I like to jokily put myself down about my art school education sometimes. I think it comes from societies impression that art school isn’t really “an education” and seriously, how hard is it to get an art degree? Don’t you just paint pretty pictures or something there? Paint the color wheel?

Yes, I went to art school. I also happened to go to an art school that had an emphasis on a future career and giving me the technical knowledge to pursue it. Personally I felt it would be a giant waste of time and money to go to a four-year university where I honestly see people waste their time and money studying pointless subject matters and having no idea what they want to do. I didn’t feel the need to party for four years and why get a pointless degree or go somewhere that I didn’t “need to” declare a major/focus for awhile?

My senior year of high school I decided, after visiting a few universities, that I wanted to pursue the art field. At the time I thought animation would be the route for me since I liked drawing. Sure, I changed majors a year and a half later to web design, but the path I decided to take would eventually end up with the training necessary for a technical job. When my brother visited that Christmas he told me I was “shooting myself in the foot” by not going to a four-year and I was “wasting my time.” The more people put down art school the more I wanted to go just to prove them all wrong.

I guess what irritates me the most is when people jokingly throw out the “art school major” as though it can excuse my mistakes or anything about me. Sometimes I’ll joke back and not get offended. Especially if I started it. What gets under my skin is when my friends who’ve done the four-year thing say these things to me. Especially the ones who had no direction and got some bullshit degree which isn’t serving them any good and nothing to do with the career path they’re on at the moment and don’t want to be. Just throwing out the “well, you are an art major” at me since I’ve said it before in the past is a sure fire way to get on my shit list which, if you hadn’t read my blog before, is a place you’ll stay for awhile.

Sure at art school I learned to paint the color wheel in my second quarter. How else would I know how to mix RGB to make secondary colors? I learned color theory and the psychology behind colors. I learned about shapes and how important they are. I learned so much about design and how it affects the world around us all. The art school education enriched me and, again, gave me the tools I needed to go out there and get jobs I feel passionate about.

I have two art degrees and did have to do some general education classes. I also assure you that I worked hard and had a 4.0 GPA both times in art school. Does it help knowing I took IB and AP classes in high school? Does that somehow prove my intelligence? There wasn’t a quarter that didn’t go by that I wasn’t on the Honor Roll and (usually) President’s List. I know I’m tooting my own horn but I get defensive about this subject. I’m not stupid. I’m actually pretty bright

The next time you insult my education I dare you to go enroll in art school and see how “easy” it is. Frankly I think the four-year university is on the whole a lot “easier” than the intense education I was provided. Get insulted at that statement and you’ll know how you’re dismissal of my intelligence and degrees feels.

So you, who thinks the art education is a cake walk, go enroll and learn. Then come and talk to me and tell me how easy it is. I dare you. I’ll be waiting.

Technorati Tags: art school, art degrees, rude people, smug bastards, four-year universities, superiority complexes

As you might remember for my Coast to Coast move I used to be the owner of a majestic Florida panther plate.

Emphasis on used to be.

just looking at it fills my eyes with tears

I know that I have been back in Washington since this past summer and should, technically, already have a Washington plate since I’m a resident. Trust me, I know these things. I think the avoidance comes in part from the psychological damage of getting a license plate in Florida and also I’m cheap and had my Florida plate and tabs valid until March of this year. It’s the small things I do to “screw over” the states I live in.

I have mentioned before about the “living in sin” in the south and what a giant pain getting my Florida plates and license was. Even now a year and a half later I still get the chills thinking about it. It was the first time I had transferred my information to another state (while in Arizona I was a student thus did not have to become a resident) so naturally that meant I didn’t know what the (pardon the language) fuck I was doing. This coupled with the whole, again, sin and judgement factor I got for living with my boyfriend OUT OF WEDLOCK in the south just… the idea of having to do the whole process again sounded less appealing then the nine cavities I had drilled this fall.

