Please Don't Clean the Bear Food

Ahhh, sweet tea from a Ball jar.

I've been in Yankeeland for over a month now. Nate and I are doing so well together that I'm still very happy with my decision to move up here. It's starting to feel like home. Though I missed my family at Christmas, Nate and I enjoyed spending Christmas morning here with our cats and dog and then visiting his family in Vermont and New Hampshire.

So far I have not found the stereotype of the rude, pushy Yankee to be true. For the most part, people here are, if anything, overly friendly. I think the better stereotype for the Pioneer Valley in particular would be Liberal Hippie. Let me just paint ya a little picture...


My job hunt isn't going well. At the moment, my most promising opportunity is a possible full time nanny job for a family about 8 minutes down the mountain. While they claim they need in-home childcare, I think what she really wants is a full time housekeeper. Maid. Doer of all things nobody wants to do. Whatever, I need the money.

So after interviewing with the couple, I spent half a day getting to know their two little girls, ages 4 years and 18 months. Everything went fine with the sweet girls. We played and colored and the normal activities. Snack time was a little disturbing. These hippie families don't give their kids regular food. You won't find a Little Debbie or a Capri Sun. These kids don't even know what they are. Mom pulled open the tab on a can of sardines and the 4 year old excitedly gobbled up the whole fish, slurping down the spine and innards like they were candy. Mom constantly shovels supplements, vitamins, drops, and who knows what down their mouths, which the girls take in stride.

If you want to throw something away, you have six options. There are three tubs for various recyclables, a compost bucket, a bag in the freezer for meats that spoil, and then the *gasp* non recyclable waste. This means I stand in the kitchen staring at the garbage in my hand trying to figure out where it goes.

I stayed and had dinner with them (homemade chicken soup full of bones, ugh) and then I did all the dishes. Mom had to go to a meeting so she asked me if I could clean the oven. The chicken she cooked had made a greasy mess. According the fancy oven's handbook, as she pointed out, the only recommended way to clean the baked-on grease was a soft cloth and a mild dish soap. So I went at it with the organic crap everybody insists on using up here (I mean literally EVERY product in hippie houses is organic, green, free trade, fragrance free, dye free, effectiveness free garbage) and a wash cloth. Eighteen hours later, with the oven in virtually the same condition, I gave up and started tidying up the kitchen.

The island in the middle of the kitchen has a fancy shmancy cook top and a little bit of counter space. The counter was cluttered with toys and crumbs so I thought it would show initiative to clean it up. Upon inspection, I found several small bags and purses and a variety of little, carved stone bears. Each bear was sitting on a leather pouch and they were arranged on the counter in a semicircle. I figured the four year old had set them up and I didn't want to upset her by moving them, but there were crumbs all over the counter. Not a clean cooking space. So I carefully lifted each bear, cleaned around it, and put it back. As I was finishing up, Dad hesitantly approached and said that in the future, they will just handle the bears themselves. My first thought was that the little girls were particular about their toys. I must have had a confused look because he explained...

These bears are not, as it turns out, toys. They were hand carved and given to him (probably sold to him) by a medicine man in Pueblo and they hold special powers. The little stones tied to each bear  protect the bear, and by association, the person who owns them.

Ok, kind of superstitious but no biggie.

The crumbs, he went on, were actually food that they give the bears. The corn meal is kept in the little  purses and they sprinkle it all around the bears and then, at some point, they take what the bears didn't eat and do something intentional  with it.

Hmmm.

I tried to appear intrigued. Maybe even inspired. I apologized for the mistake and asked if there was anything else of this nature that I should know about. He pointed to a statue perched in the corner of the kitchen.

The water goddess. He leaves her food offerings in a little bowl. I am not to touch the bowl or the food offerings. He will clean it after doing something intentional with the food.

....um



The South may not be the epicenter of healthy eating and earth consciousness, but I've never wanted to be there more than I did at that moment. I'd have killed for a Swiss Roll and a Diet Coke. Probably wouldn't have even recycled the can. Take that.  

Wicked Smaht

If I closed my eyes and focused on the swishy sounds of the washing machines here where I'm literally airing my dirty laundry in public, I could believe I'm back in Lexington at the Chevy Chase Coin Laundry.

The reality of laundromats doesn't change no matter where you are.

