I have minimal excuses for my hiatus, given that my fellow co-blogger-now-Alaskan-resident partner-in-crime has so many posts!
So this tale comes to you from the end of August actually. I've been trying to figure out how to phrase it.
I meet guy on the now-infamous interwebs, some chatting happens, some emailing happens and lo and behold, we decide to meet. I know, you're thinking that this sounds awfully familiar.
Prior to meeting I discover that guy moved from the Ukraine "a while ago" and works in computer science-y stuff of some kind.
He says "why don't we meet at Starbucks, get a coffee, and walk around the Boston Common?"
For late August, this sounds like a great date! It's outside...everyone knows I love coffee...a good walk always sounds good. He picks the Starbucks and the time, since he's driving in from out of the city.
Cut to me, sitting in a Starbucks, alone, 15 minutes after date time.
He texts that he's 5 minute away, got backed up in traffic.
10 minutes later...nothing. Finally I text him and discover that he is at the wrong place.
Yes, I'm sure you backed up to read that again and remembered that he in fact PICKED THE PLACE.
So we meet. No, of course he doesn't look like his photos. Cue awkward hug.
Then he says (insert whatever opening phrase you want) and I realize...his accent is so thick I can barely understand him!
We buy coffee, skip to walking around the Common. Ironic place for a date, as it becomes apparent that we have NOTHING in common (ba dum bump).
We have been texting back and forth for a week ahead of time, but now for the life of me I can't figure out what we even talked about. I try to ask about where he's traveled...all he brings up is going back and forth to New York to visit his ex. We talk about said ex and trips to New York approximately 8 more times over the course of the night. I try to ask what he does in his free time. Turns out, I should introduce him to guy with the gun. He's a gun instructor and has MULTIPLE (as in more than 1) gun safes in his home. Say what?
Then, as in slow motion, he tries to grab my hand. I deftly move my purse and rearrange my coffee to not have to hold his hand. But wait...he tried again. And again. I end up having to cross my arms for him to get the hint. I'm so skeeved out at this point I can't even look him in the eye.
Attempting to make conversation, I ask if he is still a citizen of Ukraine and if he gets back home often. He decides to respond with "don't worry, I'm not trying to marry you for a green card. I'm a citizen of the US."
UGH.
Really, how do I meet these people? Thank goodness I feigned having to get home, and I haven't heard from him since.
We shall saddle up and go forward...I have a few more in the works with hopefully good stories for all :)
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Monday, September 24, 2012
Don't tell my father!
After I found an apartment (I found an apartment! Yay!!) I turned my attention to acquiring a vehicle. It has been...challenging. Part of the issue is adjusting my New Yorker sensibilities to vehicles up here. The town is on a river, so there's either mud or silty dirt everywhere. It's not...shall we say...clean. The roads are mostly gravel, so the cars get beat up pretty quickly. It's very expensive to get a car in or out (barge in the summer and air freight in the winter - several thousand dollars each), so cars live here forever and are eventually laid to rest at the dump, where there is a field of cars and a school bus with trees growing out of them.
Despite all this, it's a seller's market. All the cars I looked at or inquired about were going for at least twice the Kelley Blue Book value and were in a condition that made this engineer's daughter tremble in fear. Today I heard that one of the managers at the clinic just bought a car - it's a 1986 with rust holes you can see through! My father would disown me.
A few days ago, I test-drove a cute little Kia 4x4. It was a 1998 model with 132K miles on it. The owner assured me it belonged to his wife's grandfather and ran well, and he was only getting rid of it because the gentleman in question had just had his license taken away. It had four-wheel drive and was fully winterized. He claimed it had run all winter last year. The only thing wrong, he claimed, was that the rear shocks needed replacing.
I hopped in with my roommate, and we bounced away. It was raining, which meant the pot holes were bigger, and bounced was the operative word. The car stank of cigarettes and was filthy inside, but I was lulled into a bouncy fantasy world where Febreze and seat covers heal all ills. We drove a few blocks, and then my roommate made the wise suggestion to turn the car off and start it again, just to be sure. I stopped at a corner and turned it off. I turned the key, and the engine made a few pitiful coughs and then wouldn't start. We were stranded on the side of the road in the cold rain with a dead car! Cars drove by, splashing and spraying us. We got colder and colder. I called up the owner, who seemed surprised. He came to our rescue and then said accusingly, "Did you turn it off?" I answered, "Well, you didn't tell me not to!!"
I did not buy that car.
However, I did buy a different car. It runs very well and is partly winterized. I had a mechanic (whom everyone speaks highly of) check it out, and he told me what was wrong with it. I used that to knock a couple hundred off the asking price and then took the plunge. I got a cashier's check, we did the paperwork, and it's officially mine. The inside smells like fish, but that's okay.
I'm feeling pretty good about it, despite the fact that the car has been driving longer than I have.
Despite all this, it's a seller's market. All the cars I looked at or inquired about were going for at least twice the Kelley Blue Book value and were in a condition that made this engineer's daughter tremble in fear. Today I heard that one of the managers at the clinic just bought a car - it's a 1986 with rust holes you can see through! My father would disown me.
A few days ago, I test-drove a cute little Kia 4x4. It was a 1998 model with 132K miles on it. The owner assured me it belonged to his wife's grandfather and ran well, and he was only getting rid of it because the gentleman in question had just had his license taken away. It had four-wheel drive and was fully winterized. He claimed it had run all winter last year. The only thing wrong, he claimed, was that the rear shocks needed replacing.
