Four Weeks of Blog Material in One Tidy Post

It would seem as if a lifetime or two has passed since the sweet potato shaming of February 2013. Suffice to say, we all survived. The leftover batter was not so fortunate.

In a nutshell (another food thing which Alex doesn't like. Except peanuts, the weirdo.), this is what has really happened in the four weeks since my last post:


WEEK 1

• I grew bored of writing about limboed, suitcased, semi-couchsurfing, woe-is-me life and broke up with blogging. We're back together now.
• A flurry of job interview activity lead into my accepting a copywriting job for a healthcare software company.
  
  Did you know Joseph Heller was once a copywriter? F. Scott,too. 

Corporate MySpace closet pics says "I'm sooo professionalz!"

• I played it real cool when I wrote about having just got a good job...
  ...after what felt like a torturous eternity of handwringing and soul (craigslist?) searching. What up adulthood?

WEEK 2

• Alex and I sowed a vegetable garden with the seeds of our love. 

We also used tomatillo plants named Tito & Paquito

• Alex and I fought a (paintball) war together and against each other.
  I continue to pay for the latter with my flesh:  

I swear the target wasn't painted there before I was shot.

This is just gross. Maybe I have a disease instead?

• I learned I can't shoot a gun.
  Clearly, I make an easy target. It's thus proven that I will be among the first wave of people eaten/killed in the zombie apocalypse. Who wants to survive that shit, anyway?

#FAIL. What the hell kind of form is that?! Photo by Tiffany Chinn.

• San Jose apartment hunting kicked our asses.
  Though it's oft overlooked, San Jose is a hub of the Bay Area and is priced accordingly.
  
  Go ahead and Google it. Then see where Google lives. And Apple. Then pity us for being neighbors to that stinking wealth. This land makes Boston look quaint and afforable.
  
  They (I don't know who 'they' are, San Joseans?) say it should be called The San Jose Bay Area - not the San Francisco one; the city has one million residents alone! 
  
  And rent's a sonofabitch similar to it's more famous Franciscy brother, but without that built-in hipster charm of dressing like a panhandler and riding a bike while you walk your dog. Now you know and you're welcome. 
  
  This actually took more than a week in itself but the memories are already repressed.

WEEK THREE

• We *finally* found an apartment!
  Sometimes a marriage feels like its shrinking into bitter little tatters over petty nonsense like living space. Then, a miracle! The apartment hunt reaches a compromise.  Alas, sunrise to the werewolf of my home hunting soul.
  
  
  The place is Boston-sized with California sun; cozy, bright and just for us. And I can take the light rail to work! You can ride it when you visit me. Because, yes, there are things to do there.
  
• I CAN RIDE THE TRAIN TO WORK.
  Did you catch that part? Suck it car-lifornia! Public transport wins. I win!!! Meanwhile, Alex has to commute very far in a car (it's okay because he still loves me).  

WEEK FOUR

• We ran away to Carmel for our second anniversary.
  Or rather, to celebrate new quasi-stable life happenings before the new job and (yet another) move - which coincide with the real second anniversary.
  
  Hurray for being a little less in debt!
  

  

  Alex is as big as a mountain!

  
  And also because it's Spring Break, and we felt like we needed a full two days of elbow jostling from swaths of obnoxious teenagers. 

Look at all the people blocking my view! Like in real nature.

And week five - the beginning of the rest of my more conventional life? Do stay and read. I'm also wondering what will happen next.

Ah ha! Still unconventional in the end.

Sweet Potato Pancakes: Ain't Nobody Got Time for That

And now for another lesson in newlywed bliss: don't spend an hour and a half trying a new recipe unless you're sure your husband actually likes the main ingredient.

This is how I found out Alex doesn't like sweet potatoes. 

Ah, the sweet potato. The charming poster child for our modern paleolithic folk, the healthy, trendier fancy. Packed full of vitamins and minerals, with Pinterest recipes aplenty, it's a sure crowd pleaser for the health-conscious family. Right?

Well.

There are some deceitful traps in today's blogorific recipe culture. And, I fell into two of them with my attempt to make sweet potatoes into something alluring for the husband and I.

First trap: THOSE DAMNED KITCHEN TOOLS!

So, here's the recipe I was trying to mimic. I like it because it looks easy - not even pretty - easy. Looks easy. Isn't.