But something inside of me is different now. When I was in Lexington, I a) had a job and a purpose b) knew how to get home from where I was c) was in some perpetual, pitiful emotional state because of Nate. I was at any given time oozing glee because I had him, grieving because I lost him, or wallowing in guilt because I had him when I wasn't supposed to.

Now I have him and that burden is gone. It's replaced with the burden of making a relationship with a history like ours work. But I think we can do it. He's good about talking things out.

For example, I was hanging out at his studio the other night because he had a ton of work to do. I found myself to be in a craptastic mood. I think I was feeling jealous. I'm used to feeling jealous of other women he's friends with but I think it was more than that. This guy stood around for awhile talking to him about school stuff. He had a crazy Yankee accent, the worst I've picked up on so far. He kept saying things were wicked... and not like the witch. His girlfriend is getting her PhD which apparently makes her "wicked smart." Ok dude.

I was jealous of this silly Yankee guy. He knew things about Nate that I never will. He and the other students know School Nate. They understand the projects and professors and can sympothize with him in ways that I can't. I hate that. For as much as Nate and I have in common and the similar interests that we have, we'll always have separate school/work friends, relationships, and priorities. True for every couple pretty much. Maybe in time I'll see that as a good thing. For now, I'll just sit and listen and try to contribute to conversations about grading plans and line weights.

Anyway, Nate picked up on my mood quickly and asked me what was wrong and if we should go out and talk. I said that I was just in a bad mood and we talked about it later at home. He never lets me stay angry, even when I pout. I like that.

When it's really cold, steam comes up from all the manholes. It's neat looking.

Geez woman, put your boob away.

So far, I've learned two things from moving up here. First, people are crazy everywhere you go. Second, there are as many ups and downs in life as there are on this silly mountain road I live on.

Last night, Nate and I went to his old place to fetch the last few things he left there. Mainly, it was this monster of a desk/dresser that with all my strength I couldn't even budge. Thankfully, Nate's friend Pat came to help and we found an illegal place to dump it. But first, we had to confront his lunatic landlady to get his deposit back. We left the tiny mudroom that he rented from her in the same shape he found it so we felt the deposit should be returned. She felt that since she hadn't yet been able to find a new renter, she should keep it. Sorry lady, not our problem. Cough it up. First, let me paint a little picture of this woman for you....

Though wholly American, this crazybag decided that she wanted to completely emerge herself in the Irish culture, so she had her name officially changed to something Irish-sounding. She even tries to talk with an accent sometimes. She was artificially laden with child, so she claims, and must have picked the Irish popsicle because the kid has bright red hair and she named him Fear. Appropriate, though, because I am very, very afraid for that child. So, imagine the smallest little house you can and now cram it with so much crap you have to clear a path to walk through it. Clothes, dishes, papers... use your imagination. The kid would get lost in it if she ever, ever put him down. She promised to hook up a router so Nate could have internet at the house and never did because she claimed Nate never offered to hold her toddler so she could have time to do it. She also yelled at Nate because he didn't take out her trash and compost for her promptly enough. Or clean her house. This, of course, a house that Nate only ventured in to use the bathroom.

So last night we were there, trying to clean the room up. We were wiping down the floors and walls with Lysol wipes. Crazybat came in and told us to please not use those wipes in her house because she didn't want the baby breathing it in. Nevermind that you can't see the floor in her house for all the crap. Lysol wipes, that's what's going to harm her child. Nate says she uses Lysol to clean her floors.

After we were cleaned out and loaded up, we went in to get the deposit. And that's when the lunacy really sunk to a new level. She and Nate went back and forth about what they had each agreed to in some misunderstood conversation. Nate had, apparently, said that if he ended up staying there into December she could keep the deposit. He did not, obviously, stay into December. He gave her a month and a half notice to find a new renter. It's not our fault that she's insane and nobody wants to live in her madhouse. Give us back the deposit you nutcase! During this conversation, as we stood in the doorway and she sat on the floor, she steadily whipped her boob out and thrust her gross nipple in the kid's mouth. He clearly didn't want it, but every couple of minutes she'd yank her flabby sack back out and shove it in his poor little face. She was trying to make us feel uncomfortable. Interesting tactic Basketcase but no good. We stood our ground. I glared at her menacingly.

Needless to say, we left without the money. Only to return to our new place where our new landlady was pissed because Nate's dog barks continuously when we're not home. And we still owe her half of the deposit. I just can't see how renting is a better option than owning. I'd rather be flat broke in my own place. As it is, I'm flat broke wherever we live.

