The (semi)retirement of the trailing spouse

I suppose an explanation is in order.

When I started writing this blog (361 posts ago!), I had one goal: To provide a look at the life of a trailing spouse, from the struggles with ego to the major life changes that such a moniker entails, from work to environment and memory. I think I accomplished this. In fact, I think I may have accomplished this a while ago. Sure, things have come up here and there, but my overall arc has completed itself. And without a goal, a purpose, a blog like this becomes a haven for "gee, isn't this video funny" posts, and though those moments were essential months ago, when my life consisted of sporadic work and hours online, they now feel like nothing but filler. And that's not a road I want to travel. There are plenty of places one can go to see goofy stuff.

Of course, there are other contributing factors to my decision. I'm in the middle of applying to grad school right now and work two jobs, so my free time has shrunk considerably (which I'm sure some of you have noticed, with the daily posts becoming twice a week, then once every week and a half). Also, one of my jobs puts me smack in the middle of the town's general public (no, I'm not working at McDonald's or dressing as Noah Webster and patrolling Blue Back Square), and there's something in me that keeps saying, "one of these days, someone is going to smack you because you made fun of them or their restaurant or their poor use of grammar." Certainly, this concern weighs somewhat in my decision.

But this is not to say I'm gone completely. There may be posts to write, strange occurrences to share. There may be completely new ventures, new blogs with different purposes. However, from where I currently stand, I just can't think of a reason to post funny videos of cats when there are a million other places already doing the same thing.

I want to thank everyone that has visited me here over the past 13 months. Tens of thousands of visitors. It really amazes me. And I'll still be checking my trailingspouseben@yahoo.com email address, so feel free to drop me a line.

Until next time, keep looking out for the vanishing sidewalks ... they're everywhere.

On dinosaur feet and the death of a Liberal Lion ...

This week, when I wasn't busy copying other bloggers' posts without any acknowledgment, much like my heroes over at the Hartford Courant, I was visiting the Dinosaur State Park with my nephew and niece and mourning the death of Mr. Ted Kennedy.

Let's start with the dinosaurs.

I had no idea what was at Dinosaur State Park in Rocky Hill. Seeing the signs on 91, I always assumed it to be a hokey place with fake dinosaur statues and mini golf or something. But the Professor's parents were bringing the little ones down for a visit, and, me having a day off and the Prof still on summer break, we decided to tag along.

I have to say, the place is kind of cool. For those who have no idea of what I'm referring, let me give you a bit of history. Back in 1966, 2,000 dinosaur tracks were found while the foundation for a new state building was being dug in Rocky Hill. Completely by accident. Can you imagine being the person who found these things? Needless to say, the building was scrapped and a park was born. 500 of the tracks remained unearthed and a giant dome structure was built over them, creating a museum for dinosaur fans to visit.

And do they visit. While we were there, busloads of kids were coming and going, along with some awkward teenagers that, I can only hope, were more into the "science" of these fossils than the "wow, dinosaurs!" awe that seemed to enrapt the park's tinier explorers.

Here's a poorly lit photo from inside the dome:

The kids had a blast, and the adults had fun, too. Of course, there was this one egotistical dinosaur we ran into on our way out of the park. He gave us some trouble, but we managed to get away. I even snapped a picture while we escaped:

Lousy, no good hipster brontosaurus ...

Anyway, that was the Dinosaur State Park.

Now onto Mr. Kennedy.

The passing of the Liberal Lion left me with a strong feeling of disconnect toward my home state of Massachusetts. His death reminded me that I'm not there anymore, a fact that is plain to see but which I still occasionally forget. I'm now at arm's length from my former city, outside, looking in, both for better and worse. Many friends went to the processionals, saw the motorcade, posted pictures on Facebook (which, I must admit, was kind of odd). But seeing so many people I know actively participating in such moments, being part of the funeral, the physical mourning, made the 90 minutes that separates me from my former home in Boston seem all the more great.

I suppose the strangest thing about Ted Kennedy's passing is the fact that there won't be any more new television footage of the man. For the 31 years I have been on this planet (and, until last August, having lived all of those years in Massachusetts), Kennedy's face has been a nearly nightly image, as common as the newscasters who he was speaking to or the townspeople seen at the gas station. I can't say I found the man to be perfect, but such thoughts really don't matter anymore. It was the comfort of seeing him that made him who he was. It was the fire that raged in his eyes on some days. The doughy smile on others. It was the fact that he was a constant. That is what I'll miss the most. Such a familiar image, lost into the ether.

