The Big Clean from my last post did not get wrapped up quite as tightly and quickly as I had hoped... apparently the scale of a "Big" clean changes considerably when you've increased the size of your home by 300%. My 200SF studio in Cambridge could be big cleaned easily in two days... I guess that means I should have budgeted a whole week for this one? Well, it continued into a second weekend at least, and more on that in a moment.
Naturally, after investing some time and capital into a steam cleaner rental, something had to happen to overturn all the value realized in short order. So it went like this: on September 10, I'm about to step out the door for work. I was several minutes early (which meant I had not shaven or had to pack a lunch) and Fenway intercepts me at the door in grand tripping hazard fashion. Rather than simply waiting for his customary three treats thrown in Olympic curling style across our faux wood floor, he started a meow... long, drawn out, low, and very unhappy-sounding. Definitely not normal. As he kept up the pained meow, I went to check on the litter box (feeling that perhaps he was getting uppity about how often I clean out the box and rather than retaliate with a huge cat poop on the floor as he usually does, he was going to launch a protest march instead). Well, the surprise was that it didn't need to be cleaned out at all, really, and there was one tiny little petrified piddle in the brand spanking new litter I has put in several days before. Ruh roh. Someone's having trouble peeing. Sure enough, when I went back to check on him, he had his belly exposed, his leg drawn up like he was trying an upside-down pee, and crying. Short of pointing at his penis and saying "it's broken, Dad! It's broken!!" I think I had all the information I needed from his end.
I was able to get him an appointment at the vet--his first since moving to Raleigh--that afternoon. The kindly vet and vet assistants left me in the exam room as they took him back to the equipment to, presumably, squeeze his bladder until he peed. Or perhaps there's a secret pee button I don't know about? Do cats have prostates? Anyway, after a fifteen minute wait, the vet came back and told me Fenway had "a lot going on" in his urine... I hope no one ever tells me I have a "lot going on" in any of my bodily fluids, because it just sounds horrible. It turns out that not only does he have a urinary tract infection, but he has bladder crystals (apparently common in boy cats) that may be impeding his flow, or even ready to cinch it off completely. Well, that explains the tiny pee nugget in his box and the pained meow at the door this morning...
So what does this all have to do with the Big Clean? (Fenway is fine now, by the way, after ten days of antibiotics and special crystal-melting kibble.) The morning Fenway stopped me at the door, I'd sniffed a cat-musky scent around the apartment--the same smell most of his old toys have. Eww, I thought, hope that dissipates quickly, especially since I spent ALL LABOR DAY WEEKEND making smells leave my apartment. Well, it turns out that urinary infected boy cats spray their foul and pungent fluids all over the place. And carpets are preferred. Nice, clean, bouncy, accommodating carpets. So, within a week of their first major clean in over a year, my carpets now smell like super-concentrated cat pee. With crystals.
Suffice it to say, the Big Clean took to the outdoors last weekend. My chief outdoor task was to reclaim my patio closet, which had become a zoo habitat enclosure for large insects and spiders (you know, the dark little room where zoo creatures go to be depressed and disappoint wide-eyed children). I'd known since I moved in that a family of camel crickets had squatters rights in the closet--they all but helped me move my bike and spare kitty box in when I arrived. But I have to admit their presence bothered me. And their otherworldliness, as noted in a blog post last year. So part of the Big Clean was to evict the whole damn lot of them and once again feel comfortable that I could flip a circuit breaker in the closet's electrical panel without being beset by two dozen little aliens with huge tail thingies and heads and eyes and mouths and pokey things...
I'll spare you the grim details but will take credit for trying to remove them peacefully at first. They very much loved that closet, with its reliable moisture, darkness, half-open cans of wet paint, and smaller moving things to snack on. So they were resistant, obstinant even. A couple actually stood up to me--if they had convinced even ten others to do so simultaneously, it would have been enough to get me running off the patio flailing my hands like a little girl. But me and the broom got the job done, and until they regroup and mount a counter offensive, my closet is once again part of my human habitat to mistreat and ignore as I see fit.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
The Big Clean
Once again I'm amidst a disruptive moving of furniture and hardcore cleaning of apartment whilst the sound of tennis pops from my TV. Spring cleaning, French Open. Traditional moving day, Wimbledon. Fall cleaning, US Open. This is, apparently, the best thing I can do with a 3-day weekend...