So those are some of the valleys right now. But there are peaks! Being away from Nate was miserable and now that is gone away. We still don't know for sure what our future holds or what we want it to hold even. But for now, we're together and that's good enough. And as for everything else, as Nate says, "We will get it all figured out." It's the "we" in that sentence that is my mountaintop.

What?

I spent all day yesterday here at the apartment cleaning and unpacking. Nate was in class and I wanted to have everything (or as much as I could do) set up by the time he got home. I must say, it's pretty darn cute. I had spaghetti ready when he finally did get home. His comment pinpointed exactly how I felt, like a little housewife. But ya know, I didn't mind it. Since most of the stuff here is Nate's, getting it all set up made me feel more like it was my home, too. And I made sure to leave space for my stuff once we get it here.

Today I ventured out to find a job. Now this was the first time I drove out of the driveway so I was not expecting to find my way easily. Getting to town was easy peasy. Go down a windy, dirt road and turn left at the funky colored daycare. Then another windy, mountain road and right at the house with the weird sun porch. More obnoxious road. Then right at the Pelham Fire Department/Police Department/Library. Then, finally, you're starting to get to civilization. Around here, even the small towns are divided into zones so I left whatever is considered Amherst East and drove into Amherst Center, which is freaking adorable. That's where Amherst College is and all these precious shops and restaurants. I applied to two positions at Amherst College so I went to the HR Office to see about them. They're already interviewing for one, so guess I didn't get that one. For the other, they're still considering internal candidates and if they look externally, it'll be a couple of weeks. I'll be good and broke in a couple of weeks. So I went to the next place I knew of, where we had seen a sign the other day that they were hiring. The Stop and Shop.

Now the Stop and Shop is actually a pretty cute little grocery store. It has all the normal groceries and even several aisles of toys, books, movies, small kitchen appliances, and holiday items. I think it would be ok to work there. I have to apply online. Guess my cute find-a-job dress won't do much good for that one. Maybe I can put it in the Skills section: "Wears cute dress well"

Then I went and picked up a few things we needed like a little trash can and a candle to cover up the obvious fact that we have three pets. I asked a couple of other places if they were hiring. No luck. So I decided to head home, if I could find it. First I needed gas, so naturally I drove around the city in a huge circle only to return to the first gas station I passed up at the beginning of my search. Surprisingly, it was full service. I didn't know those still existed! Are you supposed to tip those guys? If so, oh well. He was jabbering on about Virginia because, like everyone I've opened my mouth around in the last few days, he asked me where I was from. At least half of the time people just say, "What?"

Maybe I should just start every sentence with, "Hello. My name is Alison. I have an accent. Now, can you please point me in the direction of cleaning supplies?"

Anyway, I apparently went the wrong way because there was no multipurpose Pelham building and no weird greenhouse looking porch. Nate texted me the directions from where I was (or had been before my escapade to find gas) so I climbed the mountain from there. I lost service somewhere near the moon I think and started to feel like I was going to cry. Endless windy roads now wet from the rain. Up and down and up and down. But finally, there it was! Funky colored daycare! So I knew I was on the right dirt road even though it changes names halfway, randomly, and so all the driveway numbers change but I found ours by the little wooden sign that hangs and says "Juniper Hill Farm." It's cute. Lots of things around here are cute. Especially our little basement apartment. And my boyfriend.

Um.. there's a goat head in the freezer.

I focused all of my energy, attention, and anxiety to packing and making the trip to Massachusetts. I'm actually proud of how much I crammed in my car. The drive went by fairly quickly. First I got to 95, bypassed Richmond, and left Fredericksburg (my most Northern comfort zone) in the dust. Next was Washington, my first directional decision and, naturally, mistake. One minute I'm on the interstate and the next I'm in a ghetto neighborhood. But no worries, found my way back without incident. I even got a picture of the Washington Monument!

So I kept going, paying little to no attention to my book on tape because all I can hear is Wrigley meowing incessantly in my ear, and suddenly I'm in Maryland cruising past Baltimore. My next mistake loomed ahead in the form of the Jersey Turnpike, aka Highway Through Hell. Heather, I'm sure that there's more to New Jersey than what can be seen from the turnpike, but your love for Billy is obvious. Still, I found my way back on track and headed for New York City, my biggest fear.

I think I was literally shaking as the skyline came into view. Would I get totally lost? Would I end up in some dark alley?

