Day Two Highlights: Starbucks Saves the Day

My best girlfriend back in Oakland had told me that there was a Starbucks in the Nugget Casino in Wendover, NV, so it's there we went when we got to town mid-morning, totally jonesing for some decent joe. We couldn't even find a 7-11, so were drinking this awful brew just to function. Yay for sbux. There's one here where we're staying in Rock Springs, WY, which is pretty trippy.

And all day I was just marveling at all the wide-open space, while listening over and over to the Dixie Chicks's Wide Open Spaces (and Kris K., hence the photo where he looks especially fine). And I've got to say, when I first saw the mountains in Nevada, my heart just lifted. Those things have lodged in my heart and have led me back.

Day One: Jill, Dave, and shoes arrive safely

Outside is a rip-roaring fourteen degrees, but we're nice and toasty in our lovely room at the Santa Fe Motel in Winnemucca, NV. Of course I saw the "Free Wifi" on the hotel sign and pulled in right away like a lunatic, like I couldn't go one night without internet access. Dave was behind me in the UHaul truck, like "whaaaa?." And then when we were bringing stuff in from my car, I was like "Do you think anyone will steal my shoes?" He was like, "Um, no." And we're so punch drunk from driving that we found this hilarious for some reason, like the shoes were such precious cargo (they are!) that they had to come in the room, too, hence the beautiful still life shot. Like any of the contractors (the motel lot is full of ubiquitous contractor trucks) would want a pair of high heels. Hmmm, maybe.

So it was so cold when we stopped in Truckee that I seriously had to go scampering back into the car. And Dave was hauling ass in the truck, passing everyone to the summit, until finally I had to call him on the cell. "I didn't know they let Uhauls in the Daytona 500," I said. He didn't even realize I was so far behind him; he was so busy Dukes of Hazard-ing it. Said it was way more powerful than his three-quarter ton Ford. But in Sacramento, the traffic (which to me seemed laughingly light after the East Bay) freaked him out.

All I want to say is this man is so deserving of a medal and anything else he wants, like a new dirt bike.

On the (Snowy) Road

Headed for a winter storm, something I haven't experienced for two years. So I gave thanks for my four-wheel drive as i bid the palm trees in the Trader Joe's parking lot a sad farewell earlier this evening. But I'm excited. It's the next chapter and here I come. Really anxious about being offline for the next few days, though I have a feeling I'll be able to check email at motels, etc..Dave worried that I'll suffer withdrawal. I can't believe I've turned into one of those obnoxious people who can't deal without email access. But here I am.

Goodbye, California. It's been an intense, often difficult, yet rewarding and always surprising two years. Looking back though, I wouldn't have had it any other way, no matter the challenges.

Ode to Otie

In the middle of packing up and getting ready to move ourselves and my stuff across Nevada, Utah, and Wyoming and into Colorado, I thought I'd take a moment to remember my sweet wonderful baby Otie, who was always my companion in the car. OK, he wasn't a baby but he was to me. He loved riding shotgun in the car and especially road trips when he'd get to have McDonald's hamburgers. The people in the pickup window would always be sort of freaked with a large weimaraner jumping over me and trying to get out the window because he wanted the fries so bad. I know, that kind of food wasn't good for him,but he loved it. It's strange not having him here, but soon after he died I went back to Colorado and scattered his ashes in all the places he loved, including Eldorado Canyon, the Marshall Mesa trail, and the Whole Foods in Boulder. Dave has a weimaraner we adopted together named Olive, so will be good to see her. But she's not that into me. She loves Dave so much that she stays in his truck 24/7, even in winter or when it's a hundred degrees. Weimaraners are wacky, but special.
OK, back to it.

Loading Up

After getting chewed out last night by the moving director, which in retrospect was much deserved because I wasn't doing jack, I quickly got into gear. Dave had a Clint Eastwood moment, during which he told me to move it or lose it, and then let this sink in when he went down to the Pop-In to chill. It gave me time to realize that a) I'm glad to be moving even though it's also hard to leave friends I've made here; b) that I'm really lucky to have such an awesome, capable friend to help me and call me on my shit; and c) I had to get cracking or my stuff would end up on the curb. So we're planning on leaving cali on Friday morning, right behind a second blizzard that will hit Colorado before we get there.
Onward!

