Penultimate is one of my favorite words. It’s just a highfalutin way of saying second to last. It’s like one of those things that, if you didn’t know exactly what the word was, you felt had to exist. So I try to use it every chance I get. But I’m also that weirdo who said “acrimonious” during a casual phone call yesterday. (Acrimonious was the right word. What was I supposed to say, bitter?)
Anyway, as the title states, this is the ultimate penultimate day in my apartment. Saturday is my last full Saturday in this apartment. It album version of this song, called Penultimo, has been in my head for all of these penultimate days. I’m down to packing everything except for the stuff I’ll need for the next seven days. Our lease actually is up on May 15, so we’ll probably grab some things over the course of the first full week in May, but Saturday night will mark the end nights in this apartment.
I tolerated living here for a very long time, but things got progressively worse. Again, there’s too much to list here. Never mind that I have unlimited space.
It’s been a while since I’ve been champing at the bit to get out of a place. I mean, my Petersburg apartment was probably the worst. My Manchester apartment wouldn’t have been the second worst but the new owners of the building made it awful so all of the tenants moved out. So, yeah, I don’t think I’ve been this ready to get out of a place since 2007.
I’m so ready to leave, I’ve already switched my address on everything (although I’ve read that doing it two weeks in advance is a good practice). This has come in handy because half of my cloth mask order got sent back for being “undeliverable.” Never mind that it was one order in two packages.
I had the second half resent to the new house instead of to my apartment. I’m just hoping it doesn’t get lost in the shuffle of putting the appliances back in and putting the finishing touches on the house because I don’t want to go over there to get it this weekend. Since I can’t take a week off to move like I intended, this probably is the final weekend where I’m not going between the two places until about the 15th.
After that, I hope it’s a long time before I’m counting down the days before I move.
Petersburg: 2006-2007. Hopewell 2007-2008. First place in Richmond: 2009. Chimborazo: 2009-2012 (excluding six months in North Carolina). First place in Charlottesville: 2012-2015. Third place in Richmond: 2015-2016. Fourth place in Richmond: 2016-2018. This dump: 2018-2020. I’ve never intended to spend such a short time in any of these places.
I began to fear for my safety in Petersburg. Hopewell turned into a bad situation. The first place in Richmond was understood to be temporary. When it came to Church Hill, all good things had to come to an end. In a different scenario, we eventually would have moved to another place in Charlottesville if we never went back to Richmond. We effectively got pushed out of our first apartment in Richmond by the building’s new owners. I was compelled to return to Charlottesville, so we waved goodbye to our dated, but fancy, apartment with a fancy address.
It’s gotten to the point that I have to describe what’s been wrong with this place in person. (Well, at this point, over the phone or in a Google Hangout.) If I wanted real booze yet, I’d have champagne on our first night.
Anyway, one thing that has come from all of this moving has been an obsession with packing. I start early. I look at schematics. I measure everything. For this move, I got a storage unit because I have some fraternity materials and, because our new place is about 300 square feet smaller than this apartment, I wasn’t sure some other things would fit. Especially since the house will be 400 feet smaller than this apartment when we move in.
I’m already making a short story long. The landlord is building an 100-square-foot addition to our house. We’re getting a discount during that period because we’ll be without a laundry room, half bath, closet and a small loft until perhaps the end of June
But for roughly the same price as this apartment, we’ll be back in city limits in a fully restored 100-year-old house. I got to take a look at the work so far and take some measurements. Below are some photos I took on Saturday. They’re a lot further along than the pictures show. After the final painting, all they have to do is install the ceiling and wall fixtures. Then the floor crew is coming in the week of the 20th and the appliances go back in once the floor is ready and the work shifts to the addition.
The measurements let me know that it will be a little cozy, but our stuff is going to fit. Our stuff will fit better when the back room is ready, but it’ll do for now. Photos with captions below.
I expect we’ll be there until we have a kid and it’s time for that kid to have a room of their own. (I presume a loft is no place for a toddler.) It’s a deep lot, though, so perhaps I will sell my mom’s house, finish my book, buy this house and add yet another addition to this aged edifice. All I know is that I’m reaching the point where I’m getting tired of moving.
I don’t need to tell you things have been intense since my last post. We learned COVID-19 was a lot worse than we expected, far worse, we went into a virtual lockdown and there is a lot about it that we actually don’t know, hence the lockdown.
And, since I run a newsroom, my job got crazy.
