The Art of Dumpster Diving

I'm not entirely sure where my extreme aversion to the term (and practice of) "dumpster diving" came from, but I am almost positive that it stems from the same place that my nearly uncontrollable urge to spend does--my mother (and my grandparents). Now, I know my mom is going to read this and I would just like to say that I am not blaming her, just acknowledging that most things in life are learned from our parents. For instance, the love of shopping and, conversely, the love of giving. The love of cooking and of taking care of the people I love. There are a lot of things, but most of them aren't bad.

Now, back to dumpster diving. As most of you who read my blog know, I moved to an army base last year. It is extremely common for people to leave things on the side of the road to be picked up by the bulk trash collectors. This is even more common during PCS (permanent change of station) season, which is fast approaching. Let me tell you, people throw away some amazing things. Almost brand new bed frames, cabinets, shelves. You name it, it's been put out on the curb to get tossed out.

Now, I am not generally what a person might call "green." More often than not, I forget to put my glass in the recycle bin and I go through more paper towels than anybody without a kid has any right to. But! Even I think that it is a crime that so much of this stuff is being hauled off to the dump. That's right. The dump. So, every once in a while I go out with my good friend, we'll call her A., and we scout out what's been left out. Sometimes we get lucky, sometimes we don't.

Four weeks ago, I got really lucky. I happened upon a washer and dryer set just a few feet down the street from my house. Sure, they're old and the dryer squeaks like nobodies business, but they work and I've never owned a set of my own before. Score!

I thought nothing of it until last week when A. texted me at 0730 and said she'd found a big pile of stuff, did I want to take a look? I threw on a sweater and some comfy shoes and met her outside. We found a beautiful bed frame and set of shelves and picked them up. As we were loading the last of the bed frame into her car she turned to me and said, laughing, that she loved dumpster-diving.

I froze, confused. Is that what I was doing? My immediate gut reaction was to put the shelves that I'd just appropriated for my myriad of wired electronics back on the curb. I didn't, realizing that I would have to explain this reaction to her and I knew that I was being down right silly. I didn't want to explain that yes, I was actually turning down a beautiful set of free shelves because she had used that dreaded phrase. This wasn't the first time that the subject has come up, only the most recent, and I am ashamed to say that every time the topic has been broached, I've reacted the exact same way; With judgment. I've spent the last week trying to figure out why that is and I think I've finally hit on the reason.

When I was younger, maybe 4 or 5, my mother sent us back to Utah and we lived with my grandparents for a time before followed. I have a very clear memory of my grandpa talking to my grandma about her heart medication and saying that they couldn't afford to get us pillows and to pay for her pills and the pills were more important. Of course, this is logical and I can accept that. Later that night, he woke us up and gave us some pillows that were still hot from the dryer and smelled faintly of bleach then tucked us back in and turned off the light. I lay awake for a time, staring at the crack and heard him talking to my grandma again. This time he said, and I remember this very clearly, "Don't tell Sylvia that we got those pillows from the dumpster." (Sylvia is my mother.)

I realized he was telling my grandma to lie about something and I knew that you only lied about things that were shameful. That thought has stuck with me for years, even if it's not true. While I don't think I could ever bring myself to climb into an actual dumpster, I think I may have come to terms with the fact that it's not shameful to save money if you can. Besides, those shelves really are pretty amazing.

Fear

My GPS may be trying to kill me.

This may seem like a far fetched statement, but that's the thought that ran through my mind this past Sunday. When I punched in the address for Ikea, it took off the beaten track and through the wilds of Baltimore. Not the pretty, Harbor District of downtown, but the sketchy, terrifying part of Baltimore where entire streets of homes have boarded up windows and there's auto glass strewn across the road in every intersection. The very air reeked of desperation.

I, who grew up small town Utah, have never experienced this kind of poverty before. My response was fear; sweaty palms, racing heart, paranoid fear. I recognize that this is an unfair reaction, but it is one that I could not help. My husband thinks that I'm a racist because of it, but I assure you it has nothing to do with race. It has to do with fear of the unknown.

Now, I'm not saying that I was in any immediate danger from outside forces. Was I honestly afraid that some one was going to smash in the window of my car to steal it? No. It came from something else all together. I have, until very recently, lived in a bubble of security that was untouched by any of the really unpleasant truths about life.

Murder was not daily news. Serial rapists did not roam the streets of my hometown, or if they did, the media sure didn't say anything about it. The Ghetto, you must forgive me for using the term but it is the only one I have, consisted of the west side of the freeway in Downtown SLC. And it really wasn't all that scary.

I've developed a sort of Social Anxiety since moving to Maryland. I'm afraid to leave my house. I do it, but instead of a smile and a hello, I keep my head down, go about my business and go home. I'm not sure what changed. It's been this way from day one. Are the people less friendly here? Perhaps. Am I just taking a really long time to adjust to a new setting? Maybe.