I’ve had so many good times with my Florida panther plate as well so didn’t want to give them up yet. My brother and I constantly joked around about it calling it “so proud” and “majestic” whenever we’d see it. When one of us was driving like a jackass in a slightly aggressive fashion we’d joke that the cars we’d pass (or Mark cut off) would claim it’s an honor to be cut-off/passed/etc off by such a proud panther.

I know my family is weird. Trust me, I know.

So here I am, the Monday before Christmas, and already upset before this whole situation went down. Looking back I can’t even remember why I was upset (probably the little things getting to me) that day since I had a blast seeing Avatar with a group of people. Afterwards I curled up into bed and watched some Law and Order: SVU before going to sleep. I was falling asleep fast, ladies and gentlemen, curled up in a ball of warmth and enjoyment that SVU provides –

– until my brother got home and text me asking me if my license plate was stolen.

Great.

Rushing upstairs I went outside and, sure enough, my license plate and screws had been stolen off my car that had been parked on the street. I’d like to say I handled the situation in a level-headed fashion and calmly went inside after seeing this but of course I didn’t. I burst into tears right there on the street (remember the little things) as I stared at the naked back of my car and wondered who the hell honestly steals license plates off of people’s cars? Right before Christmas?!

I went into the house sobbing and swearing. I demanded my brother answer me who would do this thing? Who would steal someone’s license plate right before Christmas? Didn’t they know that fate/whatever was already having a shitfest on me and the license plate was the last thing I needed? Mark, in his typical doctor level-headed-ness, assured me that it wasn’t the end of the world and to calm down.

Since that is exactly what you want to hear when you’re sobbing and upset.

I called my Mom, still in tears, to tell her of my misfortune (it now being 11:30pm) and ask her what to do now. Once she woke up from her dreamland stupor she informed me that I needed to call the police and inform them of the plate being stolen. Now, I don’t know if my Mom is super paranoid because of her job but she can sometimes be convinced that everything will be linked to a crime. She suspected (as did all of her co-workers) that the plate was probably stolen so that someone committing a crime could use it on their stolen car.

My majestic panther was going to be corrupted. Awesome.

So I called the non-emergency police number to report the plate stolen and I seriously think the operator thought I was a nut-job due to how upset I sounded. She took down my information and, half an hour later, another person at the police station called and took down all my information so that a police report could be filed.

I wish I could say that this is the end of the story but it’s not. I don’t know how many of you have had your plates stolen before but getting your plates replaced when you don’t have any? Kind of a major pain in the butt. It’s like a life lesson in “you should really replace your out of state plates asap” that I hope you learn from my mistakes. The following morning was spent calling the Florida licensing office to report the plate stolen, calling the Washington licensing office to figure out what they needed of me, calling my car financing to get a copy of the title, etc.

Again, I don’t think I can put enough emphasis on the point you should learn from my laziness and “sticking it to the state” of not replacing my plate and tabs until they expired: just replace them within a month of moving. Else you might lose your majestic panther and your heart will fill with bitterness.

Technorati Tags: license plates, stolen property, out of state plates, police reports, stolen license plates

In my adult life I’ve never been a fan of Christmas. I think the holiday pretty much got ruined when I was sixteen and an exchange student in Japan. I think I have mentioned it before but I went to Hiroshima on Christmas Day 2001. Something about seeing the stuff about the A-bomb and the message in the visitors log of “All Americans should die” kind killed the day for me. Every year I try to pep myself up and get excited and, when I manage it, tend to get disappointed by all the hype and sometimes (I can selfishly admit) gifts given.

Now, don’t get offended those who have given me gifts. They are appreciated and very much loved! But a few rotten gifts and lack of care on some people’s parts make me drag my heels when it comes to Christmas shopping for others and I’m like “shoot me now and end my misery.”