I hopped in with my roommate, and we bounced away. It was raining, which meant the pot holes were bigger, and bounced was the operative word. The car stank of cigarettes and was filthy inside, but I was lulled into a bouncy fantasy world where Febreze and seat covers heal all ills. We drove a few blocks, and then my roommate made the wise suggestion to turn the car off and start it again, just to be sure. I stopped at a corner and turned it off. I turned the key, and the engine made a few pitiful coughs and then wouldn't start. We were stranded on the side of the road in the cold rain with a dead car! Cars drove by, splashing and spraying us. We got colder and colder. I called up the owner, who seemed surprised. He came to our rescue and then said accusingly, "Did you turn it off?" I answered, "Well, you didn't tell me not to!!"
I did not buy that car.
However, I did buy a different car. It runs very well and is partly winterized. I had a mechanic (whom everyone speaks highly of) check it out, and he told me what was wrong with it. I used that to knock a couple hundred off the asking price and then took the plunge. I got a cashier's check, we did the paperwork, and it's officially mine. The inside smells like fish, but that's okay.
I'm feeling pretty good about it, despite the fact that the car has been driving longer than I have.
Friday, September 14, 2012
If it's yellow, let it mellow.
I am having trouble finding a permanent place to live. They are putting me up in temporary housing for a month, and then I'm on my own. Trouble is, school just started and most of the available rentals have been taken by the teachers. (Darn teachers!) I also don't quite know how to do this without the Internet. I've never found an apartment without craigslist!
Most of my leads have been word of mouth, like...I was at Saturday Market and happened upon the Register to Vote table. While I filled out paperwork, the lady and I got to chatting, and it so happens she has a friend who has a rental and is looking for someone. She gave me the number, but you see, the owner was about to leave for a moose hunt (it's always something) and won't be back for who knows how long...7 days, 10 days maybe, who knows? She'll call me when she gets back.
So goes the apartment search.
Meanwhile, I've been enjoying my walk to the hospital. I pass a dark purple house with a giant Tweety Bird painted on the side, a yard of sled dogs that bark at me as I go by, the county jail that appears to have disturbingly little security, and this lovely lawn ornament. I'm not gonna lie - it makes my day every time!
It's especially appropriate, as there is complex bathroom etiquette here. I'm still learning. First of all, if it's yellow, let it mellow; if it's brown, flush it down. After I repeatedly violated that rule, I made the following sign for myself on available scrap paper; it now sits atop the toilet as a reminder:
See, most of the town is not on city water, so the houses get water delivered twice a month. If you run out of water, that's it, until the next delivery. Apparently a rule of etiquette when you go to someone's house is to ask, "Can I flush your toilet?" Call me a prude, but I wasn't thrilled with the idea of peeing on top of someone else's pee. I think I'm used to it now, but I have a feeling my new home will provide ample fodder for scatological humor in the months to come.
I must be adapting.
Most of my leads have been word of mouth, like...I was at Saturday Market and happened upon the Register to Vote table. While I filled out paperwork, the lady and I got to chatting, and it so happens she has a friend who has a rental and is looking for someone. She gave me the number, but you see, the owner was about to leave for a moose hunt (it's always something) and won't be back for who knows how long...7 days, 10 days maybe, who knows? She'll call me when she gets back.
So goes the apartment search.
Meanwhile, I've been enjoying my walk to the hospital. I pass a dark purple house with a giant Tweety Bird painted on the side, a yard of sled dogs that bark at me as I go by, the county jail that appears to have disturbingly little security, and this lovely lawn ornament. I'm not gonna lie - it makes my day every time!
It's especially appropriate, as there is complex bathroom etiquette here. I'm still learning. First of all, if it's yellow, let it mellow; if it's brown, flush it down. After I repeatedly violated that rule, I made the following sign for myself on available scrap paper; it now sits atop the toilet as a reminder:
See, most of the town is not on city water, so the houses get water delivered twice a month. If you run out of water, that's it, until the next delivery. Apparently a rule of etiquette when you go to someone's house is to ask, "Can I flush your toilet?" Call me a prude, but I wasn't thrilled with the idea of peeing on top of someone else's pee. I think I'm used to it now, but I have a feeling my new home will provide ample fodder for scatological humor in the months to come.
I must be adapting.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Flattened
"Travel broadens, they say. My personal experience has been that, in the short term at any rate, it merely flattens, aiming its steam-roller of deadlines and details straight at one's daily life, leaving a person flat and gasping at its passage." Mary Russell, you do have a way with words.
Eighteen hours after leaving PA, I arrived in Bethel, via four flights and five cities. This was especially remarkable, as cloud cover, gusty winds, and runway construction have prevented many flights from landing, including the afternoon flight today. We came in on the "princess plane" - a Disneyland-decorated plane that sports fairy dust on the inside, princesses on the outside, and a constant stream of Disney music from the 90's classics. Apparently Alaska Air knows how to do up a plane.
As you can see, I tried to find a photo of the plane (it's famous in these here parts), but instead I'm sharing a screenshot of Google's honest opinion of my situation. Apparently Google doesn't think much of my new home. Too bad, Google! I like it so far!
And now I'm putting my flattened, steamrolled self to bed.
Eighteen hours after leaving PA, I arrived in Bethel, via four flights and five cities. This was especially remarkable, as cloud cover, gusty winds, and runway construction have prevented many flights from landing, including the afternoon flight today. We came in on the "princess plane" - a Disneyland-decorated plane that sports fairy dust on the inside, princesses on the outside, and a constant stream of Disney music from the 90's classics. Apparently Alaska Air knows how to do up a plane.
As you can see, I tried to find a photo of the plane (it's famous in these here parts), but instead I'm sharing a screenshot of Google's honest opinion of my situation. Apparently Google doesn't think much of my new home. Too bad, Google! I like it so far!
And now I'm putting my flattened, steamrolled self to bed.
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