I had to share this completely insane couch.
Source: dietcokeandasmoke.tumblr.com via Joelle on Pinterest
It wants to be ugly, but it just can’t. It can’t — it’s too brilliant. It starts out good, then kind of goes south and comes righ back around to good again. I need this couch.
I’ve been in Las Vegas for about 10 months now and there have been many adjustments to living in the desert. My skin is now used to the dry air (as long as I remember my moisturizer), but my allergies are worse than ever. The desert landscape, while quite tonal (mostly beige), does have surprising elements, like incredible sunsets and sunrises, and the striations and layers in the surrounding mountains are really beautiful. People drive like 90-year-old palsied crackheads and I’m nervous a lot on the roads here. The summer weather sucks, but it wasn’t as horrifically hot as I expected it to be. The winters are much colder than I expected, but not unpleasant. I like sweaters and once it even snowed, so not a big deal, really.
I don’t love it here, but I hate it less than I did last November. I’d go as far as to say I don’t even hate it. It’s… acceptable. For now. I would like it more if there weren’t things like huge centipedes and fist-sized black widows, insane electric bills and a lack of friends. I feel very isolated, despite having a view of America’s Playground from my bedroom window.
The year has flown by very quickly, so I know the next will. We committed to 2 years, but now that the first is almost up, we might actually stay in Las Vegas longer than planned. There’s nothing I want more than to go home — to go back to moisture in the air, buildings with character, better Mexican food and my social life. However, we’d also be going back to higher rent for less space (which we’re alright with), but Mike needs to be able to transfer with his job or find another job that’s willing to wait for him to relocate. So the move kind of hinges on those options being available. Staying allows us to save more money, allows Mike to advance further in his job and gives us the opportunity to take some trips we’ve wanted to take, but might not otherwise be able to afford.
I have explored the city more and discovered areas of town much, much, much better than the one we’re currently in. Our house is nice — big (maybe too big) and new-ish — but the general area is kinda of… meh (says the spoiled Southern California girl). Lots of heavy BOOM BOOM bass on the car stereos, myriad dogs barking and sirens — so many sirens. The retail/commercial areas leave something to be desired, as well. Like functioning ghost towns, there’s lots of empty and spotty retail spaces and we have to drive 5 or more miles to find a decent grocery.
We’re thinking, if we stay, we’ll move to Summerlin/The Lakes area — the southwest side of the city. It reminds me of SoCal Lite — lusher landscaping, more greenery, more palm trees, better retail offerings and it’s close to Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s — the only places in town I can find lively produce. It’s also a bit closer to The Strip for those times I do want to go over there. It’s considered one of the more affluent areas of town, I think, but we can likely get a comparable place for around the same price we’re currently paying. Now that we’ve been here for a while, we know what we want and what we don’t:
MUSTS
WISHLIST
NO, THANK YOU
We’ve got another year to go before our lease is up here — but I know with work and travel next year, time will zip by. We’ll likely hire an agent to find something for us so we can pretend we’re on House Hunters — except I won’t quibble over the wall color. (Seriously, why do they always bitch about the hideous colors? There’s this stuff called paint, Mensa.)
Anyway, we’ll see what 2012 brings. The point is, despite me missing California so much it hurts, I’m not ready to throw myself off the roof just yet. Vegas isn’t so terrible.
I’ve been watching a lot of House Hunters lately — mostly International — and I’m noticing a growing trend among American men. Lately, it seems that men are increasingly requesting — if not insisting on — “man caves“.
I hate that term — how Neaderthal-ish. Do you intend to go out and club dinner and drag your wife around by her hair? Man cave. Give me a break.
I appreciate that everyone has a right to privacy. Everyone needs some personal time without their significant other — or even a roommate — around. You need space, I get that. I cherish my time alone because ultimately, I was always really content living alone and while I’m happy, it is an adjustment living with another person 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.
The standard argument I’ve heard is, “The wife/woman/girlfriend/significant other gets the rest of the house to decorate and do with what they want, I just want my own space that’s mine to put up my action figures/sports crap/ugly leather recliners so I can watch the game/play Magic the Gathering/jerk off in peace.”