I’m a regular Grinch, Scrooge, brat, and “unappreciative” (fill in any other adjectives you’ve thought of here my dear reader) and nothing has really been able to change it for years. Label me what you will but I know these things about myself.

Here is a breakdown of my peeves and why I’m a giant opinionated Grinch:

Christmas music everywhere. I get that ’tis the season to be jolly but seriously? I don’t like going into different stores and having the same peppy Christmas music blasting away when, if wanted, I could have stayed a store ten stores back and heard the exact same song. Or downloaded the damn thing on iTunes. True I have a soft spot for the traditional soft-tempo Christmas pieces (typically those religious ones which, being Agnostic, what the f*ck?) but I don’t need to hear the latest tween belting out deck the halls everywhere I go.

Gift Cards. I get how gift cards are typically a very easy gift solutions. Heck, I know I’ve given out a few in my time! Like my Dad (who is technologically impaired thus I don’t have to worry about him reading this) is getting one since the book he really wanted isn’t out until April. My biggest pet peeve about gift cards though is if I get them from someone who is really close to know and/or knows me well. Like family or friends. Something about a gift card spells “I didn’t want to think about it” or “didn’t want to put in the effort.” The impersonal nature of it pisses me off if I know you really well. I appreciate gift cards when given but I can’t help feeling like sometimes they’re giant cop outs by my friends who forgot about me till last minute.

Colored Lights. As Christmas lights have been going up everywhere I find myself really disliking houses that have the multi-color display. Something about it spells tacky to me. In reflection I think it is due to the houses that (typically) do multi-color lights are more willing to pull out all the stops and go overboard on their Christmas displays thus leaving me equal parts horrified and amazed. Especially the houses that look like Santa threw up everywhere in their yard. This weekend I went driving with one of my friends in search of the most tacky light displays and managed not to narrow it down by house but rather ranking NEIGHBORHOODS with their overabundance of holiday “cheer”.

The crowds. I can own up that I haven’t done any Christmas shopping yet (well, minus two gifts; one of which being a gift card which I HATE myself for). Why is that? I loath the Christmas crowds. Something about this time of year when we’re suppose to love our fellow man makes people raging a-holes who would sooner ram me with a cart since I’m in the way of their prize. Seriously people, I’m pretty passive when shopping. Ask me to move and spare my hips the indignity of shopping cart bruises.

The religion down my throat. I will leave this one at that and just say: isn’t this a time of peace and understanding? No matter what my beliefs?

People coming out of woodwork. While I love my friends dearly there are a select few that kind of come back into my life around the holidays and start talking gift giving with me. To that I ask: where were you the other eleven months of the year? Why don’t you spare yourself the hassle of buying me a gift (or most likely a gift card) and buy yourself something instead. You can even put a tag on it saying “From, Anne” and I’ll do the same for myself. This is also true with the awkward gifts you weren’t expecting and suddenly you’re like “shit, I didn’t know we were exchanging gifts this year and now I feel like a colossal jackass for not getting you something.”

Finding the “perfect” gift. My problem is that I obsess over trying to figure out something that people will really love. I wish I could be lazy like a lot of people and not care. One year I got my friend in Oklahoma and most random (and impractical) array of gifts just because of random conversations we’ve had and inside jokes we had shared. They weren’t the most practical gifts but you know what? She loves that Rainbow Bright backpack and it definitely sticks out in her mind. I bog myself down with trying to please people and do, typically, manage to find random awesome gifts but usually by the end I get so burnt out I’m like “tell me what to get so I don’t have to think.”

The parties and “let’s hang out!”. This is also a phenomenon that I notice when you’re about to move and/or it’s your birthday. It totally goes back to the “people coming out of the woodwork” and suddenly remembering you exist and that you’re potentially cool. An invite would have been cool the other eleven-months of the year, too. Thanks for remembering me during the holidays, I guess?

