We're trying to figure out whether or not it's time, finally, to take the leap of downsizing to one car. We've been living very close to a bus stop for awhile now, but I've imagined it taking eras to get to work by bus. I decided to go ahead and give it a whirl, encouraged by the Sunrise Guide Metro coupon. I headed out the other day expecting a real drag of a trip, and thanks to the nippy weather, discovered something of a silver lining.

When you drive, you leave the warm house, scurry out to the car, get in, and it's cold in there just like it is outside. And you can't move around much, because you have to drive. Depending on the car, it takes some amount of time for it to warm up. And then your body has to recover from being that cold, so it's a while before it's anything like comfortable.

If you take the bus, you get out there, walk to the bus stop, walk or bounce around to keep yourself from freezing. Then, along comes the bus which is of course Already Warm and thus a relief. You've kept yourself a little bit warm moving around, and then you're rewarded by supreme fossil-fuel-aided warmth.

It's still a big pain to try to figure out the Metro timetable and lug everything in the backpack and be patient with the idling at Elm Street, but boy, when you get on there, it's warm.

Transport

Sorry about the inadvertent product placement; I couldn't resist a shot of everyone snuggled into the pannier for the trip over to the garden... Could be worse than Timbuk2, I s'pose. 'Twas a bumpy ride, but the berries and tomatoes and marigolds got along just fine in their close quarters.

Soon, I Promise!

One of the very real perils of a housewarming party is that things get put away and then you can't find them anymore. I've been taking pictures galore for purposes of posting about my early spring (still sprinterwing around here, actually) attempts and getting around on my bike, but in my gallant efforts to make the apartment presentable for the party, I put the camera cable somewhere really safe.

But I found it, yesterday while I was pacing around trying to be helpful with a client on the phone. So now I've got a bunch of catching up to do - a quilt of threatening clouds over Mackworth Island, a couple of brave tomato plants in my underused panniers, and more.

Also, I'm going to document the next round of sprouts (mung bean, that is, which J. found out we could grow in the dark) because I'm so impressed that we pulled it off, even though it's not that hard. I got obsessive about removing the hulls. But anyway, like I said, soon.

Peace with renting

This is a new endeavor I thought I'd take on. Instead, you know, of being perpetually dismayed and exasperated by my squattish status. I'll let you know how it goes.

I'm currently being challenged by ants. I have never lived anywhere that ants like to hang out, and I assure you, I am not handling it well. I like wandering about in bare feet, and I can't stand the thought of walking in ants. J. tells me that they're not coming in for a REASON, they just lived here first, but it seems to me as though they'd be happier hanging out under the deck where there's sand they can build stuff with. When they come in here all they get is stepped on.

But I digress. I went out on my bike the other day, to get a feel for the new route to work. I was rewarded by a sighting of this bumper sticker, on a Subaru that parks at the end of the street:




Wouldn't THAT be something. And here's what Portland looks like just before it decides it's time for spring:


All gray and stick-y. But wide-open and promising nonetheless...

Not Worm-Related After All

I'm still gathering up the courage to admit that I lost a lot of worms in our move, though it was only partially my fault. But I'll get to that soon.

In the meantime, check this out - a font with holes in it, to save ink! Designed in Europe, of course, by the Dutch: "After Dutch holey cheese, there now is a Dutch font with holes as well." I'm not sure what the "after" is for in that sentence, but I enjoy the sentiment. They also point out (no pun intended) that less is more.

On my screen, you have to increase the size to 30 points to see the holes. I haven't tried printing yet, but I don't anticipate that they will show up in the little guys.

Plus, the website is pretty and simple.

And the download is smooth. I started to panic because I don't know how to install a new font, but this just required a dragging into a folder. I got it done in about 55 seconds.

I'm not sure whether I should be concerned or grateful, or both, that this is the sort of thing that makes me jump around for joy. Holes in font.

A New Wrinkle

Inspired by the blog Homesteading in a Condo (link at right), I find myself inspired to do a bit more writing about my adventures in worm composting, and perhaps whatever version of gardening we figure out for the coming season in our new apartment. I didn't feel like creating a whole new blog, and there are some threads of spirit and personality shared by the worms and the questions of walking, driving, cycling, etc. I promise I will title and tag well in case you want nothing to do with the worms. Though I will also try to win you over. And now off I go to my first worm post.

The True Cost of Inflation

In honor of March Green Streets Day...

