Marcus and The North Pole at Christmastime

When you haven't seen a dear friend for six months, one of the awesome things that happens is the effortless ability to pick right back up from where the two of you had last left off. When you haven't seen your nephew for six months - then three months old -  one of the awesome things that happens is the complete transformation that short amount of time facilitated. What I found this Christmas, was a nine-and-a-half-month-old redheaded baby who I could not physically stop myself from kissing, and despite efforts by equally determined family members, could not take my hands off of him.

As I said, he's changed. He's not quite crawling, but he's intensely mobile. He's reached the babbling stage, and although his mother and father don't quite agree, has been heard chanting "Reee...be...kah." He loves to dance - especially ballet (again, don't know that his parents would agree), and especially in the mornings. Despite one screaming fit in the tub when his mother and I attempted to give his red hair a trim (see enclosed photo - woops), I'm confident in saying he's the happiest, most glorious and elite baby...in the world. If he was a fabric, he'd be cashmere. If he was a beer, he'd be Estrella. If he was a team, he'd be the Razorbacks. 

I'm not partial at all. And I'm also not partial to Arizona weather, or hyperbolizing when I say this Christmas was finally spent at The North Pole (at times also referred to as Columbus, Ohio). Snow fell each day and the wind blew colder than I had ever fathomed. Somehow in spite of all of that, it appeared people were actually spending time outside: scooping their driveways, going for long jogs, playing catch with their Eskimo dogs, rearranging their frozen garages. I decided to try and blend in, and after layering as best I could, braved the icy driveway with a large plastic snow scooper. Several hours later, the total cost of that endeavor was multiple hours of defrosting by the fire, two days of sore biceps and a newfound hatred for The North Pole in the winter time. 

   

The Middle Seat Traveler - 21B

Traveling for the holidays is like a circus. It's when the rookie travelers (weird and creepy, geriatrics, foreign, for example) come out in droves and often times, are seated right next to you on your flight.

For some karmic reason, I was the lucky recipient of the middle seat on a flight from Phoenix to Minneapolis yesterday. When I approached the said seat, which from here on out will be known as Old Sparky, an odd looking man with a bowl cut was seated next to it already. Vibrant redt hair, middle aged, thin and with impeccable posture, I thought I had struck gold as he rose politely to let me in. He was very well manicured, with a spotless Eddie Bauer-esque jacket zipped all the way to his chin. And his pale chin was very pronounced. I labeled him either a male ballerina or some sort of equestrian, both of which I felt honored to be seated next to on this particular day.

Without saying anything to one another, Mr. Ballerina and I awaited the last piece to our Row 21 puzzle; the window seat was still open, and the plane doors were about to close. Inevitably, you're always hopeful that you'll end up without a full row, however unlikely the odds may be. And then just like that  - in walked our final puzzle piece - Missy Trailer Trash. Instead of the common "excuse me, that's my seat," without skipping a beat, ole girl climbed directly over Mr. Ballerina and then myself, and settled into her spot. Within seconds, milliseconds even, the stench drifted into my bubble. It was rancid. Part stale smoke (picture Virginia Slims and Jack Daniels in a house with no doors or windows...for a decade), part cheap perfume and part moth balls. I sat there, half panicked and half focused on my next move to escape the smell. And she couldn't sit still, pulling things out of her purse, applying makeup, taking pictures of the air (the AIR), each time wafting the smell back and forth into my bubble like a wave of death. I started breathing through my mouth, but it wasn't enough. It was time for the scarf barrier.  No shame, the smell was starting to take over.

The beverage cart started its way down the aisle and I focused my efforts away from Missy Trailer Trash and towards one of my favorite airplane games: predict the beverage order. I already had my two Row 21 fellows pegged. Mr. Ballerina would order a juice of some sort, maybe apple. Trashy Smokey Face would order a black coffee. Or perhaps even a Pepsi, only to realize the sodas are coke products, which she'd then refuse. The loud Minnesota man might order a sprite. The businessman who resembled Sean Connery across the way - a beer. And the Businesswoman two rows up will brave a Bloody Mary.

I hate to brag when I'm right, but let it be known I was 4 for 5 this time. Mr. Ballerina split an apple juice. The odor that had me discombobulated.

I actually managed to survive the two hour flight. As we touched down in Minneapolis, the woman exited the same way she entered, and even more, proceeded to climb back against the crowds seven rows to get her bag. I was never more relieved to see anybody go. A few beers, and a few hours later, I found myself in Columbus, Ohio. Land of the North Pole, SNOW and most importantly, the redheaded nephew who we call Marcus Deacon.  

Finally, let the holidays begin. Something tells me Marcus will be worth the trip.

Being "Ratted" Out

In the mere month that I've resided in The Estate At 822, the few cons of living in a 1914 home have reared their ugly heads - figuratively and unfortunately for my sanity -  literally.

Allow me to explain. About three weeks ago - just before my parents came to visit - I woke up to a Tuesday morning no different than any other day. And after hopping out of my clawed-shower, I made my way to the kitchen to get the coffee started. My gaze quickly shifted from the coffee I was spooning into the filter, to the small brown dropping that glimmered atop our white sink. "That's odd," I thought to myself. "I cleaned that sink before I went to sleep last night." I pulled the coffee maker back from the wall to fill the lid with chilled water, and to my horror, there lied a healthy pile of additional droppings. "Shit."