I'm not sure what has caused it, but I can say with absolute certainty that I have changed from the happy, fun-loving girl who wasn't afraid of anything into a woman who's afraid all the time. I'm afraid to leave post at night. I'm afraid to be alone in my house. I'm afraid to make friends.

And that, my friends, is not my GPS's fault.

Foggy Mornings and Espresso

It's nearly 7:20 and I've been up since 4:30. While I would love to say that I'm upset by this, I'm really not. It's been a productive, peaceful sort of morning. It occurred to me that the almost complete silence in my apartment wasn't likely to last long, so I broke out my novel and made some serious progress. Sure enough, at 6 am the music from the neighbor's place started up. Still, the peace was nice while it lasted.

It's a beautiful morning here on the East Coast. It's foggy. This is something I wouldn't normally be aware of, as the fog usually burns off before I bother to look outside, but this morning I agreed to drive The Husband to the company building--he's going on some sort of week-long training mission, which I'll come back to--and I was greeted by thick, rolling fog. Have I ever mentioned how much I love the fog? It just seems to scream Autumn.

I came home, brewed some espresso, steamed the milk and sat down with my breakfast of Cheetos, hoping to get some more words out of me before the music got too loud or I got too frustrated. It hasn't happened, though. Instead, I'm grappling with a strange sense of loneliness.

As I said earlier, The Husband has gone away for training. This isn't anything especially abnormal, however this time I had no notice. It makes it harder, somehow, because I haven't had time to come to terms with the fact that I am once again sitting alone in a house 2000 miles away from everything I love. Usually when he leaves, I've had time to not only come to terms with this, but to turn it into a positive. For instance, I could say that this second week of training this month means I only have to cook and clean for myself which, in turn, means that I've just scored another two hours a day at least in which I can write(which isn't to say, that he hasn't been supportive of my writing). So, this is definitely a positive, I tell myself.

It's not helping.

Maybe I'll feel less maudlin when the sky is no longer gray and I manage to clear some of this blood out of my caffeine system.

NaNoWriMo: Day 8

It occurs to me that I should probably working on my novel at this moment rather than writing this blog. However, I am utterly incapable of a single creative thought right now. In my Nano Pep Talk, I rather glibly discussed the various stages of NaNo creation. Sure, I was speaking from my own personal experience, but I didn't do NaNo last year. I had forgotten how deeply these various stages can effect someone.

Today I have found every reason under the sun not to write. I've felt a deep, abiding rage at just about everything. My novel is open, the cursor is blinking and I have... nothing. Here are just a few of the thoughts that have come to me throughout the day as I attempted to get my word count down.

- The cursor is blinking too quickly. What were the programmers thinking, making it blink that quickly. Bastards, I think they did it on purpose.

-Why does the toilet keep running? Oh my god, if it makes that sound one more time, I'm going to go SheHulk on it's ass and smash it into tiny pieces of porcelain.

-I wonder if the neighbors would even notice if I killed that yappy fucking dog of theirs?

-I think that inconsiderate bastardry must run in the veins of said neighbors. Now the music. Oh my god, they should know that they never win this game with me by now.

-Get away from my ice water, Kitty!

-Oh my god, the toilet!

- Blinking cursor. Rage.

-Rage.Rage.Rage.


I have, of course, edited some of this for content and covering-my-own-ass's sake. I don't want to be arrested for making threats. That being said, I have managed exactly 166 words today. In other words, nothing. I love my story. It's progressing well. Some parts aren't even half bad for first draft, NaNo material.

I just can't write. I need an external force to coerce me into it, as word wars are no longer effective. Perhaps I'll have to find a write-in tomorrow. At the very least, I need to get out of my house.

In the meantime, I should get back to my novel.

Perhaps I'll have a drink. That bottle of vodka on the kitchen counter is looking better by the second.

Homesick

It's been raining for nearly 24 hours straight. To some of you this may be commonplace. For me, it's a first. Though it is lovely, it only highlights the extreme homesickness I've been battling over the last few weeks.

The leaves are changing here. It's beautiful, but I can't help but think of the fiery beauty that is Nebo Canyon or Spanish Fork at this time of year. Or the way that the mountains are slowly being repainted gold and scarlet.

I miss the way the air smells, still dry and hot but with hints of earthiness that only exists when the seasons are changing from Summer to Fall and Winter to Spring. The air here is too humid to smell of anything but leaf-rot.

I miss the haze of forest fires, the burning in my nose and tickle in the back of my throat; the violent orange of the clouds and moon and the false flurries of ash.

I miss the mountains.

I miss Cafe Rio and Malt Shops and really shitty Mexican food. I miss the good stuff, too. I miss knowing how to get around and logical street layouts and the stars. The food here, well, it has come up lacking. Baltimore drowns out the stars.

I miss hanging out at Barnes and Noble in Orem and listening to people talk. People here don't sit still long enough to be observed. I miss White Chocolate Mocha with Hazelnut from the Coffee Pod and their slightly psychotic live music. I miss my friends.

I miss my family.

