a quarter score and two weeks ago

i have been blogging (rather inconsistently) for five years ago. the first picture posted was of my cat in my apartment. i certainly do not have a cat now. this is us in front of our apartment now.

still rainy, but in a different way. redding, california cannot claim vancouver, washington's epic rainfall count. bryan's nose still has an oakley sunburn line. people in the pacific northwest go to tanning salons to acquire this effect in december. here, you just work outside for a day.
the third entry of this blog is about us visiting redding. now we live there. here. whatever.
in five years i've finally realized a truth about people: most are nuts.
really?
this comes as a shock.
we just got our fourth round of neighbors in the unit behind us. within 48 hours they fulfilled the quota: swearing, screaming, threatening, throwing things, slamming doors, and general domestic dispute-age. why i've been surprised at this every time comes from a gross ignorance i've now officially nullified.
people are nuts.
duh.
we don't fight like that in our family. i've never lived in a home where cussing each other out or whooping on someone is a matter of course. but apparently, brawling with the folks you live with is commonplace.
Nearly three out of four (74%) of Americans personally know someone who is or has been a victim of domestic violence. 30% of Americans say they know a woman who has been physically abused by her husband or boyfriend in the past year. 
gross.
thank you Jesus for a sweet family. this is ever-gracious of You.

i used to play the piano

which is interesting. but only if you have known me a short while.
i took lessons preschool into high school. i even have a cassette tape of me accompanying my mom singing sandi patti. (pause/silence for a bygone era of quality synthesizer music.)
i used to be rather good. now i forget how to read the notes below the lines. have a hard time hitting each note of a chord at the same time. my fingers forget where they are. and here i am trying to remember how to place my fingers just so to play a run of fifths.
i'm rusty.
whenever i see my grandpa, he asks if i still play. no.
clearly disappointed in me he asks, why?
well, it has a lot to do with the fact i live in an apartment in a county with a high number of individuals toting guns.
and also, somewhere along my history, it started to hurt. so slowly, i played less and less.
not that i ever dreamed it would bring me somewhere. or make me money. or solely fulfill my need for the arts. but it was nice to do. therapeutic somehow.
a gift given to me by my parents. lessons and a piano. do you have any idea what sort of sacrifice it entails having someone learn how to play an instrument in your home? a huge one. at times i was so irritated with practice. with teachers. with the time i had to spend. but they knew better. and it's a grace to me that i can sit down and play what i like. that with practice i could sound good. could. if i wanted to.
by the way, hiromi uehara is my hero. what?! you haven't heard of her? uncultured swine. :)
(if you don't have the patience to watch the whole video, go directly to 2:00. you will not be disappointed.)

the two lennys, part II

pools are very important to the residents of redding. and while we've had a cool spell of high nineties this week, you will still find us basking in a chlorinated bowl of relief.
i have a pool. well, i have access to a pool between the hours of 7 am and 10 pm with the help of a walk across the parking lot and an old key. what good is apartment living if you can't partake in a communal pool? i got my polio vaccination. i'm good.
this pool is great because it is cool. it refreshes. and if one desires to observe a significant, albeit dead, representation of local bug life, it's perfect. i've never seen so many bugs in one place. and they're all floating and easy to study.
and if one swims at dusk, one is likely to see a few family of quail strutting by. adorable. (tasty, my husband would say. good eatin' he would add.) just adorable. well worth the germ and polio risk.
the second pool in my life is at my parents' house. this pool is great because it is not cool. you can swim at midnight without any risk of hypothermia.
it is dark and pretty. it's rated one of the nicest in town. (i guess there was a contest or something. very appropriate for redding.)

it also has a leviathan. named lenny. he cleans the pool. runs over your feet. wraps his tentacles around your legs. scares the resident golden retriever. and squirts water all over when stuck on a rock.

but because of lenny, this pool is always clean (save maybe some golden fur after a certain pup takes a dip) and bug free.
it also has quail. but bird dogs don't like birds in the their yard. weird, huh?
anyway, my neice and i went "swimming in gramma's pool" today and i must say. the folks who thought of making artificial ponds in one's backyard are geniuses. they deserve the ranks of the creator of cheerios, sewing machines, and frisbees. on par with kalashnikov even.

the two lennys, part I

what place is shady even at night?
when's the last time you've been to a denny's? i know. think hard. my girl kelly and i couldn't remember so we went. that, and the black bear was closed for maintenance (bear-ification? whaaaa? they still don't have bear paw prints on the carpet. this is stupid. and thusly not bear-ificated [not to be confused with bifurcated]).
so as we sat in the car mourning the loss of real mac and cheese, we thought long and hard about where to go after 10 in redding. bars and in-n-out don't count. we came up with one place. and this is that one place.

initially, what is so endearing about lenny's-i-mean-denny's, is this sign. as if we would get seated served and cashed out in less than 90 minutes denny's. i just wouldn't happen. so already our hopes are lifted and dashed.

