'd wash dad's shirts with a pen in the pocket, she'd shrink my shirts, she'd leave the hot iron on a shirt long enough to leave a triangle burn mark, she'd bleach something she wasn't supposed to, etc. After any of these mess-ups, she'd run into the house yelling, "Ma'am, ma'am, I made mistake," in her broken English and Tsutu accent. To this day, I can still here it. I miss her voice, and the way "ma'am" always sounded vaguely close to "mom." Anyway, obviously, we never got angry about her mistakes; we just coined an adjective to describe the item...it was "Glory-fied."

When we came back to the US, my mom wished she could have brought Glory with us. She had become our friend, and she was also nice to have around for all that shit you didn't want to do. Now, instead of Glory, she has me. Hence why I'm pressure-washing, cleaning the house for company, washing dishes, cleaning the kitchen and bathrooms, doing laundry, and yes, screwing up a lot. Mom's even started calling me Glory. Not sure how that looks on my resume...but hey, it's something.

Dream Come True?

Well, it looks like the family dream is coming true. Let me rephrase that...it looks like my father's family dream is coming true. Growing up, Dad only expected a few things out of my sister and brother and I:

1. You must learn to fish.
2. Never ride your bike without shoes on. Flip flops don't count.
3. You're not taking a car to college your freshman year. So, forget it.
4. He'd front the cost of a pressure washer if you wanted to start a pressure washing business. 

Rules two and three were pretty strictly adhered to, and they make some sense. To this day, I still don't ride a bike without shoes on. To Dad's utter disappointment, none of us turned into fishermen. Yes, we did learn how to fish, but that was his selfish rule - he just wanted a fishing partner. As for number four, my two older siblings and I were hounded with this business venture every single summer after we turned 15 or 16. Of course, because I'm the youngest with 9 years between my sister (who's the oldest) and me, I heard this spiel...well, a lot.

Obviously, he was trying to teach us something about business, but I'm not sure why he settled on the pressure washer. It was never a lemonade stand or a lawn mowing business. It was always, always, always a pressure washer. It kind of became this family joke. It was like that time when my brother asked if he could have a motorcycle and Dad replied with, "Why don't we just take you out in the backyard and shoot you? It'd save us some time and money." The Family Pressure Washing Business just became one of those "Dad Things" that we laughed about. It was something to put in amongst the few childhood memories the three of us actually share because of the age differences.

Last week, Mom came home with a pressure washer. Yeah, that's right, a pressure washer. Since apparently it rains in Oregon 9 months out of the year, the outside decks, porches, and stairs grows moss and slime like nobody's business, and she wants me to wash all these surfaces before winter. Dad's reaction? "Ah, my dream is coming true! One of my children now owns a pressure washer! Get to work, Nat."

My reaction was to text my brother and sister with, "Guess what...Mom and Dad bought a pressure washer..." They weren't as sympathetic as I had hoped. They laughed. Don't they get that it's not a joke anymore?

82 Words per Minute

A couple of days ago, I started this really depressing post because, well, I was kind of depressed.

"I'm a nomad. And yet, here I am, idle. My friends are moving on with their lives, and I just feel like I'm waiting for my adventure to start."

How un-entertaining could I possibly be?!

See, what really happened was that I was talking to my friend who just moved to Ecuador and was having a fabulous time, and I somehow forgot how much fun I'm having in Discombobulate, Oregon. Seriously, Heathcliff, Elizabeth Bennett, Edmond Dantes, Gregor Samsa, and I are having fantastic parties together every night. We drink strong cocktails on my back porch overlooking the river. We play some pool, maybe some Monopoly, or Heathcliff's favorite, "Name that Phantom at the Window!" Edmond is always playing dress-up while Elizabeth and I play duets on the piano, just for background noise, you know. Gregor really loves the piano, but he can't always express it. He only speaks Insect, you see. We're just becoming the best of friends, as long as Heathcliff and Edmond don't decide they need to commit some sort of revenge on each other for that poker game last week. And you know what else? They appreciate me for me, Bachelor's in English and all.

(I sincerely apologize to those of you who are not book nerds, like myself, for the previous paragraph. It was sarcasm. The aforementioned characters belong to Wuthering Heights,  Pride & Prejudice, The Count of Monte Cristo, and Metamorphosis, respectively.)