Louisiana Sweet Potato pancakes from http://allrecipes.com/recipe/louisiana-sweet-potato-pancakes/

As it turns out with these pesky, beta-carotene rich rooty vegetables, they are a prickly pain in the ass to mush up. I boiled my sweet potato browns (yes, that's a pun) for some 20 minutes and thought I was in the clear to mush freely.

Then, I found out I don't have a masher.

Then I found out raw-ish the center was not mashable anyway.

Then I began to hack at the vegetable, trying to forcefully coax it into mashedness.

Then!

I remembered blenders are good at this. Alas, the wee blender I have was no match for such a task. Nightmares of sizzling and smoke danced in my head and I quickly quit.

At the point I was tempted to take my own photo, but it was not attractive. Thanks, lickthebowlgood.blogspot.com for showing me up.

The rest of the recipe turned out surprisingly well, considering the unwanted chunks. However, all my failed mashing, chopping and aggressive blending turned this "10 minute" prep into an hour.

Flour on my nose and decorating my shirt, I managed to fry up a pile of nutmeg-scented beauties. I also managed to realize the recipe makes 24 pancakes and I was making breakfast only for myself, Alex and my sister.

People eat nine pancakes each, right?

Noticing Alex eyeing my Pisa-like tower of potato hotcakes, I offered, oh-so generously, "do you want some?"

Shrugging and looking nonchalantly at his coffee, he responds, "maybe I'll taste one. I don't like sweet potatoes."

What?! As if these orange frisbees hadn't damaged my ego enough.


Second trap: Pinterest and food porn don't work on all husbands. 

If you're married to the stubborn "I like Uncrustables!" type, sweet potato pancakes just can't compete. Some of us care about the vitamins and minerals we put into our bodies, some of us prefer to marry  healthier spouses and life a vitamin-enriched life by proxy.

Lesson learned.

I'd like to blame Pinterest, modern kitchen appliances and Internet recipes for luring me - yet again - down the rabbit hole of modern wifehood expectations, where I stand unable to defend myself with just a cast iron skillet and wooden spoon in hand.

Also, it helps to ask Alex directly, if he likes a food before I try to make it. Talking about it to his family, then to our friends, then to myself, with him in earshot doesn't count.

Marriage, communication, go figure. 

Stuck in a rut? Blame the husband.

I've been telling myself that I need to blog more often and it seems the more I tell myself that, the less it happens. Perhaps this is how it feels to be stuck in a rut?

Wallow, wallow, wallow. 

Some days the rut is nice, it's steep walls are like a hug that the rest of the world refuses to give you.

Wallow, wallow, wallow. 

I am the lunar year of the boar. Born to wallow.

Alas, I've always fancied myself better than cliches, thus, I ought to be immune to cliched spaces. Ruts don't exist in my idealist mind. But, somehow, unicorns do.

See? This lack of focus? This can't be a rut! My mind is everywhere but confined. You'd think rut-life would be good, it forces you to focus on that which is at hand. Some people call that a skill. I'm bored just considering it.

Here's another tangent: yesterday, I watched the movie, North by Northwest.

And while watching it, I realized two very important life lessons:

1. I quite like Cary Grant. His Girl Friday? The absolute best.

2. I am sorely out-of-date.

There is no problem with realization #1, except that the charming fellow is dead now. But fear not! If you adhere to realization #2, that shouldn't matter, since you, like me, seem to live in a glorified sense of the past.

Every day I seem to have this battle in my mind about being so old-fashioned in this 2013 world. I ask my inner self things like,

 "Why do people have to drive in individual automobiles like hermits instead of using the friendly local rail?"

"When did gas get so expensive?"

"Why is the TV so noisy?!"

Marrying Alex, as it turns out, was my demise.

I thought I loved this boy because he was so outspoken and individual-minded. Well, that is still true. But, take heed young couples! Loving a boy for one of these deep-seated, principlistic qualities is serious business.

It's only funny when it's not true.

This nut of a guy reassured my idealistic and curious mind. He actually encouraged me to voice an opinion of MY VERY OWN. And he stroked my ego while I did it.

Caught in the act: whispering sweet nothings and spicy somethings.

Whoa, that's just dirty. Why would a husband ever want a woman like that?!

Now I'm ruined.

I can no longer go with the flow of things without questioning, why? Always, "why?" And, "is this the best way to do that?"

