Exhaustion, this is my name

So I've been laying on this (still borrowed) futon for the last half an hour watching the kid push his Hot Wheels around going, “woooah woooah!” thinking to myself that I really should get up and go to the store to get some Drain-O. Apparently my hair, once out of my head, reacts to water like those little plastic capsules that once dumped into a cup of liquid turns into a life size foam dinosaur. I have to admit that once my hair is no longer attached to my head, it is suddenly very gross and I don't have the stomach lining to handle taking a fork to the drain. But whatever. I have since put the kid down for his nap and from the “woooah woooah!” and general clattering I hear through the floor above, I doubt that I will get much reprieve this afternoon from childcare.

If this all sounds incredibly lazy, it is. I have lost the will to live. That's so not true. I love to live and live I will but dammit, I have no motivation right now to tackle the chores I see just from the view from this (still borrowed) futon. There are Hot Wheels in every available crevice and floor space and I can hear that both the dryer and dishwasher are done and those Christmas cards won't address themselves and how the fuck did an oat from yesterday's oatmeal get over there? I must ignore it. I have to ignore it. I'm tired. No, I'm exhausted. I'm suffering from exhaustion, like Billy Joel must have done when people were still buying Billy Joel records.

We are finally moved. Like officially. There is no more staying at people's houses and flying across the country or borrowing cars or asking someone where their potato peeler is. We are here, in our house, and the next time we are leaving it is this spring for a proper vacation. We still don't have our things but they are in the country being inspected by US Customs. I rather enjoy the thought of a US Customs agent going through our clothes and having a proper dress up while lounging on our sofa flipping through our photo albums. “Hey Earl, can we arrest these people for having a friend that was clearly smoking a joint in, what year does this say...., um, April 1994? If not, we should probably arrest them for the Grateful Dead t-shirt this one has on when it's so obvious they have never been to a Dead show.”

Where was I? Oh yes. Exhausted. While I was meant to stay in California for 7 days, that turned quickly into 13 days, which turned into 20 days. I painted two bedrooms and went to rummage sales and stopped in to grab something at Home Depot so often I recognize most of the employees. When I finally flew back to Wisconsin, there was Thanksgiving and a family reunion two days after which I did the brunt of the cooking for. Then there was the flight back to California with a kid and a cat, followed by a manic two days shopping spree and errand running announcing, “We have nothing in the house! Must have something in the house! Cyber Monday! AHHHH! FUCK YOU CHRISTMAS FOR COMING ALREADY!!”

Seriously y'all. I have had insomnia for the majority of my life. This is the first period of time I can remember that I have been able to fall asleep within 5 minutes of going to bed LIKE THE REST OF THE DAMN WORLD and sleep all night solid. What's fucked up is that I still wake up tired. I'm so like Billy Joel 1988.

On a completely unrelated note, this guy at the mall hawking a sea salt scrub at one of those kiosks that pop up around this time of year said to me, “Have you heard of the Dead Sea?” He spoke with an Italian accent and was whispering so I'm, “um, what?” He repeats, “Have you heard of the Dead Sea?” And I'm looking at this guy trying to suss him out whether or not he honestly believes that I'm an idiot. Of course I've heard of the fucking Dead Sea. So I say, “Yes, of course I've heard of the Dead Sea.” Which is the point I realize that I am an idiot as I've just fallen into his sales trap cemented by the fact that he took that opportunity to take my hand and pour salt in my hand. As I'm trying to wash off this salt that he has poured into my hand, he asks if I'm concerned about my skin. I say no just to throw him off. He tells me it's obvious that I have Rosacea. I say, “you're good” and walk off. The moral of this story is this, if you see me with make-up more often, it's because some guy from the Dead Sea who has fought his way through visas and customs to sell sea salt scrub at some shit hole mall in Wisconsin has confirmed my fears that I look like a lobster.

Here's a picture of my dad and me....you know, just because I like to confirm paternity to the world.

Nuts

So with all big moves, some things (like this blog) tend to be left behind as one desperately tries to sort one's shit out. Which is what I've been doing for the last (fuck, how long has it been since I last posted?) forever days...sorting massive amounts of shit out...and around...and throwing it up in the air like it just don't care (that doesn't make any sense)(the phrase was in my head so I felt I had to use it). It's been crazy and frustrating and I've found that stress from shit sorting should never be done when one is suffering from PMS.

