Not gonna happen

Um, not so much. Math almost never helps make things clear to me. But this morning? Math is the kind friend who tapped me on the shoulder and gently pointed out that I could either finish my MFA at JustOk University for less than $5k, or start all over again at BetterThanOk University and go $30k into debt to do it. Thank you, math, for kicking my ass back into reality. A hat tip is in order for insomnia, too. Thanks for the assist!

The best laid plans and all that

Here it is, morning, and I feel like writing now instead of at the allotted afternoon writing time. And at 3:30, I have plans, so that shoots down the afternoon schedule somewhat. You see how this is going? *sigh* Perhaps I’m peculiarly unsuited for a daily schedule.

Back to the writing: I jotted off a note to a favorite food blog, drumming up interest (I hope) in a short article about the palate-seducing food and wine we left behind in New Zealand. Did the whole world already know that the Kiwis are developing an eco-friendly, artisan producer-centered food scene? Or that the NZ wine industry is working toward being 100% sustainable by 2012? Hell, I live near France, and I was still just besotted with the cheeses I sampled in and around Auckland, including a bleu cheese that was presented to me dipped in local honey. I’m swooning now just thinking of it, and hatching a plan to try this with a genuine Roquefort or Gorgonzola and some wonderful local German honey.

I’m also thinking over my long-suffering grad school career. I’ve got something like 10 classes in the rear-view. I’ve taken courses in teaching pedagogy, statistics, criminology and writing. These credits I’ve racked up were earned at three different institutions of higher learning, and were undertaken with different goals in mind. In addition to all of this, I have a grad degree in criminology I earned during the happy couple of years I spent in Scotland, and a paralegal certificate earned not long after I got married. And yet, as of today, I have nothing much to show for any of it, other than student loan debt and a funny-looking transcript.

So, of course, I want to continue! I love school, and at 42 I’m still convinced there’s a new career out there for me in peddling my writing to a willing and appreciative audience. Never mind that I’ve been blogging erratically for years to a tiny audience. Never mind that I’ve been nattering on about this since before I quit working. Never mind that I’ve felt undisciplined and uninspired for the last two years; I’m climbing out of it. J and I can see retirement from here; it’s a tiny, barely blinking light on a tower across a wide bay, but it’s there. I have six years to finish up a useful, satisfying degree and get myself established enough to supplement J’s pension. Student loan debt be damned – there’s no way we won’t die with some level of educational debt on the books, especially if J goes to law school, so whatever.

Thing is, I think I want to transfer to a better school after this class is over. I’ve been taking the easy route, using a cheap-ish online resource available to military spouses. It’s keeping my pen to paper, and I’ve read a lot of interesting material, but it’s just not a perfect fit. The program I covet is at Antioch University in Los Angeles. It’s  harder to get into, it requires a decent amount of in-person workshop time in LA, and it focuses on the type of writing I really love. It’s not cheap, but then again, it’s well-regarded and it will encourage me to write things I can sell, and to connect with other writers with the same goal.

This change would mean finishing up the class for which I just registered (it’s a class I really want to take) and then, hopefully, starting a new program in December by spending a week in LA at my first workshop. LA is home, in a way that’s hard to nail down, so spending time there is a good time regardless. Plus, Maude knows I’ll be ok with abandoning this Scheiße German weather for a bit right about then. Hopefully I can use the class I’m getting ready to take as a method for writing the material I need to submit for admission to Antioch.

So, there’s all that. Then there’s the gorgeous weather we’re finally experiencing this week. Jim’s loving it, despite the lack of snow on the ground. His joy in the outdoors has now switched back to running through long stretches of the creek. He’s got that rare gift of being happy in nearly whatever circumstances he finds himself. There’s definitely a lot I could learn from him.

Not *quite* freezing, which is progress

1. After nearly a year away, I’m back at work toward my MFA. My next two-month class starts in April. We, of course, have two sets of house guests and a trip to the UK planned for this same time period, but never mind that! It’ll be a challenge, and I’m up for one.

2. The sun came out today, and already I feel better. I don’t dare hope the forecast for warmer weather this week is accurate; I’ve been burned too many times before. But, SUN. Ye gods!

