All dressered up and no place to go!
Most importantly: we opened up a joint checking account! This was by no means a simple task. It turns out that banks are violently allergic to weekend hours. Many of those touting Saturday hours only maintain a drive through window for current customers (thus making them pretty much liars!). Since Andrew will be working out of town during regular bankers hours, finding a bank that affords itself a little less slack on time off seemed like a decent priority. We may have spent a good chunk of the morning running through rain and hail (oh and that random patch of snow April felt like sharing with us), pounding on bank doors and doing soggy Google searches for "bank Bellingham Saturday"... Chase won the grand prize by being open, convenient, and not Bank of America.
I've had a bank account and debit card since I was twelve.Various other accounts have accumulated in my name since then. So on the one hand, nothing too big about having another bank account. On the other, it's a joint account with my husband! I never felt quite so married as I did when opening this account (and I've had a whole week to feel married here). There's nothing that tugs on my heart strings more than discussing OUR direct deposits, and automatic bill pays, and spending plans with a third party... Of course I'll have to go back in in a week to change the name on the account to my married name (still need certificate and then to change my id). But hey, that will be even more marrieder... And at least the bank is actually in the Freddy's where I like to shop.
With checks deposited, we set off carrying an armory of gift cards and cash into our next fracas. Successes included bookshelves, a sweet lamp, soap dishes, trash cans, an office mat, and A DRESSER. We still don't have chairs because my God chairs are expensive and frequently ugly! But we did manage to swipe through about five gift cards, bringing it down to only one to fruitlessly attempt not to lose.
Of course the dresser was the big find, being the final frontier in put-awayedness in our bedroom. Since Andrew is currently storing his broken old dresser and all the contents thereof in the living room, having a functioning dresser will make a multi-story impact on our home!
Upon return, Andrew threw himself ardently into his days of stagehand yore. I rapidly grocked that I was going to be unhelpful with the dresser project, and fled while my ego was marginally intact. Attempting to help get the box up our stairs (possibly having to sit on said stairs and swear about the way my pants were trying to fall down and trip me, before tripping myself quite handily on the rug in our living room), was enough. Then there was having to be told what "wood screws" look like in such detail that the intent of "hey could you grab me three of the small wood screws" was sufficiently undermined. When Andrew announced that the pre-fabrication had been done incorrectly and he would be drilling additional holes in the rollers, I knew to hide in a closet.
I'm glad for my stage hand sweetie, because I clearly would never have gotten such a dresser past chrysalis form without some accidental trepination. But still, the girl in me that grew up in the feminist era is a little ashamed at her helplessness in the face of huge wood pieces and Danish instruction sheets. Ah well, ergo mostly intact, and dresser completely intact. Worth the trade off!
Today is another busy day, so I'm glad to report the temperature is back to my low normal, and energy up to maybe 75%. Well still be telling myself to take it easy, but there's so much I want to do before the work week starts that it's going to be a battle.
Mad Monkey Monday
So having set off skipping down the road to recovery (once again, although I seem to say this more often that I ever seem to report having fully been recovered), it is time to carp(e)/salmon/sushi that darned diem. It's time t0 get back into the full swing (monkey pun!) of this regular work week thing I knew and loved as a single lady.
+Andrew Wright also starts work today. We're all very excited to find out what the hell these "satellite operations" he's going to be "put on" actually are. I've speculated that I'll receive a txt from him later saying "GOING TO MARS, CATCH ME ON NASA CHNL <3 span="">
And, well, I'm hoping that this will be my first week back at full time. Not that three-quarter time wasn't fun. And pretending to work while daydreaming about all the possible things that could go wrong during a prospective wedding or move (lions in bow-ties leaping from closets and eating people always comes to the fore on those), is fun, but a skill I have certainly already mastered.