Stress making people dicks. Something about all the gift giving, family together-ness, copious amounts of alcohol, and potentially not being able to focus solely on yourself makes some people jerks in the holiday season. I know I can be a jerk when stressed out. I also know my tolerance of people gets very limited around this time of year and I kind of retreat into myself and won’t talk. Of course, right now I’m kind of a dull “I hate everyone, especially you” mood as I write this so perhaps the stress is getting to me. That and I’m past the point of caring. Just take a chill pill people and count down the days until the holidays are over and our regularly scheduled program returns.

Holiday cards. I suck at sending these. A few years ago I went the full nine yards and decorated my own Christmas cards but got discouraged by my Mom from sending them (what is not to love about Santa in a pimp hat pimping out a reindeer and elf on the street corner? Seriously). I think the “farthest” I got was last year where I had cards in envelopes but didn’t have stamps and shit, it’s now the new year. And look, it’s the end of January. Don’t get me wrong, I do like getting cards (since one of my hobbies is collecting greeting cards, weirdly enough) but it heightens my sense of guilt over my inability to mail a letter. Again perhaps blame Japan since the only form of communication I had to America was writing letters and I made BIG productions of illustrating them and writing PAGES before I could send them. I’m still burnt out on letters thanks to that.

There you have it. I’m a giant Grinch or Scrooge who needs to be visited by the Ghosts of Christmas. Perhaps that would help with my lack of holiday cheer. Or not.

Technorati Tags: grinch, holidays, lack of cheer, bahumbug, holiday hatred, bad mood

I have a really, really bad nervous habit that I picked up when I was a pre-teen. I have managed to break it once for period of time (a year or two, perhaps) which I am once again trying to break for perhaps the billionth time. What is this bad (and mildly disturbing) bad habit you ask?

I pick and chew at the skin around my nails.

I mean, seriously, what the hell? The skin around the nails? That isn’t exactly normal by any stretch of the imagination. Than again, I don’t think I’ve ever been accused of being “normal” in my life. Usually the worse periods of high stress my hands look like they lost a fight with a potato peeler. Naturally. I don’t know why it has is such a bad habit to break since, truth be told, I used to be a nail biter. I managed to break that habit at a fairly young age due in part to my Mom painting my nails and haranguing on me about it (my Grammie was ten times worse to my Mom about it, or so I’ve been told). Sometimes in my moments of high amusement in reflection on it I wonder if I’m secretly from a cannibal tribe and this is my way of “feasting on flesh”. The amusement immediately vanished and I tend to get sick to my stomach at that morbidly disgusting thought.

I’ve tried everything. From bribery (“if I stop this habit I’ll buy something I really want and NOT feel guilty about indulging myself!” which, yeah right. I have buyers remorse about buying food), putting lotion on my hands when the urge overcomes me (which is irritating since I hate lotion on my hands), to painting my nails (which just makes me pick more carefully since it’s the nails that get painted). I’ve tried bandaids on the fingers which make me look weird and, as you know, washing your hands with bandaids on them you’re stuck with a soggy bandaid that the thought alone is making me want to gag.

The thing is, also, I do it when I’m bored. I’ve caught myself on long drives idly just picking at the skin since some of it is just sticking out and begging to be taken care of. I’ve tried replacing one nervous habit with another, aka chewing gum, which worked only until I run out of the pack of gum and probably helped contribute to my nine cavities I had worked on in the past few months. Go me.

So, readers, any suggestions as to how to break this nervous habit? I hate lotion on the hands and am kind of a freak about washing my hands. If you had a nervous habit like this you too would want to keep your hands as clean as possible. I’ve considered putting other nasty tasting/feeling stuff on my hands but again? I’d just wash them since I don’t like the feeling of the hands being dirty. How have you managed to break any nervous or bad habits of your own?

Technorati Tags: bad habits, nervous ticks, hands, nervous habits, neurotic

Over our labor day weekend, Mack and I decided to go up to my parents’ place on Lopez Island. Have you ever heard of the majestic place of wonderment known as Lopez Island? Usually whenever I mention to non-northwestern people Lopez Island I tend to get a look of “were you dropped on your head as a child?” in response.

