Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘Atlanta’

True story: I haven’t had a Christmas tree since 1995 because I adopted two cats in 1996. Two trouble-seeking cats who pursued destruction with an unimaginable ferocity.

It’s possible I could have put up a tree last year, when the cat count was down to one 15-year-old feline who didn’t seem quite as keen on mischief as he once was. Once you get out of the habit of NOT having a tree, however, it’s a lot of trouble to get back in the spirit.

When I saw this Christmas light canvas on Pinterest, I knew it was a project I could handle. Canvas. Holes. Lights. CHECK.

For weeks, I meant to buy a blank canvas, but honestly it’s hard to convince myself to drive around in Atlanta unless I’m LEAVING Atlanta. So if I can’t buy something at Publix, Trader Joe’s, Walgreens or Moes Southwest Grill, I usually find that I can get by without it.

Luckily, my apartment complex parks a big Dumpster in the parking garage on my floor for folks who just can’t manage to haul their cast-offs to the first floor as they’re moving in or out. I spotted two canvases leaning against a big pile of flattened boxes one morning when I darted in to put my trash in the chute.

I think it must be ex-boyfriend art. I mean, the canvases are in great shape, other than what’s painted on them. The one on the left is almost passable, except the longer you look at that big purple flower, the more uneasy and antsy it makes you. Or maybe it’s just me. Art. You know. It’s weird.

I suspect I was supposed to paint over the old paintings with gesso, but all I had was some leftover beige ceiling paint and some red latex from another project. Two nights, two coats of paint.

I kind of doubted my ability to complete a random shape like the writer of the original post did, so I looked for stencils to trace. I found a swoopy, modern-looking tree stencil at Altogether Christmas and ended up drawing it freehand on the back of the larger canvas with a pencil.

First, however, I attempted to estimate how many “levels” the tree should have, based on the number of lights I had (150) and a rough estimate of how far apart the lights would go. And then I gave up and just drew a big swoopy tree.

While watching “The Walking Dead” (holidays! guts! zombies!), I punched holes approximately 1 inch apart along the pencil lines with a sharp kitchen knife (the original writer used an awl, and I’m pretty sure I don’t own one). An awl would have probably made it easier to make standard-sized holes; instead, I had to use my own somewhat distracted judgment. Ideally, I think, the holes should be ever so slightly smaller than the light bulbs being punched through the back. Any bigger and the bulbs won’t stay in without tape (or, I guess, glue); too small and you may stand a change of breaking the bulb trying to force it through.

I had about 20 lights left over when I was done punching holes. Considering the big mess of wires draped along the back of the canvas, a few extra lights don’t really make much of a difference.

The original instructions advised me to secure each light with hot glue, but that seemed like a lot of trouble. It also seemed incredibly permanent, and I wasn’t sure whether I would be able to change any bulbs that burned out if they were glued in. Sure enough, after I unplugged the strand and moved the finished product across the room, none of the red bulbs worked when I plugged the lights back in.

While I don’t pretend to understand Christmas lights, I did remember that I had a small baggie of replacement bulbs. I guess I replaced the right bulb (first red one on the strand), because everything worked again afterwards.

It’s not much to look at in daylight, but it’s absolutely magical after dark. And, above all else, the holidays should be magical.

Onward, then, to the eggnog. Oh, and I guess I have another canvas to light up.

Read Full Post »

It’s been a slow crawl, this move to Atlanta.

I’ve realized that, despite all of my downsizing and decluttering, I’m still not very portable. And I’ve decided that portability is one of my main goals right now. If I decide to move to Manhattan in a few years, or Key West, or anywhere, really, I want to be able to stuff everything that has to go in the back of a box truck.

It’s doable, really, because I’ve discovered how many things that I really don’t want or need. I left a lot of things back in Huntsville — “temporarily,” if you will — and I haven’t missed most of it. (OK, I totally missed my cookie scoop, but I grabbed it on my last trip back.)

It’s been like losing a lot of weight that I didn’t even know I was carrying around. It’s freeing, being surrounded by only the things you actually use, the things you actually enjoy looking at.

It makes for way less noise in my head. I like it.

Read Full Post »

I didn’t know how desperately I valued my right to vote until someone told me I couldn’t have a ballot.