Friday was the first time in a while that I wasn’t in front of my computer for more than 12 hours. This weekend was the first time I truly relaxed since early last month. Monday went a little too long, but I called it quits early today. I had to. This is going to be a marathon, not a sprint, and if we don’t pace ourselves, this newsroom won’t make it to the finish line.
In other news, one bit of uncertainty has been resolved: We signed the lease on our new home. Some of you know of the problems I’ve had in this apartment and the complex. Some of you know all of the problems. Some of you probably think I liked it here because I haven’t said an awful lot and we stayed for two years. Well, a lot of things happened and we regretted renewing the lease less than a week after renewing the lease.
We’re heading back into city limits and, if you don’t count the six months in North Carolina, this will be the first time I’ve been in a fully detached house since early 2009. There’s a driveway and a yard and a small stream in the backyard and I’m a bit excited. I’ll be a mile away from work, so I could take the bus or walk (if we get to a point where we can return to our office with some regularity).
It’s smaller than our apartment, but our apartment has a lot of wasted space and I think we can make it work. If not, I have a small storage unit and a lot of things I need but don’t need. It’s restored and it’s getting an addition with a laundry room, small loft and a half bathroom. It has a clawfoot tub. It’s 95 years old. It has a name. I gave my mom’s house a fake name based on the technical name of the subdivision. This house actually is called something.
Again, I’m excited. Ever since we did the first walk through, I’ve been estimating in my head where things would go and hoping certain things would fit. I have memories of a place I haven’t lived in yet. I’m sure there’s a long German word for that.
But there’s still so much uncertainty. SARS-CoV-2 is stalking our streets. I haven’t moved my car since April 1, when I picked up dinner from the fantastic C&O Restaurant (try the Steak Chinoise; you’ll thank me later). I had planned to see my mom on March 13. I haven’t seen her since December. I ordered some cloth masks, which also means I shaved my beard of two years because I care enough about my fellow humans.
Back in the late 1980s and, I think, a good bit into the early ’90s, the Disney Channel was a premium network on cable. Back then, I was one of the few people in my peer group that not only had cable but also the Disney Channel. (My mom eventually canceled it, so I went without it sometime around when Britney Spears A LOT of other now very famous people were on the final seasons of The Mickey Mouse Club in 1993/4.)
Apparently, it was complete rarity to have cable back then because I went to college and people who grew up in Northern Virginia also didn’t really have the Disney Channel. So, I spent a lot of my life not running into anyone who remembered the cartoon The Raccoons. It was too the point that I thought I was as crazy as Mandy, who for the longest time was the only person who remembered the show Small Wonder.
Over the years, I’ve forgotten a lot about what The Raccoons was about, but what stuck with me was the music. It wasn’t hokey cartoon music. They created real songs, kinda like how there’s a whole entire Chip ‘n Dale Rescue Rangers theme song. That honestly is one of my favorite songs because of the sax solo.
Anyway, the closing theme for The Raccoons stuck in my head despite only about 1:24 of it playing at the most as the credits rolled. When the internet became ubiquitous, I spent entirely too much time trying to prove that the cartoon about raccoons attempting to save the Evergreen Forest from a greedy, capitalist aardvark existed. And trying to hear Run with Us again. Eventually, several low-quality full versions showed up on YouTube, along with the music video edit.
Then I discovered that there was an out-of-print album by Lisa Lougheed with the song and others from the cartoon. at the time, I 1) did not have a record player and 2) I was too broke post-college to buy both a record player and an out-of-print album.
And then it was reissued recently. And I bought it.
When I first the two tracks after the theme song, I instantly remembered them. And I had forgotten how much I liked Stop the Clock.
My memories begin in 1986, and a lot of the things I retained were songs. I think it’s why I love ’80s music so much. It takes me back to when I was little and my mom’s house was a hub of activity. It was still Grandma’s house then. As she was the matriarch, it was home base for everyone. Cousins came and went, meals were made, boomboxes blasted, parties were thrown. Even to this day, my mom’s house is where everyone feels welcome. The front door is open during daylight hours and the porch light stays on all night. (There was an era when keeping it on meant it was OK to ring the doorbell and not to dissuade you from breaking in.)
How everything ’80s makes me feel is why, I’m already thinking about what to do with that house. At the very least, I must renovate it and rent it out so it fills a new family with joy the way it did for the descendants of William and Armentress Terry. Hopefully, some kid in the late 2030s will have a youth full of excitement and song there and think back fondly to it in 2070.
