Meeting new people

There are so many ways to start over, so many areas in which Leonard and I will be starting from scratch. I realize, for example, that I may have to tone down my dark sense of humor until people get to know me. Until they realize that I'm a ball of rainbows and unicorns. It's only hilarious if people know how kind I truly am.

But another issue has occurred to me as of late. Namely my name. Leonard's been dealing with this for a while. Over half the people in his life, including close friends & family, refer to him by his middle name: Joe (Joseph). Every time he starts over, starts at a new job or a new theatre, he has to decide what to go by.

But with my unique name, I find myself in a quandary. In the past I had it down. Pronounce the Mai like Mai Tai. Spelled like Email, but with the e at the end. Rhymes with Smiley, yes, it does fit, doesn't it, ha ha. Now though, I have a simple yet sincere question.

In this post Miley Cyrus world, what is the easiest way for me to introduce myself?

The blog that was two days in the making

Let's start with the simple piece of information, then cover how this changes so many of our plans.

WE GOT AN APARTMENT!!!

On Wednesday Leonard made it his mission to find us a place to live. I sent him craigslist listing after craigslist listing, filtering through so he only had to deal with ones that were pet friendly and within our budget. All my work was in vain it seems, because a few panic attacks later, Leonard found an apartment through another method.

Student housing.

He'd looked into student housing when he was first accepted to San Francisco State, the pricing for a one bedroom was over our budget. Long story short, yesterday he learned that was the price for a delux one bedroom. The standard one bedroom falls well into our budget.

Amazing, right?

Here's the hiccup. It's available on January 13th.

But we already gave our notice for our current apartment. I asked to start at my new job on January 9th.

Here's where it gets interesting.

Current landlord says no problem. We can stay an extra two weeks. My transfer request hadn't been processed yet, so while my general manager was apologetic, I was thrilled. I requested to start at the end of January. This also frees me up to work with my old job at the Fancy Foods show.

It fell into place surprisingly well.

I'm really excited about student housing. I'm excited to live among people who are academically minded, and to have neighbors who will (hopefully) want to know us. It's on the sixth floor, with a view.



So the bad news is we're here two weeks longer. The good news is, we're here two weeks longer!

And we have a place to live. A kind of awesome place to live.

Did I mention it's a one bedroom? And within our budget?

The goodbyes are quicker now

I expected to feel more.

It’s my last day at my day job. I haven’t worked here long, maybe six months, but the staff warmed up to me easily. This I think has less to do with my sunny personality and more to do with the fact that it’s a new company. Sure everyone had seniority on me, but in some cases it was only three weeks. I was an important part of the system within weeks, and my voice was always welcome.

Maybe it’s because this isn’t goodbye, not yet. The holiday party is on Thursday. I’m facebook friends with the bulk of my peers, and I’ll be working with the company in a few short weeks at the Fancy Foods Show. Maybe it’s the result of last night’s stress caused insomnia.

Or maybe it’s because Claire and I are already saying goodbye the only way that we know how; publicly and through the written word.

Two weeks ago, we moved into this new office space. I said goodbye to my own office and moved into a temporary shared office. I said goodbye to the dirty warehouse, and moved into a warm, welcoming building.

I knew from the get-go that this was a temporary situation. Not just this office, but the job as a whole. I knew Leonard was applying up North, and I knew that I wanted to start a new life. I had no reason to start working here other than that little voice in my head saying give it a try,

What did this job bring me, aside from a lovely resume booster and day after day with my BFF? Simple: this job reminded me that I have a lot to offer. That there's more to me than meets the eye, and that my creativity is a gift.

How is it already over?

A Reply of Sorts

Today my best friend posted a heartbreaking blog about how she's going to miss me. And as I cry through this entry, I tell myself I have to be strong. I have to get through the next twelve days.

Twelve days.

But here's the thing Claire. Anyone who has heard you sing knows that you put me (and the rest of the world) to shame with your voice. But this sappy blogging thing? That's my job. You can be sad, and sappy, and bring tears to my eyes all you want. But at the end of the day, we both know the truth. You're pushing me to be better.

Because you believe in me. Even when I'm so scared, you believe in me.

What's even more petrifying is that you're not alone in this. So many of my dear friends and family are telling me that things are going to be wonderful for me. That Leonard and I will find a fabulous home, that we'll have so much fun, that we belong up there. That you'll miss me, but that you're so SO happy for me.

