thorvalson.net : babble ether

Migration

Funny how no matter how many times one moves, the essence of moving never changes. My life, in a box. Here it is. More craft supplies than I am willing to admit to, boxes of photographs, my daughter's stuffed animals, CDs, linens, crock pots that have never been used.

Now is when the real idea hits. What we are actually doing. The breadth of it, the weight of it - literally. I have packed all but two CDs: REM's Reckoning and Tori Amos' Little Earthquakes, which I am alternating as I pack. The more I load into boxes, the less I want to bring with us. I have twelve boxes of books, and two large boxes of framed photographs, pillows, and craft supplies. Fourteen boxes, and it barely looks as though I've even started. HOW DID I ACCUMULATE SO MUCH SHIT? I just want to move us, ourselves, and that's it. Start from scratch. Here's me, here's my daughter, take us or leave us. Oh, and we've got some clothes. Maybe some toys and books for her. Couple of toothbrushes. Some menstrual supplies. Picture of my mother. Here we are.

You ready?

To all the high school bands I've loved before...

Was browsing through my friend Billy's Flickr photos and came across this one of Jason, circa 1994. Rockfordians and fellow Gessnerites will appreciate.

p.s. Note to self: Start taking more pictures, fuckwad.

Dilbert! Cubicles! Multi-line telephones! KICK ASS!

I just finished my first shift of training for a new position within one of my current places of employment, and although I have learned my lesson from Dooce and will not discuss intimate details of work here, there is one little perk I absolutely must share:

I GET TO SIT DOWN. This is the first time in ten years I have had a job that doesn't require me to be constantly on my feet and nearly constantly moving. It is almost permanently ingrained in my motor memory to instantly, like a reflex, come to full attention whenever a manager is around. I swear it's going to take six months before I learn that sitting is not only OKAY, it is NECESSARY to prevent slumping over the COMPUTER which sits on the DESK which has its own CHAIR covered in LEATHER and it's CUSHIONED AND IT SPINS! AND I CAN READ WHILE I'M IN IT! SPINNING! SITTING! SIT-N-SPIN! AND READ! AND TALK ON THE PHONE!

Okay, seriously, there are a lot of responsibilities and blah blah blah, but COME ON! A CHAIR! LEATHER! SPINS! CHAIR! LEATHER! SPINS!

If we get telephone headsets, I'm going to have an orgasm.

Reincarnation.

Sweet, sweet morning. There can't be much better in life than waking up with Greg Steffke in your bed, honestly. I feel so lucky to be able to mentally distance myself to a more objective view, look at him after nearly two years, and still think to myself, "THAT GUY wants to DO IT with ME. WOW." And there he is. Snoring ever so gently and quietly... I shouldn't be writing this... BUT I WILL! ... and wearing my Mary Lee's School of Dance, 1990 "Broadway Melodies" dance recital, turqoise and hot pink t-shirt. Tell me that's not triple-"t" HOTTT. Go ahead. Try.

(Editor's note to whom it may concern: I love you and I'm only sharing this because I think it's so damn awesome. Any time you read something here that you find embarassing, try to keep in mind, "at least she didn't post pictures." smooch)

So here I am in my half-packed office, boxes neatly labelled. Funny, the things you discover when moving. Like, I have three boxes of just college textbooks. If I read these - and I did - then why do I feel so stupid. Or, When in life did I think it necessary to purchase the illicit memoir of some American swinger lady's sexual romps in France?

For approximately 13 years, I was a journaller. Not journalist, mind you. Journaller. An annoyingly obsessive, coffee-drinking, cigarette-smoking, semi-beatnik, LOOK AT ME I'M WRITING ABOUT YOU sort of diarist. I cannot tell you right now exactly how many entries begin with the phrase, "So here I am in the corner/naugahide booth smoking cigarettes and shaking," but once I've gotten an approximate count, I will let you know.

As I grew older and moved and moved again, I learned that the easiest way to keep my memories - and mental illness - with me was to simply keep them in the trunk of my car, rather than packing and unpacking them every time I relocated, which at one point in my life was once, sometimes two or three times, a year. Fuck it. Just leave 'em in the car, 'cause you're gonna get sick of this place in three months. They started off in a cardboard box, then graduated to a few milk crates, overflowed into a used piece of shit black homemade plywood box that now stores my daughter's stuffed animals, and have finally graduated to an even split between my office cabinet and a dirty but sturdy vintage suitcase. Before I start going through the chronicles of bullshit, it is my intent to stack the cabinet notebooks on top of the suitcase, set it on a scale, and find out just how much my teenage years really weigh. Probably two-thirds of my physical weight. Betcha ten bucks.