I'm (holds up index finger) THIS many!

It's hard to believe, but OOTTS turned one yesterday. One full year of adjusting to a new town, meeting new people, and figuring out what one does when they get sucked away from almost everything they know. It both seems like yesterday and a lifetime ago when I decided, on a sticky night last August, that something like a blog may help the transition process. I saw it as an outlet to distract me while I waited to find a job and figure out what I wanted to pursue.

Thanks to the thousands of people who have visited over the past 366. And a special thanks to the few that are regulars (I'm still amazed that anyone is interested enough to come back once, let alone those who are here a few times a week!).

To celebrate, I got a cake from the folks who run the awesome blog Cake Wrecks. Here's what I received:

Thoughts on the "thought pad."

I have not vanished

Contrary to reports generated by myself, I have not disappeared. I did not get trampled in the Memorial Day parade. I did not eat some bad hot dogs at a cookout.

I've just been out of things to observe the past few days.

However, I'll be back tomorrow with a nice little piece about one of our gigantic superstores and their odd advertising practices.

Until then, hope you all have a good night.

Scenes from my new office

It wasn't until I unpacked that I realized how many toys I have. Most are from when I was a kid, though I will admit to getting some as an adult. Here are a few:

About that final night . . .

I am sore and tired, but I have moved. The Professor and I slept in total silence last night. We almost didn't know what to do with ourselves.

Because I've been packing and moving, I can't say I've really been out and about "observing" many things lately, but I did want to share with you a little tale about the final night I spent in my old apartment.

It began that afternoon. The Prof and I had brought one final carload of stuff to our new digs, and as we pulled into our old driveway, we saw the Emperor, our upstairs neighbor, carrying stacks of cardboard boxes out to the garbage.

"Spring cleaning?" I asked him.

"I have to clean. My girlfriend is going to move in with me."

Immediately, I rejoiced in the fact that I would no longer be living below him. See, the Emperor's girlfriend is a heel lover. She wears them every single time she visits, including when they go to bed.

And, although I wanted to reply, "Thank GOD I'm moving," I held my tongue and went inside.

Jump to 10:15PM. The Prof and I decided to head to bed to get some extra rest for the big move day. As we were slipping under the covers, we heard the sound of a truck. I looked out the window. It was the Emperor with a U-Haul.

Then the sound of heels from overhead rained down.

When he told me that his girlfriend was moving in while we stood over at the garbage cans, the Emperor forgot to end the phrase "in about four hours."

So, from about 10:30 to 12:30, we heard Heely and Emperor march UP the stairs with boxes, then DOWN the stairs to get more. Oh, and it was raining, so they were constantly stomping on the carpets in the stairwell to, apparently, dry their feet.

After the first hour of tossing and turning, the Professor got up and went into the living room to watch television. I followed. She ended up pulling the cushions off of a chair and curling up with them on the floor. I laid down on the couch.

We ended up sleeping there all night. At one point, probably about 1AM, we heard the Emperor starting the U-Haul up and driving away. Of course, the Heelinator stayed behind and continued to, I can only gather, move furniture above us.

And that's going to be my final memory of that place. Crashing on the couch with the television singing an infomercial lullaby. Sleeping about 4 hours before getting up to get my own U-Haul.

I pity the poor fool who is the next to live there.

Biting my tongue

Today the dog and pony show began. Our landlord brought out the first victims to look at our apartment. And, although she thought she told me about this, I was unaware of the festivities until receiving a "reminder" email 40 minutes before the first knock on our door. The Professor had a meeting and got to skip out on the fun, but I didn't have to go into work today, so I was around for the awkward meet and greets, the handshakes, and then the quick slip into the office, hoping no one would ask the fateful question:

Why are you moving?

I had come up with a few answers, none very truthful. "We want to be closer to where my wife works," was a good one, I thought, since it's technically true (we're currently only a few miles from where she teaches, however). "We're looking for a change," was another possible answer. Mysterious yet completely diplomatic. Then, if all else failed, I planned on saying "We certainly aren't moving because our neighbors seem to be drug dealers and we live near a busy corner and our car was broken into or anything."