Help Has Arrived

I'm no longer just staring at my boxes, willing them to pack themselves. At last, Dave is here. When he saw my blog, he was like "No wonder you've gotten nothing done." Just keeping it real. So the apartment I'm bummed about leaving is full of the screeching sounds of packing tape and things being moved around. I'm sitting here doing this, drinking wine and listening to Johnny Cash, when I should be helping. I did pack up my bedroom though. Weird that I won't be wearing open toe-shoed high heels and short sleeves, at least until April. I have waaaaay bigger things to worry about, so I need to get off that ride. Better go help the cavalry and offer him a beer while I'm at it. I just want to tell all three people who are reading this blog that Dave totally ROCKS.

I Heart Carhartts

As long as i'm sitting here doing nothing except contemplating the stack of boxes in the corner of my living room, I thought I'd take a moment to cheer myself up and reflect on the positive power of Carhartt workpants in my life. In fact, just an hour or so ago I was down at the shop in Oakland picking up a Christmas gift (for any of you motoheads that's Flash's Oakland Custom Motorcycles www.focminc.com.) and talking to one of the fine young mechanics down there clad in black Carhartts. Swoon. And I hung out with two guy friends yesterday wearing those ubiquitous black pants--the best color by the way--and I have to say, it got me going. And they both know this. One, an ex boyfriend, thinks this is sort of a weird fetish but used to indulge me anyway. And besides, I'm sure there are a lot more strange fetishes than admiring a manly man in his Carhartts. And my ex-boyfriend, Dave, the packing director, looks oh-so-fine in his C-hartts. I used to wash a lot of those back in the day, but i never minded. Lest you think I'm crazy, I'm aware that these pants do serve a purpose other than in my fantasties. Guys wear them because the heavy material is indestructible on jobsites, in shops, riding a motorcyle--anyplace guys are doing something that involves tools and/or a motor.

I'm sure that when Hamilton Carhartt founded his namesake company in 1889, he never could have imagined the effects his trademark workpants would have on this Carhartt-loving woman over a century later. In fact, I'm pretty sure Mr. Carhartt would be blushing if he knew what went on in my head and ok, other places, when I see a man wearing a pair of Carhartts. They just make a man look so ruggedly sexy and capable of anything, even if it turns out he's incapable of fixing a door hinge.

Packing Procrastinator

Well, I've taken the first small step in the packing chaos. And that was getting all my boxes and packing material together in one place--in the corner of my living room where I can stare at it all. Not too productive. But it's a first step, right? So now I'm sitting here on my couch looking out at the pine tree and my peaceful street and feeling sentimental. Have I ever been so attached to an apartment before? Small as it is, I've been in love with this place since I've moved in. It just feels like me. Having my packing director and kick-ass motivator Dave arrive tomorrow night will get me into gear. We broke up seven years ago and remain best friends. And though he had to put up with some high drama back in the day, I've vowed to take it down a few notches, at least. He's good at calming me down and keeping it real, but I've vowed no drama during this move, even if it kills me.

OK, back to staring at boxes and maybe even doing something productive, like putting something in them!

Embracing the Chaos

At the risk of sounding so very California, I need to find my zen place and get cracking on this moving adventure. Problem is, I love my apartment so much (propped up in bed right now next to my sunny picture window with the pine trees out front) that I want to just transport it to Colorado without moving anything. "What are you smoking?" Dave asked on the phone last night. "You'd better get moving." He's going to be here Sunday night, which is a good thing, as he's a master packer, organizer, and motivator. And I'm in dire need. What is it about moving and the prospect of boxing, taping, and going through all my shit that inspires such fear that I'm like a deer in the headlights? I have moved so many times it's not even funny and I always feel the same way until I just plunge in. OK then, there's my answer. I am off to face my fears, as they say here in the Bay Area.

Colorado-Bound

"It's been written before, but it's worth repeating. No one could dream a place like California."
--Jay Farrar

Jay's got that right. Almost two years to the day that I moved to the Bay Area from Denver, I'm returning to my mountain home, now the scene of a crazy snowstorm, what an ex-boyfriend and Colorado native called "freaking Dr. Zhivagosville." Blizzard conditions notwithstanding, I'm looking forward to being back. Though I've met some truly wonderful friends here, had countless motorcyle adventures, and had a job that allowed me to work with some of the most talented, hilarious, smart, and straight-up awesome women writers at work today (more on these amazing ladies and their books in the next post) I never felt that this was really home. And part of that was not seeing the mountains off to the west every day and feeling untethered to the landscape here. This may seem odd to many of you who love the ocean and can't imagine living near a body of water, but I like being landlocked. Sure, places like Pt. Reyes and Stinson Beach are beautiful and I get the appeal, but give me the Rocky Mountains anytime. I spent summers growing up in tiny Florissant, Colorado, in the shadow of Pikes Peak, and what can I say but those mountains lodged right into my heart.