We put ourselves in fairly good stead for the onset of the week. Yesterday, Andrew assembled another large piece of furniture and - glory of glories - got his clothes into the new dresser and the old dresser to the dump. I officially got myself out of my old apartment (having finally completed the calculus weighing the value of my sanity against the value of my deposit getting returned if there is still dirt on wall from my then-LUVAAAH's mountain bike set against how much of a flying farfanugin I really give at this point). And we even got (many) of our thank you notes (almost) done!
Last night, with a living room now buried in boxes but bereft of wardrobes, we watched the 30's version of The Man Who Knew Too Much, and hunkered in for a good sleep... Goodish... Well... mostly. I'm still not entirely sure what chain of events led to my waking up to a series of bed jostles and finding Mr. (W)right buried under the bed announcing he'd lost his glasses (I do like to see my dreams clearly as well I admit)...
This morning, perhaps, was not the well-oiled-banana machine such preparation may have suggested. Coffee, I am glad to say, was successfully created. Eggs and toast even made it unscathed... mostly... until the toaster burst out in smoke and flickering tongues of flame teased out from under the second load of Andrew's bread.
I cannot say how what appeared to be a piece of paper got into the toaster, but it sure did. I'm saying it was a ceremonial fire and sacrifice to the monkey Monday gods to ensure a safe journey for my husband and good days at work. Quite sensibly, I took the toast out and pulled the plug. Unfortunately, the plug I pulled was the plug to the microwave. Which was not quite as effective for either the flaming toaster or the microwave. Eventually, after calling Andrew over to advise, I noticed my mistake and fixed the plug situation, but let's just say I may have stuck with bread this morning and will minister to the toaster situation later this evening (full exorcism perhaps in order).
We dined in fine style over heady memories of camp-fires past. Sadly no 'smores were on hand, but there were certainly camp songs on the lips (in my head). Before I dashed, I quite excitedly loaded up the dishwasher with all the dirty dishes about... Never mind the rest of the dishes in the dishwasher were clean, something which had been discussed but perhaps never thoroughly communicated between us. Andrew and I are both used to being sole operators and keepers of our respective dishwashers, so perhaps the interchange of "I think it's full enough to run..." and "oh no, there's a little room left, let's wait until after breakfast..." was not sufficient enough to establish which of us had the final call on the issue. Andrew, assuming he had final call and having considered my input, ran the dishwasher. I, assuming, I had final call and that he would have said something if he had flouted my imperial dishwashing edict, assumed it had yet to be run.
Of course, all of this came out far less lucidly at 6:15 in the morning over a fiery toast-pyre. I half-heartedly attempted to sort out the clean and dirty dishes, then said screw it I'd just run the whole thing again, and then left with a "I'll deal with it when I get back..." followed by a "or, I guess you could..." (editor's note, which he in fact did! Living with another responsible adult is going to be a major adjustment for me and, I suspect, him as well) So, yes, first hop on the cohabitation learning curve! I think we've decided that we'll get little magnets that will say whether the dishes are clean or dirty. It worked at my old job,and we have verified the dishwasher is magnetic. Also, I like magnets.
Having survived the morning without setting the actual home ablaze (just parts of it), or crashing the car on the way to work, I'm ready to shake off the Monday mojo and get down to lawyering. And/or leaving again for my eye-check up. I don't know that I'll ever fully get back into the routine, but I don't think today will be the break through day! Small scuttles up the stairs to settled....
DINKY-DINKY-dooooo
That's right, Mr. (W)right and I are officially DINKs: dual-income, no kids - our generation's answer to the yuppie with fewer power suits and mellower perms. I kind of like the variant DINKY "double income, no kids... yet" since life is always better with a little equivocation. Do I want a soda? Well, hmmmmm, I think I may kinda maybe want a soda at some point... A kid? Huh, can I maybe, like, try a kid-share the way they do with cars? You know, use a cell-phone app to locate the nearest available child for those special weekend trips to the petting zoo when a kid would really be useful and then return them to some community playpen? Hey, wait, isn't that what being an aunt really is?? Ha!