I voted, because has Virginia has open primaries and my overall political leanings are none of your business. I’ve only missed one opportunity to vote in my entire life, and I’ll forever feel guilty about that. My grandparents had to pay poll taxes and recite the preamble of the Constitution. I don’t care if the only race is for concession stand operator and it’s uncontested. I must vote.
Then I went to work. While I was wrapping things up, I made up my mind to do something, and I kept going because I didn’t know whether I would back out if I stopped. That something was something I brought up on the 29th. I said I was toying with the idea of getting a nose ring.
In that post on the 29th, I wondered if I were going through some sort of crisis. I’m now retracting that statement. I’m now thinking of this being a continuation of the trajectory I was on in late 2011. The decisions I’ve made in the past few months alone fee like they were inevitable. I feel like myself again. That only took about eight years.
But back to the the new holenmyhead.
I’m still a little surprised by how much it didn’t hurt. I mean, today was a little breezy, and I could definitely feel that breeze in ways I did not like. Additionally, the jostling from eating a steak tonight was … interesting, but that tenderness will be temporary.
Oh, and like my magnificent beard (I know I’m a little overdue for my semimonthly beard sculpting), my mom hates it. Well, she didn’t explicitly say so because my nephew, who is home for spring break (because spring break at CNU is before the vernal equinox for some reason), is bleaching his hair in the bathroom sink tonight.
“I don’t know what to do with you boys,” was all she said.
I bought a pleather jacket. It partially was on a whim. I went to a conference a few weeks ago in North Carolina, and the weather was too warm for a coat and too cold for a blazer. Usually, I go add another layer and a scarf and use my blazers as jackets, but the temperatures also were such that I would rapidly swing from being cold and hot throughout the course of the day.
I could have worn the fabric jacket I already own but I don’t wear it in formal settings anymore. Like (until recently) the inside of my car and nearly everything I own that is pure black, that jacket is completely covered in Missy’s hair, and no amount of anything changes that.
I once cleaned out the dryer lint trap and it was 90% dog hair. And there still was dog hair embedded in some of my clothing. I don’t know how she isn’t bald.
But I digress.
Anyway, as you can see, I quickly added a button a pin and a No BS! Brass-styled guitar pick. I’ve turned some heads since this is a slight departure from me being constantly dressed as a fancy gentleman. But I also almost exclusively wear Converses now. And now I own technically three pairs of jeans and three pairs of shorts.
I’ve think I’ve been going through a crisis of some sorts. I kinda want a nose piercing and that seems even more absurd now that I’ve written it out for the first time.
I’m not saying a correlation equals a equal causation, but pleather and a possible nose ring are coming up during my experimentation with not drinking. Saturday is the 43rd day since I’ve had alcohol. I’ve decided that I’m not going to have any booze until I want some booze, and I haven’t yet. The occasional nonalcoholic beers I’ve had have been good in inducing a placebo effect of sorts. My subconscious applauds my liver for doing a great job of processing alcohol quickly whenever I have at least two and, as expected, nothing happens.
I, uh, don’t know if you know this about me, but I really, really love driving. Although having friends or other loved ones in the cabin with me is enjoyable, my favorite driving is when I’m by myself on an open road. It’s when I think things through and relax. I either put on a playlist of truly background music or the sounds of the engine that the automakers of this decade have allowed the driver to hear.
On Sunday, I headed down to Hampton. My mother and mother-in-law neither will confirm nor deny that they coordinated me coming back down to pick up Christmas presents after we just were there for Thanksgiving. Additionally, I used my last vacation day to take my mom to the record room of the circuit court clerk’s office. I totally forgot the main thing I went in there for, but she at least got to find what she was looking for.
But that was Monday. Sunday night was The Drive.
The second time I ever went to Virginia Beach was in 2001. The first time was in 1992 when I was about to have my first unsuccessful surgery to stop snoring. Never mind that my house is only about 30 miles from the Oceanfront. Never mind that I had extensive trips throughout my life in the other six cities. It just always had this feeling of being aaaalllll the way over there and not offering anything I could get from the other six cities, like a beach or stores.
Lately ― I think because I’ve been away from the Atlantic Coastal Plain ― I’ve also been taking walks alone on the beach. So I set out to the one beach in Hampton Roads that I knew for certain did not close at night.