3. I’m also trying to decide what my next best move toward an independent income is. I don’t have any published work, really, so I’m thinking a web page with several good examples of my writing is going to have to do. I’ve done the easy part; there IS a web page, and it does have my actual name on it. Now? Gotta sort, edit, post.

4. I also really, really need to get my computer organized. It’s so easy to put things on the desktop and leave them there forever. Or, even worse, to sweep all the crap on my desktop into folders that then sit on my desktop forever. Must, must do this, even though it’s going to be <0% fun.

5. I’m trying really hard to enjoy the irony of my California homeowner situation. You see, J and I would like nothing more than to own a house in SoCal. Of course, we’re not rich, so this isn’t possible. However, I inherited my father’s house, which is in a part of California that’s completely unlivable. The best part? We can’t seem to sell it. If only I was completely out of my mind and wanted to live in the Central Valley, I’d be SO set. As it is, though, all I have is irony.

6. We went to two parties this weekend. One involved a school hall, a German cover band, grownup coffee drinks and curry. The other involved St. Patrick’s Day. My party cup: it is full, my friends.

7. Not springing forward with my US buddies = shite. I want evenings back, man.

Now, off to clear my head with spicy bean soup, a book, a dog, and a glass of wine.

Mein Deutsch: es ist Scheiße.

Today I stupidly used Linguo (the questionable iPhone app that I still rely upon for on-the-go translation, for some reason) to give me a word for “window screen”. I’m aware that this program, like any translation program, sometimes gives rather one-dimensional translations, especially without any context. And I know that the German language is sometimes guilty of having 15 or 20 definitions for one word. So normally, I’m a double-checker, and I’m pretty careful. But this word seemed familiar, so I let it roll.

So. Armed with my new word, I confidently strolled into the window and door store, flush with today’s German successes: 1) an extensive conversation about dogs with a fellow dog walker, and 2) a well-executed, semi-complicated transaction involving a dog food order at the pet store.

Here’s how it went, translated into English, which, thankfully, I speak rather well.

Me: “Excuse me, do you have a window view, for flying?”
Window dude: “…?…”
Me: “In the summer, flying? For the window?” (making zippy, pointy gestures in the air around my head, as if this would make things more clear)
Window dude: “…?…” (looks quizzical – slightly amused, even)
Random helpful man, in perfect English: “Do you mean window screens?”
Me: “Yes! Yes, thank you.”
Random helpful guy’s wife, who is also kind and helpful, to Window dude, in German: “She needs window screens.”
Random helpful man: “Haha, in English, the German word literally means ’safety net for insects’.” (smiling. I love him at this moment.)
Window dude: (also smiling, and handing me a brochure) “You are an idiot, and the way you brutalize my language brings dishonor to your family. Please take this brochure. Have a look at it at your leisure, and call or make an appointment if you have any questions. And for the love of god, please improve your German enough to be understood before you speak to me again.”
Random helpful couple: “Bye bye!”

*sigh* – I guess two out of three is still pretty good.

Hemispheric food envy

J’s off today, so I spent a lazy late afternoon lying on the couch, nursing a mysteriously swollen ankle and reading through the 12 or so New Zealand-specific food and wine magazines I hauled back with us. Of course, they’re all focused on late summer foods, so now I’m longing for avocados, melons, stone fruits and fresh tomatoes. The snow out the window is adding to this nagging feeling that I’m in the wrong part of the world for my sun-craving soul.

Early this afternoon we headed to the first of a handful of wine stores we’ve dug up in a nearby town, partly in an effort to cope with how much we both miss New Zealand, I’ll admit. Predictably, they didn’t stock any Kiwi wines; based on what we learned on our wine tour, this didn’t surprise me too much. So, I told the nice German man there that since I discovered such fantastic Rieslings in New Zealand, I now want to find crisp, dry, fabulous Rieslings here in Germany. He took it well, considering; he smiled and patiently gave us about a dozen recommendations.

One of them is in my glass now, and although it’s very different from the crisp, rather grassy NZ Rieslings I enjoyed on vacation, it’s got a mellow, dry flavor that I prefer to any of the cloyingly sweet German Rieslings I’ve had previously. Maybe it’s just the weather, but I don’t feel the urge to take a bottle of this wine out under a huge shade tree on a warm, sunny afternoon and sip it while I read a good book, like the picnicy Kiwi wines I tasted. However, I can see it next to a plate of the fabulous truffle and wild mushroom mac-n-cheese I read about today, no problem. It’s lovely, but a bit sturdier, and more serious than the NZs I tried. I wonder – perhaps terroir has as much to do with national character as it does with soil and climate?

