In the space of two weeks, I went from considering myself a Minnesota "life-r" to living out of two suitcases in California.
I was offered my dream job at my dream company, and a week after accepting it, a moving truck pulled up to my sister's house, where I was living at the time. Two burly men emerged and proceeded to pack all of my belongings ("That Darth Vader helmet voice changer doesn't belong to me... honest! No... just pack it and I'll... uh... return it to its proper owner... in California...") except for three pre-packed, rickety suitcases. This trio of blue luggage contained all of the belongings I would require for the next month. All the rest of my possessions were going into storage while I lived in temporary corporate housing and searched for a permanent apartment.
Soon I found myself deplaning at the San Jose Airport. I had a small, wheely carry-on bag and my little dog in a carrier slung across my shoulders. Being that I was embarking to live in California without knowing a soul, I decided that that day would be the first day of my True Adulthood. To symbolize this, I had traveled wearing a cute outfit of capris, a tank top, and rather unwieldy high heels. As an aside, it should be noted that I haven't since traveled in anything other than oversized sweatpants, mens' undershirts, and Crocs.
I wobbled through the airport on my OhSoCute stilettos, gasping and sweating. Having a 15 pound animal hanging around your neck in a carrier that requires being completely level and steady at all times is exhausting. Coupling this with a suitcase and a fashion statement, I don't believe I achieved the level of chic that I had intended.
I finally arrived at the baggage carousel, dog, high heels, and dignity all intact (but barely). After the trademarked airport wait time (you know, not long enough to go get a drink, too long to continue to hold your belongings) the moving ramp started to spit out bags and packages.
My sister gave me my luggage set before I spent a semester in Budapest. The blue linen suitcases were very worn and dirty after five months of traveling with me in Eastern Europe. They were old friends, and I wasn't inclined to replace them, regardless of their aesthetics. The smaller of the two suitcases was jettisoned ungently from the mysterious land behind the swinging plastic flaps of the carousel. My dog, my outfit, my carry-on, my stilettos, and I leapt forward and wrestled the overstuffed blue monstrosity from the moving belt. I (somewhat belatedly) acquired a luggage trolly and stowed my accoutrements upon it. I looked up just in time to see my second bag emerge from the cavernous opening.
In my mind's eye, I see the following events unfolding in slow motion. The large blue suitcase tumbled onto the belt. As it made one final twist and came to rest, the zipper gave way. The top sprang open. Released suddenly from their compact captivity, my belongings launched every which way. Underwear went flying! My hair diffuser skittered down the belt. A copy of Gone With the Wind landed on top of the carousel, perched like a trophy.
Discord and chaos ensued as everyone in the very crowded San Jose terminal watched me desperately scoop piles of dirty underwear and toiletries off of the belt. Some helpful individuals tried to assist; one elderly man gingerly handed me a handful of runaway tampons. Most were content to watch with amusement and horror. Restrained by my dog, my shoes, my already-stowed luggage, and my pride, I could only but watch as all the contents of the suitcase moved out of arms length and made their slow, showcasing tour around the entire terminal. Helplessly, I waited until they methodically made their way back to me on the moving belt. Finally I was able to the last of my unmentionables into the gaping suitcase.
The zipper was shot. I had to get to the rental car area with all of my belongings. Longingly remembering my resolution to finally begin life as an adult, I put the torn-up suitcase on the trolly. I placed the smaller (intact) suitcase on top of it. I placed the carry-on on top of that. Then I climbed aboard myself, straddling the mound of luggage, depending on my weight to hold all items in place. Holding a bewildered, ugly dog, riding a trolley of luggage with brassieres leaking out of every side, clutching a high heel under each armpit (and thusly barefoot) I slowly scootched to a taxi cab.
Surprisingly, the rest of the move went smoothly. But as this was supposed to be the day that began my adult life, it comes as no surprise to me that I still find myself closing down bars at 2am and walking around work in my bunny slippers.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
Resolved: I am the most awkward human ever.
