Weird.

When I came home from work last night, I walked across the kitchen to turn on the light and found a random picture of some middle-aged man placed very neatly on top of one burner on my stove.  I didn't put it there, and I have no idea who the man is.  Cue creepy music.

(Somehow this being the picture made it all the more creepy... Hello sex-offender registry.)

In reality it was nothing. My landlord had been over looking at my fridge (which is toast, and currently my freezer is housing some very thawed, very raw meat... yuck!), and most things near it had been moved out of the way.  Given the date stamp on the back of the picture and the thick layer of dust, it was no doubt found behind the fridge.

(I did, however, subsequently check all possible hiding places in my apartment, just to reassure myself. I'm only recently to the point where I can use a bathroom if the shower curtain is closed. I'm a little bit of a pansy.)

I have been a bit skittish these days, though. There's been a stabbing, a couple muggings, and some apartment break-ins near where I work, and I'm reminded that in tough economic times, things are not likely to get safer.  Not to be a downer, just a reminder for everyone to be careful.


P.S. This was my car a while back. Broken into three weeks after I moved here, actually... my own personal welcome to Atlanta! Moral of this story? Be careful where you park in certain neighborhoods when you go out to eat.

Oh, and that it takes the Atlanta PD approximately 90 minutes to respond and take a 15 second statement, leaving you to sit and wait in a not-so-great neighborhood nearing midnight. Luckily I had friends waiting with me. I also have never eaten in that neighborhood since :)

Welcome, spring.

In honor of the first day of spring on Friday (well, not actually in honor of, it was more correlation than causation), I went camping with some friends up in the "mountains" by the Georgia/North Carolina border. The official season change was a significant psychological barrier for me, though, as I don't really comprehend the idea of winter camping.

In reality that one day made little difference, it was still 28 degrees overnight (I checked). Yes, I voluntarily slept in a tent in 28 degree weather (in my defense, weather.com predicted 34). I slept in two layers of clothing, plus warm socks, plus a hoodie, plus a 0 degree mummy bag, plus two extra blankets. Overkill, you might think. But, I was just about right. Maybe a bit on the chilly side a couple times during the night when the blankets slid off.

This is why I do not camp in winter. Welcome, spring.

(Also, apologies for no pictures.  My camera battery was dead.  I blame the sub-freezing temperature.)

An open letter, redux.

To Whom it May Concern,

Just in case there is something equivalent to karma in the doctrine to which I ascribe, I realize that there is now a very long flight in my future wedged in the middle seat between a screaming infant and a very drunk passenger with poor personal hygeine. Remember, though, that I have no cute babies to show off on this blog. This is what I've got.

Sincerely,
Carrie

An open letter.

(Yes, I'm jumping on the bandwagon.)


Dear Airline Passengers Who Sit in Coach,

You might think you should be jealous as you've watched me get upgraded to first class for the second consecutive time. But, just think about that extra leg room and attentive service, those warm washcloths and complimentary meals. At some point this frequent flier status from uncharacteristically heavy work travel will expire, and I will be forced to rejoin you. But, I will have had my eyes opened. I will have tasted the sweet. Pity me.

With love,
Carrie

The Odd Shelf.

Amid said cleaning, I paused at the bookshelf. I generally hate to part with books, but sometimes you have to make room for new acquisitions. In the process, though, I happened to flip again through one of my favorite collections of essays by Anne Fadiman (Ex Libris). In one, she writes:

"It has been my belief that everyone's library contains an Odd Shelf.  On this shelf rests a small, mysterious corpus of volumes whose subject matter is completely unrelated to the rest of the library, yet which, upon closer inspection reveals a good deal about its owner... My own Odd Shelf holds sixty-four books about polar exploration: expedition narratives, journals, collections of photographs, works of natural history, and naval manuals.

"My interest is a lonely one. I cannot trot it out at cocktail parties... Reading in bed I will say to George, "Did you know that on Scott's first Antarctic expedition, Edward Wilson got up at one and five every morning to premasticate seal meat and stuff it down the throat of the pet emperor penguin chick he had captured on the Great Ice Barrier?" George will grunt. He is a rainforest man himself..."

Mine would be anything plague and pestilence -- fiction, non-fiction, essay, drama, narrative, etc. (I do, however, trot it out at cocktail parties. This is probably not coming as a surprise to anyone who knows me.)

So, do you have an Odd Shelf? What's on yours?

Okay, so it's a stretch.

I'm in the midst of multidisciplinary (pre)spring cleaning -- desk at work, apartment, old emails, random documents untouched on my computer -- and am faced with this:   Some people are pack-rats and some people throw everything out. My father, for example, is pretty much the quintessential pack-rat. My mother is a tosser. Not such a bad combo.

Unfortunately, as a result I think I managed to end up with both genes.  I tend toward accumulation, but I also LOVE to throw things away (I mean, real joy!). I'm finding it's a nasty feedback loop. I think I feed my craving to discard by building it up in the first place (real joy magnified if you can throw a lot away at once!).

(I'd like to break the cycle, if anyone has tips).

(Apologies, but there's really not much newsworthy in my life at the moment, and I don't think blogs should lie dormant for too long.  Thus, a post about spring cleaning.)

(Or, I just really like talking about myself. Which is what blogs are all about anyway, right? Or so I've been told...)

On a lighter note.

At some point during the winter season I start to get a little stir crazy. I grew up in the sunshine, and I haven't fully adapted to life in places that actually have winter. Thankfully, winter is much shorter and milder where I live now than in Boston, but it is still an actual season here (unlike Mesa). Things die. Lots of brown. Not the bright brown of Arizona, but the dead gray-brown of things that used to be green.

I'm starting to get the itch to see things fully alive again. When I was reading this book last fall (Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver) I laughed out loud when I got to this passage, because this is me:

"I have seen women looking at jewelry ads with a misty eye and one hand resting on the heart, and I only know what they're feeling because that's how I read the seed catalogs in January."

I love to grow things. I wish my living setup right now was better for gardening. In the past I have made due:

(This is only part, and early in the summer. You should have seen the jungle on our deck in August.  And ask some of my old roommates about the baby tomato plants that started their lives under a desk lamp on top of the refrigerator. )

I think right now I'm just going to bide my time until I live somewhere different than my current apartment. Maybe in the meantime I'll order a seed catalog or two.