What I didn't realize is that my adventure has but just begun! I've already made friends with a whole slew of literary characters, I've written five shitty pages of a novel, and I discovered that I can type 82 words per minute! What a feat! I took the test, and the lady said they don't find many people who can do such a thing as type 82 words per minute. I guessed she was ranking the accomplishment somewhere up there with my Bachelor's degree in English and graduating magna cum laude. But that's just a guess.

Point is, my life here is very exciting. Maybe a little different from the average adventure my friends seem to be finding themselves on. But this is my adventure, and I shall be proud of it. At the very least, I can put out blog posts at a higher word count per minute.

 Oh, and I went kayaking. The end.

Voodoo, or Something Like It

(Note: The other day's post was actually a preface to today's post. So, you might want to read both, but suit yourself.)

A few days after this certain argument with my dad, I went to a bookstore in the Discombobulate's mall to take advantage of the close-out sale. I was determined to come home with books that weren't classics. After perusing the already thoroughly picked-over shelves, I was pretty much convinced that only crap was left. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a book snob. It's a sure-fire way to get into an argument with someone...just hate on their favorite author. Anyway, I stumbled upon an author I discovered a few years ago but hadn't read anything of his since. It was 60% off; so, content that it wasn't stamped with the words, "Hey, I'm snobby and literary," I bought it.

I finished the book this morning, and I'm still left pondering a certain question: "What does his family think about his books?"

You see, all of his stories, or essays rather, are supposedly true. They're embellished a little, most likely. Perhaps some names are changed. But essentially, they're true stories, and a lot of them involve his family and friends. I mean, how could they not? But does he have full permission to write about his friends? Do they care what he says? Have they banished him from family reunions because of what he said about them in his last book?

Then, I start to imagine how my family would react to some of the things I write about them. For instance, my last entry talked about my father. Even though I was careful not to portray him negatively, would his feelings be hurt if he stumbled upon my blog somehow? (He barely knows the blog exists at this point.)
 
Whenever I meet people, and we discuss things like...what I want to be when I grow up, I always warn them. "Well, I want to write for a living, you know books and stuff. And well, you might end up in some story someday. Please, don't sue me?" I say it very meekly; I'm really rather shy when it comes to what I want to do with my life.

The problem is that most people react to this extremely sincere cautionary statement in one of two ways:

A. Nervous laughter that actually says, "What is this weird thing this stranger just told me? She can't write about me; she doesn't even know me."

OR

B. "Cool! I've never had a story written about me before!" (In my mom's case, "I would be honored if you ever wrote anything about me. You wouldn't be mean about your loving mother!")

They don't quite seem to grasp my dilemma here. First of all, I can write about you even if you're a stranger. It's called imagination, people, and you're probably not going to like it. Sure, I don't always mean for something to come off rude or cruel. But sometimes...well, it just sounds worse on paper. Then again, I've written purposefully horrible stories about certain people who have wronged me. I'm talking, I really rip these people apart. They become the victim in my make-believe revenge. And the worst part about it? They can't say anything in return. I'm like this voodoo kid and they're my dolls/puppets, or minions, if you will. Right now, none of it's published, but if I'm lucky enough someday...I just pray the real person - if they ever read my story - won't recognize those tortured blue eyes as their own.

I imagine the phone ringing and an angry voice on the other line. "Hey, Natalie, I have a bone to pick with you. This guy in your new book. The evil one with the pierced ear. It sounds just like me!"
Me: "What are you talking about?" (Nervous trembles in my voice. I don't get out much anymore) "That guy's definitely based on a kid a knew in elementary school."
Angry Dude: "My lawyer will be in touch with you."  *Click*

My worst nightmare! What I'd really like to happen is this...

The phone rings. I answer, and it's a few moments before a soft voice replies. "Natalie, this guy, in your book. If he's me, I am so sorry."
Me: "Well, actually, he's based on somebody else, but I was going to deal with you in my next book. Would you like to postpone your apology until then?"

Answer: What is Fun?

Last week sometime, I was sitting at the dinner table, innocently gnawing on some corn on the cob, and my father and I are having some argument or another as usual. We tend to have differing opinions on a lot of things. He thinks I'm a smartass, but I just think we both sometimes like to argue for the sake of arguing. Dad plays devil's advocate, preys on the gullible, and enjoys getting people worked up and then just walking away from the argument while you're there still breathing heavily. (This makes him sound really terrible, but really, it's all in good fun, usually.) I'm not usually as gullible as other members of my family, but I'm also incredibly capable of hurting his feelings without realizing it. Hence, why he calls me a smartass.