I jest. I'd be thrilled to reproduce and all, but that's really up for the fates and biology to dictate and apparently cannot be ordered on express delivery from Amazon Prime. In the meantime there's a lot of lovely little DINKY-doo home improvement projects to get into... maybe some obscure sports to pursue... even more obscure wonder-foods to obsess over, and of course new shoes to accessorize my magnificent sock gallery. These socks definitely demand the vivacity of red bows I think. Although my favorite of the shoe-lot are definitely the April 10th moddish blue numbers.
But yes, Dinkatude. +Andrew Wright has officially abandoned his post as my in-home cabana boy to brave the wilds of Mukilteo and do a little minor rocket science for himself. We are relieved to discover that "satellite operations" actually refers to working on equipment related to satellites and was not a reference to the Siberian location of said operations. At least that's the story I hear after his first day with a briefcase. Incidentally, he looked quite handsome in his grown-up engineer ensemble. This means that I shall likely allow him to continue with this whole grown-up-job caprice. Oh, that, and the second income he brings to our proportionately funded household expenses account. It immediately exceeds mine, after all. I think our shares are about 45-55%. So, while he hasn't exactly gone from grad student arm-candy to the main breadwinner of the house, he's definitely elevated from cabana boy to delicious eclairwinner and I'll be demanding my lobster dinners from time to time, just so long as the lobsters are small chocolate lobsters of the darker variety. Mmmmm chocolate lobsters!
. He got a desk, a phone, a computer, and lots of specs to read. Sounds like engineer heaven to me! For my part, I've made my own miniature return to work with a decent little mountain of tasks to accomplish (phew - I thought they might have adjusted to having me only halfway here and the work would vanish!). I'm optimistic I can continue actually doing some of this work even! Perhaps in a timely manner.
I am not out of the distracted woods just yet. There are still plenty of loose ends (and boxes) to clear up with this moving thing. There's cleaning service to set up (we value our marriage, as does apparently our lovely mother/mother-in-law, Lisa, who is giving us this pretty much unparalleled gift as our wedding endowment... oh I chose a good one, didn't I tell ya??). More importantly to some addicts, there's internet to set up. And a lamp to construct, I suppose in the midst of the cardboard ocean of our living room. And some day, we'll get our certified wedding certificate and I can do the name-change paperwork waltz around town.
But I am proud to report that this morning was a placidly uneventful one, quite low on conflagrations and confusions. I made it from bed to the laundry room (I have been setting aside my clothes the night before and changing there to avoid waking Andrew up, as if that were possible). I made food. It resisted destruction. Andrew and I ate food. We chatted. We coffeed. I made it to work. I'm assuming that the house remains fully intact, even! This is a promising sign. I sense the onset of a routine, perhaps. And routines, in moderation, are blessed lifesavers at times.
And it's looking sunny out. I could get into this DINKY thing!
Dishwasher Armistice and Other Adventures in Moving -
The dirty/clean "magnet" has arrived! And it did so through fairly circuitous, but ultimately fortuitous routes. As some may recall (although it was two days past, so I'm not expecting too much here), there may have been a few flaming toasters and dishwasher confusions a few mornings past. The toaster-fires seem to have quelled themselves in the absence of additional mystery paper. The dishwasher resolution relied far more on finding some method of communication betwixt two domestic commandos regarding the status of any dishes therein.
We summitted at Camp David for roughly five or six beautiful months and finally came to a solution that would fit all needs and interests: a clean/dirty magnet. This has the advantage of not requiring any specific conversations on the matter, particularly not the kind of communication requiring memory or attention at a time that is likely to be simultaneously mindlessly routine and improvisational. It also reduces the instances of rooting through ambigously cleanish dishes in desperate attempt to ascertain whether a dirty dish would be among friends or foes after any given meal.
But where might such miraculous magnets exist? Well, the internet of course (between the cute cats and the x-rated sites, there's a little section on the internet for absolutely any product you could ever imagine buying). But also, or so rumor had it, Fred Meyer's! Fred Meyer's is one of my favorite places, period. I'd say to shop, but honestly, I make up shopping excuses just to go and wander around there. It's kind of a perfect melange of produce, socks, scarves (my wedding shawl was a last minute sale find there), and arcana for my viewing pleasure.