Some things I will not miss about the Bay Area: Driving. Anywhere. But especially through Chinatown in Oakland and on the 880 where it seems like everyone and their mother are driving the most humongous big rigs ever. I don't get that. It's an industrial area around Oakland, sure, but there are so many big ass trucks on this roadway, which by the way is in the most sorry state of disrepair as to cause the tires on my car to spontaneously bust out of allignment and to actually make the car shake and shimmy. I beseech you, oh muscular scary excuse of a governor, to exercise your brawn over this way, from the Broadway exit to the Oakland Airport, easily the he most bumpy stretch crying out for repair. The joke in Colorado was that Governor Owens spent too much money on fixing roads. But man, these two years have made me long for those days. And better driving conditions (including with snow and ice) make me smile in sweet anticipation. Drivers in Berkeley get their own shout-out. I think they must be so busy finding their zen place that they aren't able to obey all the traffic laws like the rest of us, including going the posted speed limit and using their turn signals. And to all drivers on Grand Ave. in Oakland: Driving does not mean stopping in the middle of the street to show off your new outfit to your neighbor or the time to catch up on the gossip from last night. Get moving or go park somewhere so you don't cause a pile up. And paging all Bay Area drivers: please don't pretend that you don't see me as I try to merge into your lane. What's up with that?

OK then, I guess I didn't realize I had that much to say about Bay Area driving, but there you go. A few things I wil truly miss: wearing open-toed heels in the dead of winter (uggs, here I come) and the Trader Joe's love. TJ's brands of oatmeal and cashew butter, the inexpensive diet hanson's soda, the lovely, brightly colored gerbera daisies for $3.99, and the surprisingly good $2.99 wine--oh TJ what will I do without you. Wild Oats markets are good, but nowhere near as good as TJ's.

On a more serious note, I'm sad to be leaving by myself (along with my ex boyfriend Dave's help). Two years ago when I moved here it was with my sweet Weimaraner, Otie, who died of bone cancer a little over a year ago. Though he passed away here, I took his ashes back to Colorado soon after so I could return him to his favorite places, including the Marshall Mesa trail in Boulder, Eldorado Canyon, and even the area outside of the Whole Foods in Boulder, where he used to hang with the other dogs. It will be good to go back to where he is. And I have to say, he always loved those road trips and all the McDonald's hamburgers. Dave and I will be thinking of him when we're eating gross road food in Wyoming and Utah. He would have been in heaven.

McQueen, Motos, and Other Midlife Madness

Being a 40-year-old woman brings with it some mighty heavy cultural baggage. You know, it's the year that we're supposed to freak out and have a botox-fest, a tummy tuck, or at the least change our hair color. And hell, even I, an ardent feminist from the old school women's studies department, circa 1989 at Colby College, think about doing these things. I already did the hair, but now the stomach thing is on my mind.

Much more important for me this year though, by far, has been my growing love for motorcycles, motorcycle cultchah as my Boston boy Tom would say, and the great adventures I've had on bikes and with riders of all kinds. In fact, this fascination has resulted in a regular gig with Urban Moto Magazine in San Francisco (www.sfurbanmoto.com) in which I've written about the lasting cool of Steve McQueen, a profile of one of the top pro racers of all time, Mert Lawwill, and an ode to bad boys. Why is this, that a woman from the mean streets of Morristown, NJ, whose doctor father told her daily what kinds of motorcycle injuries he saw in the E.R., why would she become so enthralled by motorcyles and the men and women who ride them?

Say it together now, r-e-b-e-l-l-i-o-n. That's too easy though. Sure, we all long to travel in worlds different from our own, some of us more than others. But the cool thing is when you actually feel that you've discovered a world where you might want to stay a while, or at least bring parts of that world into your everyday existence. Not to get too philosophical or anything, but I think having the guts to create your own life for yourself, patched together from all your passions, interests, and favorite people--as disparate as they may be--is the true hallmark of turning 40 and making it count. And screw the botox and tummy tuck anyway. I look damn good already.