So, this particular night, we were arguing about one of his favorites...my piano abilities. He thinks I'm the world's greatest or something, but he's my father. He's supposed to think that. And he refuses to accept that I've resigned piano into the hobby portion of my life. I don't want more lessons, and I certainly don't want to make myself into a performer.

Anyway, he finally says, "You know what I think, Nat? I've been thinking this for years but never said anything."
"What's that?" I ask.
"You know what your problem is? You don't know how to have fun."

He placed a certain emphasis on this word, "fun." It was the all too familiar tone of voice that said, "Dad is looking to get you riled up." I took the bait.

"What do you mean?"
"You don't know how to have fun with it. You always play that classical stuff. You don't ever loosen up and play a little rhythm and blues and sing."
"I don't usually choose what I play, but it doesn't matter. I enjoy most of the pieces," I protested.
"No, you don't. You don't let loose and you know, play!" He rolled his shoulders in motions along to some imaginary music.

I rolled my eyes. There was no way for me to explain to him the complexities of his accusation. It was something only a music person would understand. Not to mention, his argument made no sense. If he wanted me to have fun, why did he also insist that I should play piano for some sort of living?

However, he continued to move on to criticize my taste in books. Again, he focused on the fact that I didn't read anything for fun. I read everything because I "need" to, or am "expected" to, because they're classics. He might have had some sort of point there, but I wasn't about to admit it to him. So, I left the room saying, "I'm gonna go work on putting more fun in my life." He laughed and switched on the news. (And he thinks I don't know how to have fun.)

It's this running joke between us now. "Jane Austen," he reads on the spine of my book.
"Sorry it isn't fun enough for you," I say sarcastically.
And he laughs, and you can tell he's thinking, "My daughter is a smartass," but sometimes, he's kind enough not to say it out loud.

Advice from an Alumna

I've been looking at these pictures on Facebook of all my younger friends in their graduation gowns, lining up for opening convocation at my Alma mater. That was me, only a year ago. Yeah, that's right...the school tortures the poor seniors by making them wear those stupid black gowns 3 or 4 times throughout the year. Opening convocation is just the first time. You process in looking all grown up in your gown, and you listen to the president talk, not about you...but about the new freshmen. You sit there, thinking you're the center of attention because you get to wear your gown that still has folds in it from being wrapped in plastic, but no...you're just 1 of 300 poster children representing how successful these new freshmen might be someday.

Then, you go home, take off your gown, and think about how nice it is to be a senior and not a lowly freshman. NO! You're only thinking that because you got to go to the president's house and drink champagne (and you snuck into the bathroom for a swig of tequila). You obviously weren't listening to the toast that was already pushing you out the door into alumnihood.

What really happens is that black omen hangs in your closet for the next 9 months until you actually have to wear it. It's this constant, blaring reminder that you, indeed, must walk across the stage, receive your diploma, and enter the "real world." All year, it's cheerfully yelling at you from the back of the closet, "Hey! Look at me! Whatcha gonna do about me? Can't ignore me forever!" And every time you get dressed for class or for some party where you just want to have fun during your senior year, you're like, "SHUT UP!" And then, you start to think you're crazy because your talking to a black, polyester gown.

Everybody told me that when it came time to graduate, I'd be excited to do it. They told me I'd be ready to get away from school and everything. You can ask my friends; I was fretting about graduating when I was a freshman. "I don't want to graduate!" was my mantra for four whole years.

Guess what, "Everybody," I'm still saying it, and I graduated 3 1/2 months ago. 

It's not that I'm not grateful to have a break from studying, homework, and class. It's not that I'm disliking my mode of existence in my parents' basement. It's not that I feel like a failure for being unemployed and over-educated for every job I'm applying for. It's not that I'm not looking forward to having adventures in Alaska. It's hard to explain why exactly I still don't want to graduate. I guess this hermit kind of misses being social, or perhaps, school was just the closest thing I had to home for four years.

Regardless of the reason, I will stand by these two statements from now into the foreseeable future...

1. "Everybody" was wrong. Don't listen to him anymore.
2. The black gown is an idiot. (I'd throw it in a fire if I didn't want the smell of burning polyester ingrained into my nostrils for the next 10 years.)