Because the truth, the gut wrenching truth is that I'm terrified.

I didn't have a lot of friends growing up. This isn't a secret to most. Until you met me Claire I didn't have a lot to offer. Then somehow I took the stage in a bit role, and formed relationships that would last a lifetime. I moved from theatre to theatre, and collected more people along the way. For every person I lost, two more took their place. And while I'm closer to some than others, there's no doubt that I've made some amazing connections.

Friends who want the best for me, even when it means saying goodbye. Friends who find a way to spend time with me, even when time and distance stand in our way. Friends who don't understand why I'm so scared. Friends who think so highly of me, that they truly believe I'll find my place in this new city. That the people of San Francisco will see the amazing woman that they believe I am.

I wish that I could believe in myself the way that some of you believe in me.

So thank you Claire, for curing this blogger block. For opening up the flood gates and reminding me that there's so much more going on in my soul. So much that I want to say to you, to others. So many words that I can't form, because once they're spoken that's it. I'm really leaving.

I want to leave. But like Linus, I'm reluctant to part with the security blanket of friendship. Petrified to move away from the women who know me better than I know myself at times.

A shocking realization

I'd meant to post something sappy and sentimental. A tribute to the holiday traditions that I've participated in. A love note to the friends and family who have made my final month memorable. Then I looked at the calender.

We leave in two weeks.

Oh crap.

Two weeks.

We don't have a place to live. I haven't received confirmation that my job is lined up. We're nowhere close to packed. We don't have nearly enough in savings.

Crap, crap, crap.

I'm sure things will work themselves out, I really believe that. Leonard is going up tomorrow, and he's going to find us a place to live while he's there. I'll be shocked if my transfer request doesn't go through. Packing won't take two full weeks.

But seriously, where did the time go?

Very Important Issues

Every couple has that subject where they just agree to disagree; the issue that can never be resolved. For some it’s politics. Others, religion. Others still might argue over their sports team loyalties, or whether they use a Mac or PC. Leonard and I don’t have those issues. Our political and religious views are similar enough, we use the electronics we can afford, and I’m the only sports fan in our household. No, our disagreement is a bit different than those.

Pizza.

Some of the issues we’ve managed to come to terms with. Sure he’d prefer meat pizza, and my all-time favorite is a simple extra cheese pizza, but we have a variety of toppings that we agree on. And if the price is right, we’re not above getting personalized pizzas and enjoying leftovers for a few days. But there’s one issue we cannot agree on, one area where neither of us will give in.

Who has the best pizza in Orange County?

Believe it or not, we manage to agree on quite a few aspects of this issue. We like the same style of pizza; served in a cardboard box, crust thicker than New York, but thinner than Chicago. We even agree on the city with the best pizza, down to the zip code. 92626. Some of you will know that zip code immediately, and will already be thinking of your favorite pizza in Costa Mesa. And some of you, particularly my family members, will agree with me.

Nick’s.

This was the pizza of my childhood. Back then it was a little hole in the wall, barely worth mentioning except for the fact that the pizza tasting a-freaking-mazing. I was a kid, I didn’t appreciate how good it was. Then I went back as an adult. Now it’s a “Restorante Italiano” with a full menu of Italian treats. I stick with the pizza.

On Friday night, Leonard and I split a mushroom and garlic pizza.

I don’t want to say goodbye to this pizza. I want it tonight. I want it this weekend. I want to kick myself for all the nights I deferred to Leonard, and allowed him to pick the pizzeria.

Like I said, we don’t disagree completely. I agree that his favorite pizza is delicious, and he quite enjoys Nick’s.

But seriously? Will San Francisco pizza compare?

It's sure going to be fun finding out!

(pictured below - our actual pizza from Friday night)

A Holiday Tradition

I was planning to post about my storage unit tonight, about how it's empty and that chapter of the moving process had ended.

Then I saw this.

Regular readers might be familiar with my entry about saying goodbye to my favorite spots. About the fact that I've grown up in Orange County, and so many of my memories are tied into this area.

Especially the Snoopy House.

