GETTING SETTLED, KIND OF
We're still alive, we're still in Raleigh.
Here's the setting for this post: We're sitting in the living room of our insanely spacious, 90-year-old apartment, for now mostly unfurnished. Specifically, we're sitting on two $15 floor chairs we bought at Target last week. We are surrounded by newspapers and random free magazines we've picked up, and we're drinking wine out of red plastic party cups, because that's all we have until the movers come in two to three months. It is night.
Our apartment, it's pretty sweet. Old, like I said, which is good and bad. Good because the building is gorgeous and the architecture is really cool. Bad because it's kind of a shithole. The wooden floors are kind of splintery, the kitchen sink drain is prone to exploding with the dirty dishwater from other apartments, and we lack certain amenities such as a dishwasher or central air. And we're on the first floor, about five feet away from a busy street, so that's taken some getting used to. But, my friends, location, location, location. We're one block from the state capitol building, four blocks from my office, and two blocks from the really important stuff: A hippie coffee shop, an Irish pub and a wine-and-chocolate bar. So certain hassles aside, we're pretty happy.
My new job is going well so far. The people are really nice (and I'm not just saying that in case they chance upon my blog), and I feel I'll have the chance to do the kind of work that gets me excited about journalism. I just wish I could skip that whole "new person" phase. You know, the phase where you don't yet understand how things work or who things are in the organization, and you also aren't sure how to find the vending machines or when is a good time to take a bathroom break. But that phase is a necessary evil, and it'll get easier with time, I know.
I just wish all the newness -- new apartment, new car (Mazda3, if you're curious), new job, new town -- didn't have me feeling like I've "Quantum Leap"ped into someone else's life. Or, if I must feel that way, I wish I at least had at my side a grizzled little invisible cigar-smoking buddy with a tricked-out Texas Instruments calculator telling me my odds and giving me hints as to what my higher purpose is on any given day. That might help.