Chicken soup beckons, and I am helpless to resist.

The blank page, she beckons

It’s so neat and tidy here! It makes me want to fill up some space and get my typing fingers back into shape. I’ve been catching up on my blog reading, getting New Zealand and Paris notes together and thinking about how, now that the big trip is over, I’m going to nail down 2010 and hurl myself back into the world of productive adults.

Some of you may remember that something like a year and a half ago I mentioned that I sure do need to make a schedule. I mean, as much as I imagined that I’d just dearly love to take a year off and not have to work at all, now that this situation (which I’m working on, for real this time, ’cause it’s making me nutty) has stretched into almost two years, I’m no longer finding much satisfaction in structureless days made up of free-for-all hours that I manage to sap away with Facebook, podcasts, books, errands and dog walks. Not that there’s anything wrong with those things – I love them, in fact – but I feel like if I don’t get myself into a routine, NOW, I’m going to lose my mind before we leave Germany. Also? Keeping house is not something I’m wringing much joy out of. The sooner I’m productive and dedicating time to earning a salary again, the sooner I can hire a lovely housecleaner to come deal with my baseboards.

Then, today, I ran across this post, and applied my own foot to my own ass. Which was hard.

So, ideas:

1. I suppose I’ll have to commit to getting myself out the door, somewhere, to start the day. If I don’t do that, I think the “reading the news and drinking coffee” portion of the day will continue to take up the 7am-10:30am time slot, which sets me up for a dog walk and then lunch. By then, the day’s half over, which is stupid. So. Gym in the morning? Or do I bite the bullet and buy one of these, and get my ass down to the basement every morning by 7:30 for what will surely be some high-larious attempts at using it?

2. If the basement plans works out – and I think that’s where I’m leaning, since it doesn’t involve a trip to the base – that means if I have an hour workout, I should be able to be showered and out the door for a dog walk by 9.

3. Back from dog walk at 10 or 10:30 then. Let’s call it 10:30. No need to make this suck.

4. I suppose that concurrent with all of this will be the laundry, as needed. It doesn’t take any real time to deal with it, and if it’s done in the morning, I can focus on other things all afternoon.

5. So. It’s 10:30, I’ve read the news, had breakfast, the dog’s walked, I’ve worked out and showered. Errands/housework now? Yes, I think that works. As needed, of course.

6. Lunch. Since I haven’t managed to kill those six holiday pounds yet, this really won’t take much time. (Perhaps numbers 1 & 2 will help here.)

7. So by 1pm or so, I should be ready to sit my ass down at the computer and write. On the days I have no errands to do, I can back this up to 10:30.

Of course, this leaves no time at all for sewing, cooking, occasional German lessons and reading, but I think if I keep my morning hard-scheduled, the afternoons can be a little more flexible. I think I’ll do better if I do what HAS to be done before noon, and leave myself a clean house to work in. What is it about clutter and pet hair that makes it so damn hard to focus on anything else? Sometimes I wish I was more of a slob.

Of course, there’s still evening, and soon dark ol’ Europe will give us longer days. J really needs to knock out that Ph.D. dissertation anyway, so evenings can easily turn into time for him to get a run in and do some writing while I putter in the garden, read a book or work on a sewing project.

You know, when I left my last job, I never dreamed that someone who isn’t working could possibly find a way to not have enough time to do everything they want to do. How is it possible that even just reading over this list makes me think of all the things it doesn’t leave me time for?

Here I am, fresh from blog moving insanity

I did it. This time, really, no, I mean it. Fickle I may be, and unquestionably a creature of habit as well, but Blogger has finally, completely driven my right over the edge. Unfamiliar? Yes. A new system to learn? Good Maude, yes. But WordPress can’t possibly be the cluster that Blogger is. (Please.)

So. I’m here.