Grocery stores have been my Eden since I was wee. In my early twenties, I had the drudgery-dream job of working as a produce clerk at a local fruit market. My main task was throwing out perfect good but ugly produce (cringe) and replacing it with prettier produce. My second task was making fruit baskets, for which the market was renowned (especially so during my reign there). Our baskets ranged from medium to deluxe, and I generally had the whole run of the liquor store, deli, and cookie aisle for my creations. One of my favorite parts of the job was starting these beauties before opening hours, as it meant wandering through the aisles unabated and unobserved, living a million fantasy lives. Wandering through a good produce aisle still gives me a warm fuzzy glow. I need not extrapolate on my enjoyment of the sock collection at Freddy's.
Sadly, my native Freddy's is going through some upheavals of late. They claim to be doing some major remodeling project, but I suspect that what they are actually doing is merely moving sections of the store every day as part of a sociology experiment to see what happens to people in such circumstances. I can give you my hypothesis: when people don't know where anything is in a store they visit every day, they get frenzied.
And let me tell you, it was roiling in there! Even the employees - who were about as clueless about the whereabouts of anything not actively in their hands - seemed particularly jumpy. They were covering their ferment with a gooey shellackof helpfulness that verged only slightly on the manic, but was enough to intimidate this little introvert. I went there to buy two things: these magnets and a thermometer battery. An hour and much consternation later, I emerged with three loaves of bread and some frozen vegetables. I'd speak of the intervening time, but I'm afraid of triggering a full on episode this close to the event. Let's just say, not actual screaming was done, but I was pretty close to swatting off "helpful" employees and yelling "I WANT MY FREDDY'S BACK" to anyone who would listen. In the interim, I exchanged a few texts with +Molly Tasanasanta - the original magnet tipster - which led me to the correct section but not quite to the actual product. I resolved to return the next day, only after having eaten and appropriately armed myself.
Heaven intervened: and it came in the form of our first official callers! Molly, aware of the protean nature of the store, and rightfully afeared that everything would be moved once again by tomorrow, went and found the darned "magnet"... Well, it turned out to be a suction cup instead, but this really has no impact on the product aside from nomenclature.
She also bought us a pretty flower for us to kill! Er, to keep in the window and brighten up the living room. I think we can handle a plant together. We did okay with this dresser thing, so we may be ready to take that next step and foster our love daisy. I felt all grown up having a friend in and chatting in the kitchen (while Andrew made dinner). Of course I may have felt slightly less grown up, given that baby Emma was along and I was thus suddenly bursting out in strange voices and dancing around in muppet-fashion in the middle of conversations (babies have magical ridiculousness powers that I rather enjoy).
In thanks for her grand gestures, we gave her several boxes (gave... forced on) for her upcoming move. It was the least we could do. I don't know what we'll do when we run out of boxes. We'll have to just start giving guests our recycling... "thanks for coming over, here have five days' pre-finished crossword puzzles!!"
Today, is very exciting for me, as I have just come into legal documentation verifying that I am, indeed, MS. WRIGHT!! Sure, the rest of the process is looming with a crusty sneer, but it's a start towards all new everything (passport, cards, license, WSBA registration, ad...). After only some misunderstandings that the Social Security office might in fact be open normal hours and not, say, close arbitrarily at noon on Wednesday (because why not?), I have actually managed to update my SSI information and get a little note verifying that this has occurred. On the way back, I even got a new passport photo (it is appropriately ugly, but not cringingly so). I look about like I would likely look passing through international borders: jet-lagged and impatient.
It's just another small step/large leap for Wrightkind and I'm happy to be all the more official! Time to practice that signature.