Turns out it was no big deal and actually pretty fun. I love New York! And after that, the drive was a piece of cake. The tolls sucked and when I got on the turnpike, I didn't know what to do about the ticket. Turns out you pay when you get off! Neat, huh?

So then, 11 hours later, I found Nate. I was tired, hungry, and none too fresh. But with Nate, it never feels like we've been apart. Maybe because we talk all day even when we're not together. It was great to be with him again.

The unpacking is coming together. He has a ton of crap and for a dude, is really decorated. But we both love old stuff so he has a ton of old stuff. Most of my stuff isn't here yet so I have to keep it in mind as we set up. But it's going to be super cute and with my cats there, it already feels like home. The cats, by the way, are doing well. Whit keeps burrowing into the covers. We thought she had run away for about a half hour earlier today and found her curled up under about three feet of down comforter and blankets. Silly Whit!

So far the main differences I've seen about MA are the signs, which relate to snow. They say, "Low Salt Area" and such. It reminds me of signs around the beach for hurricane evacuation routes. Just not something you think of if you don't live there!

We did go into Lowes and I asked where cleaning supplies were and the lady couldn't understand me. Nate thought that was hilarious. I don't think my accent is that difficult to understand but whatever Yankees. These people don't even put sugar in their tea. What do they know.

So far the weirdest thing was finding a garbage bag in our freezer. Upon investigation, we found it to contain the results of a goat slaughtering. Ew. Just ew.

Butterball

So I realized just now that since I started looking for a new job early in the year, I've applied for probably 10 different positions in multiple states and I've yet to even get an interview. How's that for depressing? The jobs I was applying for initially were executive preservation jobs. Though I know that I could have done those jobs well, I'm sure my application camped out in the middle of the stack somewhere when like 100 people apply and I don't have but a few years of applicable experience. Heather and Becca, I know y'all are familiar with this leaky boat.

So now I'm applying for secretarial jobs. Jobs that require an Associates Degree at best. I can only assume that I'm not being called now because I'm OVER qualified to answer the phone. Employers know that secretary isn't my dream job and that I will keep looking for something better and leave if I find it. They assume they'd have to pay me more because I'm more educated. But they don't know how desperate I'm getting. I'm not scraping the bottom of the barrel just yet though. Still murking in the muck down there are babysitting jobs and Subway. For nine months in grad school I was the best Subway Sandwich Artist Jared ever did see. But the sheer magnitude of mayonnaise in that place is hardly worth the $8.00 an hour. I'm holding out.

I'm just a ball of anxiety right now, which is good because when I'm anxious, I eat. There's a 20-some pound Butterball in our fridge just waiting for my anxiety to attack it. Ha, funny story... speaking of Butterball. When I first started catering in undergrad, I was asked to go into the walk-in fridge and get the Butterballs. So I go in and start looking and after an embarrassing amount of time, I can't find any turkeys and they send someone to check on me. He grabs two buckets of little, round balls of butter and walks out. Maybe I'm not as educated as I thought...

What's that noise coming from the trunk?

Five more days! Five more days until I hit the bricks for Yankeeland!

Mom and I were cooking dinner last night (which turned out delicious by the way) and we got to talking about recipes and cooking tips and such. Basically, I want to make sure I can cook for my man. Some lovin from my oven. As far as women have come and with our liberal, progressive worldview, I still feel an ingrained need to put food on the table for Nathan. Not for me really... when I lived alone I ate nothing that wasn't frozen first. But I have an overwhelming urge to get in the kitchen and produce something edible with  my own hands. Where the hell did that come from?

I suppose it could be considered a woman's responsibility to cook and clean and keep house. I mean, I've been pretending to do it since I was a little girl with my plastic food and baby dolls. Right now, pre-cohabitation, I feel happy- nay, excited!- to do those types of chores. After all, I expect him to maintain my vehicle, take out the trash, fix things (although I reckon I'll be changing the light bulbs), and similar such "manly" tasks. But like Kelly and I were talking about the other day, if you both work full time and come home tired at the end of the day, why does the man get to sit while the woman has to cook dinner? Should they not at least take turns? Maybe women just don't like men in their kitchens screwing with stuff. As, I'm sure, men don't want women in the garage. *Flashback to Tim Taylor and Home Improvement episodes that define my concept of a stereotypical marital relationship*