Like a child. Living in this serious adulthood. Things don't fit very well. 

Childlike wonder is not so bad a thing, you may say. First of all, yes it is. No one has tolerance for such questions when you're not an adorable two-year-old.

Especially me. Grow up, already, Staci. Quit wondering about the world-at-large and get yourself a regular paycheck. There is something to be said for stability. 

But, where to find it?

"Look Alex! I found stability for us!" "No, Staci, that's a sewer."

Ah! Again with the questions. All I do is ask 'em. Maybe someone can shut me up by offering a few answers.

"Is it possible to be happy with this life?"

Welp. The impossible JUST happened.

I felt, somewhere buried within me, the resurgence of the desire to travel again.

What?! Didn't I just hate on that, like, yesterday?

It's just...it's this video. It's amazing. It has captured some kind of unkillable strain of optimism that lurks inside this withered and grouchy soul of mine.

It made me feel hopeful and yearning.

(It also made me feel jealous and wish I had made a travel video of our drive from Boston that was half as inspiring...)

Unnecessary media envy aside, watch this inspiring piece of art. It is called "A Story for Tomorrow" and it's lovely. As Brain Pickings (where I found this beauty) recommends,

"watch with headphones, watch until the end, and watch with your whole heart."

I don't know about you, but I want to enjoy my story.

Seems a choice for enjoyment would require me to quit my bemoaning about missing the blizzardly New England and the wonderful friends I made there and embracing this "one must always be driving" California.

It would also require me to let myself enjoy the leisurely life of post-grad/pre-employment, to relish the memories of travel and grad school, and overall, to approach this familiar California situation with the same bright-eyed curiosity I had in Boston and back in Madrid.

California is big, there is much to explore. And Alex and I have long way to go before we are what they called "settled."

It is possible to be happy with this life. After watching this video, seems anything is possible with just a wee adjustment of perspective.

Thanks for the boost, Gnarly Bay. Well done.

Newlywed road trip: Highway to the Danger Zone

Adding to our cache of experiences newlyweds shouldn't have to undergo, Alex and I freshly completed a cross country move back to California.

Last look at BU COM while zooming toward the highway. The ominous clouds clearly signaled our rocky road. 

Sure, sure, SURE, newlyweds move. They can move across this gigantic, why-on-earth-do-we-have-so-many-damned-states?! country of ours, and into happier, sunnier lands like California. Flock to the west, young lovers, it is mild and blue-skied here.

Just, for the love of whatever god you please, do not drive. Do not talk over the idea of roadtripping from Massachusetts to California and think, "hmm, this could be fun. Yes, we can handle this."

Don't! Just don't. Don't let yourself consider it. You probably can handle it, but that's not the point. Stop rationalizing and begin researching shipping quotes. Buy a whole shipping container if you can. You will thank me later.

Fare thee well, land o'cold & blizzard.

Here is 3400 miles summed into five reasons why you shouldn't roadtrip-move across the country (and why it is not as fun as you think):

1. It is not cheaper than other options.
By the time you pack/throw out/sell/give away/dump all the large items you own (and you NEVER realize how many there are until you must purge them) your hair will be pulled out and lay in heaps on the ground. See? Now you have to buy a weave, and good ones aren't cheap.


2. Roadtrip travel is a great way to see the worst in your partner. 
Yes, sure, a roadtrip is chintzy charming and hands-on fun. But then, you get into day two or three and you hate the car, you curse the highway, you loathe this stupid decision and you can't feel your toes because your legs are irrevocably cramped.

So. Excited. 

3. Driving through time zones is a great way to subject yourself to jetlag but in inexorably slow motion and with longer lasting effects. 
Your body is going to be very, very angry and you will feel terrible. Also, you will be hopelessly dazed every time you stop in a new place because the highway is not really part of society. It's another universe where time and space are mushed up and flattened out and striped.

These are our "happy but numbed by highway" faces

4. This is expensive and makes you look like a hoarder bum.
Unless you ship ALL OF YOUR BELONGINGS you will have to haul them in your car. Get used to unflattering fuel efficiency and car maintenance costs. And, good luck leaving your entire life's belongings out in the open as you decide to wander off and sightsee.

Car, meet the East Bay. You've earned a run through the pastures.