I wasn’t so much as dropped on my head as slipped on the tiles and cracked my head open. At Lopez, ironically enough! But that is another story entirely (and explains so much about me).

My parents bought the house back in 1989 when I was still in pre-school. I remember going up to Lopez with my parents as they looked for the weekend house and the first time I laid my eyes on the house. In a typical four year-old fashion, I was impressed with the new Barbie doll they had on the table in there and instantly wanted one myself. Please, oh please, tell me the Barbie doll was part of the deal. No? Well, you might still tempt me but you could sweeten the deal with the Barbie!

Remember, I was four years old.

The house (if you call it a “cabin” Mom will yell at you since, according to her, a cabin typically doesn’t have indoor plumbing and don’t call her house a damn cabin) holds lots of fond memories for me (head injury withstanding). For years my parents had a pool up there too which, unfortunately, after us not going there for a year or so went back to nature and became a wildlife newt preserve. It has since been filled in, much to my disappointment.

Anyway, back to the Labor Day story. I had missed Lopez since I moved away three years ago and decided that this three day weekend was the weekend I’d introduce Mack to part of my childhood and a new host of phobias and fears he had no idea I had. If not for Lopez how would he know I have an extreme fear of looking out the door windows at night and thinking someone might be looking in? That the thought alone makes me tense up and almost hyperventilate?

Good times. Anyway…

Friday we headed up to the islands after a quick stop by my parents place to pick up my brothers copy of the house key…

(Remember this point since it will be relevant in a few minutes. The house key. As in singular key. As in ONE key.)

… and after catching the ferry and an all around uneventful trip up there, we relax Friday night, surf the television, fight some spiders approximately the size of a Chihuahua and relax. Oh my gosh have I mentioned the relaxing? We were thoroughly enjoying being away from it all in the dark silence of the nothing-ness which surrounds my parents house (not cabin).

Until Saturday morning.

When we wake up, I’m bursting with energy wanting to show Mack why I had been bragging about Lopez for all these years and see if it lived up to all my boasting in his eyes. First thing I want him to see is the view from outside the main level door since, seriously, this view is worth seeing. I mean, before we do anything else like eat or put on regular clothes. There is a field and you can see the beach in the distance and seriously Mack, step outside and see the view! So together we go outside to see the view and as I lead the way the door shuts behind us. Pretty sure Mack closed it. Just being responsible.

“I sincerely hope that the door knob wasn’t locked,” I joke— thinking weakly that we couldn’t possibly be that stupid. Right?

Wrong.

Not only is the door locked but every window is locked. And the other doors? Yeah, locked. Together, the two of us, in our pajamas, scope out the house and try all the windows and see if there are any spare keys since ha ha, this is really funny but there has to be a back up plan, right? RIGHT?

Starting to realize this is all some sort of huge cosmic joke, Mack and I step away from the house and kind of stare at it unsure of how to proceed. At this point our neighbors who were up for the weekend working on their vacation place come over and are like, hey, we’re the neighbors and holy batman! Are you little Annie?! Yup! One and the same. Like my PJ’s? I swiped these items from various family members at one point or another and wow, is this awkward or what?

Mack and I decide that perhaps we should try the second story door which means he has to hoist his girlfriend up there to reach the door frame, which sticks out about two inches from said door. To add to this fun puzzle there is the element of a) the girlfriend is afraid of heights and b) there is a very active hornets nest inside some sort of box right beneath the door.

(As a side note I guess I should add that my parents are currently in the middle of re-doing their house, after a fashion. The main door—that used to be used—is actually on the second level of the house. There used to be a deck and stairs that led up to it but that all got knocked down due to a termite problem and so the second level has a door which drop down a floor to nothing-ness. They also have random door on the third floor which will go to an eventual patio but right now is pretty much leading to a broken leg on your part, should you use it).