While I can appreciate the desire for said space — what makes men think “the woman” gets the rest of the house, especially if they have kids? Does the woman get her own “lady hut”, too? Why do the men get to escape to a “man cave” that’s just for them when the woman is stuck with the messy living room or the kitchen and potentially screaming children? Where does “the woman” go to read her magazines/watch her programs/use her vibrator without interruption? Why do only the men get to ‘escape’?
Now, I actually DO have my own space — my office is my domain. But it is for work — I don’t hang out in here. But, I decorate it how I want — it’s pink and girlie and I have all my crap up that I probably, for aesthetic reasons, wouldn’t display in the rest of the home. Just as I wouldn’t love it if mikey hung a Fathead of DarthVader on the living room wall, I refrain from hanging hot pink velvet curtains in the living room.
I know most men aren’t into home decor, so they figure “the woman” gets that honor and therefore “controls” the rest of the house, but that is simply untrue. My opinion is that couples should decorate mutually. And while mikey trusts me with my design choices, I do usually ask for his opinion if I’m choosing a statement piece for the living room – like a rug or a piece of furniture. And fortunately, we both have somewhat quirky tastes, so it works out. Not always – I’m not saying I love having 20 Domos in the living room, but I don’t hate it (I love Domo, too) and it makes him happy, so we have 20 Domos in the living room. It’s mikey’s space, too.
So, I don’t totally understand this sudden surge for the “man cave”? Is it because they feel like their wife takes over? Do they feel emasculated in their own home? Why do a growing number of men feel they need to escape from their spouse and family into their own domain when they get home from work or on the weekends? Isn’t that when they’re supposed to spend time with their family? And when do women get their own space, away from their husband who doesn’t listen to them talk anyway, away from their kids? You’d need a house with 2 extra bedrooms just to accommodate everyone’s “personal space”, but doesn’t that defeat the whole point of living together?
The only way I can abide a true man cave is if the woman has one, too, or the guy’s wife decorates with country ducks and dried flowers and has her scrapbooking crap spread out across the living room. Then he has my permission to set up a compound in the backyard for all I care.
Things are going alright here in Las Vegas. I’m not in love with this town, not even remotely close, but I don’t see much of it, really. I spend about 98% of my time at home, as I live and work here. Sometimes I only leave the house to go to the grocery store or to Target — and that’s usually only once a week.
I haven’t really wanted to talk much about it here because I don’t want every post to be “Boo hoo, Vegas sucks.” I made a choice to move here — I didn’t have to, I could have stayed where I was, but I thought it was the right thing to do. I was pretty adamant about it, if you recall. Mostly, I think I was talking myself into it. But if anything, it’s made me really appreciative of California, even moreso than when I moved back to San Diego from Texas in 2003.
Don’t get me wrong, Las Vegas has had some perks — I got to see snow fall, which is rare for me and I love that. And the mountains are quite pretty. It’s not awful. People do live here and have happy lives, I just don’t think it’s the place for me, personally.
I’m a vibrant person, a social butterfly. I love friends, I love talking to people and I lost of a lot of that interaction (and a lot of what makes good blog posts) when I started working for myself at home almost 8 years ago. But I still had some social interaction, going out with my best gays and hitting up karaoke on occasion in San Diego. Now, I’m kind of a hermit, which has me a little depressed and that goes against every fiber of my being. I don’t do depressed. I just keep twisting it positively and trying to think of it as a stepping stone to something else.
For now, we can save money…. though, I don’t know how much we’ll actually be able to save living here. So far, I’m not really seeing much savings or a huge difference from California. If nothing else, this adventure is a lesson in what I do want and what I don’t.
It really comes down to cost vs. worth. I used to think California was just ridiculously overpriced. And it is, but is it worth it? Yeah, it kinda is. San Diego is probably the most beautiful town in the country. Ok, I’m biased — but it’s my home and I’m a very proud San Diegan. It’s worth the price for consistent weather, the year-round flip-flops, the ocean, and one thing I’ve missed a lot — the lovely Southern California sunlight… the way it looks in the afternoon, in the mornings… it’s just home to me. I miss chirping birds year round. I miss fresh air. I miss grass. I miss colors.