Politics

I know that this particular blog is not for politics. It's not for ranting and it's not for preaching, but I honestly have something to say.

Never before has national news effected me personally. Even now, it doesn't affect me personally, but it's the first time that I understand what is really going on and what the implications are. I am, of course, speaking of the situation involving General McChrystal and the Rolling Stone article that's brought around the effective end of his career.

I am, in absolutely no way, excusing the behavior of General McChrystal or his entourage. On the contrary, I believe that the General has spent his entire career pushing the limit of what is acceptable and right for a United States Officer. It was only a matter of time before he pushed it too far and he absolutely deserved the punishment that he has finally received.

It was a mistake, from the very beginning, to allow this kind of access to one of our highest-ranking military officials by Rolling Stone Magazine. Anyone with half a brain knows what sort of reporting Rolling Stone does. Even if permission had been granted by the highest authorities, the General and his staff absolutely should have known better than to speak so frankly in front of a reporter who was obviously looking for a sensational story. One has to wonder at the complete arrogance it takes to assume that one is above reproach when one is being insubordinate.

As countless other people have stated, if I had spoken in a public arena about my boss the way that McChrystal and his staff spoke about their civilian superiors, I would have been fired on the spot. Any soldier in the armed forces knows that the vows they take are binding and their Code of Conduct, sacrosanct. Any private who chose to speak about an officer in such a way would have faced court martial and been dishonorably discharged.

However, I believe that Hastings participates in one of the lowest forms of journalism known to media. His sensationalist rhetoric (much like mine right now) has an air of "tattle-tale" and "I-told-you-so." I find it disingenuous at best, downright dishonest at worst, that he claims not to have understood the consequences of his article. To say that he didn't think the General would be fired for quite blatantly disparaging his superiors and allowing his staff to do the same is ignorant folly. If he didn't know, he has no business being in journalism. If he did, he still has no business being in journalism.

I understand that War is war. Our troops are under an incredible amount of stress and, of course, they sometimes have to blow off steam. To turn that into the basis for your self-righteous diatribe against the war effort, to use it to undermine the stability of our armed forces is shameful. Shame on you, Mr. Hastings. I do not for one second believe that you didn't know what you were doing, that you didn't understand the consequences. It's laughable, in fact, that you could be an active member of the media and not understand how the world works. Congratulations on your new-found fame. It will, undoubtedly, bring you all the riches and glories that you dreamed of. I only hope that you, yourself, are someday subjected to the same things you've subjected others to.

Saying Goodbye

The walls of my beautiful home are closing in around me. If I spend too much time in here, I start to feel completely claustrophobic. In an effort to alleviate some of this anxiety, I've taken to talking short walks around the neighborhood, or just sitting outside on my low wall and watching. Today, as I walked outside, three children ran past. Two black children, I think they must be twins by the way they mirrored each other's movements, and a little girl with the most beautiful blonde curls I've ever seen. They looked at me, and the little black girl asked the blonde if I was her neighbor. For the record, I am.

"I don't know," was her quick response, making me smile.

"Can I see the baby?" The boy asked the blonde, running to catch up with her.

"Yeah!" They pelted down the lawn and disappeared between the wall separating my yard from the neighbors and I smiled. To be so young a full of energy. The little girl pounded on the door and I smiled again as she shouted, "Mommy! Open the door!"

After a moment, the door opened and a tired woman's voice emerged. "Say goodbye, honey."

The little girl parroted it, and again the woman's voice carried over the wall. "Say goodbye to the playground. We're going to our new house."

The little girl obediently repeated, "Goodbye, playground."

"Is she coming back outside?" This was the little black girl.

"No," the woman's said, wary. "We're going to our new house now. Say goodbye, sweety."

"Bye!" The blonde cried, her voice disappearing into the house.

"See you later!" The other girl said, already running back towards the playground.

A few minutes passed as I reflected on this. This, right here, has to be one of the worst parts of military life. My musings were interrupted by a high voice calling out "Bye!"

"Bye!" The girl on the playground called back, waving.

"Come here! Get a hug!"

The little girls ran towards each other and hugged, the little blonde giggling, "I"m so happy! Bye now."

"Bye!" said the dark girl, smiling. "Are you coming back?"

"Yeah." And the little blonde girl was gone, around the house and presumably into her car on the way to the new house.

As the little dark girl walked back to the playground, she turned to me and smiled. "Are you her neighbor?"

"I was," I say, smiling a little. "I think they are moving away now."

"Oh." The girl was quiet for a moment. "To another place?"

"Yes, I think so."

"So, she's not coming back?" The girl asked.

I must admit, I hesitated. I wanted to comfort her with my words, but at the same time I've always felt its best to be honest with children about these sorts of things. "I don't think she'll be coming back for a long time. But, someone else will be moving in here who might be your friend in a few weeks."

"Oh." The little girl looked down at her shoes then back up at me. "I have to go home now. Bye."

As she walked away her shoulders sagged and I felt my heart break for this little girl who'd just lost her friend. It's going to be a long tour.