Thankfully, in round one, I escaped any questioning. This was mainly due to the fact that, once I shook hands, I stared angrily into my computer monitor, where I brought up a live NYSE ticker. Of course, I know nothing about the stock market.

On a completely unrelated note, while sitting at my computer, letting strangers trounce around my apartment, I began thinking about Dr. Fad. I found the theme music for his show online, as well as a clip from an episode. I loved wacky wall walkers. Enjoy!

 

Bit by a dog

I was bit by a dog while out for a run this morning. 

The woman walking the dog was both mortified and incredibly defensive in the immediate aftermath.

"Are you okay?" she asked in her first breath as I scanned my body for damage. "You know, this isn't my dog," came in the second.

I checked my hip, the location of the bite. It looked to just be a scratch. My clothes weren't torn. The dog's teeth hadn't actually made it through to the skin. I waved it off.

"This isn't my dog," she reiterated as I said I was fine.

I continued to run. Made it about 2 more miles. Then the pain started. I looked under the rib of my waistband to see that the scratch really wasn't a scratch but more of a long bruise pockmarked with tiny tears. I was bleeding.

I turned around and ran home. The Professor had a priceless look on her face when I told her what happened. 

Honestly, I'm surprised it has taken this long to be bitten by a dog. I've been running for about 5 years. I've passed thousands of dogs.

I mean, I've kicked a squirrel when out running (it ran square in front of my foot, I swear.). What are the odds of that compared to getting bit by a dog?

Well, the Prof just got back with a gigantic band-aid to fix me up. Signing off, beware of a large yellow dog roaming the streets of West Hartford. The woman walking it, from what I gathered, is NOT the owner.  

What a strange week this has been.

Wake up call

Woke up this morning. Rolled out of bed. The Professor and I complained/laughed about our neighbors (There was a teenage girl screaming about her boyfriend last night. Honestly, every time I think I know who lives in that house I hear another screaming voice.). Then I turned on my computer and checked Facebook.

Status update from the Professor's uncle who lives in Italy: Woke up to an earthquake last night but we're okay.

Status update from his partner: awakened by the earthquake but all is well.

Woah.

The 6.3 magnitude quake struck about 30 miles (if I remember correctly) from their village, centering on the town L'Aquila. Just go look at images at CNN or the BBC. The destruction is pretty heartbreaking. So much history has been turned to rubble.

But, thankfully, Steve and Larry are okay.

It made me feel sheepish for complaining about my neighbors waking me in the middle of the night. Having my 800-year-old village shaken by the Earth would be a far scarier way to have a horrible night's sleep.

Friday

Had a bit of an internet scare a little while ago while the thunder rumbled here in West Hartford. Everything stopped working. Not a good sign. Turns out the wireless hub needed a time out. Sometimes we all need a little time out to cool off and get our act straight, I suppose. I guess technology isn't any different.

It's funny how much of a crippling scare the idea of no internet can be. I can't imagine a day without email. So much of my lifelines are electronic. And since moving, IMs and Facebook conversations are some of the only ways I communicate with several friends. I talk to the writing group I belong to through my computer. I submit stories and articles without ever speaking to editors face to face (I still have not formally met the editor I occasionally write for in Boston).

And a simple rumble of thunder can snap that all like a twig.

But all is safe. For now.

The Emperor has taken a lady . . .

The Emperor, our upstairs neighbor, has a girlfriend. This, as far as I can tell, is a new phenomenon. If she existed before last night, she certainly hadn't been to our building.

How can I tell he has a girlfriend? Let me run down the list:

1. There was some sort of disco dance party at around 8:45 p.m. I initially thought this was in excitement for Obama's speech to Congress, but when they seemed to be wandering around at 9:15, I realized I was wrong.

2. The "guest" had a high pitched cackle. They demonstrated this often, as if they were rehearsing for an audition. Perhaps the role they are trying to get is "Horrible, annoying laugh lady."

3. It sounded like the person wore high heels. They seemed especially proud of this, as they walked back and forth, from kitchen to living room to bedroom, about 750 times (I lost count after 725).

