Pics from the Haunted Cabin

Write this down: zoo, illness, flowers.

Now: write a short story using those three words. (I actually have an assignment like this, but my words are arugula, wondrous, and bandit. Strangely, an idea came to me right away.)

Zoo: I took my Little Sis to the Austin Zoo on Sunday. Note to self: don't go to the zoo in the middle of the afternoon during the summer. I have done this twice now. All you get for your trouble is heat stroke and animals holed up their dens. Nothing frolicing, nothing roaring at you, nothing to make you thankful for the thin, chain-linked line between them and you.

Except we did see some tigers fighting in their swimming pool. That was pretty awesome.

This tiger would totally kill you and use your torso as a floatation device in the pool.

Illness: I've not been feeling so hot lately, so I called my boss yesterday morning to tell her I wasn't coming in. When I told her I was sick, she said this: "Well, it's not that you can't be sick, but [co-worker] said that after that cold front came through last week her allergies have really been acting up."

Ok...so I'm not sick? Now, I won't deny that I've developed allergies since moving here, but this was definitely a cold: it had a beginning, middle, and end. Anyway, I wasn't sure where I was supposed to go after that. So I coughed a little in the phone to build my case and told her I'd be in the next day.

Flowers: Chris brought me flowers on Monday. I really had to scramble to find a suitable vase, since I can't remember the last time someone brought me flowers or that I bought them for myself. Had to dump all the random sea glass and Pottery Barn potpourri out (...which makes it sound like I live in a Michael's or Hobby Lobby). Anyway, it was sweet.

Dropping bread crumbs at my feet.

Don't look at me that way--I've been busy!

It's Labor Day eve and I've got my mud mask on, music is playing, and my writing cap is perched rakishly on my head. In other words, all is as our forefathers intended.

I got a big education on why I simultaneously love and hate weddings this weekend.
Pros: all your friends and family in one place; open bars; dancing; love; etc.
Cons: every bit of planning that goes into said event.

I ran a bunch of wedding errands with my friend Alexis on Saturday: two photographers, two florists, two dress shops. I was happy to do it, of course; that's what friends do for each other. Plus, it was cool to be there when she found her wedding dress. But man alive, there are a lot of details involved in planning a wedding. You have to know so many things that the average person has no cause to know: chapel, cathedral, or sweep train? Wrist corsage or pin-on for the mothers? Same or different for each? Reproduction proofs to the photography? Maybe I just fail in girlishness in this department.

Lord. Eloping sounds like the answer...except for the Pro list above.

What else is new? So, there's a boy...and that's going well--well enough that I know better than to write about it. Just trust me. Also, I downloaded "Summer of 69," finally (I will fight you if you try to tell me that's not the greatest song ever). Oh, and some writing--some honest-to-God writing. I know! Jewelry making with the Little Sis. Low-simmering girl-crush on Tina Fey (but that's not so much new as it is continuous).

I'm listening to Justin Timberlake right now and I don't care who knows it.

Home sweet home.

Wednesday is my two-year anniversary of being an homeowner. It's the single scariest decision I've ever made--scarier than moving to Memphis or to Austin, scarier than when I spent two weeks staying with a Spanish-speaking family in Costa Rica when I was 17, scarier than that time those geese trapped me on the Town Lake trail and I couldn't get by.

I looked for 2 months and toured over a dozen houses with my realtor, who was one of my dad's old frat brothers from San Diego State. Looked only south, past Slaughter Lane and far down on Brodie. And one stray place up north, but still within the metro Austin square: east of MoPac, south of 183, west of I-35, north of 71. And that was the one. I knew it the moment I clamped eyes on it. And the master bedroom closet sealed the deal.

What did I do the night I finally closed, the day I got the keys to my very own 960 square feet? I went on a bad date with a guy who was too impatient to wait 20 minutes to be seated for dinner and made us eat the bar. That guy sucked and I knew it; it was the only time on a date I've seriously considered making for the bathroom and slipping out the door. I kept hefting my keys the whole night, wishing I were alone in unit 101 instead.

Anyway.

I still remember what if felt like to open the door and see the condo as mine for the first time. Of course, I expected the keys not to work--like there would have been a mistake or maybe my loan app had been denied after all or I had forgotten to sign something. None of that: it opened like I owned the place. I did. And I saw every water stain, every crack, every scratch on the countertops. I half expected to immediately step on a rug that was covering a hole in the floor and to sink to my shoulders, trapped, like in Money Pit. It seemed huge: the responsibility, the commitment, the upkeep. I felt more tethered to a place than I'd ever felt in my life, after 7 moves before high school, 3 apartments in college, 2 in grad school. It meant I was staying in Austin for a while. Which was terrifying and suffocating and liberating and stabilizing all at once.

I painted all the walls myself. The kitchen sea-grass green, the bathroom yellowy taupe, the office a soft spring green. The master bedroom silver sage from Restoration Hardware, with a chocolate brown accent wall (the best room in the house). I retiled the kitchen and bathroom floors (peel and stick, but still; it's quite a chore). Painted the kitchen cabinets white. New shower head, new toilet, new kitchen fixture (ok, my dad did all these for me).

Also: a leaking laundry fixture, a rat that died in the wall, leaking flashing around chimney (three times), a horrible plastic bathtub that creaks like your foot is about to go through it with every step. Bent and broken blinds--which is my pet peeve--on three windows.

Nevertheless.

I love this place. It feels like home: some place completely mine, completely my taste, completely at the mercy of my design whims. And now, two years in, I won't have to pay capital gains tax if I ever sell.