It’ll do for now and luckily, mikey is here. If he wasn’t here, I’d go insane. Well, if he wasn’t here, I’d not be here at all, but I’m grateful that he is. We keep each other company and he puts up with all my bitching, so hats off to him. He’s a good man.
I just need to schedule some “long weekend” trips back to San Diego to get my fix and arrange for friends to visit (because everyone wants to visit Vegas, right?). Two years will go by quickly and hopefully, we can make the move back to California.
Somewhere in between, I’m sure I’ll find my juju again. It’s still here, it’s just hiding… in a casino, most likely. Next to a fat lady with an oxygen tank and Hoveround.
I live in kind of an odd neighborhood. The houses are new, big and cheap, by California standards. (I saw a sign the other day for a 6000 sq ft luxury home for $230k — madness!) The neighborhood overall is pretty quiet (except for when the middle school down the street lets out and all the little pubescent hooligans are walking home) and in general, I like it.
I really like our house, but the surrounding commercial/retail area is kind of… meh. Shabby. Run down. I call it a Living Ghost Town because there was so much development and expansion in this area pre-Bush, but when the economy bottomed out, it hit North Las Vegas pretty hard. So there are lots of new commercial buildings and strip malls that are empty with for lease signs all over. The only close grocery is Walmart because all the others couldn’t compete and closed down. It’s a little depressing. But, I just keep telling myself that I’m spoiled coming from Southern California. San Diego is probably one of the best cities in the world, certainly in the United States, and a fairly affluent one at that, so I’m trying not to judge.
You can stop laughing.
I’m not sure why anyone would want to shake a stick at anything, frankly, but if one were to shake a stick, it wouldn’t be at this house because there’s more of it than one stick can handle. We don’t live in a mansion or anything. It’s a modest three-bedroom home with a modest desert yard in a modest neighborhood. It’s no Taj Majal, but compared to the 800 sq foot apartment I had recently, which was probably the largest apartment I’d lived in to date, this house is formidable.
I love it, don’t get me wrong. It’s really nice to be able to spread out a bit. I feel a little like I’m back living at my parents house, as there elements similar to my home growing up in the ‘burbs. I keep expecting to come up the stairs and see my stepsisters arguing over who has a cuter Kaboodle or who used the last of the Aussie Sprunch Spray.
The thing is… we don’t have enough stuff to fill this place, which gives it a kind of empty feeling. It’s also so quiet and dark at night that when Mike is gone at work, I feel super isolated. I flip on every outside light and double lock every door and window. I also am totally unfamiliar with the sounds of this new place… the home and the neighborhood. I’m sure it will pass.
The “not having enough things” issue gives me anxiety, too. I want this to feel like a home… warm and inviting. And considering I’m here all day long, every day, I need it to feel cozy. That will cost money, of course, but more of a concern to me is having that much stuff. It makes my heart race — it freaks me out. It feels so… adult. It feels a little stifling and all I can think every time I buy something is “Great, more stuff to pack for the next move.”
As some of you may have guessed from my manic tweets, there’s a lot going on right now. I have a super duper full schedule due to some projects running longer than anticipated (you can’t rush awesome) and spontaneous opportunities that I’ve not been able to refuse.
One major opportunity I can’t talk about yet, which is killing a big mouth like me, but I promised and I’m only as good as my word. I also signed legal stuff, so there is that.
Another big thing is… well, I’m moving. Yes, again. But this time, I”m not just going across town, I’m moving to Las Vegas!
I’ll give you a second to insert any in a series of anticipated and oft-heard protests: Continue reading
So, I have this neighbor – he’s an older man, probably in his late 60′s, maybe even 70′s. I sometimes run into him on the stairwell or in the parking lot, bringing in our groceries or whatever.