Of course, thanks to Tim and Eric, we know that such noise doesn't necessarily mean the visitor is of the female species, but I'm still sticking with my theory of the sex of the guest:

4. Oh yeah, and there was the HORRIBLY LOUD SEXUAL INTERCOURSE! The HORRIBLY LOUD SEXUAL INTERCOURSE THAT LASTED FOR TWO HOURS, taking a pause only for cackle breaks and possible re-hydration (Interesting side fact: I learned that the Emperor must have a fetish for women in heels, as, between grunts and cackles, I continued to hear the clip-clop as the rabbits walked back and forth from the bedroom).

Ugh. We need to find a new place to live. 

Fuzzy faces

As a kid, I was always amazed when my parents fumbled stories about their younger days. It just didn't seem possible that one could forget the name of a high school classmate or a childhood friend. Of course, I was in the middle of high school at the time. It was easy to remember every classmate I ever had.

Fast forward 13 years and I'm beginning to know what my parents were struggling with. And I owe this crippling annoyance to Facebook.

I really need to go to my parents' house and dig out my yearbooks. Who would have thought that social networking sites would make one want to dust off the old, hardbacked green and gold, the "stay in touch" messages and awkward senior photos? 

What's happening is I'm beginning to get random "friend" requests from people I'm pretty sure I've never met but, apparently, I graduated with. Is my mind that fuzzy? My graduating class was not that large. I would think I'd remember at least MOST of the people.

I think there needs to be rules for these kind of random blasts-from-the-past. The person requesting should, at the very least, provide some sort of relationship recap in the form of a message. Something like, "Hey, remember when we worked together that one summer?" or "Remember when we hid from that giant sloth monster in that old windmill together?" 

I'm not asking for much. Just something to jog the memory.

I realize I could just accept these people and figure out everything later, but then you end up as one of those Facebook whores that has hundreds and hundreds of friends (I'm pretty sure there are competitions out there regarding this phenomenon). No, with each request, I need to unravel the mystery. Who are you? How do I know you?

Are you really "friend" worthy?

I'm such a snob.    

Busy weekend

Sunday morning. 8:45 a.m. I'm tired, but the cat was insistent. He always is when we're trying to sleep in a bit.

I'm halfway through a busy weekend, and none of it has been Valentine-related (The Professor is VERY anti-Valentine's Day, and, I must admit, so am I). 

Yesterday, The Professor and I headed up to Massachusetts to take my parents out to lunch. Today marks their 40th anniversary and, though I wanted to throw them a party, it just wasn't in the budget right now (Maybe they'll get a 41st anniversary party next year. That'll confuse them.). So, lunch it was. We went to a teppanyaki restaurant. My father is quite fond of these places, especially the show that is the chef, watching the onion volcano, trying to catch vegetables in his mouth, that sort of thing. He's as entertaining to watch as the flames shooting from the hibachi.

After lunch, and after driving my folks back to their house and visiting for a bit (And by visiting, I mean talking for twenty minutes and then watching as everyone began to doze off.), The Prof and I shook the sleeps out and got back into the car. We pointed it toward Boston. Two more stops awaited our arrival.

First was seeing our friend's new apartment in Newton Corner. Second was our other friend's 30th birthday bash in Newton Highlands. Both were enjoyable, but exhausting. Watching buzzed Ph D. candidates (and those already through the system) sing karaoke to "Everybody Wants To Rule The World" and "9 to 5" takes a lot out of a man. Add in a rum-spiked fruit juice and hors d'oeuvres for dinner, and you get tired. Quickly. But it was fun. It was nice to see friends and faces that we haven't been near since moving.

40 years of marriage. 30 years of life. All in one day.

Driving home, we joked that we needed to find a 20 and 10-year milestone somewhere between Boston and West Hartford to complete the rundown. Maybe even help in the birth of a child. Then, we'd really be cooking. But it was late. The highway was quiet. We'd just have to settle with participating in a 40th and a 30th. That was enough for one day.

Sleep this morning would have been nice. But, again, there's this cat that we have . . .

It actually works out well. We need to be up. We have another friend to visit today. This time the visit is down here. We need to do a little cleaning. They'll be here in a couple of hours.

And so it goes . . . 

Hiding the emperor's clothes

I think I've mentioned this before, but I live in an apartment. This apartment is in a house with two others.