I'm currently in California, sitting in our new sparsely decorated apartment on a borrowed futon. The things that we shipped via boat got delayed when it met up with some massive hurricane (you might have heard about it) and said boat has only just recently joined a massive queue to get through the Panama Canal. Basically our things, which we estimated to be with us now, will not be with us until December. It's not that big of a deal. It's an inconvenience to have basically nothing but it's manageable. Though it's only manageable because we have some really awesome friends.

While I've only been back in California for a week now, it's been a real eye opener on what we had been missing in the UK, which is of course friends. Having friends is a wonderful thing. I think after awhile you get used to any situation (lack of friends included) and you forget how fantastic having them around is (a bit like having a dishwasher again). While we don't have a car yet, we have been borrowed no less than 3 cars to use. My kitchen is stocked with the basics (cups, plates, silverware, etc) that I haven't bought. This futon I'm sitting on, the free coffee table that someone got us, the bunk beds that we've de-bunked so we don't have to sleep on the floor, the iPad loan before we got internet, the “go to our house any time to do wash, the door is open” before we had a washer\dryer, and lastly, the free babysitting when I do shit sorting – all given to us from our friends WITHOUT US EVER ASKING. I told my friend, Patrick, as I was thanking him for the million-th time (and which he was giving me shit for as friends are wont to do) how overwhelming it all was. In the best possible way of course. My heart swells from the generosity of it all and makes me so happy to be back.

But enough of that mushy girl shit.

You all, California is fucking nuts. I don't want to say that I had forgotten that about this place but I certainly dulled it down. I was away long enough where “California is fucking nuts” was a mere whisper in the breeze compared to all the sunshine and palm trees my mind kept floating to. But California is fucking nuts and everyone who has ever lived here knows it's fucking nuts but you've got to kind of embrace the nuttiness of it all or you'll hate it and decide to move back to Kansas or where ever it is the fuck you're from.

We live in a triplex and our landlord lives in the apartment next to us. It hasn't been an issue so far. He's Armenian but I swear to god he thinks he's Italian (or maybe I just don't enough Armenians to stereotype them). His decorating taste borders on the bouncy red castle of tacky and the entire building is decorated with murals. Our backyard has a lovely Tuscany type scene complete with a bottle of wine and a black cat. Inside we have the house of mirrors in every shape and size. Curious on how you look today? Walk into our place and I can show you yourself from every possible angle in every room. Will I paint over the mural or take down the mirrors? No. Well maybe those wavy mirrors in the kitchen. But otherwise no. It's fucking nuts and it's part of the place and while I have a habit of complaining, these are the type of things that are funny complainings and I'll kept them up for the simple conversation it's going to bring at all our BBQ's.

You thought I'd make shit like this up?

We bought our washer and dryer off of Craigslist. I tried to buy from a private owner but I kept getting , “It's already sold” (then take down your fucking ad asshat) and out of desperation, called one of the listings that seemed a bit dodgy (it wasn't a proper store but they had loads of washers and dryers for sale for cheap). What ended up happening is we drove out to Orange to meet up with two Mexicans in a pick up truck who took us to their storage unit. My spidey senses were tingling but I was running out of clean knickers so I carried on. I know! I could have been murdered but I really needed clean pants! Anyhow, I picked out a set with no idea if they worked or not, had no idea where they came from, paid for delivery and held my breath for a good result. And you know what? It was fucking nuts as it turned out fine. They delivered the set within the hour of seeing them, installed them for us and when the dryer was determined not to be heating properly, they fixed it for free. Result! Clean underpants!

There's been the lady I saw at Ralph's who easily had over 50 thousand dollars worth of plastic surgery done who was counting out pennies to pay for her generic paper towels and tin of generic soup. There's been the resighting of the guy who bikes around with his dog in a trailer while the dog barks nonstop at traffic (or perhaps to tell the guy that he would very much prefer not to be riding around in the back of a bike not strapped in). The Orange County moms who call their children Colton and Maximilian....and all who have perfectly coiffed Bieber hair at age 3.

This place is Fucking Nuts....and I love it.