first off, the cherry cola float. it was only after a few sips that i came to wonder... why is this pink? what is making my float pink? cherry coke is not pink. am i sucking down a dye-rich food? why yes i am. upon further reading (there is fine print at denny's if you're faithful to look for it.) i learn that it is coca-cola with cherry flavor added. and who knows what was in the ice cream. i didn't ask.
regardless. it was delicious. i mean look at it. no photoshopping! this is true to life. i know. you can hardly believe it. you also wouldn't believe the film of ick that was on that paper-thingy i placed next to it for juxtapositional effect. (i made that up. just now.)



the club was alright. nothing to write home about. the bacon didn't speak to me, you know?
in the background of this next photo is little round balls of love. pancake puppies. aside from the fact i find it terrible disconcerting to eat anything with nomenclature from my favorite animal (besides the red panda, of course), it was very tasty. how could they not have been? basically they are berry and white chocolate chip pancakes rolled in a sphere and deep fried. deep fat fried. and they came to us hot sprinkled with powdered sugar and wholly unnecessary side of dipping syrup. (check the outrageous nutional value of just one.) so of course i had three.

i regretted this later. but not as badly as i anticipated. there is, after all, something magical about acidophilus pills and herbal tea (homemade yo! calendula, chamomile, peppermint, and lemon grass).


on a side note: blogger is really ticking me off with this layout mess. how hard is it to get their code savvy? apparently, very.

dyhyst?

now that i have a kid. i think about what would happen if i died. okay, i've thought about that before i had a kid, but not in the following a context. what would i be leaving her? aside from the legacy of faith, do i have my stuff together? essential papers are in files. yes. but some papers aren't. and there are boxes of photos, projects, gear, books, and clothing.
i thought this as i looked around my apartment.

a word about the apartment. 

'tis small. six hundred odd square feet small. and while that technically is enough for a family of three, it is not so much for a family of three with one member who sews, crafts and cooks as much as i and as much outdoor performance gear as we.
the baker's rack in the kitchen/dining room/living room/family room is filled with supplies. the small one sleeps out in the living room. there's a closet full of backpacking gear and yarn. bookcases full of books (though i've given away countless novels and periodicals and have yet to crack open a few boxes at the parents' attic/storage unit), and laundry.
where does one put clothing? or anything for that matter when you don't have a room for a dresser? we own one recliner and a salvaged couch besides our bed and crib. everything else is borrowed. yet we still haven't enough room for stuff. at least not the way i'd like it. as in. invisible.

my dream, within a dream.
this situation is difficult for minimalists. us.
i read books on lofts, flip through ikea catalogs, and peruse magazines on simplification of space and there is only one solution: spend money to acquire appropriate storage and organization.
for ages i've avoided this because the idea of spending money to keep in check things you have spent money on is ridiculous to me. did you know more stuff costs more than less stuff costs? why not get rid of more stuff? but like i mentioned. so little is ours. and so little is overwhelming me.
is it time to invest in some serious storage solutioning?
i want empty space. barren floors. clean walls. and a puppy.
okay, the last one is off subject. (but if you're curious, one of these.)

all neatly packed.
i hate boxes. and bins. and rubbermaid thingies. i'm so over looking at them. but what's the alternative? because i also hate moving dressers and shelving. as in, emptying them out and watching others heft them from one abode to the new. keeping everything taped up and stacked is simple.
always in my mind is the prospect of moving again. we've done it enough. we know what makes it most efficient: give back what you've borrowed and sell what you salvaged. move the mattresses, gear, culinary must-haves, and craft bins. and i guess the clothes.
maybe it's time to shun that mind set. we don't have plans to go anywhere. so why am i living like a nomad? cause it's stressing me out.

ode to a greasy urn

aside from the profound maiming potential of a standard garbage disposal, consider the convenience of said appliance. then, further consider life and regular kitchen goings on without the use of such a machine.

is the picture painted a bleak one?

it should be.

the standard disposal (as seen here... i like that it's called a badger. a rather viscious toothy mammal.) is used for only one purpose, yet its spectrum of application is worth stewing over. common knowledge is its purpose to grind nasties up well enough so the household plumbing doesn’t require the sucking snake of purification. the diposal’s execution... during the clean-up of meals, the riddance of peels and skins (except of course of particularly sinewy material in which case you would mourn the day of their sacrifice to the pit as you will surely cause its very bane), the scrapping of spoiled and otherwise inedible foods (by the by, if you leave your standard cheese sauce made from a roux that has been combined with cheddar and a dash of cayenne and paprika, you will find a cultivation of disturbing pools of magenta substance), and of course, the drainage of dishwasher ickies ...is wonderful, resplendent, nay, even pulchritudinous.

however, any machine use is machine wear. i heard that so brilliantly stated during an informational video on gasoline and diesel engines in a small machine technology class i subbed for last month, (which was a nightmare i am quite beholden to forget).

when this appliance becomes defunct it is one thing to deftly and thoroughly scrape food items into the trash can (which necessitates more frequent removal of this bin’s contents to the dumpster than normal… but happily this is not my job). but it is another thing entirely to watch the month’s decrepit protoplasm and remains seep up into the sink in a swirling cyclone of putrescence leaving its particles and slag for the world to see and smell after the liquid has slowly ebbed away.