After the hoisting was done and we found, again, that we had locked that door after launching three spiders through it last night and we were still pretty much screwed. At this point the neighbor, who noticed the problem was still very much sucking, offered us his cellphone to attempt to call our other neighbors who lived there part time and might potentially have a key. Only problem is that this is Lopez. Huh? Pretty much NO cell reception there unless you’re Canadian. His suggestion was to walk on the trail through the woods to the beach where there was, fortunately, cell reception to be had.

So here Mack and I are, in pairs of borrowed flip-flops, tromping through the woods, laughing at the world to keep ourselves from crying or screaming at something as we attempt to call the neighbors to see if they had spare keys. Unfortunately for us, they didn’t pick up. Nor did my parents. Going back to the neighbor we decided to try again with the house and see if we could find any other method of getting in.

I won’t really go into all the specifics but there was a plank that had small boards primitively nailed onto it and there was climbing to the third story door to see if it was unlocked. Yes, we tried everything. At this point in the day, I’m starting to get semi-hystical since if I don’t eat within an hour of waking up you know what happens to me? I get sick to my stomach. So Mack and I once again go over to the neighbors house asking if he knows if they have a locksmith on the island. Unsure, he suggests we try calling (borrowing the cell once again… and hiking to the beach, again) the one hardware/construction store on the island.

This is, seriously, how the conversation between Mack (as I stood holding a pencil and a spare piece of wood borrowed from the neighbor as we’re standing by the beach in our fucking pajamas) and the store employee went:

Employee: [name of store], how can I help you?
Mack: Hello, I was curious if you know if there is a locksmith on the island?
Employee: Ha, unfortunately not on this island. There is one on Friday Harbor [hour ferry ride away]. Hey! Business opportunity!
Mack: While that is an awesome suggestion we’re actually locked out now as in no means of transportation and kind of stuck with NO KEYS thus needing a LOCKSMITH and not business opportunity ideas at this moment.

Defeated, we once again march back through the woods to the neighbors and enough is enough, we’re breaking the door knob one way or another to get in.

I guess at this point I should tell you that door knobs with locks are surprisingly resilient. You peal away the layers of metal and they simply do not want to unlock! No matter how many layers you take out, including the pins and springs—basically have it so you can see inside the fucking door and it’s inner workings—and it still will not unlock.

At that point I told Mack to kick the damn door in. My figuring? The splintered wood on the inside on the whole would be less than the cost of me throwing a brick through the window since I WAS AT THAT POINT. Two kicks later after two and a half hours outside we were back in the house and ready to roll. Mack liked to call it home improvement, when all was said and done, since the new door knob we bought didn’t have a lock and thus improved the home.

I guess the lesson learned is always have a spare key hidden somewhere. Anywhere. Also, don’t go outside in your pajamas, especially if there are people around who can see you in said pajamas.

Technorati Tags: keys, locksmith, locked out, adventure, picking locks, breaking in, locked door

With emotions running high as the battle for “healthcare” is waged across the country, I think the part that has really stuck out in my mind is the name calling. Sure, I know that it is happening on both sides since people are really passionate about this subject but seriously? Can we knock it off?

I, for one, don’t really believe in the healthcare reform. Throw your hate bombs at me if you will (I do have the “delete” function in my mail inbox) but I have my reasons. I respect your right to want and believe in public healthcare so can’t you respect my not believing in it? I don’t really want to get into my reasonings since it is such a heated subject for everyone and don’t want death threats. Again.

And no, don’t send me links, articles, or stuff that supports why you’re right and I’m wrong. I’m not blindly sitting on my hands and not researching the subject. My friends who were very pro-Obama thought I was un-educated and hadn’t “researched stuff” during the election and constantly sent me literature to support their view points. Thanks, really. Since I’m a blind follower sheep who needs guidance and follows to the T the ideology of a certain political parties.