I didn’t realize how much work there is to be done to educate voters on their rights until I witnessed multiple people turn away with a shrug after being told that they weren’t on the voter registration list — even though they were quite certain that they were — and, therefore, couldn’t vote.

I had forgotten the warm, heady feeling of furious indignation until it surged forth when I realized just how ridiculously broken the voting process was in Fulton County, Georgia.

When the secretary of state says you’re registered to vote, it seems pretty official. It wasn’t official enough for Fulton County officials, however, and they turned away A LOT of voters on election day. The county official at my polling place acted like I was a fool for thinking that seeing my name on the secretary of state’s voter registration list meant that I was really registered to vote. In what I’m now convinced was an attempt to just get me to leave, she actually sent me out to the library computers to look my name up on the “official” Fulton County voter roll so I could see for myself that I wasn’t really registered. She wasn’t at all happy when I returned to inform her that the county website accessed its voter registration information from — wait for it — the secretary of state’s database.

The Fulton County elections department may well be mismanaged from the top down if, as at least one poll worker asserts, workers were still delivering voter registration lists hours after the polls opened.

My biggest problem with the whole debacle was the lack of give-a-damn on the part of election officials. The county worker at my polling place gave me a provisional ballot only after I proved unwilling to simply slink away without casting my vote. I heard her say, multiple times, “There’s nothing we can do.” She said this to people who were newly registered, who had changed their address, who voted in the last election and hadn’t moved or changed ANYTHING, who had made the deadline, damn it, and had SEEN their name on the registration list.

There’s nothing we can do.

Computers have made it easy for people like this to rule over their lazy little kingdoms. You’re not in the computer. There’s nothing we can do.

I’m not going to make it easy for her next time. If I have to stand outside my polling place (at a legal distance, of course) wearing a sandwich board exclaiming “ASK ME ABOUT PROVISIONAL BALLOTS IF YOU HAVE BEEN DENIED YOUR RIGHT TO VOTE,” I’m going to make it much more difficult to disenfranchise voters through incompetence.

Put that on your official list, bureaucrats.

Read Full Post »

So I’m FINALLY one of those women trekking to work in a pair of tennis shoes, with a drawerful of heels waiting at the office. And yes, I know that thousands of New York women can’t be wrong, but those cute little ballet flats just don’t give me the support I need to hike past a construction site and hoof it across a couple of very busy intersections.

I’m terribly unfashionable for approximately 20 minutes a day, meaning I’m likely only slightly more unfashionable than usual. Totally worth it to leave the car in the parking garage for the better part of the week.

P.S.: If the title of this post put a Missing Persons song in your head, my work here is done.

Read Full Post »

I knew I had moved close to a Trader Joe’s in Atlanta, but I didn’t realize I had moved dangerously close. We’re talking an 8-minute walk, as opposed to the previous (and very, very rare) 2-hour haul to the Nashville store.

My first impulse purchase was Trader Joe’s Pumpkin Spice Coffee, which was filled with the flavors — and aromas — of orange peel, cinnamon, nutmeg and allspice. I’m not fond of most flavored coffees, but this one is so rich and flavorful that I’m making an emergency shipment to my mom.

The much-ballyhooed Trader Joe’s Pumpkin Greek Yogurt, however, was a bit of a disappointment. It had all the requisite spices, and the flavors almost came through. What was missing? The fat. Fat carries flavor, and I’ve found that Greek yogurt with 2 percent fat does the job perfectly. The fat-free variety, however, is thin and … can I use “vapid” as an adjective for food?

I’m biding my time before trying Trader Joe’s Pumpkin Ice Cream, which is rumored to taste amazingly like pumpkin pie. My hopes are pretty high, given that it apparently contains fat, as ice cream (and yogurt) should.

Read Full Post »

If you ever want to know who really gets you, start telling your friends and family that you’re moving from a four-bedroom house in the ‘burbs to a one-bedroom apartment in the city. Immediately add that you’re ditching most of your stuff because you don’t love it, use it or need it. You’ll either get an awkward pause, or you’ll get a quick and enthusiastic “That is SO awesome!”

Not that there’s anything wrong with friends and family who don’t quite get me, because, frankly, I can be a difficult subject. But the folks who do … man, I love you guys.