I'm That Friend

Just imagine. You're sitting around the table at some reunion...5, 10, 20 years down the road. And you're remembering the fun days in college. Those all-nighters in the library, those parties when the cops drove by and you hid under a bed because you were underage. You know, the good times. Before you got old and can barely stay coherent drinking a glass of white wine anymore, much less anything with liquor in it.

And then, you remember that girl who had that mission. What was it again? Something to do with the bathrooms on campus. She had a flask. And she loved...what was it? Somebody chimes in, "tequila!" *Cringe* That's right. Shots in bathrooms, or something weird like that. You think she even had a map. Where is she now, anyway?

And the only semi-knowledgeable person in the room speaks up, "I talked to her about a year ago. I think she's in Alaska dog-mushing, or something like that." And then the conversation moves on to the drama that used to go on between some "him and her" and now they're getting married next spring.

Okay...perhaps that was a little melodramatic. Surely, my friends will remember me for more than taking shots in bathrooms. (Perhaps I'm slightly narcissistic as well.) But my point is! I have the tendencies to fall off the face of the planet, because I'm perfectly inclined to be a hermit. This may seem impossible to you. Really...how could a girl who had a "mission" like that possibly be a hermit? Well, that was a senior year. The first three years of college were training me to not be a hermit.

I was a funny kid growing up. I would turn down playing with my friends so that I could read my book instead. Then, college happened. Suddenly, I wasn't allowed to be introverted anymore. And by the end of sophomore year, I had developed quite a different definition for being "that friend," a definition that involved a variety of missions. Now, I'm slowly flipping back to the other side of the coin. Now, I just talk to myself.

"You know, your blog kind of sucks."
"No it doesn't."
"Have you looked at the stats of how many people read it?"
"Yeah. Well."
"Your friends are lying. They aren't really reading it."
"They're not lying."
"Suit yourself. Your blog still sucks"
"I laugh out loud at what I write. Why wouldn't someone else?"
"Have you ever paused to think about what you look like when you laugh at yourself?"
"Have you ever thought about what I look like when you talk back to me?"
"Oh, shut up."
"You shut up. I'm trying to read Wuthering Heights here."


I'm not going mad. I promise. And it's not like that devil and angel on each shoulder crap. I'm just saying. I'm very good at entertaining myself.

What is this thing they call "Discipline"?

I read these books all the time, and they're by these people who write and they know what they're talking about, and they say that the key to being a writer is discipline. They say that the only way to get anything done is to wake up every morning at the same time, go to your computer, and write, even if the stuff you write is crap. Now, for me, having a routine seems like the most anti-writer, anti-inspiration thing ever. But then again, I wasn't getting much writing done without a routine. When I sit around and wait for inspiration, it comes to me at the worst times. i.e. when I'm driving, when I was in class, in the middle of talking to a friend, while drenched in sweat at some house party in college. Then, you sit down at a computer two hours later, and you can't for the life you remember what your inspiration was about. Was it about lamps? Was it about a baseball game? Was it something that your friend said two months ago?

So, I'm trying to find this newfangled thing called discipline. It's worked so far...in the two days that I've done it. I get up at 8, eat breakfast, drink some tea. I fix my second cup of tea while my computer boots up. Then, I sit on the lower deck of my parents' house and attempt to write for 2-3 hours. (Really, I attempt to keep myself off Facebook.) I started a story. Yesterday, I had inspiration. Today, I didn't. But...at least I wrote something down. Then, towards the end of my writing time, I try to make myself write a blog entry before I go out job-hunting. Not sure how this routine will work when I do have a job, but we'll see. Who knew that those experts could be right?

SIDE NOTE: There's a really obnoxious bird in the tree about 5 yards away from my head. *SQUA-EEP, SQUA-EEP* That's my attempt at imitating the noise it's making at an incredibly high decibel and volume. It's times like these that I wish I could take after my grandfather. He liked birds, but he hated the squirrels that would eat the bird food and chase the birds away. So, he would sit on the back porch with his BB gun and shoot at the squirrels' butts to scare them. I'd like a BB gun right now. (Don't worry, environmentalists...I wouldn't actually shoot the bird.) Instead, I suppose I'll just blame the stupid SQUA-EEP bird on my lack of inspiration. Fair enough?

The Discombobulate

I hereby christen this town, "The Discombobulate". I know that's a verb, not a noun, but I'm throwing grammar out the window right now. *Gasp, shock, faint in horror* If you thought it was impossible for me to get lost in Lubbock where everything is laid out in a grid with boring street names like "Q," you should see me in this place.