After the confirmation from my roommate that we did, in fact, appear to have a mouse "friend" in our house, I started to panic. The counters, cabinets and all flooring had to be sanitized, but more importantly, traps had to be set. And not just traps, but rat traps. I needed to get aggressive.

Two days passed, and one Friday morning I awoke to an upside down trap, and a thin, hostile tail waving in the breeze from underneath.Our first captor. Having seen it firsthand, it wasn't fulfilling, or even sad. It was horrific. This substantiated my suspicion about the droppings that I argued against my better judgement could have been large coffee grounds. And it also brought in the voices. Where there's one... there's a dozen behind them. Larger, and unequivocally more fierce and prone to come into my room and gouge my eyes out.

Two weeks passed, and no more captives were taken. I was moving freely between kitchen cabinets, and even boasting the tale of the only lone ranger in Arizona that I happened to be lucky enough to have had grace my presence.

That was until this week... when everything changed.

As I approached the front door, I saw a small something in the distance in the dead center of the kitchen floor. As I neared, it became clearer what I was looking at. A figure with its back to me, larger and dare I say darker, seated on its hind legs in the middle of our kitchen. The third step I took ignited fear in the bastard, and down it landed on all fours. As quick as you could yell "BOB SAGET," off the morsel darted under our stove. Naturally, off I darted back out the front door.

It took Itule about 30 minutes to give up the search, even after fully pulling the stove out of place, coming face to face with the guy and subsequently screaming for his life. We followed protocol, and dutifully placed a warzone of traps (including the sticky ones) throughout the kitchen. According to the rat exterminator, "The best thing to catch the vermon, is to stop them in their tracks... even if you have to hear them scream."

I didn't care. Whatever it takes to catch them - I'm willing to try.

Let the bloodbath begin.

A Little Pre Ho, Ho, Ho

The holidays always make me pensive. Not sure if it's the Christmas music, or the cooler weather (think, 65 degrees in Arizona), the ubiquity to drink and eat in excess, or just the sheer time away from the everyday grind. And although we're not there yet, I can already feel it coming on like a bad hangover, or a case of the impossible-to-rid hiccups. My mentality is merry, and with that, the need to build things (see displayed cabinets).

I'm in my new house now, and beginning to settle in each day. And as I start to peruse and plan for Christmas presents for those in my life that have made the cut this year (the list counts nearly 20 people, yeaaaaaahh), I also find myself slipping into that nostalgic holiday mind-set. As I said, I'm jolly, and I'm also more thankful than other times of the year - for an amazing family that loves me unconditionally; deep, lifelong friendships; James Taylor; a dead mouse; and really, for all the love and happiness that somehow inevitably surrounds my fortunate 25-year old self.

Here we go, holidays. Here we go Razorbacks (kiss it, LSU)! I'm excited for what you've got this year.

Goodbye PTC, Goodbye Biltmore

From the moment I laid eyes on it, I fell in love. And within hours, the ink was dry and it was all ours. It was all Neil and I could do to gather all of our belongings from our third story, 900 square foot apartment and into the new glistening, oyster-of-a-place downtown, as fast as humanly possible. It was a beauty. Allow me to be more specific; it was a goldmine of a discovery, at the exact right time and in the exact right place. I had the butterflies like in a new relationship or from a new pair of shoes. All I wanted to do was be with it, near it, get to know it better... and that's exactly what we did, leaving behind the Pinnacle Towne Center (PTC) like a bag of used diapers. Hello, downtown Phoenix!

It took me one solid week of unpacking and just exploring the nuances of my new love to realize - I hadn't given a proper goodbye to the old place. When I sat down to think about it, I was ashamed in myself. How could I move on so quickly, and not stop and recognize good old unit 349? Yes, it had its flaws (monster pigeons, creepy cats, a dryer that needed to be run three times per load), but scrolling through the list of changes that old pile of rocks saw me through, it only seemed fair. Off the cusp, the PTC endured and saw me through quite some shit:

Ahem...

- A newfound passion for Yahtzee (thank you, Focker). Many-a-night did I resist the urge for sleep for just one more round of "Yahtz" on the patio with Big Neil.
- The breaking into of Sam (also known as my car). One less air freshener later, the Neil Diamond CDs remained. That's just bad judgement.
- Heartbreak and Stalkers. Wasn't going to put this on the list, but let's be honest. It made the cut.
- My First Gray Hair(s). Grrrrr
- The befriending of a [neighbor] prostitute. Part Jamaican, part Puerto Rican, all lush. We loved ole girl.
- BECOMING AN AUNT. To a red-headed little guy, too. Words can't attempt to describe my love.
- The joining of not one, but two book clubs. Busy reader bee
- The first cavity. Which caused me to have a complete breakdown on the drive back from the dentist at which point I had grasped the severity of what had just happened WHICH led me to a speeding ticket, which leads me to...
- FIVE speeding tickets. And one shiny, running a red light ticket earning me one full day in defensive driving school with the other maniacs.
- Roller Derby. I don't know about you, but I'm rooting for Jenna Talls. Or, Nacho Girlfriend.
- Serving my civic duty. Six week murder trial leading to a hung jury, lots of life lessons and a new nickname - #9
- Mr. Itule - round two. Produce anyone? Keep "slangin' that produce," sugar.
- New job. With state government at that. Who would have thought I'd love it so much?
- The breaking of the metatarsal. Also known as possibly the worst six months ever. Third story apartment and 33 stairs each way = death. However, that experience took the first handicapped step in bridging the prejudist gap between myself and fat people. Whatever it takes.

I salute you, PTC apartment unit 349. You did us right.