Still, I'm very excited about making a home for us. It'll take over a month before we're really settled because most of my stuff won't be brought up until after Christmas. But that's ok. The most important thing is that we're there together. Last night I dreamed that Kate Middleton went to UMass, fell in love with Nate, and asked him to move in with her, which he accepted because, c'mon, she's a princess. I've had many dreams similar to that. My subconscious is terrified that something is going to screw this up. I'm honestly surprised we've gotten to this point without some roadblock. But it appears that this is something we both really want to do so plans are going smoothly. I've even already got the trunk of my car packed! Very packed :)

Virginia and Vermont Both Start with "V"

I've done a fair amount of moving in my 26 years (ten different abodes in VA, NC, and KY), but a pitiful amount of traveling. Never having been further north than New York, in about a week I will be an honorary Yankee, via Amherst, Massachusetts. My deficiency in northern knowledge is so pitiful that I wasn't even confident in my ability to spell Massachusetts until recently (and my momma still can't pronounce it.) Most people like me, Southerners born and bred and lives led, couldn't accurately label the states between Virginia and Massachusetts. It's all just a big blob above Maryland not-so-affectionately called "New England." Until now, which one happened to be Connecticut was irrelevant to life. But oh so soon I will be loading up and climbing I-95 to a region of snow, hockey, and ear-grating accents. Ear muffs are multipurpose.

So why, perhaps you implore, am I relocating to a place that honestly should require a passport? I'd like to say for the pursuit of a wonderful career and loads of cash. Unfortunately, that has not come to fruition just yet. No, I leave the land of cotton and peanuts for a different reason. 

For a little Yankee love.

Or, rather, for the love of a little Yankee. 

Nate grew up in Vermont. We met in class at the University of Kentucky where I was in my last year of grad school for Historic Preservation and he in his third year of undergrad for Landscape Architecture. It was a weird time in both our lives. I'm still not sure if everything happens for a reason or if we make decisions and live with them. Either way, for your benefit, I'm going to fast forward three years to this past summer. I was back home in Virginia, figuring out what to do next, and Nate was about to start grad school in Amherst. It was time to make a decision about whether we should be together or go our own ways, which in truth meant me going my own way because Nate's way was Amherst for the next few years. He hesitated to make a commitment, as guys do, so I started hanging out with another guy, as girls do. Though this guy was just a friend, it's possible that Nate had the impression it was more serious. As it turned out, Nate did not care to share so he found us an apartment near campus and I started packing. Some plans work perfectly.

So now I'm days away from making the move. When I talk to people around here about my upcoming adventure, they give me interesting advice and perspectives. Most warn me of the cold or lament of their own traffic conundrums in the northern states. Bob at the hardware store told me that they'll leave the county gates open if I ever want to come home again. That is, naturally, unless I return with a Yankee accent. 

It's becoming clear to me that there are many inherent differences about life in the north versus life in the south. When searching for apartments in Amherst, for example, many ads boast "hot water and heat included!" which reminds me of cheap, crusty motels that still illuminate neon "Free HBO" and "Air-conditioning" signs. Several apartments included snowplowing in the rent, which is something us southerners would never think of. In fact, I had never even seen a snow tire until Nate sent me a picture of one, insisting we put them on my car as soon as I get there. I always just thought they were regular tires wrapped in chains. He seems to think I don't have experience driving in the snow. Excuse me Mr. Abominable, we got four and half inches last winter and I drove around in it just fine thank-you-very-much.

And then there are the little regionalisms that I probably will have to adjust to. Kate told me that her Yankee friend wore house slippers over to her apartment one day and when questioned about it, said that in the North people remove their snow boots upon entering someone's home and pad around in their slippers. Makes sense. I reckon I need to buy some slippers. Rednecks always remove their boots, leave them lined up by the door, and visit in their sock feet. Perfectly acceptable. House slippers are reserved for your own home and maybe your patio. Well, in some neighborhoods, the grocery store. But that's a different story.

So this is where I'm at. Packing to move to the great tundra. The arctic north. The white way. I'm pretty excited about getting some long johns, hopefully with the little flap in the back. I'm not at all excited about the 12 hour drive north with my two timid cats. I'm super excited about living with Nate. Not excited about waitressing or babysitting or whatever I'm gonna do to make rent until I find a real job. But as Nate says, we'll figure it out.

I plan to update as I learn more about the Yankees and their way of life. I hope to observe them until I become accepted among them.

My accent might give me away though.