I ventured out yesterday to get applications for jobs, and I went in so many circles, I had to pull over for coffee so as to stop my head from spinning. There's a river that goes through the middle of town. The roads follow and/or cross the river inadvertently with seemingly no pattern or sense thrown into the mix. One wrong turn, and somehow I ended up out in the country - I have no idea if I was North, South, East, or West of town. The difference from Lubbock is...The Discombobulate threw me into a confusion that I actually loved. This town thinks the same way I do...it just goes where the river takes it. And who can predict that?

I'm like a foreigner here though...I suppose I'm from Texas, so I might as well be. I went to get gas the second day I was here. I get out, I put in my card. I put the pump in; it's pumping away. Then this woman who works there walks by, looks at me weird and goes, "You can't pump your own gas here!"

I politely responded, "I'm sorry. I didn't know. I just moved here." She glanced down at my license plate. Unfortunately, I had driven my mom's car that day which has Oregon plates actually. Her face showed like 8 different signs of disbelief. So, I just sighed and waited while she told another attendant that I had pumped my own gas and to go make sure I didn't do anything wrong. It felt like I was in South Africa all over again. They can't pump their own gas either.

Anyway, I stereotypically live in my parents' basement. I'm a supposed product of the "Boomerang Generation" or whatever they're calling us these days. I have to find a job and make money to save for grad school - which I think sets me apart from some of those other Boomerang kids. My job is writing. Unfortunately, that doesn't make me any money right now. So, stifle the nomadic spirit. I guess I'll go find a job.

Manifest Destiny: Complete

A quick trip to the Honda dealer on Monday made Theo ready for the last push on our trip to Oregon. We skipped out on wine country, but perhaps it was just a sign that if we had, we would have gotten bucked off a horse or something.

After a brief stop in Redding, California with my godfather, we headed for the northern coast and the Redwood forest. Being in the forest is what I imagine being in the middle of New York City would be like if there weren't any people. All those tall buildings and nobody to fill them...it fills you with a sense of eeriness. It felt like the trees would come to life at any moment. And yet...it was also really peaceful. There's not much else I can say about the Redwoods other than, "Go see them for yourself."

Picture credit again...goes to Leslie

After a late lunch of some seafood on the coast, we headed northeast for Oregon. We were about 35 miles outside of our destination city (I haven't come up with a good nickname yet), and suddenly I realized...

Me: Leslie I'm going to live in Oregon!
Leslie: Yep. In about 35 miles, you live here.

Then, we started laughing hysterically. Sure, we'd been on this journey for almost a week. My car was full of crap, and we knew we had this alternative purpose other than road-tripping across the country. But it didn't really hit me until then...35 miles from my new "home."

After completing the last stop on the beer map, Leslie took a plane back to Dallas and drove herself back to Atlanta. We're now on opposite sides of the country from each other without any idea of when we'll see each other next or when exactly those microbrewery plans will be happening.

I don't know if a nomad can have a home, but this is where I've arrived for a while.

An Excuse for Day Drinking

After being movie stars, Andrew took us to the beach the next morning. If you remember, I was on the Georgia coast just 2 weeks prior to this event. Leslie had just journeyed to Dallas from Atlanta. So, both of us made it from coast to coast in like 2 weeks. Hence, why we called this trip "Manifest Destiny!"

We counquered the oceans!

There also happened to be an aquarium at beach. So, here's me being an eel...

After the beach, we got back in Theo, my little Honda Civic, and started to head for wine country. But womp, womp!! CAR ISSUES! The check engine light had been coming on since Moab, but we'd ignored it. And now, if we tried to go above 45, the engine would sound like it was trying to fly to the moon. So, we pulled over in Santa Clarita, just outside of the city for some lunch.

Since it was Sunday and everything was closed, plus we couldn't really drive 50 mph on the interstate for 350 miles, we grudgingly decided to forego wine country and stay there for the night. It was only 2 pm, so we nursed my car to a liquor store to find ourselves some beer before going to the hotel. As we're driving up, I turn to Leslie in a panic and say, "It's Sunday!! It's gonna be closed!"

Thank God for California! We almost hugged the man. We invested in some California beer (including, Lagunitas, of course) and made our way to the hotel where we drank, watched movies, ordered pizza, and passed out at 10:30.

I suppose it's not a real road trip unless you have car issues. At the time, I would have taken the flat tire over a transmission issue. But in retrospect I find that it was a good excuse for some day drinking and to get out of the car for a few hours.