Or not.

What offends me most of all is being called a “narrow-minded Christian”, “uneducated”, and being told I “deserve to die a horrible and painful death” due to my beliefs. Yes, I got into it with someone because I was informed I should die a horrible death since I have insurance (which, by the way, I pay out of pocket for. I should die for THAT REASON).

Let’s clear some stuff up on your stereotypes about me as a “Republican” “anti” healthcare individual:

• Believe it or not I went to a liberal art school. Like, a school for only art. Twice. I also have TWO art degrees. A lot of people assume this makes me a very liberal individual. I won’t go into the glee I feel at their disappointment that I’m not.
• I support gay rights. A registered Republican who supports gay rights?! TO ARMS!
• I’m not religious. I’m Agnostic aka the jury is out on what I believe with religion. I have also never read the Bible. I don’t foresee reading it anytime soon in my life, either.
• Compared to a lot of individuals I know I am VERY open minded. I respect your opinions and beliefs and just want the same in return without the name calling and demeaning comments. I will listen to them, ask questions, and be interested until you try to “convert me” to your way of thinking.
• I also put myself out there for friends, family, and people/animals/places in need. Some people who claim they care honestly don’t give a rat’s ass and don’t step up to plate when others need it.

Sure, I’m luckily insured right now. I’ve been on state insurance before and have been uninsured for brief periods between being on insurance. I’ve been denied insurance claims for various stupid reasons and have had to fight the system. The system does need work and improvement but in my humble opinion getting the government involved is not the way to fix it. I mean look at social security. They did a GREAT job with THAT.

Don’t tell me I deserve to die a horrible and painful death because I don’t share your ideas. I don’t wish death and suffering on you for your beliefs (at least where I’d voice it TO YOU— and it’s only if you’re being difficult and telling ME to die). I respect your ideas and just want the same. I also know the system needs work. I’ve talked with doctors and nurses about the system and know it can’t handle it suddenly becoming free-for-all insurance and coverage.

A lot of stuff needs work before we can have our Utopia where sunshine shines out of people’s asses and we all can skip down the gumdrop lined roads. Cynical, yes, but then again I have done my reading despite what others think.

Technorati Tags: healthcare, name calling, biased, religious, stereotypes, republican, democratic, narrow minded, disrespectful

Beggars can’t be choosers but this whole living in a fishbowl deal? It’s really annoying.

Let me back up for a second here and tell you about our current living situation.

As time was ticking down for us moving back to the northwest both Mack and I found that we were swamped with work and busy on the weekends packing. On top of that: have you seen airline ticket prices lately? I have yet to see proof that the airline industry is trying to draw travelers back by offering cheap airline tickets. Oil prices are going back up again and seeing as how the airline industry is already hurting I sincerely doubt they can discount more than they already are.

Anyway, so, here we are, a month before the move and I’m sitting watching airline prices but stuck since we already were busy and had plans each weekend up until we left. My brother, luckily, offered us a solution. Mark (as you have seen mentioned in our chicken porn discussion) moved back to the northwest a few weeks before we did. He had finished his medical school residency and, after living on the east coast for fourteen years, decided he wanted to be closer to the family and got hired for a position out here on the west coast. Mark knew of our situation and (very kindly) offered us a place to stay when we got there so it was one less thing to think about as we prepared our epic 3000 mile journey.

The house that Mark rented (while looking for another house to actually buy) is on the market still and, luck be to us, has a cottage behind the house which we have essentially “set up shop” in. All our stuff is still in boxes for the most part, however, it works. Thumbs way up for the brother.

