but not for me! I've lived in my apartment in Oakland (just across the Bay Bridge from San Francisco) for 4.5 years . . . longer than I've lived anywhere since I lived at my parents' house. Let's see . . . I moved out of my mom's house in Marietta, GA just after I turned 18 and, not including two different dorms during college, I've lived in eight different apartments since then. Lots of different bedrooms, lots of different roommates, and five different cities: New Orleans, San Francisco, Miami, Burlington (Vermont), and Oakland.
Today a bunch of us convened to help my dear friend Meagan move from her apartment in Berkeley to another place just a mile or so away in Oakland (closer to me--yay!). Moving is such a strenuous feat! Fortunately, there were more than ten of us, so we got the job done quickly (and then immediately proceeded to hang out and BBQ and play games in her front yard). Bringing all her boxes and furniture and belongings filled me with a desire to purge and organize my own place . . . even if I'm not moving anytime soon.
When I talked to my mama on the phone today, she said they'd helped my sister and her husband move this weekend as well. Lots of shifting lately.
2.
On a completely different note, here are a few more blogs I love for those of you looking for more amazing sites to follow:
Heather at A Measure Of . . .
(Heather and I met my first semester of grad school, and she's remained one of my best, closest friends ever since then, even though she lives across the world now!)
(I wish I knew her in real life . . . HILARIOUS)
Erika at Cafe Fashionista
(she's a doll, and such an organized blogger!)
Danielle at Dinosaur Toes
(she's adorable)
I'm gonna keep sharing blogs I love as I think of them/discover them, cause I always like knowing who y'all are reading and loving! There are a lot more that I read every day than those I've mentioned, but this is just a start. And if you missed my Gratitude post the other day, click here for my first list of blogs I love. :)
3.
I've been in such a funk today . . . probably due to uncertainty about my job, my relationship ending, and missing lots of friends . . . but we can't always explain these things, can we? But then today I got to hang out with this little guy and things immediately started to look up:
Judebug at exactly four months
4.
The 4th of July always makes me think of this poem by David Baker:
Patriotics
David Baker
Yesterday a little girl got slapped to death by her daddy,
out of work, alcoholic, and estranged two towns down river.
America, it's hard to get your attention politely.
America, the beautiful night is about to blow up
and the cop who brought the man down with a shot to the chops
is shaking hands, dribbling chaw across his sweaty shirt,
and pointing cars across the courthouse grass to park.
It's the Big One one more time, July the 4th,
our country's perfect holiday, so direct a metaphor for war,
we shoot off bombs, launch rockets from Drano cans,
spray the streets and neighbors' yards with the machine-gun crack
of fireworks, with rebel yells and beer. In short, we celebrate.
It's hard to believe. But so help the soul of Thomas Paine,
the entire county must be here--the acned faces of neglect,
the halter-tops and ties, the bellies, badges, beehives,
jacked-up cowboy boots, yes, the back-up singers of democracy
all gathered to brighten in unambiguous delight
when we attack the calm and pointless sky. With terrifying vigor
the whistle-stop across the river will lob its smaller arsenal
halfway back again. Some may be moved to tears.
We'll clean up fast, drive home slow, and tomorrow
get back to work, those of us with jobs, convicting the others
in the back rooms of our courts and malls--yet what
will be left of that one poor child, veteran of no war
but her family's own? The comfort of a welfare plot,
a stalk of wilting prayers? Our fathers' dreams come true as nightmare.
So the first bomb blasts and echoes through the streets and shrubs:
red, white, and blue sparks shower down, a plague
of patriotic bugs. Our thousand eyeballs burn aglow like punks.
America, I'd swear I don't believe in you, but here I am,
and here you are, and here we stand again, agape.
out of work, alcoholic, and estranged two towns down river.
America, it's hard to get your attention politely.
America, the beautiful night is about to blow up
and the cop who brought the man down with a shot to the chops
is shaking hands, dribbling chaw across his sweaty shirt,
and pointing cars across the courthouse grass to park.
It's the Big One one more time, July the 4th,
our country's perfect holiday, so direct a metaphor for war,
we shoot off bombs, launch rockets from Drano cans,
spray the streets and neighbors' yards with the machine-gun crack
of fireworks, with rebel yells and beer. In short, we celebrate.
It's hard to believe. But so help the soul of Thomas Paine,
the entire county must be here--the acned faces of neglect,
the halter-tops and ties, the bellies, badges, beehives,
jacked-up cowboy boots, yes, the back-up singers of democracy
all gathered to brighten in unambiguous delight
when we attack the calm and pointless sky. With terrifying vigor
the whistle-stop across the river will lob its smaller arsenal
halfway back again. Some may be moved to tears.
We'll clean up fast, drive home slow, and tomorrow
get back to work, those of us with jobs, convicting the others
in the back rooms of our courts and malls--yet what
will be left of that one poor child, veteran of no war
but her family's own? The comfort of a welfare plot,
a stalk of wilting prayers? Our fathers' dreams come true as nightmare.
So the first bomb blasts and echoes through the streets and shrubs:
red, white, and blue sparks shower down, a plague
of patriotic bugs. Our thousand eyeballs burn aglow like punks.
America, I'd swear I don't believe in you, but here I am,
and here you are, and here we stand again, agape.