We Have a Beer Map

"We have a beer map," has to be one of the most singularly awesome phrases to be able to say. And guess what! Leslie and I totally have a beer map! It's this map of the United States, and it lists the favorite/best beer of each state, voted on by people in that state. (Here's the link in case you're interested... Beer Map.) So, every place we stopped, we had to try the beer on the beer map. Of course we didn't limit ourselves to just this...it was just where we had to start. Thank goodness we didn't go to Idaho...there is only a huge "?" and I really don't know what that means!

Anyway, we were incredibly dedicated to the beer map...so dedicated in fact that come 10:20AM on Saturday morning in Las Vegas, Nevada...

-"Good morning, can I interest you in one of our beers?"
-"Why yes, yes you can."

What a relief to be out of Utah! We were not the only ones in the restaurant enjoying a breakfast beer, and our waitress found it quite amusing that yes, we indeed had a beer map. She high-fived us and everything. Also, we can now say that we had a beer in Vegas, even if we didn't stick around to play the slots.

We ended up in LA that night where we stayed with Leslie's friend Andrew. We made up for our two nights in Utah by going to a bar on Hollywood Blvd. Needless to say, we felt like movie stars...or perhaps just people in Hollywood. I told Leslie when we were driving in, "Hey, we're in the place where movies happen." Here's a picture of us being movie stars...

We're gonna be famous one day...

Andrew is a movie star, too.

I'm Never Going to Utah

Disclaimer: If you don't want to hear about the random thoughts and conversations of Leslie and Natalie...don't read this...but, they're entertaining I promise!

So, I found a partner in Leslie for my nomadic lifestyle for a week. Leslie and I left Albuquerque and headed for the Four Corners. My mom didn't understand why we wanted to go there. "There's nothing there!" But we both had a fascination with being in 4 places at once. So, why would we NOT go to the Four Corners? That's the real question.

So, we ventured through some back roads, spent 10 minutes in Arizona and ended up in Arizona, Utah, Colorado, and New Mexico all at the SAME TIME! We took pictures to prove it. (All picture credit goes to Leslie and her camera...I suck at taking pictures.)

SEE! FOUR PLACES AT THE SAME TIME!!

About 3 weeks ago, I found this article about liquor laws in Utah, and it was so strange, I sent it to Leslie. After reading it, both Leslie and I swore that Utah was not worth our time. Little did we know that 2 weeks later, we'd find ourselves in Utah. And you know what? Utah is pretty dang awesome...other than the weird liquor laws. I'll get to that later. But seriously...Utah is beautiful, I recommend it.

Irony seemed to hit us at every turn. Here we were driving through Colorado/Utah for a few minutes when a song came on. The first line was, "A long and winding road..." Yet, this is what we saw:

Irony...gotta love it

Then, we're like 10 miles from Moab, Utah, and we see this billboard that says "Moab Brewery. Open Lunch and Dinner." And I turn to Leslie and say, "Should we go there for dinner?" And she goes, "Is that even a question?" So, we end up at a brewery in the middle of Utah. Here we were, worrying about the alcohol laws. Leslie and I can find beer anywhere.

So, we're sitting there, eating dinner, drinking beer, and talking about life. And suddenly, we turn to each other and we're like, "Dude, we should do this." Obviously, we mean that we should open a brewery. So, we proceeded to pull out our notebooks, and we plan our entire future brewery. We continued to plan for the rest of the week. And if nothing else came out of this road trip, this plan did. She may be in Atlanta, and I may be in Oregon/Alaska...but this IS happening in the next 5-10 years, so look for it. Thanks, Moab Brewery for the inspiration!!

After a brief night in a weird hotel in Green River, Utah, (seriously, 1 guy running the whole place...the kitchen, the desk, the grounds...odd place) we hit the Arches National Park. This was my whole reason for detouring to Utah in the first place. Guess what, it was worth it. See!

In case you were wondering...that's an Arch!

After lunch at, yes, Moab Brewery, we hit the road to St. George, Utah where we attempted to go out, have a good time, get a "Leslie and Natalie story" that could beat Big Bend at spring break (another story for another time). We failed, but it wasn't our fault! We ordered margaritas at dinner. They were green, literally green. And I can only conclude that they made a mistake and brought me a virgin one because I sure didn't taste any tequila. Such a disappointment. Then, we found a "sports bar" where we sat down at the "bar" to have a beer. We looked at the shelves...condiments. Lots and lots of condiments. On the island in the middle of the bar was a motorcycle, no bottles or taps. The other guy at the bar ordered a drink, and they had to make it for him in the kitchen. Utah makes them hide the liquor from you. Plus, we had to order fries that we weren't going to eat because food has to be on the ticket for them to serve you a beer.