This weekend it was driven home to me that, while I like to judge fellow nerds for their inability to interact socially, I'm not too much further up the geek-tastic "Mountain-Dew-and-Pizza Chain."
It was one of my roommate's birthdays on Sunday. There was really nothing else to do besides push all responsibilities aside and have an entire weekend of festivities. On Friday we went bowling at a fabulous, totally disgusting bowling alley. We planned to meet at our house and carpool to the bowling alley. Since we arranged for people to arrive at the house by 8:00pm, naturally by 6:30 we had 10 or so friends lounging around the living room. We ordered pizza, teased each other, and generally just got the night off to a good start.
Exhibit A:
Right around 8:00, the doorbell rang. Now, before continuing I should note a couple of important items. There had been some Disagreement over the type of pizza that would be ordered. The boys wanted the Mega-Red-Meat Heart Attack Special. The girls wanted cheese. Also, we have a tight group of friends. We don't discourage new-comers, but we so rarely have new faces in our midst that their impending presence is usually discussed and anticipated.
Therefore, when the doorbell rang and no one leapt up to get it, I meandered to the door, assuming that perhaps we had finally surpassed our neighbors' patience with our level of noise. Opening the door, I didn't recognize the young man who stood on the stoop. He certainly wasn't one of the neighbors. He looked at me expectantly, just as I looked at him. Finally I put on my professional face, assuming we had ordered more pizza and the delivery person was in a very sad state of substance abuse. Perhaps a bit condescendingly, I said (in a very grownup manner), "can I help you with something?" He looked startled and said, "oh, does 'Roommate X' live here?" As I was still blockading the door with my body, he peered around me into the house. Suddenly I hear a half-amused, half-disgusted voice behind me saying, "Betsy, he's one of your guests." Embarrassingly, he used to work with one of our friends, and they'd recently gotten back in touch. I'm fairly certain I made the poor young man feel extraordinarily unwelcome.
Exhibit B:
We successfully arrived at the Bowling Alley. I had previously made a reservation for a lane, so clutching my purse, a bag full of paper plates and silverware, and an ornate cake, I pushed my way to the counter. I had been giving directions, balancing cakes, herding people to specific places by specific times, and I was a little punchy. Finally I was directed toward Lane 10, a fine lane situated directly under the projector that broadcast a loop of a dozen music videos.
While I was struggling into my chartreuse clown shoes, one of the workers at the bowling alley approached me. He thrust a bowling pin into my hands. "What the hell is this?" I asked, rudely. I thought maybe one of my partying friends had done something Very Bad and he was showing me the evidence. Too late, I realized he also was handing me a Sharpie marker. 3...2...1... it clicked. "Oh! Is this to sign for 'Roomate X's' birthday??" The stocky employee had given us a used bowling pin that we could sign and give to my roommate as a birthday novelty!
Here ended my awkwardness of the night, but it picked right back up the next day.
Exhibit C:
The next evening we made our way to Black Angus, a slightly overpriced steakhouse that we lovingly call "Black Anus." There were six of us and we were quite the rowdy crowd. However, we had an incredibly cool waiter. He was a lot of fun! He teased us and pretended to be appalled by our less-than-savory conversational topics. We told him that it was Roommate X's birthday and good-naturally carded her, telling her that she certainly didn't look any older than 19. As we wrapped up our dinner, we heard clapping and cheering, the harbinger of birthday wishes.
Our awesome waiter was leading of pack of smiling restaurant employees, and they began a rousing chorus of happy birthday. As they finished, a waitresses set down a huge be-candled cookie in front of Roommate X. Much to my surprise, our waiter then set one down in front of me, too. Confused, I loudly inquired, "Why do I get this?" The harem of waitresses looked at our waiter and he glared at me. He put on a dazzling, fake smile, and said menacingly, "because we have TWO birthdays!" Shit. The nice man gives us an extra treat and I essentially send it back to the kitchen.