Now, about the fishbowl I mentioned…

As I stated above, the house which Mark is renting is still on the market. A few times a week Mark will get a phone call asking us to vacate for an hour so that someone else can come look at the house. Lucky for us, Mark tells them each time that he has company in the cottage so Mack and I don’t have to hide boxes and stash cats. The having to leave the house can be mildly irritating especially if I have a conference call for work at the same time so have to set up my laptop et al down at the local Starbucks. This, however, is easy to live with since we usually get 24-hour notice. It’s not as irritating as to when I was a nanny for my nephew and my (other) brother had his house on the market and I had to vacate with 30-minute notice while I had a eight-month old baby. That sucked.

The problem I have with the fishbowl existence? The nosy, bold potential buyers.

I don’t know if you’ve ever had a house for sale but people, for the most part, will keep their distance from the house. They will stare at it, judging the outside as best as they can, and usually be on their way after a few minutes. These I don’t mind since usually I don’t know they’re out there and when I notice it’s usually when I’m jumping on Mack’s back in an attempt to be really annoying. Yesterday, however, for some reason a whole crop of really bold intrusive individuals took it upon themselves to cross the line and come up on the porch and peer in the windows.

Yes, put their faces against the windows and stare.

Some people, while kind of crossing the line in climbing the stairs and wandering around on the patio, will respect that there are people inside and usually just wander the patio and glance around. There are, however, people who will stick their faces on the window and stare at us. Like we’re fish. Beautiful, majestic, technologically advanced fish, but fish nonetheless. I wish I could say this is probably one in every fifty people that intrudes on our lives and makes me feel naked and exposed to the world. But honestly? Lately it’s kind of been one in three people who do it.

Take for example Monday. As I was eating lunch Mack got up to go towards the kitchen to get something when he said, “There is a crazy woman on the patio who is… sticking her face on the window and staring at you.” Shocked, I turned around and indeed, there was a woman with her face pressed against the glass staring at me as I ate. I stopped chewing and turned my face around quickly back towards the monitor wondering the whole time if this is how zoo animals felt.

But wait, it gets better.

Monday morning, before the cereal incident, I stumbled out of the cottage right before work in my sweats as I walked towards Mack’s car to get my laptop bag. Beside me I hear the unmistakeable crunch of the gravel as a car pulls down the alley and stops. Frightened, I look up and find a strange man had gotten out of his car and was approaching me asking me questions about the house and what is my involvement in said house. (Mack was, fortunately, watching the exchange from inside having just come down the stairs himself). I told him my brother was renting the house and cottage and was secretly really shocked and flabbergasted as the tenacity of this individual. Sure, while many an individual peek inside but he was the first to go behind the house and openly snoop. When I went into the house and poured myself a bowl of cereal there was a knock on the front door. The stranger who was behind the house was now in front and wanted to know if it would be alright if he looked around the yard. Flabbergasted, I agreed and let him do his thing.

When I told my brother about this later he was beyond pissed at how daring and invasive these people are. Sure, the house is on the market, but it’s really obvious that people are living here. They don’t get discouraged and/or shy when they see us trying to live our lives. No, they press their faces against the glass and almost snoop into our lives. Mark says every other day upon seeing someone else on the patio “is like living in a fucking fishbowl.” No longer does my game of sitting on the front patio and staring back really amuse me. I kind of want my privacy back.

Luckily, Mark bought a new house which will be move-in ready at the end of September. He graciously is letting us rent out the basement (which is finished basement with two rooms and a living room of sorts). We are excited and really appreciative and can’t honestly wait to get our privacy back. Perhaps if we find the voyeur-esk existence is missed we can get those cardboard cut-outs of movie stars at video stores and put them in our windows.

So, if you’re looking to buy a house, please please PLEASE people if you are going to look at houses, DON’T:

1. Climb up near the front door or within a five foot radius of the house.
2. Peer inside the windows. Especially if I’m there since I might flip you the bird at this point.
3. Leave cigarette butts around in the lawn.
4. Break shit.

Respect people’s privacy, please. I’m sure you wouldn’t like it if I came and stared in YOUR windows, that’s all I’m sayin’.

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