Long story short...we ended up back in the hotel room drinking our 4% alcohol beers we bought at the grocery story and decided that Utah was NOT the place to party.

Adios, Tejas!

So, there are going to be a lot of posts all in a row here. Be ready. I haven't had much time to write these past couple of weeks because of the copious amounts of driving. After leaving Louisiana, I went on a Goodbye Texas Tour and saw a bunch of people I needed to see. It felt like I was leaving the country all over again, but no, I was just leaving Texas. Same difference.

From Louisiana to Houston, to San Antonio, to College Station. The Tour was worth the extra miles on my car. It may have been the last time I see a lot of these friends for a very long time.

Highlight: My friend Ashley took me to the Tower of the Americas in San Antonio where I got a good dose of Texas medicine. We watched this video about Texas, which really wasn't as informative as it was brainwashing. If you wonder why Texans are the way that we are, watch that video and then realize that the phrase, "There's no place in the world like Texas," has been drilled into our heads since we popped out of the womb. Then, maybe you'll understand. I don't think I'll miss Texas though...I'm just going to miss the people.

A week long stop in Sherman took me through a wild ride of unpacking, cleaning out, and RE-packing. Basically, the equation of my week goes like this...Metal storage unit + 112 degree Texas heat + fitting my life into a Honda Civic = RUTHLESSNESS. I threw out my favorite jacket that I've had since freshman year...it used to make me feel cool and retro. A mournful farewell was in order...I cried and hugged it 3 or 4 times before finally resolving that it should be in the Goodwill box. I also decided that no one should have that much attachment to a $20 jacket from Target. (Also...this seems to be the only decent picture I have of myself wearing it. See why I needed the help being cool?)

Goodbye, cool jacket...you treated me well!

After a week in Sherman with a bunch of exhausting moving tales that would bore you and only make myself frustrated again, I convinced my best friend Leslie to road trip it with me across the country. She agreed, and we took off across the state of Texas. First stop: Albuquerque to stay with my sister. You might realize that this was my...count it...first, second, THIRD trip across the state of Texas in my little Honda this summer. It might be a record, I don't know. But I don't really recommend it to anyone.

From Albuquerque, we embarked on a little thing we like to call "Manifest Destiny." Leslie and Natalie...Road Trip and Beer Queens took off on an adventure. Stay tuned for more.

There's A Difference

I’ve been on the coast of Georgia for the last week on my one week of TRUE vacation this summer. It was family reunion time with my dad’s side of the family, and we did a whole lot of sitting on the beach, and sitting on the beach, oh, and sitting on the beach. You might be wondering why this is my only true vacation…haven’t I been on vacation all summer? Well, yes, I suppose you could say that in a way, but in my head, “vacation” has always only meant one thing…sitting on the beach. And that is the fault of my father.

My dad is a hard-working man, so when he takes time off from work…he goes on Vacation. That means we go to the beach and sit on the beach, eat, and Dad goes fishing. Don’t bother bringing cute clothes because we aren’t going sight-seeing or exploring in the town. No, we’re going to the beach and that is it. And when you’re on vacation, you can eat whatever you want, sleep whenever you want, and wear whatever you want. Nobody can judge you for it.

Sister: I thought you gave up sodas.

Me (as I’m popping open a can): I’m on vacation.

Mom: That’s right, you can do whatever you want on vacation.

I didn’t know other families went on different kinds of vacations until I was 14 or 15. You actually see stuff on vacation? You actually have a schedule? Yeah, that’s not vacation…that’s a trip. Trips, I did on my own when I got older, and when I could go places with friends. Trips involve agendas, new places, and clothes other than gym shorts and swim suits. Trips are fun and energy-sucking; vacations are “decompressing” (in the words of my father). So, I suppose what I’ve been doing all summer has been a mixture between a trip and just plain real life.