I was in Kindergarten the first time my mother and I discovered the Snoopy House. Maybe pre-school. We were driving home, and suddenly our eyes drifted to this house on an ordinary corner covered in Peanuts decorations. No, I know what you're thinking. What are a few decorations? But this was something special. Large, wooden, moving displays. Snoopy, Charlie Brown and their friends ice skated, and played in the band. Santa would come for an entire week. This was where I went to visit Santa, no department stores for me.

I went every year. I went throughout my childhood, my teenage years, and well into adulthood. I introduced my friends to the house, and made special trips with my mother. I wrote in the guest book, thanking them for years of memories. I drank apple cider on the lawn, smiled at the next generation of children, and tried to think of children I could introduce this wonderful tradition to.

And now it's gone.

Year after year I would drive by, praying that it would still be there. And now it won't be.

Goodbye Snoopy House. Thank you for being a part of my holiday tradition for so long.

All Shook Up

Tonight I said goodbye to the books. Dropped them off with tears in my eyes. In an effort to improve my mood, Leonard and I decided to cross an item off of our Orange County Bucket List.

Parking isn't great in our neighborhood. I'm sure that after we move to the city, we'll look back on our situation fondly, but for now let's just say this. It stinks. The worst is every other Monday, or as I like to call them, Hell Monday. Street sweeping severely limits parking a reasonable distance to the apartment, and often we're forced to park nearly a mile away. Usually in the same spot, in front of a house that features a life sized Elvis statue.

Not too far from our apartment, there's a small strip of old town Garden Grove, maybe a dozen businesses in total. One of these is a restaurant that has a similar Elvis statue. Azteca Mexican Restaurant.

I'm not sure what I was expecting, but this certainly wasn't it. Elvis was everywhere. We sat in the booth under the Blue Hawaii poster (naturally). We watched Elvis movies, listened to Elvis music, and looked at Elvis pictures. Pictures covered not only the walls, but the ceiling above us.

After years and years of parking by one Elvis statue, and driving by the restaurant, it was nice to see what Azteca was all about. It was a destination worthy of the bucket list, and a must see for any Orange County Elvis fan.

Goodbye to my Youth (Further Tales from the Storage Unit)

This weekend I finally tackled the most difficult part of the storage unit. The boxes that I didn’t want to sort through because I harbored a not so secret desire to find a way to keep these items.

I’m talking, of course, about my books.

This isn’t my entire book collection. This doesn’t even have a single book that I read after 2006 (save one or two that I had another copy of.) No, these are the books that I held close in my lonely youth. The books that I read before I was old enough and years after I passed the target demographic. Growing up, these were my friends.

Even at thirty, I can tell you all about Claudia Kishi and Dawn Schaffer. I not only know the differences between the Wakefield twins, but I can tell you about their family history. What, you were expecting Narnia? No, my childhood tastes weren’t as classic as all that. I spent years wishing that I lived in Stoneybrook, Sweet Valley or Sunset Island. I craved friendships as tight as those I read about in books, and took fashion cues from their pages. Red cowboy boots? Samantha Bridges, from Sunset Island. My sixth grade perm? Stacy McGill, fashionista of The Baby-Sitters Club. All the leopard print? Actually, I have no idea who inspired that.

And now they’re gone. The entire Freshman Dorm series. Gone. The bulk of The Baby-Sitters Club, a collection I maintained well into adulthood. Gone. The entire Sunset Island series, save my book autographed by author Cherie Bennett. Gone. My Sweet Valley collection, including Sweet Valley Kids, Sweet Valley Twins, The Unicorn Club, Sweet Valley High, Sweet Valley Senior Year and Sweet Valley University. Gone, gone and gone. All the random little standalone books, the Fear Streets, the Christopher Pikes. Gone.

Eleven boxes of books. Each box containing thirty to fifty books.

As the tears rolled down my face, I finally understood e-readers. I mean, there’s no way I could re-read every one of these books. But just the idea that I could. That I could still check in with my old friends and see how they’re doing. That I could remember when I thought they knew so much, and realize how young and stupid they were.

In a way the rest of packing should be easy. Getting rid of these books hurt. I knew that it would, but hell.

So many memories. Of racing to the bookstore for the latest in the series. Of finding an old special that I didn’t have in a thrift store. Of staying up late on vacation, desperate to know what would happen next. I remember flights to Hawaii, nights in Big Bear, mornings in Oceanside. I remember the discovery of a new series, meeting the characters for the first time. I remember at seventeen, pretending I was buying these books for a younger relative. Once upon a time, it wasn’t cool for adults to read young adult novels.