Yesterday was my first amateur use of a steam carpet cleaner. Actually, this one didn't involve steam unless I was using it wrong--just hot water, expensive soapy additive, a vibrating bristle brush, and a hell of a lot of patience. I was hoping for magic, I think--drag the Rug Doctor (trademark) across the carpet and all of a sudden... new carpet! Carpet I would want to roll around on nekkid and take a big ole sniff of. But, the reality was less spectacularly pseudo-sexual. What the Rug Doctor was able to do was take out the camoflage-patterned stain-and-Resolve-bleached matrix that was making it difficult to know the true color of the carpet. Or at least subdue it. What the Rug Doctor could not do, though, was make the highly-trafficked portions of the carpets at the doorways look like the rest of the carpet, which was the "magic" goal. So it looks like I'm due to be embarassed by my carpets for as long as they're there. I will say, though, after letting it all dry overnight, there is marked improvement in the look and feel. They are now ready to once again serve as the substrate for huge clumps of hair and cat barf. The stuff that came out of that tank--out of the carpet--was... well, let's just say I can't believe I let my feet touch those carpets before. Eww.
I had the opportunity to talk to a 56-year-old version of myself at the bar last night. Yes, I went to a bar on Big Clean weekend--my fatigue and disappointment with Day 1 required some medication. I brought my flash cards along to study as I imbibed, and the older gentleman sitting on the neighboring bar stool caught sight and decided to start up a comversation loosely founded on architecture. Naturally I looked a little distracted to begin with, but he was already an untold number of drinks towards oblivion, so he continued. Apparently, he's single and renting at 56. Very displeased with the quality of housing in the area. In a job with a potentially limited future and concerned about being laid off. So, I thought, better keep this conversation going and see where I'll be in 25 years. It didn't sound fun. Mostly boring, with a good dose of bitterness and regret. Is there hope for Warren, my 56-year-old self? Let's hope so. The world needs to cure its Warrens.
Yesterday was my first amateur use of a steam carpet cleaner. Actually, this one didn't involve steam unless I was using it wrong--just hot water, expensive soapy additive, a vibrating bristle brush, and a hell of a lot of patience. I was hoping for magic, I think--drag the Rug Doctor (trademark) across the carpet and all of a sudden... new carpet! Carpet I would want to roll around on nekkid and take a big ole sniff of. But, the reality was less spectacularly pseudo-sexual. What the Rug Doctor was able to do was take out the camoflage-patterned stain-and-Resolve-bleached matrix that was making it difficult to know the true color of the carpet. Or at least subdue it. What the Rug Doctor could not do, though, was make the highly-trafficked portions of the carpets at the doorways look like the rest of the carpet, which was the "magic" goal. So it looks like I'm due to be embarassed by my carpets for as long as they're there. I will say, though, after letting it all dry overnight, there is marked improvement in the look and feel. They are now ready to once again serve as the substrate for huge clumps of hair and cat barf. The stuff that came out of that tank--out of the carpet--was... well, let's just say I can't believe I let my feet touch those carpets before. Eww.
I had the opportunity to talk to a 56-year-old version of myself at the bar last night. Yes, I went to a bar on Big Clean weekend--my fatigue and disappointment with Day 1 required some medication. I brought my flash cards along to study as I imbibed, and the older gentleman sitting on the neighboring bar stool caught sight and decided to start up a comversation loosely founded on architecture. Naturally I looked a little distracted to begin with, but he was already an untold number of drinks towards oblivion, so he continued. Apparently, he's single and renting at 56. Very displeased with the quality of housing in the area. In a job with a potentially limited future and concerned about being laid off. So, I thought, better keep this conversation going and see where I'll be in 25 years. It didn't sound fun. Mostly boring, with a good dose of bitterness and regret. Is there hope for Warren, my 56-year-old self? Let's hope so. The world needs to cure its Warrens.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Time to move in?
It's the end of August, which is about when, a year ago, I started to awaken from the fog of the initial trauma of completely destabilizing my life and transitioned into the slow burn of disappointment and dissatisfaction that characterized the following six to eight months. It was almost exactly a year ago that I had my couch delivered to me just moments before I ran out the door to the company ballpark picnic in Durham (which is tonight again) and then headed to Richmond the following day for my first visit with the Southern Lipchaks since moving.
