We have moved out of the quirky little section of the city we were living in and funny thing is it had grown on me. I had become one of the neighborhood characters. This occurred to me after a particularly harrowing day. It was a long day at school, no detail even needed, I hopped in my car and was ready to be home for some R and R. Sure enough I hit bumper to bumper traffic. After spending over an hour in this I realized that I was almost out of gas. I managed to get out of the creeping mess, get gas, and merge back into the mess. Over two hours later I had made it to the apartment. I ran in the building and up the stairs as nature had been calling over an hour ago and DRATS there was no toilet paper. I had not bought any because we were moving soon and I didn’t want to have to pack extra stuff. Also, it’s tough when you have to carry your groceries home to lug paper products around. I had tried to ration this last roll. I grabbed my apartment keys and bolted to the Safeway a block down the road. I grabbed my quilted six-pack, checked out and started the sprint back. As I was running full speed down the street in nice teaching attire with my junked running shoes on lugging a six-pack of Charmin, I realized I’m fitting into the craziness of this neighborhood. I am the person that just weeks ago I would have seen and thought “What in the world?!“ When living in the city and having to carry all of your groceries back home things are not bought in bulk. It’s not like back home when you open your garage door to find that your mother has built a pyramid stockpile of toilet paper and paper towels in your garage as a housewarming gift. The spaces are so tight there’s no extra storage and you can’t lug extra stuff around. Thus you see people carrying weird stuff around because that’s the only way to transport things. It’s funny how places and things you cannot stand end up having a soft spot after you have experienced them or learned to appreciate it for what it is. Now that I am in the burbs I am missing the constant excitement of opening my door to discover clowns and pirates, being able to walk to the store, taking Baker for a walk and running into every breed of dog. There is something very fun about city life. Now that school has started I am taking my time in the burbs to relax and enjoy the shorter commute but during my weekends I find I’m longing to take a trip to the funky side of life just over the 1-90 bridge.

The interesting thing about being an art teacher is that it is such a huge category of teaching. When one is certified it spans from being able to teach kindergartners to twelfth graders. That is implying you are capable of dealing with a five year old or an eighteen year old. It also means that you should be fully capable of teaching graphic design, how to use a pencil sharpener, digital photography, wet darkroom photography, the primary colors, how to blow your nose, ceramics- hand building and wheel throwing, coloring, using crayons, and printmaking, So anytime an art teacher takes a new job they can be expected to do anything related to the arts and to teach it to any level. I like to think of an AP lit teacher teaching first graders to read from the Moonbeams book. (I have a specific teacher in mind and this thought makes me chuckle). This job cannot be broken down into specified jobs because there is not the budget nor the demand. If I were certified as a ceramics teacher it would take forever for me to find a job. So switching jobs for an art teacher creates quite a dilemma. I am spending countless hours retraining myself for a different age level and new subject material. It’s like starting over. Although my high schoolers could learn the kindergarten gluing song and enjoy it I can only take the past experience so far.

I am going to summarize this post by writing bongo drums and can I get an amen? Not surprising enough it was the bongo drums that put us over the edge. I don’t mean to sound like a fuddy duddy but some musical instruments just don’t belong in church and bongo drums is high on my list.

We have found a great running route through the Olympic Sculpture and Myrtle Edwards Parks. Baker loves the route. There are artsy sculptures and it travels right along the water. On clear days there is a great view of Mount Rainier. On a Monday run we started noticing signs indicating “A Special Event” would be happening in the park the following weekend. On the next run vendor tents were being assembled and I began to think that maybe it was a food event. Most of the tents were advertizing junk food; now that I think of it, munchies. The park became increasingly crowded over the next two days and the special event posters now had plant leaf logos on them. During the Thursday run Steven and I started figuring out that this special event had strong enough references to pot that despite our naïveté we were able to pick up on it. This last run on our favorite route included interesting aromas, shady characters and more tie-dye than should be allowed. As soon as we returned to our apartment the Internet research had begun. Sure enough a block from our apartment Hemp Fest would be occurring starting that weekend and lasting for a smoke infested week. Not only did this put an end to running for awhile it also increased the abnormal activity outside our cute little apartment. What we thought would be a minor inconvenience turned out to be a huge ordeal. This Hemp Fest was no small fest, it turned out to be a flocking of every stoned hippie from Southern California to northern Washington state, drug paraphernalia right outside our building and being used in the wide open. Let’s just say scales fell from my eyes. My little conservative Midwestern roots were shaking; I began to seriously question the West Coast life style.  The gorgeous mountains are in eyesight! The rain forests are a short drive away. That is what I came out here for and now I’m shutting my windows and forcing Steven to walk Baker because I’m afraid a short stint outside will alter a drug test. (Steven informs me I am being a tad over dramatic but there are some strange ones outside. Let’s just say I’d take the SeaFair clowns over this group).  Thankfully our apartment building has a parking garage so I can pull in, get on the elevator and never put a step outside. I get the daily updates about the state of things outside from Steven. The admission tickets are specifically designed to be used to roll joints and apparently they are littering the sidewalk. I am bunkering in for the week. Midwestern Values how I miss you.

Side Note- while I thought I had escaped the craziness, this is the commercial that keeps playing on TV.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AXfIteCae4w

She looks like she’s been plucked from Indiana and just bought her sweater set from Chicos. Can you imagine if THAT played in Indiana?!??!!!