I took the “long way” to the beach. After I crossed the Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel, I immediately got off and took Ocean View Avenue/Shore Drive to Atlantic Avenue.
I passed Sarah Constant Beach in Norfolk. It was the first stop on the last trip my father and I had together on my last day of eighth grade in 1997. I remembered that someone was getting baptized in the Chesapeake Bay that day. In 2003, I met someone who mentioned getting baptized at Sarah Constant Beach in June 1997. There was a point in my life when I had a lot of coincidences like that.
I stopped at 33rd Street, because symbolism, and headed to the Atlantic Ocean. I was near the Neptune statue, but that wasn’t on purpose.
I love our beaches in the off season because they’re so quiet. Growing up, I grew to hate the summer tourism season because the roads became more clogged and the beaches full to the point that most request to go were turned down or turned into regret upon arrival.
Then Labor Day comes and goes. The tourists go away but it’s still warm enough to enjoy things. I have countless memories of the beach in those waning warm days. In high school and into college, there also was overnight camping near Grandview Beach at a spot we called The Land Behind the Tree.
Seeing the beach this late in the year was new for me. I encountered only nine people. Atlantic Avenue was dormant.
I took a slightly circuitous route home. I don’t like going back the way I came whenever I take “quick” trips, so my goal was to reach Interstate 664. That meant I had the opportunity to hit all seven cities, and I really wanted to go to Chesapeake. The family of maternal grandmother’s father goes back to at least 1819 in Norfolk County, which largely became the city of Chesapeake. Additionally, I’ve always been fascinated with the South Norfolk neighborhood in Chesapeake. It once was a separate city and then merged with the county to become the current city. It’s the only truly urban-looking part of the municipality.
I cruised down Virginia Beach Boulevard back into Norfolk, across the Campostella Bridge, down Wilson Road into Chesapeake and across the new Jordan Bridge into Portsmouth. As I headed up Elm Avenue and Effingham Street, I thought about how many people would have conniptions over me riding around P-Town at night. I quickly headed to the Western Freeway and into Suffolk, reaching my seventh city of the day.
Sunday night in the 757. A rare occasion of traveling for miles and miles without rage-inducing traffic. It was the first time in a very long time that I took a substantial ride across so much of my home. I missed being on well-lit surface streets with speed limits of 45 and 55. I missed being able to go 15 miles in a straight line and still be in an urban area.
There was a point when I pulled over on Virginia Beach Boulevard and got out of the car again. I took it in: the straight, flat roads, the air rich with the scent of land exposed by low tide. As I grow older, my irrational fear of Hampton Roads slipping into the sea sooner rather than later increases. I thought about where in Chesapeake or even Suffolk would be high enough for my liking.
I looked back at the eight lanes of U.S. 58, the road I once was stranded on in 2004. Once the longest U.S. route wholly in one state. The great line on the bottom of the commonwealth I’ve driven all but 98 miles of. In a few hours of me standing there, those eight lanes would be filled to the brim. And I would hate it.
I almost missed living here. Almost.
I disliked being there growing up for myriad reasons. The time and physical distance have softened the memories. I like this feeling of nostalgia I’m starting to have for the place. That circle I drove was a beautiful 78 miles.
Last week was an adventure. For three days we hosted an online news outlet from Mariupol, Ukraine, through a program with the International Research & Exchanges Board (IREX). The name of the outlet, 0629, is the city’s area code. If all goes well, we’ll send a delegation there next year (there’s a chance that we’ll go to the country of Georgia instead or both).
Along with having tours of some cultural sites in the area, the had a tour at CBS19 in the are and we swapped stories about how our newsrooms operate. Their story is a fascinating one because Mariupol was close to the battles of the (ongoing) Russian military intervention in Ukraine. They had some major challenges as they tried to operate as an independent newsroom in an area where that often doesn’t happen and another country actively waged a misinformation campaign.
A lot of things were oddly familiar, and we also learned a lot from them. It also gave me a new perspective on what we did. In trying to avoid having the interpreter translate figures of speech, it made me think really hard about what we do and why.
That brings us to today. We have year-end reviews and we’re looking toward 2020. We’ve done a lot in the past year, especially in the past six months, and we’re looking forward to building on the momentum that we’re starting to build. I’m excited about what we’re setting out to do next year. We’re learning a new journalism model as we go, and I plan on charting the next few months during our Christmas break. It’s been a while since a newsroom truly has been mine, and it’s time to put the pedal down.