In that year since pulling the shrink wrap off my couch, very little has changed here at 931-102 Washington Street (physically/aesthetically speaking, I mean). Same hooks and pictures on the walls. Same magnets on the fridge. Same obsolete electronics on the plywood thing I call my entertainment center... the place looks as unappreciated of a living space as it ever did. I could probably--couch accepted--pile everything I own back up into the same size truck I rented to bring it all down here. And do it as quickly as I moved it all in. My life here lacks a comfortable permanence or a permanent comfort...
I think it's time to resolve to stay here. There was always that chance--especially when I was laid off for a week back in April--that the new colony would not be a permanent one; call it Roanoke II. But now? Where could I go that would not be just as difficult (or more so) than staying here in Raleigh? I have a growing pool of friends thanks to the Y, volleyball, AIA, etc., and still see teaching at NCSU as a likely possibility in the future. People are starting to recognize my face (even if I haven't been so forward as to introduce myself by name). I'm starting to learn where "the scene" is and when to be in it and when to avoid it...
This apartment may not be--very likely won't be--a long term home, but it has to start getting appointed by things that make it homey and hold some meaning for me. When I finally do break down and invite friends over, I don't want them taken aback by the barrenness of the place and the consequent suspicion about the barrenness of my personality. The fact that I don't own the place shouldn't prevent me from making into my own.
Unrelated side note: grocery shopping is MUCH more fun when NC State students are back in town. Yes, more crowded, but crowded with good-looking youngins. I'll wait an extra few minutes in line if it means I can stare a little.
In that year since pulling the shrink wrap off my couch, very little has changed here at 931-102 Washington Street (physically/aesthetically speaking, I mean). Same hooks and pictures on the walls. Same magnets on the fridge. Same obsolete electronics on the plywood thing I call my entertainment center... the place looks as unappreciated of a living space as it ever did. I could probably--couch accepted--pile everything I own back up into the same size truck I rented to bring it all down here. And do it as quickly as I moved it all in. My life here lacks a comfortable permanence or a permanent comfort...
I think it's time to resolve to stay here. There was always that chance--especially when I was laid off for a week back in April--that the new colony would not be a permanent one; call it Roanoke II. But now? Where could I go that would not be just as difficult (or more so) than staying here in Raleigh? I have a growing pool of friends thanks to the Y, volleyball, AIA, etc., and still see teaching at NCSU as a likely possibility in the future. People are starting to recognize my face (even if I haven't been so forward as to introduce myself by name). I'm starting to learn where "the scene" is and when to be in it and when to avoid it...
This apartment may not be--very likely won't be--a long term home, but it has to start getting appointed by things that make it homey and hold some meaning for me. When I finally do break down and invite friends over, I don't want them taken aback by the barrenness of the place and the consequent suspicion about the barrenness of my personality. The fact that I don't own the place shouldn't prevent me from making into my own.
Unrelated side note: grocery shopping is MUCH more fun when NC State students are back in town. Yes, more crowded, but crowded with good-looking youngins. I'll wait an extra few minutes in line if it means I can stare a little.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Tidal Wave
NC State begins a new academic year this week, so the city has endured a storm surge of unshaven, T-shirt wearing post-adolescent boys and doe-eyed, short-short wearing coeds in recent weeks. Naturally, I'm ambivalent. Traffic is getting worse (and not just volume... these teenage boys are just DUMB drivers, and I suspect the girls aren't much better). Bars will be even more full and noisy, food will be scarcer, diseases rampant, pedestrian accidents at all time highs...
The influx of students--some tens of thousands city-wide--changes the energy dynamic of the city quite profoundly. You can smell the hormones in the air--all that repressed sexual energy being released by huge crowds of horny teenagers. It motivates them. They all jump in their late-90's model Toyotas and Hondas and cruise downtown or to Glenwood, talking overly loud, in the hopes that SOMETHING will happen. There's hope and wonderment and palpable potential. If someone could harness that energy for good (and not eeevil), the world would be a different place.
All this energy comes with a tinge of saddness to someone like me. You realize quickly that all this is NOT FOR YOU. This energy that these kids are pouring out to each other... well, you are background. You're a tree. A parked car. Scenery. Stage work. Obstacle, perhaps? And in the process, they drown out the energy that may be coming to you from outside their youthful horde. They are a distraction and an attractive nuisance.