There are some duplicated posts here and there, from way way way back. If you find yourself bored enough to start digging through the archives, you’ll find ‘em, along with some dead links, and some videos that no longer work. Such is the internet, I suppose. I’d like to say I care enough to go fix it, but after unfucking Blogger for the last 4+ hours, I’d be lying if I said I could muster even a shred of giving a shit at this point.

So enjoy! I know I will, after I walk away for a few hours and forget about how hard this was.

My feelings: they evolve, man

So.

It’s Sunday morning. It’s not snowing, thank Maude, so the sidewalk doesn’t need any attention from me. I’ve put my NZ vacation pics on Facebook, and I’m organizing myself for a day in the writing saddle; notes, magazines, my journal, and a big cup of coffee are all scattered about me.

Also? I put the blog back together, man.

I eliminated a few posts, mostly out of concern that some random creep on the internet might be able to find the house with them. I also re-read some of the more venomous posts from the thick of J’s deployments and the screwing we got with our PCS to Germany, and decided to keep ‘em. It’s our life, right? And who knows, maybe it’ll help someone else.

But I stand by this: this ain’t no military spouse blog. I can’t escape the fact that right now, that’s part of my life, but I sure can make it a topic that doesn’t get hashed out here, exclusive of anything else.

Don’t get me wrong – I’ve met some incredible people through this blog, and I guess I thank the military for that (grudgingly). Thanks to this blog and those folks, I’ve grown up, I’ve mellowed, I’ve had my ass kicked back into gear when needed, and I’ve found out I’m not alone. I’ve gotten support when things were unbearably bad on a personal level, and when the day-to-day BS got extra ripe and stinky.

So, the new Kimbaland is the old Kimbaland, sort of. My shit’s out there, and it’s sometimes, well, shitty. Someday, somewhere, maybe some fed up, pissed off milspouse will find it and at least feel like s/he’s not the only one who feels like they’re losing their minds.

But, this topic is not something upon I wish to dwell. There are a load of great milspouse blogs out there – check out Left Face for a list of some of my friends’ awesomeness, and use the Google, man – but Kimbaland isn’t one of them. Looking for resources, military-related topics or compelling articles about all things milspousey? This place isn’t going to scratch that itch. But if you want snarky political commentary, travel, food, miscellaneous bullshit and whatever else I feel like mooning the world with, I’m your bear.

So, done. And there was much rejoicing.

Snow, protruding bones, and the Antipodes – oh, my!

Snow: It’s snowing! Again! And, unbelievably, it’s supposed to continue all damn day and into the evening. Like my German neighbors, I’ve already shoveled once, preemptively piling what I can into a corner next to the garage rather than leaving it near the street where buses, snowplows and trucks can smoosh is back onto our sidewalk when they come by. That’s right, folks, I’ve become a strategic snow shoveler, and this is not something at which I have ever wanted to become proficient. And what the fuck with snow in March?

Orthopedic history: This past Thursday marked the 35th anniversary of my achieving a compound fracture in my left forearm while on the playground in Brussels, Belgium. I don’t have a clue how I remember this date, but there you are. I’m actually old enough to clearly remember something that happened 35 years ago, before my husband was born. Egads.

Antipodean summer: Over the years, people who know me IRL have watched my itchy feet and general inability to settle down drive me to a series of “final” decisions about where I’d like to put down roots. As a kid, I never gave a thought to living anywhere but Southern California. Then grad school in Scotland happened, and from then on I dreamed of the day I’d move back to Edinburgh. Eventually I settled on Ottawa, Ontario as a dream location; it seemed like affordable Europe, with parking and housing that’s in reach. Then it was back to California. I couldn’t wait for J to finish up with the nay vee to we could (somehow) buy a house in California and stay there forever.

Lately, it’s been France. I love so much about France; it seems like a sensible place where people care about food, art, education, culture and beauty. Political discourse there isn’t pre-chewed for morons. People smile, and are helpful and outgoing (not my general experience in Germany, where service is mostly abrupt and almost always grudging, and where 70% of people on the street are scowling). Real estate isn’t prohibitively expensive in France, either, so La France became our new target. Wouldn’t we rather live in a tiny apartment in Paris than a 1960s rambler that’s costing us $4000 a month in California?