My immediate upstairs neighbor, let's call him The Emperor, is frequently out of town. I rejoice in this. It's very lovely to not hear anyone stomping around 80% of the time. However, when he is around, that 20% of the time, he's a laundry fanatic.

We all share laundry machines in the basement. And this isn't much of a problem. We all have our own schedules. But, and here's the thing, The Emperor likes to start laundry at night. He'll start around 8 p.m. or so. Wash, dry, wash, dry, wash, dry.

And during that last dry cycle, he falls asleep. The next morning, he gets up, gets dressed, and is out the door. His clothes remain in the dryer. Sometimes for days until he remembers.

So I've begun to plot out how to break him of this habit. Thus far, I have two possible plans:

1. I take the laundry left in the dryer and hide it in the basement (our basement is huge, with evidence of at least 25 years of tenants cluttering the walls and corners). Then, when he eventually looks for it and realizes it is gone, act completely dumbfounded. Join in the search. When he does find the laundry, convince him that he sleepwalks ("You know, I can hear you stomping around at, like, 4 a.m. sometimes . . . Oh, you don't remember doing that? Huh."). He then becomes very self-conscious and never makes the mistake of leaving laundry in the dryer again.

2. Leave the laundry in the dryer, but take every matching sock from the pile. Then, the next time this happens, return all of the matching socks but take all of the NEW matching socks. Continue this cycle until he goes crazy and moves.

Or, I suppose I can just continue to do what I've already been doing: placing his clothes on top of the dryer.

I'm such a chicken.

Scattershot

Someone recently told me that this blog was kind of all over the place, as in, not at all focused. It was strange. I hadn't really thought of the fact that, yes, this place is often completely random. One day I'm talking about food, the next zombies, then something as mundane as sidewalks. Not being a huge blog reader, I guess I didn't know that, most of the time, people stick to certain topics on blogs.

Whoops.

But that doesn't mean I'm changing format. After all, the subtitle for OOTTS is "a resource of interesting sights and sounds from West Hartford and beyond." It's like flipping stations on television. You never know what'll pop up next.

Though, I assure you, it won't be anything like Rock of Love Bus with Bret Michaels.

Oh, how my belly got jellied

West Hartford has been frozen and quiet of late, so today I reminisced about my journey to one of the tastiest places on the planet, the Jelly Belly jelly bean factory in Fairfield, California. I visited it while out west, and it was a pretty sweet experience. Get it? Sweet! You know? Sweet? Oh, never mind . . .

To begin, I should state that I was not alone on this confectioner's conquest. I was accompanied by my cousin and her 6-month-old daughter. It was the child's first visit to the old JB, but her mom had been many a-time. Our trio was also surrounded by an entire class of what I could only guess were third graders. They were small. They were loud. And they were itching for a sweet fix.

But to be fair, so was I.

The Jelly Belly factory is in the middle of a long stretch of industrial buildings in Fairfield. You know you're at the right place when you see the subtle vehicles parked in the lot:

 

Oh, and then there's this guy next to the autos:

Of course, I'm referring to the inflatable jelly bean, not me (in my fancy Jelly Belly paper hat) or the baby. We aren't usually standing next to the jelly bean bus. Well, she is on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but I've only made the one visit.

The smell of sugar hits you from the moment you step into the building. It gets even more intense as you make your way onto the catwalks high above the factory floor. Our guide, let's call her Bedelia, was pleasant enough, but was the type of person I can only describe as civil and tired. Something told me she could have done the tour in her sleep. She was also wearing a fanny pack, which was a bit of an odd choice.

Here I am at the beginning of the tour, pointing at a flight of stairs. I'm so excited because I had a hunch that the Oompa-Loompas were kept at the top:

Unfortunately, they were not there. In fact, I did not see any Oompa-Loompas working the floor. Mostly just average folks in hair nets. I learned that it takes up to a week to make a single jelly bean, which seemed crazy until they showed us the massive amount of steps that go into making the sweets. I also learned that a special jelly bean holder was created for Air Force One because Reagan was such a jelly bean enthusiast. There were a ton of facts thrown at the third graders and I by Bedelia. I have to be honest, though, at about the halfway point, I kind of zoned out. My stomach took over and all I wanted was for the lady to stop talking and just hand out the free bags of candy.