Which I can't imagine.

Holy smokes.

Have you ever been on a date when the other person brings a jacket into the theater for you in case you might get cold?

Kinda makes your heart go bleep-bloop all over the place.

She's come undone.

Six-year-old Emily, my mom, and I, in the car.
E: Why does Cami get to pick everything we do?
M: Because she's the guest while she's here.
C: And because I'm a princess.
E: You can't be a princess; you're 30.
C: Oh yeah? So what am I instead--the wicked stepmother? The evil witch?
E: No; you're the donkey.

***

Emily and I, in the jacuzzi.
C: What did you do when Grandpa watched you while Grandma and your mom were out of town?
E: [conspiratorially] We threw a party for 100 of our closest friends.

***

Emily and I, while I painted red polka dots on her nails.
E: Have you ever done this as a job?
C: No, but I've painted my nails before plenty of times.
E: You should work in a salon. Maybe boys would come in and buy gifts for people, and you could get a boyfriend. And then you could get married. And have a baby. Don't you want a baby?
C: ....
E: Well, you should work in a salon.

Either way, Tom Cruise wants me to become a Scientologist.

My Posh haircut is actually more of a Katie Holmes, but I think I can rock it. (And maybe have a contractually obligated baby along the way!) As my sister Kristin said: "Good. No one can pull off the Posh but Posh." She's a Spice Girls loyalist, though, so how much should I believe her?

Anyway.

I feel giddy and full of contentment all the sudden. Like everything that should be falling into place, is. But then again, I am listening to pop music with piano and orchestra (the best kind), so it could just be a contact high. So maybe I hear piano and strings, and I picture myself in some of kind gauzy, romantic montage. And it looks almost like a Summertime Lemonade commercial. Slow motion, with a mossy river and long grass and a rope swing and oak trees casting shadows. A kindly old man in a straw hat, holding a beaded glass of lemonade. Ok, maybe not that last part. Somehow "gazy, romantic montage" and "old man holding lemonade" don't quit seem to mesh. Not in my montage, anyway; your montages are your business.

Gosh, I love a montage. I might get married just to have a slide show.

Nothing exciting ever happens in this town.

Thus, I have just set the following in motion: the discovery of a dead body; the uncovering of a conspiracy; a chase sequence; coming home to find my house has been ransacked; falling in love with the detective assigned to the case, even though he is totally not my type; the decoding of various clues overlooked by everyone else; discovering this thing goes all the way to the President; telling the police chief: "No, we will not stay out of this!"; learning a valuable life lesson, probably about patriotism; the salvation of the town, America, possibly the world; reflecting upon how saying "nothing ever happens in this town" virtually assures you will have to run for your life within days, just like talking about how long it's been since your last speeding ticket will guarantee one on the way home.

Oh, gosh.

I should probably learn how ratios work (I had to fix the title of my last post because I got it backwards and it made no sense). This might explain why George Michael (cat, not pop star) could probably score higher on the GRE than I did.

Another thing: when will people realize that The Kite Runner is one of the most wildly overrated books of all time? Having a topical setting does not equal extraordinary literary merit.

And also: I spilled coffee all over my skirt this morning. It's like I picked up the mug and just dumped it. Sometimes I wonder how I manage to make it out of the house alive every morning.

Word Association

Paris Hilton: go away. I can't muster the energy to care.
Ann Coulter: go away forever. And sew your mouth shut while you're at it.
So You Think You Can Dance?: be on every night forever.
Soda: limiting myself to two a week. Not as hard as I thought it would be.
Grammar: underrated by the general public (sadly).
Reading grammar books for eight hours a day: overrated.
Leaking roof: here we go again.
Sleepwalking: pretty much over that phase (only lasted 13 years).
Deafness: closing in fast; where can I get a hearing horn?
Old Navy flag T-shirts: just don't. Including on the 4th of July.
The Great Gatsby: read it once a year.
State of Florida: no thanks.
Sangria margarita from Trudy's: yes please.
Keith Sweat's song "Twisted": modern classic.
Yiddish Policemen's Union by Michael Chabon: slow going.
Texting: sometimes.
Rain: forecasted until sometime in 2009, seems like.
Boardgames: it's embarrassing how much I suck at Scrabble.
Bono: if it's good enough for him, it's good enough for me.

My Saturday morning routine.

Since turning 30, I seem to have lost the ability to sleep in on weekends. It's kinda like how your grandma is up, dressed, and ready to go by 6:30 a.m. I somehow feel I should be saddened by this turn of events, but it's actually led to a whole new routine that I have come to look forward to. This is what getting old is like.

After George Michael (the cat, not the singer-songwriter) gently bites me awake around 7:30 (and by "gently" I mean "savagely, with the intent to disfigure"), I check my various internet enterprises and then I make myself a cup of coffee. How did I go almost 30.5 years without realizing a cup of coffee in the morning is possibly the greatest thing in the world? Anyway. Then I sit down to a couple I Love Lucy reruns.

I do, you know. Love Lucy. I love the sharpness of Ricky's suits, I love that Fred's pants are so high that his tie tucks into them, I love that Lucy says "wondaful," I love that a fake nose and wig--possibly a facial mole--can make you unrecognizable to your own spouse. And of course, the gentle misogyny and playful threats of violence (oh how the audience laughs when Lucy says, "I'll be holding the baby when I tell him; he wouldn't hit a woman with a baby!"). I'm not facile enough to think the Cold War years were "the good old days," but I cannot resist the world that this show creates.

Then George Michael draws more blood, and I go upstairs to take a shower.