Then we went on our latest trip, and now we have a new favorite retirement location. I’d still like to buy that closet in Paris, ’cause we’re going to need a European base somewhere, and hell, an inexpensive efficiency furnished via Ikea is all we’d need to have a “when we’re in Europe a couple of times a year” place. But for the full-time, we’re going to live there, buy a house (finally), get involved in our local community, get to know the country, plant trees, put on that new addition, stay there forever place? New Zealand’s in the lead at the moment.

I’m a little surprised about this, to be honest. The first few days we were there, I couldn’t stop thinking, “Wow, it’s gorgeous here, but so far from everything. How do people get used to being so isolated from Europe and North America? I don’t think I could do it.” Then I went through a few days of, “Hmmm, well, books are expensive, J would pay a lot for running shoes, and air fares out of here are insane, but everything else is wicked cheap, and housing is way affordable. But still, it’s so far away from everything other than Australia, which is, you know, so far away from everything.” By the time we’d been there about a week, J and I were looking at real estate listings and pet importation guidelines.

By now, I’m cognizant of my wanderlust and my fickle nature when it comes to what’ll be home someday. I fully expect to discover that we absolutely must retire to Spain, or Vancouver (we’re taking a trip there in the fall), or to fall in love with Scotland again when I travel there this spring. I suspect we’ll have significant misgivings about packing up our lives in six years or so and hauling our asses to the ends of the earth to live in near isolation from nearly everything. I have no doubt that getting whichever pets are still with us to NZ – and we’ve got a pile of geriatrics at the moment, so who knows? – will be expensive and a giant pain in the ass.

But you know what?

As much as I love Europe, and I do, really, it’s nice to speak English. I fear my German will never get me to the point where I can discuss brainy topics with a native speaker. Also? I love friendly, outgoing, laid-back people. I love having literally hundreds of good restaurants to choose from – restaurants that specialize in cuisines from all over the planet. I miss the ocean so much I choked back tears when I saw it again. I miss English language bookstores, even ones full of books that cost too much. I miss flip-flops. I miss suntans. And after paying German prices for almost a year, I nearly wept with joy at the prices in NZ. You mean, I could afford to buy clothes? Going out to dinner isn’t going to cost $100? Cars are affordable?

I guess what I miss, really, is California. But NZ is like Southern California without the traffic, smog, prohibitively expensive real estate and never-ending budget crisis. It has the significant advantage of not being populated with people who have ever voted for Sarah Palin or Prop 8. It’s a nuclear-free zone. Their wine industry will be completely organic by 2015. They take climate change seriously. And most of all, it feels so far away. I’m not sure I could have handled that in pre-internet days, but now? How refreshing would it be to feel like the rest of the world is just a spectator sport?

Stay tuned…

Housewifery, etc.

More snow, more snow, more snow. Traffic is apparently a clusterfuck, so my lunch plans are canceled. (And when, by the way, did I become a person who has lunch plans in the middle of a weekday?) To add to the 50s housewife meme, I fear the dinner out we have planned with J’s office may also get deep sixed, as the snow is supposed to continue all day or maybe forever.

I’m still working on my bread project. I let the dough chill out in the fridge overnight, and now I’m in the preheat phase. The recipe asks that you shape a loaf from a grapefruit-sized piece of dough, which means I’m baking only part of the dough, and the loaf that’s nearly ready to go into the oven is pretty small. So, if adjustments need to be made, I have plenty of non-kneaded dough to play around with. I’m feeling eager since I’m ready for lunch, but I want fresh bread with my soup. Can I make it another hour? Hmm, maybe more coffee will help. Oh, and I’m sure I’ll need to shovel the walk again by then, so there’s 10 minutes or so gone.

…

Bread’s about halfway baked, and I’m becoming more optimistic. It eagerly sprung up to about twice its size when it hit the preheated cast iron pan, and the top, which is split, is domed and rustic-looking. The kitchen doesn’t smell of baked bread yet, but once it’s on the home stretch…wait, no, there it is. It smells ambrosial.

If this bread turns out to be both tasty and incredibly easy, I’m not sure what that’s gonna do to my whole bread paradigm.

…

Bread’s out, and the crust is crackling.

…

Holeeeeey crap. It’s fantastic. Go here. Make bread. Complex it ain’t, but damn good – YES. And it’s the best crust I have ever created. Now, lunch.