But where might such miraculous magnets exist? Well, the internet of course (between the cute cats and the x-rated sites, there's a little section on the internet for absolutely any product you could ever imagine buying). But also, or so rumor had it, Fred Meyer's! Fred Meyer's is one of my favorite places, period. I'd say to shop, but honestly, I make up shopping excuses just to go and wander around there. It's kind of a perfect melange of produce, socks, scarves (my wedding shawl was a last minute sale find there), and arcana for my viewing pleasure.
Grocery stores have been my Eden since I was wee. In my early twenties, I had the drudgery-dream job of working as a produce clerk at a local fruit market. My main task was throwing out perfect good but ugly produce (cringe) and replacing it with prettier produce. My second task was making fruit baskets, for which the market was renowned (especially so during my reign there). Our baskets ranged from medium to deluxe, and I generally had the whole run of the liquor store, deli, and cookie aisle for my creations. One of my favorite parts of the job was starting these beauties before opening hours, as it meant wandering through the aisles unabated and unobserved, living a million fantasy lives. Wandering through a good produce aisle still gives me a warm fuzzy glow. I need not extrapolate on my enjoyment of the sock collection at Freddy's.
Sadly, my native Freddy's is going through some upheavals of late. They claim to be doing some major remodeling project, but I suspect that what they are actually doing is merely moving sections of the store every day as part of a sociology experiment to see what happens to people in such circumstances. I can give you my hypothesis: when people don't know where anything is in a store they visit every day, they get frenzied.
And let me tell you, it was roiling in there! Even the employees - who were about as clueless about the whereabouts of anything not actively in their hands - seemed particularly jumpy. They were covering their ferment with a gooey shellackof helpfulness that verged only slightly on the manic, but was enough to intimidate this little introvert. I went there to buy two things: these magnets and a thermometer battery. An hour and much consternation later, I emerged with three loaves of bread and some frozen vegetables. I'd speak of the intervening time, but I'm afraid of triggering a full on episode this close to the event. Let's just say, not actual screaming was done, but I was pretty close to swatting off "helpful" employees and yelling "I WANT MY FREDDY'S BACK" to anyone who would listen. In the interim, I exchanged a few texts with +Molly Tasanasanta - the original magnet tipster - which led me to the correct section but not quite to the actual product. I resolved to return the next day, only after having eaten and appropriately armed myself.
Heaven intervened: and it came in the form of our first official callers! Molly, aware of the protean nature of the store, and rightfully afeared that everything would be moved once again by tomorrow, went and found the darned "magnet"... Well, it turned out to be a suction cup instead, but this really has no impact on the product aside from nomenclature.
She also bought us a pretty flower for us to kill! Er, to keep in the window and brighten up the living room. I think we can handle a plant together. We did okay with this dresser thing, so we may be ready to take that next step and foster our love daisy. I felt all grown up having a friend in and chatting in the kitchen (while Andrew made dinner). Of course I may have felt slightly less grown up, given that baby Emma was along and I was thus suddenly bursting out in strange voices and dancing around in muppet-fashion in the middle of conversations (babies have magical ridiculousness powers that I rather enjoy).
In thanks for her grand gestures, we gave her several boxes (gave... forced on) for her upcoming move. It was the least we could do. I don't know what we'll do when we run out of boxes. We'll have to just start giving guests our recycling... "thanks for coming over, here have five days' pre-finished crossword puzzles!!"
Today, is very exciting for me, as I have just come into legal documentation verifying that I am, indeed, MS. WRIGHT!! Sure, the rest of the process is looming with a crusty sneer, but it's a start towards all new everything (passport, cards, license, WSBA registration, ad...). After only some misunderstandings that the Social Security office might in fact be open normal hours and not, say, close arbitrarily at noon on Wednesday (because why not?), I have actually managed to update my SSI information and get a little note verifying that this has occurred. On the way back, I even got a new passport photo (it is appropriately ugly, but not cringingly so). I look about like I would likely look passing through international borders: jet-lagged and impatient.
It's just another small step/large leap for Wrightkind and I'm happy to be all the more official! Time to practice that signature.
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