These books don’t exist anymore. In twenty years, when I have both money and room to spare, I can’t just go out and buy them again. This is it.

This is goodbye.

God I’m a nerd.

Tales of the Storage Unit

My storage unit is almost cleared out. I've gotten rid of so many things that I never wanted to get rid of, and kept so many wild card items. A pillow I couldn't part with. Braveheart Lion, who as a little girl, I believed would make me brave and cure my fear of the dark. He didn't. The little stuffed dog that a customer bought me my first day on my first job, a random act of kindness that still touches my heart.

But what has surprised me the most is the therapeutic action of clearing out memories. Of saying goodbye to those who hurt me in the past. Finding a printed out instant message conversation between myself and an ex, and coming to the simultaneous realization that he treated me like dirt, and that he did care about me. I read it, then ripped it into little pieces, throwing it, and his hold over me, away. I found cards from friends who've since left my life, and whispered thank you for the memories, as I threw the painful reminders away. I found letters from men who hurt me so long ago, and I rip them up, hoping to be free of the burdens of the past. I find pictures of myself looking so happy alongside those who would later betray me. I pray they never hurt another the way I was hurt, and, you guessed it, those pictures get torn in two. Me on one side, scum on the other.

But perhaps more amazing (and certainly happier), were all the good memories that I found mixed in with the bad. Pictures from school dances, old plays, field trips; all with people that in another lifetime I called friends. When I look back on my younger years, I always feel that I was alone, but I really wasn't. My close friends may have been people I found as an adult, but I had my niche growing up. I had people I sat with at recess. Boys and girls I took pictures with at the dances. There's a great picture of Sadie Hawkins, either Sophomore or Junior year. When I find a scanner, that's going on facebook. I'll give you a preview: blonde Maile with pigtails and red cowboy boots.

I found pieces of paper that embarrassed me. Made me cringe for the awkward preteen I once was. I found a diary from when I was about ten, with entries dedicated to a boy I'd since forgotten all about. I wasn't always a writer; that diary was obviously the work of a young child. I found my diary from my first week of college. An insecure book wondering why these people even liked me, and marveling over the fact that I had no idea which friendships would stick. One of the girls mentioned in that book is still a friend, albeit through facebook and the occasional email.

And now at thirty, on the brink of a new life, I say goodbye to these memories. To the painful, to the joyous, and to the humiliating. I remember that we've all been hurt by those we trust, that we've all been burned. I tell myself not to shortchange friendships from the past, even if they're not as close as they once were. Even if they've faded away completely. I laugh at my embarrassments, or at least try to, and tell myself that everyone has memories that make them cringe.

I've gotten rid of more than I want to, and yet somehow I'm keeping more than I expected. I'm keeping yearbooks, and pictures, and silly little gifts that make me smile. I'm keeping the reminders that I've never been alone, not truly, and that once upon a time, I believed I could do anything I set my mind to.

The Apartment Search Continues

Apartment hunting has gotten real.

I’ve been on craigslist every day, save that lovely week I went without Internet, but until now most of the units I’ve looked at have been hypothetical. Price point, amenities and neighborhood research on apartments that are available well before our desired move in date. And while most of the ads listed are still looking for December tenants, people are starting to post their January vacancies.

We’ve looked seriously into one apartment community, one that I have very mixed feelings about. Otherwise it’s craigslist, craigslist and word of mouth. Will word of mouth be our eleventh hour save?

I don’t know.

What I do know is that Leonard and I have very different ideal areas. His school and my restaurant are about twenty minutes from one another. Naturally we’d both prefer to be close to our own place of interest. I argue that Union Square is a far more fascinating part of the city, but that’s neither here nor there.

Because remember, at this point it’s not about being picky. It’s about finding somewhere that will take the four of us in.

And hopefully, not going broke during the process.

I need to go shopping

As the weather is cooling down in sunny Southern California, one thing has become abundantly clear to me. I am in no way prepared to live in a colder part of the state. I’m not talking about my wimpy Southern Californian tolerance; I did fine my year in Oregon. No, I’m talking about being prepared for cold weather in the way that counts.

My clothes.

Case in point. It’s currently a cloudy 58 degrees.