I’m glad I sat down and watched The Irishman on Saturday so I have the perfect music for it.
We’re finally caught up. Yes, this post is about what I did nearly a month ago, but we’re caught up. You see, A lot of my life now is work, and I made the decision to not really write about work. But a lot has happened at work and it’s exciting but that’s not what this blog is about. It once was when I didn’t have a proper work-life balance. Since June, when we ended our partnership with my old newspaper, I’ve begun to embrace more or less going off the clock at 6 p.m. and having weekends to do things like enjoy time with my spouse and dog.
The other thing I get to do is actually enjoy my weekends.
Now that I truly have weekends off, I’ve decided to make an effort to see at least one friend once a month. That didn’t happen this month in part because I went to a family member’s funeral.
This post, in a way, came to be because of funerals.
It starts in March 2018.
Yes, 2018. One must look back before going forward.
When Pete’s father died, we decided that we couldn’t start hanging out when weddings and funerals happened. That led to a group outing when Pete came to Fairfax in June to help his mom move. A lot of the people in that outing who vowed to keep in touch were at the July wedding of one of my fraternity brothers. (In April, I “crashed” his bachelor party in West Virginia; I didn’t write about it until May because I was really bad at posting things this year.) The hangout and the wedding led to a formal invite to a birthday party.
There was one little snag: It was near Opal, in damn-near Northern Virginia, the night before I needed to drive to Charlotte to see Phil Collins with one of the far too many people I know named Dan.
Of course I did both. You know me.
It was fun. Butler made a rare exception and DJ’d a friend’s party.
And, per the adage that when there are more than three TauDelts, there is fire, there was fire. We sat back for a while while the other people at the part tried to set a bush on fire (it was to be removed, and burning it was decided as a good start for that landscaping project). Then we hard to show them how it’s done.
After the burnination, I headed home, since it was on the way, and then headed down to the Tarheel State.
I forgot how much I hate driving in North Carolina.
I mean, it wasn’t terrible and I wasn’t truly stuck in traffic, but it’s not a fun place to drive through. And Charlotte is a lot farther than it seems.
I’m not going back to find the original post, but my love of Phil Collins started off as a joke. It turned into me not hesitating to spend a little more than $150, plus gas, to shout, “Take, take me home,” with a crowd more diverse than any given event in Charlottesville.
We almost got floor seats. I’m glad we didn’t because I tiered seating is where it’s at.
That weekend was a fantastic time. I hope the momentum keeps going despite the impending cold weather. Although we’re 30-somethings ( I recently found out that’s AP style, and I’m still shocked), we mostly live close enough together to see each other more often. And I now have the free time to see people again.
This was supposed to be our last full day. Instead, I extended our stay until Friday. I regret nothing.
Oops. I do regret something. On Aug. 28, 2019, I had the worst steak I’ve ever had in my entire life. It wasn’t rancid or anything. It was just cooked in a impressively bad fashion. I nearly spit it out. I ever send food back, but I nearly sent back that garbage. It was not medium rare like I ordered. It tasted like it was steamed. It was tough. It was woefully underseasoned. And don’t get me started on the abomination that was supposed to be pancetta macaroni and cheese. I usually name the places we go in my travel posts, but screw this place. Screw this place so hard. Never mind that all of the seafood was cooked well.
Yep, still angry about that more than a month later.
Anyway, before I was insulted by a dead cow, I got the sunrise over the Atlantic I’ve been looking for. Despite spending more than half of my life within two miles of an east-facing major body of water, I’ve never seen a sunrise over one. I tried once in high school, but we had been up the whole night and were facing the wrong direction.
So, within weeks of seeing the sun sink into the waves as I crossed the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel after celebrating my aunt-in-law’s birthday in New York, I got my sunrise.
The forecast called for rain that day, and I rained to the point that we bought an umbrella while we were at the outlets. I essentially overhauled half of my wardrobe and retired my Pulp Fiction wallet.
The rainy day was short-lived. We walked around downtown for a while and also headed out to the Second Avenue Pier as the sun set.
Additionally, we finally went out for drinks beyond the hotel bar, and I also decided that I wanted a lot of drinks. Because vacation. Since everything is Tropical Sugar flavored, I couldn’t fall asleep. I wandered around the beach near our hotel deep into the night and then slept for a part of the night on the balcony for the ambiance. I managed to take one picture that was somewhat close to decent while I walked.
I did a good job of hydrating, so our new last full day wasn’t miserable.