Packing Day.

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I can't not write about the current euphoria I'm experiencing. Most of the boxes are packed. The rugs are pulled up, the bare essentials remain, as well as the random things that are always left out when I move. The recycling is a gigantic mound at this point, and I don't care that I missed pick-up day.

My work week ended uneventfully yesterday afternoon, and J jetted to Philly this morning. I hope for his family's sake and his enjoyment that the rain from Earl (haha.. what a great hurricane name) holds off till Monday. I got dinner and killed a 6-pack with a friend at Greenlife, and this morning woke slowly and finished my movie from last night.

Soon, even my radio will be packed. All that I'm leaving for tomorrow is the Bodum, pot for water, toaster for my bagel and a knife. A few mugs. The thermos. Coffee and bagels and grapes. Steady arms and strong legs. 

It finally feels so good to be almost out of here. No more strong wiff of mildew when I walk in the door, or lingering smoky smell on my clothes. Yesterday, when I picked up my key from my new landlord (who's name is stragely similar to my current landlord...), he insisted on doing more cleaning before I arrive. He wanted to re-oil the floors and ensure everything was perfect. 

I have grown out of this space, and I am finally at peace with that.

Goodbye, Tremont

It's hard not to cry, even though I'm just moving across town. Not even "across" town. Just across the river, in a new neighborhood. I've lived in North Chattanooga on and off since my sophomore year or so of high school. But the neighborhood isn't everything though. I haven't felt comfortable in my apartment for the past three months, at least. Between an excessive leaking pipe and—yes—a leaking water heater under my house, I've been upset and the mildewy kind of mold I've found on some of my items, not to mention the outrageous bills.

I thought I wouldn't be affected—healthwise, or even bothered by having to get rid of the damaged items—but of course, my high-priced "outdoors" goods are the first to get mildewy damage because they're made of highly porous synthetics. My messenger back, my backpack, my nice down vest, an old blue purse. Maybe some of my quilts that had been in my closet. I have to get out of here as soon as possible.

The packing started today. Grace brought some boxes by and left them on my porch. So far? One box. 100 tears. Some sad music that's only made it worse. It's hard to imagine a nicer apartment after I've been suffering in this one for so long. It just feels like a mundane thing to do—especially compared to some of the past moves.

A little longer than a year ago, I moved in with ZERO furniture and just happened to adopt a couch. Chairs and bookcases and a dresser came later, as well as some stools. Before that, my moves to and from Oregon consisted of four or so packages and as much as I could feasibly fly or take a train with (not much). Before that, my sister and I were moving around Knoxville. She had this crazy ability to round up a group of guys—maybe 4, 5 of them—to appear at our house early moving day.

What bothers me about this move is NOT so much the damage, but the neglect on behalf of the landlord. I don't wish this apartment on anyone. I don't wish to pay even MORE rent to live in a shittier, more problematic space in this neighborhood, either. Get me out from under all the trees, a little further away from the river, out of this holler. I'm heading toward a more urban area, lots of folks, not nearly as many hills and easier access to a wider variety of neighborhoods and amenities.

I have let this become an emotional move, and I don't mind it so much. Mold must make me a more emotional person.

Bici Reunion

Among a gazillion social events, vacation, a water leak at my apartment, freelance writing/editing and work this month, I've really missed my regular cycling crew. It's been, oh, weeks since I saw the breakfast on the bridge folks. Grace and her kimchee magic have been absent for I don't know how long. Two weeks? The Sunday market, all the Chattanooga Football Club games.... passed.

In light of my absence (from the blogging "industry" as well), I needed a refresher ride. Last night I joined about 20 other cyclists at Link 41 for the Beer, Brats and Bikes cruise around town to recognize Local Foods week.

The best part? I've never seen many of these cyclists. It felt like sweet success, like I could just sit back, relax, and enjoy myself instead of feeling obligated to drum up support, converse, socialize. Chattanooga's cycling community—and no, I'm not talking about roadies!—is growing. These folks came out in shorts and sandals (eh..) on cruisers, on mountain bikes, one BMX ride, you name it.

J and I didn't stick around for many of the festivities. In fact, we were almost overwhelmed by the crowd at Terminal. I ran into numerous friends, including former high school stand-outs who were catching up over a beer. Apparently it's time for my graduating class to get hitched. The first thing said long-time aquaintance did? Grab my left hand and look for a ring. She'd heard that someone with my name had gotten married, but no, it was a different girl with my name.

Either way, it was great to briefly catch up, exchange high-fives, ride around with J in the cool night. He spotted a shooting star from the porch—and we were the only ones who saw it! Exhausted from my midday kettlebell new workout, one of my new obsessions, I rode up Georgia with J, which I'm slowly growing accustomed to, and passed out.

Another day and we'll be headed to Philly for a family-filled 4th of July weekend. No bikes, again, which hurts my heart a little, but I revel in the excitement and adventure of traveling, especially in big cities.

New end-of-year goal? Finding a new place to live. More details to follow. 

Go time.

Christopher Walken has moved cubes; the lists and diagrams from my early days working here have been recycles. Empty cube, empty mind, sleepy eyes.

I wish I could say empty inbox or something, but that's not likely to happen in the remaining 15 minutes of my tenure here at the 9-5. My last day of mindless chugging through articles. It was particularly painful because I couldn't sleep last night. Tossing and turning, moaning about how hot (haaaahahahahahaha....) it was in my room. Ironically enough I cracked the window a bit to make it sleepable. When I awoke this morning, the sun brightening the room, my glass of water in the windowsill was frozen solid.

I'm debating a quick bout of excercise before heading home, but I'm afraid I would quickly pass out after getting home, missing my dinner date entirely. Harumph. We shall see. I could pack a few things, too. That was the other reason I couldn't sleep: as the days pass it's getting harder to turn off the to-do lists in my head. Things I should be doing, things that should be packed, visits to my house that should be made. It will happen, things will get packed, and it will all happen very... quickly, needless to say. Pangs of guilt pass over me as I fail to mention to a co-worker that it's my last day. I'm tired of explaining, and I'm just tired. I wanted so SO badly to sleep well last night, but it evaded me nearly three hours after curling up in my bag.

So I'll sit here and scratch my head, looking perplexed, worried or concerned, whichever one you think, till it's time for me to go.