Damn Swede

Here it is, the Fourth of July, and I have done nothing patriotic.  I am sure most people spent the day watching parades, grilling out, eating pie and watching fireworks.  I, on the otherhand, spent the day reorganizing my kitchen.  And I could nto be more happy.

I am slightly obsessed with organizing.  If someone even mentions cleaning out something or going through stuff, I get the itch.  This time the culprit was a cross between my sister-in-law and my client, both recently undertaking major organization projects.

What has bothered me most recently was the lack of space in my kitchen.  At one point, I toyed with the idea of adding more cabinet space, but it seemed logistically difficult and money probably better spent elsewhere.  Plus, it’s probably a good way to ensure I don’t accumulate that much stuff.  This, of course, is difficult due to my weakness for vintage serving dishes and barware found during secondhand shop trips.  But whatever.

I recently upgraded my TV, which also meant upgrading my TV-related furniture.  The new furniture, in addition to being super stylish, and also provides much more behind-closed-doors storage space.  Space perfect for my collection of serving dishes.

And so it began.  I pulled everything out of five cabinets, wiped them down and began the reorganization process.  I found stuff I forgot I had, expired food and forgotten cookbooks.  A couple hours later, it was all cleaned up and put away.  And it feels so good.  This is the part of organizing that I love.  The part where there is a little more space in the cabinets, in stead of being jammed packed.  Where I can easily reach things instead of everything falling out.  And I have enough room to store groceries.

Ahhhhh.

After that, I read the cookbooks I had to have but haven’t used and Post-It noted delicious-sounding recipes.  I’m set with dinner ideas for at least a month.  I cleaned the bathroom, separated the laundry for tomorrow and put away the clothes that piled up.

A perfect day, in my opinion.  And now I can kind of see fireworks from my couch, while enjoying a glass of wine, which is good enough for me.  I’m not that into fireworks anyway.

I guess I haven’t had much to say lately.  Not that it matters, really, since this blog is super-secret and maybe one or two people read it.  Which, by the way, is exactly the way I like.

Work has been busy, but I am so glad to have a job. Like, really, really glad.  And I am double glad that I have a great job that I love.

I accidently fell in love with my neighbor, who is kind and sweet and with whom I have the most fun with.

I decided not to be on Parish Council again, because of work, but am told I only have a year’s pass.

I am so thankful it is nice weather again.  The winter is long and cold.

There is something truly delicious about ice cream.

My coworker and I had a two hour conference call, which involved remotely listening to both a presentation and discussion of faceless people, half of whose voices we did not recognize.  While it would have been nice to be there in person, we took advantage of, well, not being there.  This meant no Business Suits ™, casual conference room posture and side conversations while on mute.  And ice cream.

Oh, what a glorious conference call it was.  No PowerPoint slides to present, no questions to answer, no need to mask initial reactions.  And ice cream.

I went to Tampa yesterday, just for the day.  We took the redeye in the morning.  I misread my Southwest Airlines boarding pass and went to Gate B12 instead of B2.  Thankfully a man struck up a conversation with me, bringing to light that I was at the wrong gate.  The flight at B12 left later than my flight did, which means I could have completely missed it simply because it was early in the morning and I was tired.  Sigh.

Business travel is amusing to me.  You see your coworkers an insane amount of hours, like yesterday’s 17 hours.  You are in a city you don’t know, so you usually end up eating crap food (Ruby Tuesday, Tampa Bay Home Team Sports Bar & Grill).  Because of the unpredicatability of travel these days, even after eating there is time to kill (Panera: the nation’s largest provider of free Wi-fi).  And then there is the meeting.  After the meeting, there’s the after-meeting.  Well, or more crap food and hours to kill in the airport.  Because we were taking the redeye out, we actually shut down the Tampa Bay Home Team Sports Bar & Grill.  We did not, however, shut down Chili’s Too.

I am so tired.  I couldn’t form sentences last night when we were boarding the plane.  I tried to sleep but it hurt too bad.  Like my body thought it was being teased and did not like it.  I was worried about staying awake for the drive home, so I sang at the top of my lungs.  It was quite the odd medley, ranging from The Cure to Frank Sinatra to Sesame Street.  I just simply could not remember any songs that I knew all the words to.  Finally I defaulted to my karaoke song - Gin & Juice - singing the country version until I pulled into the garage.