It's not that I don't know that I'm supposed to check the tire pressure regularly, and reinflate when necessary. Nor that I can't tell when the pressure is low. Nor that I don't know that it's costing fuel and money to drive around with insufficient pressure. As many times a day as I get into my car I think "that tire really does look low; I should really stop and fill it up."

It's just, and this is going to sound ridiculous, that I so very much hate when I don't know what I'm doing. I've been driving for nearly 20 years, and I've used air hoses and pressure gauges so few times that I have to learn all over again each time. I can't stand the thought of someone pulling into the gas station behind me and seeing that I have no idea whether or not I've parked the car close enough for the hose to reach, never mind how to operate the hose. You're probably wondering (as I know I am) why on earth I would care about the opinion of strangers stopping for gas. Heaven knows they have other things to concern themselves with than my antics at the inflation station. But it just makes me want to crawl out of my skin. Especially when it's something that might appear on a list of Things Women Would be Less Likely than Men to Know How to Do.

So this morning when I woke up at 6:30, everyone else was asleep, and I didn't have to be at my office until 9:30 for an unusual weekend session, I saw my chance. I wouldn't be likely to encounter too many folks out in the early hours of a dull overcast March Saturday. I could bumble around in relative solitude.

What I didn't count on was that the air hose apparatus at the Cumberland Farms near my office was in the corner of the parking lot where they shoved all the snow over the course of this rather snowy winter. And in amongst the several storms' worth of snow was a great deal of trash. As if I wasn't discouraged enough already, I had to pick through cigarette butts and smashed beverage bottles and general muck. And I was wearing pants that are a little too long, so I had to do it on my toes.

Don't worry. I persevered. I pulled as close as I could to the hose and then before inserting the quarters hauled the scummy thing all the way to each of the rear tires to be sure it would reach. As I checked for length, I also tried to inspect the nozzle and figure out how to work it without looking directly at it. That would have given me away. And it worked. None of the zero other people in the parking lot were on to me. I'm sure of it. I was that sly.

But I thought I remembered that there should be a gauge on the end of the hose, and I couldn't find one. Fortunately, I was temporarily overcome with a small dose of reasonableness, which led me inside to ask the two women working behind the register if there was in fact a gauge on the hose. Why I'm willing to sound like I have no idea what I'm doing when I'm unwilling to look like I have no idea what I'm doing, I could not tell you. Yes, they told me, it does. Without the slightest hint of condescension. (These are the times when it's handy that I can pass for much younger than I am. Oh, how cute, they were probably thinking. She's finally saved up enough for a car, and she's inflating the tires for the first time!)

So I tiptoed back to the hose, slid my three quarters in. It was then that I remembered how they teach you in drivers' ed to remove the little caps beFORE you pay to start the air clock. In a hurry, I managed to spin the first cap so quickly that it flung off into oblivion, coming to rest somewhere amongst the slushy detritus. The compressor howled away in the background, eating time. I fumbled next with the nozzle, wondering what the sticking out part was for and why the gauge kept reading 20. I was supposed to get the tires up to 30 psi. I did, of course, remember what psi stands for, because that is the sort of thing I'm good at. Remembering words. That came in extremely handy under these circumstances. So the compressor's carrying on, thunk, thunk, thunk, and I'm totally helpless and the tire keeps having 20 psi in it. Something inspired me to squeeze the little swathe of metal that all of you responsible tire filler-uppers know is the one that allows air to actually flow into the tire; the one you release in order to encourage the gauge to pop out and tell you how much air there is in there NOW. Eureka! By now about 2.75 of my 3 minutes of air time were gone, so I had to start talking myself into laying down another 3 quarters so I could inflate the other three tires as well. I was pretty sure that if the first one I arrived at was only 2/3 full, and the last time I remembered handling an air hose was somewhere around 1998, it was safe to say the others could use a few pounds too.

I didn't have enough of the right kind of change, of course, so I got to make another trip inside with my two nickels, dime, and five pennies. They were nice, again, even checking to be sure they didn't give me a Canadian quarter the machine would have ignored.

This time I was in good shape. Removed all the caps, took a deep breath, fed the machine, finished the other three tires, and found myself a little disappointed that it was over so fast. I returned the hose to its hook, dug around behind tire #1 where I found the missing cap, and then decided probably my hands could use washing. Back inside. I mention this only because I thought it was quite rude that the machine still hadn't turned off by the time I got back to the car, as though to tell me in no uncertain terms that if I could walk into the store, find the bathroom, wash my hands, and come back in three minutes, I surely could have managed to inflate the tires in as much time.