My best friend, Tracey (hi, Trace!), also kept journals, and we have discussed several times the best way for us to lighten ourselves of the load, to ritually abandon our illicit pasts and destroy possible evidence that our daughters would eventually, inevitably, discover. My idea was to go camping for a night, get drunk and laugh - and shake - at what we find within the pages while ripping them out, one by one, and throwing them into the fire. GOODBYE, BAD ACID TRIP! GOODBYE, DAN HISER! GOODBYE, HALF-ASSED SUICIDE ATTEMPTS! GOODBYE, NIRVANA LYRICS EVERYWHERE! Because of the fact that we are both mothers, however, and (temporarily!) living in two different states, our little camping trip has not happened. I'm pretty sure Trace has gone through much of her adolescence, though, and either stacked it for the furnace or cast it away accordingly. But mine's still here, oh, heavy load, and waiting to be dissected.

Much of it I will keep - and hopefully transform into the book I always said I would make of them - but much will be incinerated. The plan is to spend some time over the next few weeks pre-moving-in-with-Greg, deciding which parts of my life I am taking with me and which parts can go where they belong, in the ether. This is a big move for both of us, and while I CANNOT TELL YOU how excited I am for what we are beginning, there is much that is best left behind. It's one thing to know your girlfriend was on lithium at one point in her life. It's another to read what she wrote in the psych ward, age 17. Those were dark, dark years and I don't want that shit in my life, let alone Greg's.

So I peeked into a few notebooks last night, just a few, and actually found that there was more for the "Save" pile than I anticipated. A Friendship Contract/Agreement written and signed by myself, Tracey Melissa Johnson, and Kelly Arline Olson, solemnly swearing to always love each other no matter where life leads us (check). Some songs I never wrote music to, but the lyrics are pretty damn good, which only makes me wonder yet again how I have become so boring and stupid with age. A letter to a dear old friend, who had just moved to Owatonna "Idon'twanna Live Here", Minnesota, and was undergoing electro-convulsive therapy. That one left me shaking, and I promptly stuffed the notebook back into the case and slammed it shut.

This. Is. Going. To. Be. Painful. Not just wow-this-is-bad-writing painful (although there will be much of that, I know), but truly horrifying and enlightening. This is why I feel so lucky to have you in my life. 1993-1999. This is why.

The plan is to get through it all somehow (hey, I lived it - reading it will be a heck of a lot easier), rip out the unwanted pages, and spend one long, late night at the Clare, tossing them into the fireplace. I can think of no better grave, no better place to say goodbye, than the place that has brought me to my new home. Our new home. A stack of papers, probably some whiskey, some cigarettes definitely, and a roaring fire.

Goodbye, tired old life. You poor, sad, dysfunctional teen. You wanted to kill yourself, and you finally will. You will have your grave, and a loving goodbye. I love you, but I won't miss you.

Here's to never seeing you again.

October 18, 2005; Bailey's Harbor, Door County, WI

Dear Paul,
What a pleasure to awake this morning in our rented cottage in DC, pour two cups of coffee and settle into the two beige rocking recliners in the living room, open up a copy of the Peninsula to see your face. Ah, Smurf bowls. What we are missing by not being there in Poland with you! I thought it considerate to point out to you as well that in your quest for assimilation into Polish culture, you have apparently lost track of proper English grammar: it's, "my hen and I," not, "me and my hen."
The autumn colors are beautiful. Played a round of horseshoes in a clearing surrounded by pines, conifers, grasses. Neither of us wants to leave; we're having such a good time. Greg's on holiday for ten days. It's a welcome and needed retreat for both of us. I think I'll marry this guy someday if I don't lose him in the woods. I'm quite fond of this northern lad friend of yours.
Had a few beers at the AC Tap on your behalf last night after dinner at La Puerta. No matter how far you roam, my friend, you have never truly left this place.
Bought a puzzle, game of Mancala and some cards, have a bottle of Pert Plus - we're all set for one more night around the fire. A few words - "work", "County", "Clare" - have been banned from our vocabulary for this brief respite, replaced by more interesting ones like, "STEEL... GRID... DECK...!"

Hope this finds all clucky with you.

Pabst Blue Ribbon, sausages, meat spreads I can't even pronounce, greetings and salutations, northern loons and all their loonyness, a Weber grill, stray ping pong balls, and all the friendship from here to Krakow,

Love and well wishes,

The Stephke Collective

2 + 2 = 5. SAY IT!

Why weren't you home at 11?

"Well, er, I, uh.... HOW 'BOUT THEM BEARS?!"

Answer the question.

"Uh... well, er...."

If only teenagers had press representation. Please direct any and all questions regarding my mysterious whereabouts and/or questionable activities to my associate...

Read this and tell me what your little hairs are doing. It sounds like exactly the kind of bullshit I used to give my parents when confronted with any question I didn't want to answer, or didn't want to answer truthfully.

Oh, McLellan. You sad, sad, little speck of a man.

In Which Our Heroine Prepares for Her Great Journey into Home Ownership, a Journey Filled With Adventure, Excitement, Optimistic Twists, and a Developing Shared Love for Home Depot.

Here's ours...

And here's Tracey and Jason's!