Rollin’ down the street, smoking endo, sippin’ on gin and juice . . . laaaid back

Perhaps I should offer some sort of explanation. You know, as to why I either burst into tears or a fit of rage when selling my grandparents’ house in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan is even mentioned.

My poor sister experienced this firsthand when, on the way to the movies earlier this week, she innocently said, “Slow down - I wanted to show you this house, the one we can rent.” I really wanted to say, “I don’t want to see that fucking house!” but managed to edit out the swear as the words came spilling out of my mouth. She went on to express her concerns that it wouldn’t be possible to keep the house. “I’m just so mad!” I exclaimed and couldn’t get over it for the rest of the night.

What is it, exactly, about this house? About this town? My first thought was independence. At an age where in my hometown I was only allowed to go to the corner and back, I was given free reign of the entire town of Gladstone, MI. Granted, it is a small town (if you’ve seen two cars, then you should go home, my grandpa would say, because that’s the most excitement there is), but it was an amazing feeling to be able to take the bike wherever I wanted to go - all by myself. As the youngest child, I was never alone. But there I could be alone. Somewhere around seven, I remember taking Grandma’s bike and ending up at The 4 J’s Family Restaurant. I sat by myself in a booth and ordered an ice cream cone, mostly because I could. I was served with a smile and no one thought it odd. Now I see that happening with my nieces and nephews, though these days a few more eyebrows are raised. “We’ve never quite had a situation like this,” the local librarian said to Nathaniel (10), Anna (8) and Lydia (6). “Three children quietly reading books for three hours without a parent. I am not quite sure what to do.” Back on the porch, the walkie-talkie crackled, “Mom! We might have to come home,” Anna said. “Then come home,” was my sister’s unconcerned reply.

My second thought was the tie to my grandparents. My grandparents were special, special people. My grandfather loved us kids loudly - with stories and songs and a skip in his walk - and my grandmother loved us quietly - with freshly baked cardamom bread, pinches and countless hands of Uno and Skipbo. Together they teased and laughed and supported each of us grandkids and we knew we were loved.

But the answer revealed itself this trip, over breakfast. I walked into the dining room to hear my dad say, “I don’t know what it is about this place - at home I’d be running all over, worried about church and stuff, but once I get up here, I’m like blah - I don’t think about anything; I just relax.” And then I realized. Part of it is the independence and part of it is thirty years of memories of my grandparents. But my grandparents gave all of us a gift - a gift we wouldn’t realize the significance of until years after their death. They taught us how to relax. How to sit. How to do one thing at a time. In fact, it was the rule. We’d eat dinner together, lunch was on your own and you had to be back by 6:00 for dinner. After dinner and before 6:00 was your time to do whatever, and sitting on the porch was completely acceptable.

I love Chicago. To tell you how much I love Chicago could very well reduce me to tears, so it might surprise you to know that it also wears on me. The pressure of the job, the grind of the daily commute and the requests for bits of your time, money and personal effects stresses me out to the point of feeling suffocated.

This house is my ticket to sanity. A chance to go to a place that feels like home, where I am trained to relax, and decompress from the pressure of city life. I was driving home from the U.P. today and heard a song by Ingrid Michaelson that captures my sentiment exactly:

Far Away

I will live my life as a lobsterman’s wife on an island in the blue bay.
He will take care of me, he will smell like the sea,
And close to my heart he’ll always stay.

I will bear three girls all with strawberry curls, little Ella and Nelly and Faye.
While I’m combing their hair, I will catch his warm stare
On our island in the blue bay.

Far away far away, I want to go far away.
To a new life on a new shore line.
Where the water is blue and the people are new.
To another island, in another life.

There’s a boy next to me and he never will be anything but a boy at the bar.
And I think he’s the tops, he’s where everything stops.
How I love to love him from afar.

When he walks right pass me then I finally see on this bar stool I can’t stay.
So I’m taking my frown to a far distant town
On an island in the blue bay.Far away far away, I want to go far away.
To a new life on a new shore line.
Where the water is blue and the people are new.
To another island, in another life.

I want to go far away.
Away away, I want to go far away, away, away
I want to go far away, far away.

Where the water is blue and the people are new.
To another life, to another life.
To another shore line
In another life.

“You know,” my sister said this morning as we sat on the porch, “I always think I am going to do contemplative thinking while I’m up here, but then I get here and all I want to do is read fiction.”

And you know what? That is perfectly acceptable.