5. The stuff you do pack will break or get lost or get thrown away.
The rest will get piled under layers of fast food garbage or forgotten layers of clothing possibly forever. When you arrive in California you will feel like you need to buy newer, shinier things to keep up with the western Jones' anyhow, so leave all the junk behind. Embrace your inner waste monger.*

I am happy in the sun, I swear. This is a smile. 

*This is not my real sentiment. I despise replacing things unnecessarily. I'm just angry from all the driving. And I miss Boston.

Home! Let me go home!

Are you in the mood for cheese? Because today that's what I'm bringing to the blogtable. I hope you're not lactose intolerant.

Here it comes!

This morning I woke up for work feeling hungover from apartment packing.

A mere sampling. Which box should I fill with the vomit I want to expel after looking at the this mess?

Living cardboard boxed life is a drag! The dour, musty scent of moving followed me all day like a bad habit, burdening my mood with its ominousness and looming chores of paperwork and heavy lifting.

Boo hoo hoo, woe is me.

These cursed intercontinental relationships are for the birds (those mad, black crows of Hitchcock, they are the only ones tough enough to handle them).

But, I digress from the cheese.  

Arriving home, ole Lappy McMacBook, my trusty companion, must've noticed by pouty demeanor, and decided to strike a deal with Pandora to cheer me up. Over the river and through the little speakers came that classically happy, sappy tune, Home, by Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros.

Three things make me think this song is Alex and my theme song:
1. Use of food and interjectory/nonsense words as indicators of a happy state
2. We don't have a real home. We are the worst newlyweds, remember?
3. Being together is most important.

So there you have it - cheesy. Ooey gooey stinky cheese. Watch this lyrics-video and it'll get even worse.

Added bonus: it is catchy enough to dance to in the living room even if my only dancing partner is some cleaning apparatus. Though, this version is far better to watch if you care less about the lyrics than I:

And if you're lacking a dance partner, too, stop by this place! Plenty of dance floor here, now that most things are packed up. Hm, guess there is one perk to all those boxes...

Back to the Glory Days of the Future

Here's the tricky thing about no longer being in graduate school yet not having that elusive career yet...there's a hell of a lot of free time haunting me now.

And Alex isn't around to entertain me with losing streaks of Monopoly.

So what's a freshly minted master to do? A mountain of thinking. That's what I just paid my my future 20 years' salary for, the academic guidance on the proper way of never ceasing to think.

If only I could find a job to pay me to do this. 

Pish posh. This is America, after all.

America is the problem to everything in this country! Let me explain.

Another flailing jog about Chestnut Hill Reservoir with Bruce Springsteen rocking out in my ears taught me why being newlywed and newly mastered and newly unemployed is so damn frustrating and so un-happily ever after.

And the way I see it, if The Boss says something about 'Murica, then God bless it, it's the truth. Especially when belted out by such a dashing young Brucie:

Damn, those were good times. I was only a baby but I had a blast.

Now, however, America has a fascination with aspiration and achievement. America also has a nostalgia for the past, that long ago time when we didn't fixate on acquisition and were more wholesome.

America is obviously nuts. Totally bipolar. We all know it and no one wants to admit it because that will ruin everything. Our big houses and expensive bills will be undermined with dopey intangibles like camaraderie and solidarity.

Baloney! 

But it's true. As critically thinking this wise master may be, I find myself yearning for those "glory days," of yore. Those days when I traveled the world, met exotic people and ate strange things, when I was free to roam and had jobs when I needed them, money enough to move to another opportunity.

Then...that aspiration got to my head and I wanted more. I wanted to be happy AND have money! To be smart AND successful! To be beautiful AND intelligent!

Of course Facebook is responsible for much of this. Same for the Internet, globalization, that one boss who told me there is no future in web design, that one person who told me traveling is bad for my career and the rest of the people who think life experience is not as valuable as resume-d work experience.

Baloney!

I dare to belief my glory days are just about to begin. Go ahead, snicker. Wonder if I am too old, too ungrounded, too broadminded, too flippant, too ANYTHING.

My glory days will arrive and they will not be defined by salary or prestige.

They will be happy and resound with the chorus of a million hits by Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band.

Optimism with a side of idealism, rooted in education and experience is the winning combination. I've got all that.

Disagree? Look at Bruce, he is still rockin' and even he claims his glory days were somewhere in 1985. There is a least a little hope for me.