Read Full Post »

Posting has been erratic here for several weeks because my brain has been occupied with big decisions. Like whether to apply for another job, accept another job and move to another city.

In short, the answers were yes, yes and yes.

The husband and I will be moving to Atlanta in short order.

I want to say it was a difficult decision, but it really wasn’t. Huntsville is a nice enough place, but I’m getting antsy.

I haven’t been sure about my career path for the past five years. I’ve wanted to be in the newspaper business since I was a teenager. I never quite recovered from leaving the industry, and the transition to technical writing has never felt quite right to me.

People say your job doesn’t define you. I would reply that no, it certainly does not, but you sure do spend a heck of a lot of time doing it, so you may as well try to enjoy it.

Thus, I’ve accepted an Atlanta job that I think will be an excellent fit for me — the company has already hired several former newspaper folks with great success. I’ll be doing lots of reading, analysis and writing, pretty much all the graduate school activities that I’ve been missing ever since graduation last December.

Atlanta itself? Pretty cool. Lots to do, lots to see. It contains a very busy airport that I’ve never been keen on flying through (in truth, I haven’t been very keen on layovers for several years), but that I’m more than willing to fly out of and into. Two-hour direct flights to New York City abound, and I could spend every vacation day I ever earn in Manhattan if I had the chance. Which I might.

I’ve been packing and getting rid of stuff for the past week. We’re hoping to live in Atlanta, not outside in the commute-stricken burbs, and the tradeoff for this is space. This is going to be the first move in which I really analyze what means enough to me to take. Stuff doesn’t just go in boxes because I own it; stuff goes in boxes because I want it, love it and/or will definitely use it.

I’m excited and nervous, a combination that probably indicates this is going to be awesome. It’ll offer plenty of blogging material, at the very least.

Read Full Post »

After enjoying the flat-iron steak sandwich at the Culinard Cafe in Birmingham two times within two weeks, I knew I had to start experimenting. The combination of creamy goat cheese and whole-grain mustard was simply magical, so I decided to start with condiments.

The first sandwich I had to work with this week involved ham, however, and I couldn’t envision goat cheese complementing ham all that well (I may be wrong about that). But thanks to a trip to Trader Joe’s in Atlanta on Tuesday, I had a fresh jar of whole-grain mustard ready to go. (I don’t know what other people do on vacation, but we go to grocery stores.)

It’s like I’ve been making sandwiches wrong for YEARS. The whole-grain mustard simply transformed the ham and provolone cheese; lightly toasted on the Foreman Grill, the sandwich was melty, spicy perfection.

Never doubt the power of new and exciting condiments.

Read Full Post »

I recently got a peek at the Mexican Coca-Cola trend during a visit to Atlanta. While standing in line for a sandwich at Star Provisions, I overheard the guy ahead of me convincing his dining partner to try a bottle. Never one to let a culinary opportunity pass me by, I grabbed my own Mexican Coke out of the refrigerator case. The cashier congratulated me on my choice.

Fans of Mexican Coke claim that its use of sugar makes it superior to the U.S. version, which is sweetened with high-fructose corn syrup. I admit it was a delicious soda, but it also came in a glass bottle, which always seems to make beverages taste better, at least to me. I also don’t drink a lot of soda, so my taste buds may not be equipped to allow me to accurately proclaim the supremacy of one formula of Coke over another.

What I found odd, however, was sitting in Atlanta, the home of Coca-Cola, listening to folks waxing poetic on the superiority of Coke made in Mexico, a product that was originally imported into the United States to appeal to immigrants. It just seems weird, in light of the anti-immigration mood that has swept the country, for Americans to appropriate a product that exists here only because Coke was trying to appeal to immigrants. No immigrants = no Mexican Coke.

Read Full Post »

I had purchased the TiltShift Generator app last year after seeing some inspiring photographs on SevenDead, but I never seemed to find the right subject for its miniaturizing effects.

Finally, I saw this scene while crossing a bridge in Atlanta last week and had to stop. The app did just what I expected it to, making the scene look like an elaborate toy train set. Then I had a Mexican Coke. In Atlanta. Where they make regular Coke. But that’s another story for another post.

Read Full Post »

« Newer Posts - Older Posts »