Thankfully, she finally did. She even gave one to the baby, which seemed wholly inappropriate to me, unless, of course, she had recently seen Benjamin Button and is now convinced that every baby is really an old person, just tiny.

The tour, like all smartly planned amusements, dropped us in the Jelly Belly store, where I took my time hounding the workers at the sample bar. Hmmm . . . how about a caramel apple. Hmmmm . . . how about a chocolate devotion. Hmmmm . . . you get the point. Giant bags of bean rejects, known in the biz as Belly Flops, were available. There were so many colors! I was like a grown man in a candy store! However, one thing that brought me back to Earth was the "must-only-be-bought-by-nine-year-old-boys" Bean Boozled line, in which my precious jelly beans were molded into flavors like Vomit, Skunk Spray, and Dirt. Who would want to eat vomit in bean form (besides the aforementioned 9-year-old boys)? And who was the poor sucker that had to be the taste tech on such a project? This vomit is just not vomity enough. Add more artificial bile!  

I ended up with a box of Coldstone Creamery beans and a bag of Soda Pop Shoppe. Oh, and I kept the nifty paper hat. In fact, I haven't taken it off since my visit. So, if you're around town and see a man with a paper hat on, hopped up on jelly beans, stop by and say hello.

Part time employment . . . the saga continues

I am officially no longer unemployed. I am now partially employed. For about 10 hours a week, I'm working for the man. And it feels both great and horrible.

Taking a part time position after a dry stretch is a strange sensation. The idea of having something to fill hours is wonderful, even if it is only a few hours here and there. No matter how busy I keep myself in West Hartford, there are always moments that waste away. But the unsettling feeling comes from realizing how little part time employment pays. It makes me feel a tad pathetic, having come from a decently paying full time job back in Boston. It is certainly a 'damned if you do, damned if you don't' conundrum: I feel kind of pathetic if I have NOTHING to do and I also feel kind of pathetic if I'm working part time for a low wage. And regardless of how much I tell myself that such employment is only temporary and could change sooner than later, it is still a bit odd.

Oh, President Obama, let's get the economy jump started! I know you've only had one day at your new job, but a little help would be appreciated (of course, I'm just kidding . . . sort of).  

Heading west of West Hartford

I'm packing it in, folks. Heading out west for a week. Getting out right before the next storm dumps on old Connecticut. My shoveling self is sad, but the other 99% of me is glad to be escaping to a little sun and warmth.

Seeing as I won't be doing any live posting for a bit, I figure this would be a good chance to try my hand at a little fortune telling. Here it goes:

Saturday, January 10th: Baltimore beats Tennessee, 24-17. Neil Patrick Harris isn't as funny as you'd hoped on SNL. You blame the writers.

Sunday, January 11th: Philadelphia beats the NY Giants, 28-24. Mickey Rourke wins best actor at the Golden Globes and has a funny haircut and disheveled look as he accepts the award. Javier Bardem's fly is down when he presents an award. Jack Nicholson laughs at this. Bardem is embarrassed.

Monday, January 12th: The Dow closes up 71.25 points. Doesn't matter.

Tuesday, January 13th: A small martian named Gazoo travels back in time from his home planet of Zatox to the time of early man, where he befriends a pair of cavemen named Fred and Barney. This friendship is preserved as hieroglyphics that won't be discovered until the early 1960s.

Wednesday, January 14th: Expect rain. Or not.

Thursday, January 15th: The world learns that Donkey Kong is real.

Let's see how accurate I am. I have a pretty good feeling about most of these.

Until next time . . .

Facebooked

My soul feels a little bit lighter today, for I have finally caved to the pressure of my peers and joined Facebook. I resisted as long as I could, but I'm no rock. I can be swayed.

I will admit that I've used the site vicariously through the Professor, taking quizzes on useless topics like 80s music and obscure Disney characters. But today, in a moment of weakness, I accepted an invitation that had been sitting in my inbox for about a month. 

I must really be bored.

Now I get to look at pictures of people that I know! And I get to cautiously avoid the friend invitations from people I haven't seen since high school (if we haven't talked in 12 years, then I don't think we're going to start now)! I can become a fan of bacon or Bruce Springsteen or anything else under the sun!

I'm already exhausted. I need a nap.