Well, after stuffing a small uhaul sized amount of possesions into a mediumish clown car I was on my way to the shining gates of the land the people of the north call Minneapolis. A short, but interesting car ride that involved blinding sun glare, a broken GPS and a small bladder on a big boy that caused several off road bathroom breaks (I have no dignity). I have decided to move to Minneapolis a week early in order to get myself settled and ready for what has so far been a surreal experience. As I finally pulled up to the house (and by I, I mean Alex Attardo and Katie Carney packed in the clown car and close by my side) I found myself in a quant and lively neighborhood. (This first impression would further stifle my next one by a longshot) As I glided through both of the bolted doors I found myself with no lack of company: The dolls, the angels, the scarecrow and the cat. Lucky for me my bladder was so full that I was just about to jolt towards the litter box when my new landlady kindly pointed me towards the bathroom. . .complete with angel night light near the sink (I was shocked to say the least). After washing my hands, and passing the cat as he took his spot in the bathroom, I took in the treasures that surrounded me. Antique's Road Show's wet dream. Wall to Wall porcelain angels ranging in size, color and condition. I would say there are around 5 to 486,673,124 of God's holy choir craming up space in the wooden display shelf. As I felt a few pairs of eyes stairing at me from the back, I assumed my two road companions were stairing with the same general look of horror, but alas they had already made a quick exit to begin the unloading phase. What met my eyes with terror were two porcelain dolls who resembled Joan Crawford and Bette Davis in "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?" They were even set up in a similar pose to the scene where Bette is taping Joan to the bed frame. My glare could only be defered by the presence of a small pumkin-headed scarecrow filling a spot in a dining room chair.
I knew in that instant that I was in a home away from home. After being left to fend for myself, I decided to unpack. The room is small, hot, and I have a giant pipe in the corner that provides me with water trickling ambiance every time my upstairs neighbor decideds to refresh his bladder. Fortunatly for me, I have supreme interior design skills, and have transformed this sewage pipe into a fountaine of overflowing scarves. One of my many attempts to shine a small portion of my personality onto the hearts of my new feline and porcelain house mates. I feel too faint from packing to go on with the description of my new, humble abode, but I am sure to violate this page once more with a final checklist. The rent is cheap, and I feel that I am truly living on my own and survivng off the land around me. I wonder if the pioneers felt this way?
-Anxious and Waiting
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