He’s always been super friendly. My front door is right at the top of the stairwell, so I often see him walk by through my ‘ice cube glass’ windows near my desk. When I moved in, he complimented me on the happiness my yellow hibiscus brought him when it bloomed. And I thought how nice it was that someone even noticed besides me. He looked like a nice old man, what I envision a “grandpa” to be.
Cut to a week or so later, when I’m tempted into downloading a Sex Offender Locator app for my iPhone. You can see where this is going. Grandpa indeed.
So can we talk about my neighbors some more? It seems no matter where I go, I end up with at least one subpar neighbor. I had to ask mikey if maybe it was me — perhaps I’m doing something that makes the neighbors jerky, or maybe I have unrealistic expectations, but he insists it’s them.
Remember the Tacky Water Bottle people from across the hall? Well, last Friday, I received a notice on my door from the apartment management, letting me know I’m in violation of their “common areas” policies with my water bottles. While I wasn’t thrilled to hear this — I mean, where else are you supposed to keep them in an apartment? — if that’s their policy and I’m in violation, fine. I’ll figure something out.
So I called the office to let them know I was going to comply and ask for suggestions on where I might keep them, since it’s a month’s worth of water. I was connected with the manager, who informed me that I was issued the violation primarily because there were “several complaints” about my water bottles “blowing over and rolling down the hallways very noisily” and neighbors were having to “round them up” for me.
I like to consider myself a lady, but I have to quote my father here and cry, “Horseshit!” Total, utter nonsense. And I told her so. I said, “I’m happy to comply with your policies if that is the case. It’s not the most convenient thing, but if that’s your rule, that’s how it goes. However, I can tell you with about 99.9% accuracy that those ‘reports’ are hogwash. I am home all day, every day and my desk is right on the other side of the ice cube glass window/wall from those bottles. I sit right there. If there were anything blowing anywhere, especially noisily, I would have heard it. If there were someone out there rounding up my anything, I would have seen them. I know you can’t tell me who it is, nor do I really want you to, but if it’s the neighbors across the hall, I have an idea of what this is about. “ Then I briefly recapped the interaction on the 4th of July.
She told me I can store the bottles on my patio and I, as obviously retaliatory as it was, informed the management that “if we’re going to go there”, then the neighbors across the hall aren’t exactly angels, rummaging around in their storage unit (in the common area of the hallway) loudly at 1am every night. I also mentioned the constant stream people going in and out of their apartment loudly (which is directly across from the ‘ice cube glass’ wall, so I’m constantly distracted by it), multiple times, at all hours of the day from dawn until midnight, causing me to speculate how many people actually live there. I also mentioned that their guests occasionally peer in my glass wall/window, sometimes even putting their hands up to block the side glare. Into my apartment! They can’t see anything, even with the lights on, except shapes, but I feel kind of skeeved by that! I told her that other than that one interaction, I’d never spoken with them and didn’t want to start a feud with my neighbors, but that I wouldn’t stand for fabrications and again, “if we’re going to go there”, then I would also no longer stand for morons peering into my apartment.
So I was just climbing the stairs to my apartment and while on the second landing, I heard a bunch of people coming down from the third floor, where I was heading. I paused politely to wait for them to come down so there wouldn’t be a traffic jam.
I hear them talking and one of the women says REALLY snidely, “Oh my GOD, someone keeps their water bottles on their front porch? How TACKY!”, then they all start filing down the stairs. When they see me, they all say excuse me cordially and one woman was extra sweet — Texas style. Meaning, covered in bullshit, bless her heart.
I smiled back and said jovially, “Oh, it’s no problem. I’m just the woman with the tacky water bottles on her porch.”
They looked uncomfortable and kept walking. But at the bottom of the stairs, I heard one of the women exclaim, “I am SO embarrassed.”
Good, lady. If you’re going to talk shit, keep your voice down or be prepared to be called on it. They’re 5 gallon bottles of delivered spring water, where do you suggest I keep them? Those capris you’re sporting are tacky, but you don’t hear me complaining.
I feel a little bad for firing back and embarrassing her in front of her friends — I could have let it go. But… I didn’t.
No high road for me today I guess. Given the expression on their faces, the low road is more scenic.
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