Prepare for the flood.
The influx of students--some tens of thousands city-wide--changes the energy dynamic of the city quite profoundly. You can smell the hormones in the air--all that repressed sexual energy being released by huge crowds of horny teenagers. It motivates them. They all jump in their late-90's model Toyotas and Hondas and cruise downtown or to Glenwood, talking overly loud, in the hopes that SOMETHING will happen. There's hope and wonderment and palpable potential. If someone could harness that energy for good (and not eeevil), the world would be a different place.
All this energy comes with a tinge of saddness to someone like me. You realize quickly that all this is NOT FOR YOU. This energy that these kids are pouring out to each other... well, you are background. You're a tree. A parked car. Scenery. Stage work. Obstacle, perhaps? And in the process, they drown out the energy that may be coming to you from outside their youthful horde. They are a distraction and an attractive nuisance.
Prepare for the flood.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
regrets of a 31-year old bachelor
This summer I've been hanging out with my volleyball friends, who range in age from slightly younger (1-2 years) to significantly younger (6+ years), and it's been great fun. But as I listen to the stories of youthful indiscretion (perpetrated years ago or as recently as last week), I have to admit that I held myself back from a lot of fun (though potentially risky) behavior during my college and post-college years.
I realize that some people get exciting late in life--called "late bloomers," as if we've been locked in a state of physical pre-adolescence and are getting our flood of hormones decades late. The tragedy with late blooming is that people your own age don't have the patience for someone who wants to act like a 23-year old, and the 23-year olds aren't very taken with the idea of a creepy old guy hanging around. It's enough to put a halt to the bloom altogether.
My perception in high school and college was that my priorities were the right ones--hard work, industriousness, proper amounts of sleep, reverence for parents, respectful distance from women, generally clean living, no substance abuse, personal betterment, etc. etc. What a mistake! Who was feeding me that BS? I blame TV and movies, to be honest. And no thanks to you, Ben and Maggie--you dropped the ball as older siblings when it came to showing me the upside of personal corruption. By the time I became a frat boy, I was inpenetrable... literally uncorruptible. The effort it would have taken to undo the damage of my prolonged chastity was too great for anyone, and the payoff for them would only have been some funny photos and bragging rights.
So here's the lesson to any young sprout reading this blog, which should be balanced with whatever your parents or teachers or preachers are telling you: don't give up your opportunities to be bad, naughty, negligent, corrupt, stupid, and risky. There is some payoff to being responsible, but don't believe that there is no payoff to being irresponsible. And the latter payoff diminishes quickly the older you get. I did as much right as I could and it didn't save me from having regrets. Make sure you have some fun while there's fun to be had.
I realize that some people get exciting late in life--called "late bloomers," as if we've been locked in a state of physical pre-adolescence and are getting our flood of hormones decades late. The tragedy with late blooming is that people your own age don't have the patience for someone who wants to act like a 23-year old, and the 23-year olds aren't very taken with the idea of a creepy old guy hanging around. It's enough to put a halt to the bloom altogether.
My perception in high school and college was that my priorities were the right ones--hard work, industriousness, proper amounts of sleep, reverence for parents, respectful distance from women, generally clean living, no substance abuse, personal betterment, etc. etc. What a mistake! Who was feeding me that BS? I blame TV and movies, to be honest. And no thanks to you, Ben and Maggie--you dropped the ball as older siblings when it came to showing me the upside of personal corruption. By the time I became a frat boy, I was inpenetrable... literally uncorruptible. The effort it would have taken to undo the damage of my prolonged chastity was too great for anyone, and the payoff for them would only have been some funny photos and bragging rights.
So here's the lesson to any young sprout reading this blog, which should be balanced with whatever your parents or teachers or preachers are telling you: don't give up your opportunities to be bad, naughty, negligent, corrupt, stupid, and risky. There is some payoff to being responsible, but don't believe that there is no payoff to being irresponsible. And the latter payoff diminishes quickly the older you get. I did as much right as I could and it didn't save me from having regrets. Make sure you have some fun while there's fun to be had.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Job 1:21
I am not a grateful enough person. I think this is because everything I do seems to require way too much effort--I am reminded of a Simpson's episode in which Homer is constructing a do-it-yourself backyard barbeque pit, which he screws up royally. In his cry of frustration he exclaims, "WHY MUST LIFE BE SO HARD?!!!" Everytime I do something, that's how I feel. Yes, those who know me, I see your eyes rolling. Yes, I'm smart. Yes, I went to Harvard. Yes, I am able to avoid failure most of the time. Yes, things are generally good--I don't live in a third world country, I am employable, I have skills, no major medical issues, but nothing seems to come easy or effortlessly. I feel like I work twice as hard as everyone else to stay at the same level of satisfaction.