And here I am wondering why I wasn't elected to the homecoming court in high school! :-P
It was one of my roommate's birthdays on Sunday. There was really nothing else to do besides push all responsibilities aside and have an entire weekend of festivities. On Friday we went bowling at a fabulous, totally disgusting bowling alley. We planned to meet at our house and carpool to the bowling alley. Since we arranged for people to arrive at the house by 8:00pm, naturally by 6:30 we had 10 or so friends lounging around the living room. We ordered pizza, teased each other, and generally just got the night off to a good start.
Exhibit A:
Right around 8:00, the doorbell rang. Now, before continuing I should note a couple of important items. There had been some Disagreement over the type of pizza that would be ordered. The boys wanted the Mega-Red-Meat Heart Attack Special. The girls wanted cheese. Also, we have a tight group of friends. We don't discourage new-comers, but we so rarely have new faces in our midst that their impending presence is usually discussed and anticipated.
Therefore, when the doorbell rang and no one leapt up to get it, I meandered to the door, assuming that perhaps we had finally surpassed our neighbors' patience with our level of noise. Opening the door, I didn't recognize the young man who stood on the stoop. He certainly wasn't one of the neighbors. He looked at me expectantly, just as I looked at him. Finally I put on my professional face, assuming we had ordered more pizza and the delivery person was in a very sad state of substance abuse. Perhaps a bit condescendingly, I said (in a very grownup manner), "can I help you with something?" He looked startled and said, "oh, does 'Roommate X' live here?" As I was still blockading the door with my body, he peered around me into the house. Suddenly I hear a half-amused, half-disgusted voice behind me saying, "Betsy, he's one of your guests." Embarrassingly, he used to work with one of our friends, and they'd recently gotten back in touch. I'm fairly certain I made the poor young man feel extraordinarily unwelcome.
Exhibit B:
We successfully arrived at the Bowling Alley. I had previously made a reservation for a lane, so clutching my purse, a bag full of paper plates and silverware, and an ornate cake, I pushed my way to the counter. I had been giving directions, balancing cakes, herding people to specific places by specific times, and I was a little punchy. Finally I was directed toward Lane 10, a fine lane situated directly under the projector that broadcast a loop of a dozen music videos.
While I was struggling into my chartreuse clown shoes, one of the workers at the bowling alley approached me. He thrust a bowling pin into my hands. "What the hell is this?" I asked, rudely. I thought maybe one of my partying friends had done something Very Bad and he was showing me the evidence. Too late, I realized he also was handing me a Sharpie marker. 3...2...1... it clicked. "Oh! Is this to sign for 'Roomate X's' birthday??" The stocky employee had given us a used bowling pin that we could sign and give to my roommate as a birthday novelty!
Here ended my awkwardness of the night, but it picked right back up the next day.
Exhibit C:
The next evening we made our way to Black Angus, a slightly overpriced steakhouse that we lovingly call "Black Anus." There were six of us and we were quite the rowdy crowd. However, we had an incredibly cool waiter. He was a lot of fun! He teased us and pretended to be appalled by our less-than-savory conversational topics. We told him that it was Roommate X's birthday and good-naturally carded her, telling her that she certainly didn't look any older than 19. As we wrapped up our dinner, we heard clapping and cheering, the harbinger of birthday wishes.
Our awesome waiter was leading of pack of smiling restaurant employees, and they began a rousing chorus of happy birthday. As they finished, a waitresses set down a huge be-candled cookie in front of Roommate X. Much to my surprise, our waiter then set one down in front of me, too. Confused, I loudly inquired, "Why do I get this?" The harem of waitresses looked at our waiter and he glared at me. He put on a dazzling, fake smile, and said menacingly, "because we have TWO birthdays!" Shit. The nice man gives us an extra treat and I essentially send it back to the kitchen.
And here I am wondering why I wasn't elected to the homecoming court in high school! :-P
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