A few comments regarding ours:

1) Goodbye, Debbie Gibson Blue trim on the porch. According to Greg, this is My First Project. Otherwise, he will go blind and be unable to assist me with picking colors for the interior.

2) Goodbye, kitchen. The only explanation I can come up with for its current state is that originally, the house consisted of only the kitchen - without any other rooms - and that the owners were having a baby, would be bringing it home to their one-room house, and didn't know the sex of said baby. That is THE only acceptable answer for what has happened to that poor, poor kitchen. Other than the atrocious color combination, the room is HUGE and will serve us and our guests very well.

3) Goodbye, scuffed and worn-out floors. This will be Greg's first project.

4) PIANO WINDOWS! You know what that means...
Piano windows --> Piano to put under them. :)
This will not happen for some time, I'm sure.

There are lots of other things we'll be doing, like finishing the upstairs and turning it into a master bedroom (with bathroom!). There's a small finished room in the front of the second floor which Greg has suggested using as a reading nook/secondary office space, to which I counter, "Hello? THAT'S OUR CLOSET." Kidding. Maybe. No, really. Kidding. Well... Nevermind.

Eventually, if the basement isn't too damp for it, we may close off and soundproof a room for Greg to use as a man cave/practice space. The added bonus with this house is that there are actually a few possibilities for man caves within. Good stuff.

On Tracey and Jason's house: I CANNOT TELL YOU HOW EXCITED I AM. I just spoke with her this morning, and I can't believe how this house has fallen into their laps. This would be the part where I take a gracious bow and humbly mention, I FOUND IT! THAT'S THE ONE I PICKED FOR THEM! Their current home just went on the market listing Friday, and they got an offer YESTERDAY. It was literally like,
"Hey, you can put the sign in the yard now."

"Really? Cool!"
.... five minutes later....

**ringringring**

"Hello?"

"Hi, this is the realtor. We're showing your house tomorrow."

"Great!"

...tomorrow comes...

"Hi. They're bidding."

"Great!"

**ringringring**

"Hello?"

"Hi. This is the realtor for the house in Milwaukee you've bid on. They'd like to close the day after you close on your house, the practical upshot of which is that there will be no overlap of time in which you and your two children are homeless, thereby eliminating any fears you had regarding your move. Really, I was just calling to tell you precisely what you wanted to hear but didn't expect to happen. Have a nice day."

And you know what the best part is?

I'll give you a second.

GESSNER AND STEPHKE NEW YEAR'S EXTRAVAGANZA AT OUR HOUSE!

Well! Okay then!

I don't know how this happened exactly, considering that the last month of entries has collectively been an emotional roller coaster, if not borderline hysterical, but... I got nominated for the MKE online blog contest, again!(?)

To the person who nominated me, thank you... I think. There's a scant possiblity that if you're reading this blog - and enjoying it - you may need your head examined as much as I do. And I mean that with all due respect. And gratitude. And concern.

I would hope not!

"...with a love like that you know you should -- "
"Maddie, eat your lunch. Drink your milk."
"...with a love like that, you know you should be drinking..."

Preparations

And so it became that the two little lovebirds flew off together to build themselves a warm little nest, and on their journey they overcame many obstacles. Battles were waged, cities on fire as they catapulted over gleaming steaming towers of never-used Christmas platters, all that crap that ends up in the Junk Drawer she swore she would never even designate as a Junk Drawer but that willed itself into existence anyway to clutter her kitchen with unidentifiable metal bits and pieces, and mounds of the four year old's books that the twenty-seven year old won't throw out because they remind her that once upon a time the four year old was three, two, one.

...And the nest was filled with love and loud noises, noises of people coming and going and playing cards and guitars 'til the wee hours of morning, and the Mama of the nest discovered with glee that it is actually possible to be a good mother and still have rockers crashing on her couch. And together the dynamic threesome formed a team, a collective, a magnificent One, and they dubbed themselves The Stephke Collective, and from that day on there was peace (and a little occasional grumbling) in the land.

I am finding new things to love about this man. I am finding that not only is he really and truly a businessman on so many levels, but that I'm actually attracted to him for that reason. Me. Attracted to someone who, on occasion, wears a suit. Wha?

Come Live With Me and Be My Love.

blackbird singing in the dead of night
take these broken wings
and learn to fly
All
Your
Life
you were only waiting for this moment to arrive

WE BOUGHT A HOUSE!

Heads up.

This lady's article kicks my article's ASS.

Rock on, Erin. Rock the fuck on. xoxo

The moon is made of...

"Apples....? ... No! A pan! It's a pan! Full of apples! (giggle)..... noooo... I know! WATER."

"What's the sun made of?"

"Hot."

"It's made of 'hot'?"

"Yes. Definitely made of hot."

Happy New Hair!

In some pagan circles, November 1st is considered New Year's Day, it being the first day after Samhain, the last of the three harvest festivals.

Therefore, there are some who might say that my spending $85 on a cut-and-dye could actually be written up as a New Year holiday expense, a celebration of all things new, including... my hair.

So there.