Like I said, I am not a grateful enough person. I am not the kind of person who is thankful when the Lord giveth, but I definitely notice when the Lord taketh away. I should realize that the things the Lord taketh from me are pretty minor--like the use of a middle finger for a few weeks--but it's hard for me to appreciate the status quo. Who relishes the ability to type unencumbered by a splint? Who appreciates the luxury of having a job to return to every Monday that does better than pay the bills? Who lives in the moment of a kiss and remembers to savor the excitement? Who, having lost these things at one time or another, truly values these experiences and is grateful for them? Sadly, not me. And it disappoints me.
Part of growing up and growing old should be learning to appreciate the value of fleeting experiences, even those that are so common that they don't seem fleeting. How much better would life be if you truly appreciated those everyday things that just go your way without a thought? I need to grow up.
Like I said, I am not a grateful enough person. I am not the kind of person who is thankful when the Lord giveth, but I definitely notice when the Lord taketh away. I should realize that the things the Lord taketh from me are pretty minor--like the use of a middle finger for a few weeks--but it's hard for me to appreciate the status quo. Who relishes the ability to type unencumbered by a splint? Who appreciates the luxury of having a job to return to every Monday that does better than pay the bills? Who lives in the moment of a kiss and remembers to savor the excitement? Who, having lost these things at one time or another, truly values these experiences and is grateful for them? Sadly, not me. And it disappoints me.
Part of growing up and growing old should be learning to appreciate the value of fleeting experiences, even those that are so common that they don't seem fleeting. How much better would life be if you truly appreciated those everyday things that just go your way without a thought? I need to grow up.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Much, much better
Things have been going much, much better in Raleigh these days, and perhaps surprisingly I can attribute most of that to the simple decision to start playing a second night of volleyball every week, on the outdoor courts not far from home. Much appreciation goes to the person who convinced me (tempted me? coerced me?) to show up the first week. All of a sudden weeknights are not just for studying and TV anymore. In fact, my weekends have become the more boring, antisocial parts of my week these days (that bears some correction, hopefully soon).
I'm headed for home for a long weekend next weekend, and very excited to see the family, hug my sister, play some horse corral volleyball, sleep outdoors, hopefully grab a drink with the Cantabrigians on Friday, reintroduce myself to Felicity (youngest neice), meet my eldest neice's new significant, get retribution for a water-balloon soaking on Memorial Day, and in general commune with the fam.
And get this: I passed my last architecture licensure exam! Yes, I took it many, many weeks ago, but I finally got word that I passed yesterday. It was a structures exam, which meant I had to re-learn about two years worth of college curriculum (ten years ago!) in the span of three months. Oh, but actually more... 80% of the exam was on lateral forces, which we never learned in college. Hazaa! My next exam is August 7, and at the risk of cursing myself, it should be a much easier exam. No math. No real technical terminology. Things directly applicable to work I've done. And then... I'll be nearly halfway done!
I'm headed for home for a long weekend next weekend, and very excited to see the family, hug my sister, play some horse corral volleyball, sleep outdoors, hopefully grab a drink with the Cantabrigians on Friday, reintroduce myself to Felicity (youngest neice), meet my eldest neice's new significant, get retribution for a water-balloon soaking on Memorial Day, and in general commune with the fam.
And get this: I passed my last architecture licensure exam! Yes, I took it many, many weeks ago, but I finally got word that I passed yesterday. It was a structures exam, which meant I had to re-learn about two years worth of college curriculum (ten years ago!) in the span of three months. Oh, but actually more... 80% of the exam was on lateral forces, which we never learned in college. Hazaa! My next exam is August 7, and at the risk of cursing myself, it should be a much easier exam. No math. No real technical terminology. Things directly applicable to work I've done. And then... I'll be nearly halfway done!
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