So, now that I’m finished with that exhausting definition of a vacation, I made a discovery on this stop in Georgia. I tried to drink the cheap beer all week; I even drank 3 or 4 of them one night thinking that if I just drank more of them, they would taste better. Instead, it forced me to go to bed early with a stomach ache. Then, one night, the cousins escaped into Savannah for dinner and I had 2 good beers with dinner. I could feel my stomach gurgling with gratitude and joy. You might think I’m crazy, but it’s TRUE, I SWEAR! If my stomach could talk, it would have said “Ah, finally! This is what I’ve been waiting for!” I’m pretty sure that would have freaked my cousins out though. Anyway, the only conclusion that I can come up with, is that I’m a beer snob. I know, I know, I’m too young to be a beer snob. I just graduated from college, and I’m broke. You try explaining that to my stomach. It's the picky one, not me.

So, now that vacation is over, I’m embarking on a trip. Right now, I’m in Louisiana since I rode back from Georgia with my cousin. Today begins a little Texas Tour – because I’m about to leave it for the next 4 years, if not forever. I know that’s morbid, but it’s true. I really don’t know when I’ll be back. So, now it’s time to say some goodbyes.

The Four Year Rule

I left Albuquerque a week ago, and stopped near Amarillo for a night with Alicia from college. We ate Bobotjie (a South African casserole type dish) and hiked around Palo Duro Canyon. It was a good night, but it reinforced just how out of shape I am. One of these days, I might actually give up beer for longer than a month. But probably not. After lunch with Kellan and Kallison the next day, it was off to Dallas to catch a flight to Pennsylvania on Friday.

I spent the weekend in Pennsylvania but I might as well have been in Poland or South Africa. I was sleeping in an attic bedroom of a (mostly) Polish-speaking family's house out in the middle of the state. The important part about this latest stop on the Nomad Natty Journey...is that this family happens to be related to my best friend Zuzka. And Zuzka happens to be one of my best friends from South Africa who I haven't seen in FOUR WHOLE YEARS!! This "long weekend" was way overdue and not quite long enough.

For some reason, Zuzka's Polish uncle loves country music. I listened to more country music in the past few days than I have in a long time. He also found it pretty funny that I used to have the accent that so many of those singers have. I demonstrated...it was a fun time. Thanks to South Africa, I no longer have that accent. In fact, as soon as I was in the presence of Zuzka, I started saying "ja" again...just like in South Africa. Funny how things come back to you like that.

Zuzka and I only make up half the foursome of my friends from South Africa. They basically saved my life when I was living there. Now, however, it is incredibly difficult to keep in touch with them, seeing as Zuzka lives in Poland, Gail lives in Wales, and Thandi is still in South Africa. Look how cute we were at age 17/18...

Thandi, Gail, Zuzka, and I

So, the least I could do was cross the country to see Zuzka. It seemed a fitting way to use frequent flier miles I'd accumulated flying back and forth to South Africa. We sat on the back porch of her uncle's house, sipping tea or Amarula and reminiscing about our school days and the nights when the four of us would sleep over at my house. We discussed how we'd changed and how things were different, and yet...for us, it didn't seem all that different. Yeah, we're in different places in our lives, we were missing the other half of our group, and we hadn't been together in 4 long years...but the whole weekend was like stepping back in time, in a way. We were 17 again, and it was like nothing had changed.

Zuzka and I on her 18th birthday drinking Sangria

(Side note about Pennsylvania: It's 10 times cooler than Texas or New Mexico. Paradise, comparatively.)

We talked about when I was a new kid in South Africa, and how we met. She helped me put together this portfolio thing in History class on my first day of school. It was one of those moments when I thought my world was going to fall apart because everything was so damn different and everything was changing without my control. And there was Zuzka...except I thought her name was Shishka at the time. Little does she know...that nearly 6 years later, that moment is still helping me deal with change. Haha...that sounds really corny. But basically, my life is a big question mark, and friends like Zuzka are how I keep such a cool head in my nomadic life.

I could be sentimental and reminiscent for pages. It was sad to leave her again, and it reminded me a lot of when we said goodbye last time in South Africa. Gail, Thandi, and Zuzka came to see me off at the airport and gave me a South African flag. It was tough, but I think we all knew that someday we'd see each other again. It wasn't the end...it still isn't.

Saying goodbye 4 years ago

So, Zuzka and I made a pact on the way to the airport that four years was long enough to go between now and our next visit. Four years went by so quickly...four more can't be so bad. So, Four years max...that's the rule.

Saying goodbye again at age 22...

 

 

 

Maybe sometime in the next ten years, the foursome will get together again in some unlikely location like...South America or Asia. Who knows.