My current wardrobe is as follows:

• One zip up black sweater – A sweater that has served me well on previous trips to San Francisco. This sweater will likely get a lot of use.
• A pair of black pants – Again, no problem. These pants will work fine in San Francisco.
• A purple cotton t-shirt – Fine for a San Francisco summer (in fact, given the slightly peasant cut, it will probably help with the artsy image I hope to cultivate), but long sleeves might suit me better for the winter.
• A pair of sandals – This is the piece of my wardrobe that I’m most worried about. My shoes. I dislike socks, and 95% of my current socks are ugly, white, and used primarily to go with my ugly, white, restaurant shoes. I don’t have comfortable walking shoes, and even my every day ankle boots have recently fallen out of commission.

What do I need? I need sweaters. I need long sleeved tops. I need clothes that I can layer, clothes where the bottom layer is still warm and cozy. I could use some new socks, a new scarf, some gloves, and maybe some cute new hats. (I like hats – fun fact, I originally typed “I like hates”). I need shoes, pairs and pairs of shoes that are cute, comfortable and warm.

And somehow, I have to find things that I like, because there’s no way that I’m going to have room for even more clothes that I’ll never wear.

Side note, I have a lot of clothes that are getting donated to Goodwill this month. Why am I such a clothes packrat?

What I'm leaving behind

I’ve lived in the same general area my entire life. My apartment is about five minutes from the shop that my grandfather owned in my youth. A shop that I spent many Saturdays at when my mother took over the business. My childhood home isn’t much farther. Just out of the way enough that I’m not there every week, walking through Back Bay and reminiscing.

My old childhood walk. There’s another item.

For a while, Leonard and I have been composing an Orange County bucket list, if you will. Though we didn’t meet until our adult lives, the two of us grew up a town apart. Our schools were in the same distract; in fact I went to summer school at his high school twice. (Both times so that I could take extra electives, why should I have to choose between drama and band? I could be double the geek!) That said there are many things, many Orange County staples that neither of us have done. We’ve never been to Medieval Times, for example.

But lately, there’s something even more pressing than the Orange County Bucket List weighing at my soul. That is all of my favorite spots that I’ll be saying goodbye to. All the restaurants that I love (and there are more than a few!). Taking the ferry to Balboa, just because. South Coast Plaza and Fashion Island during the holidays. The Snoopy House. All my favorite little shops, the places that I go to when I’m in the neighborhood, even if I don’t have any money.

Walking down the Newport pier. That’ll be one of our final nights, I’m calling it now. Dinner at Charlie’s Chili, then walking down the pier while I try desperately not to cry. Who are we kidding? I’ll cry.

I’m so excited to move. And I know that I’ll be making new memories, discovering new restaurants. New little shops. New places to walk and smile. That’s what this blog will become, what you’ll all read about in about two months.

But somehow, in between packing, working two jobs, and saying goodbye to my loved ones, I have to find opportunities to say goodbye to my favorite places. I don’t want to miss out on my last holiday season in Orange County, because I’m working so hard to prepare for my first year in San Francisco.

Goodbye Friends (part one)

This weekend we experienced what was, I believe, the first of many going away parties. That was not the party’s intention, and I was hardly the guest of honor, but it struck me during the event that the goodbyes had officially begun.

On Saturday we celebrated Leonard’s birthday. The invite list was extensive, with Leonard inviting new friends, as well as old. The crowd was a blend of theatre people, and some of Leonard’s oldest friends. Old in terms of longevity, not age. I’m not making a crack at Leonard’s age (for once.) I know, since when have I resisted a cheap joke at his expense? Let’s just say that since turning 30, I’ve decided to lay off the age related humor. At least until his 40^th. Then all bets are off.

Right. Birthday party.

Throughout the evening, there were so many conversations that included the phrase “I hope I get to see you before we leave.” One of my dearest friends pulled me aside so that she could start planning a going away party. Others made promises to come up and visit. For some, this was it. Have a safe drive, Leonard and Maile. I’ll see you on facebook.

But the most heart pulling moments came at the end of the evening. As the party came to a close, the crowd consisted of those who went to high school with Leonard. The only outsiders were those of us who were connected to the group through our partner. The ones who were members of their Estancia family by extension. These people grew up together, and seeing Leonard off was simply another sign at how much they’ve grown.

It was touching to witness these goodbyes, and terrifying all at once.

55 more days.

Holy crap.