And BRING IT, Park City.
I had a really hard time when I first moved to town, as I'm sure most of you would have already concluded from earlier posts, texts, phone calls, general ire on the internet. It was brown, there is a LOT of money to put my measly salary in perspective, and I had very few acquaintances or friends to unwind with or understand me over the two months I went homeless. My closest family is 1500 miles behind me on that wide, flat highway, and I had really grown to love my home state of Maine, recently getting over the disdain most kids have for small-town America when I moved back there after college.
Park City wasn't very accommodating either. I had a to-do list that just couldn't get done and it started to feel like each endeavor was a personal attack on my character, like the West was lumping me with Mass Holes and other New Englanders everywhere and didn't understand that girls from Maine are really just trying to find nice people and smile at everyone we meet.
I tried on three different occasions to get a library card, being told I had to be on a lease (always made more challenging by the fact that most house-shares don't have all names on a lease), have a utility bill, offer up my kidney to the dark lord of the library system, even promise to name my first-born Park City in order to show my allegiance to the throne. It was a challenge and in my already beaten state, I felt every setback was a personal attack.
Aside from that, I brought all the wrong paperwork to the Post Office when I went for a PO box, was told I hadn't actually been signed up for health insurance at the beginning of November (contrary to what my paycheck was telling me), and found a mouse nesting in my trunk and nibbling all the split peas and dried kidney beans I was storing back there. Hanta virus haunted me, the thought of 1000s of dollars of chewed wires in my 18-year-old car kept me up at night, and I was working 10 hour days and struggling to find time for ME, which in my world means time to RUN MY FEELINGS OUT.
Then, one day, after trying to have the time to do so for a full week, I stopped into the library with my utility bill and, being the true grown-up that I am, that utility bill had not only my name and my PO Box (still my work's), but my actual, physical, Park City town limits address. As in, I could prove that you could see my house from the library front desk. And the lady sitting there on that Saturday afternoon, the same I had spoken with to a cold response on those other occasions, smiled and truly welcomed me to the community. She let me have not only a card (FINALLY!) but even a book to read for pleasure (ha, like I'll have time for that) AND Martha Stewart's Pies and Tarts cookbook. As in, she welcomed me finally into this yuppy world of wonder.
And then, that same day, I bonded with the girl I sit near at work by going to Costco on her card and joining up with some other coworkers at their house for football, ribs, and a frozen journey through the public transit system of Salt Lake to go to a pro hockey game.
So basically, I'm getting to know people, still in the office at 7:00 on a Friday night, but I do have a library card and just scored 24 boxes of only slightly-expired Kashi cereal from our chef, barely saved on its way to feed his chickens.
Barely expired yummies should always go to a starving Team Manager over chickens. Especially after spending $525 yesterday on some new ski kicks (Tecnica boots - why are the only comfy ones always the CRAZY expensive ones?!) and leaving work with a need every night to turn what little remains of that paycheck into 2-buck chuck or the nearest equivalent in this crazy state.
I had a really hard time when I first moved to town, as I'm sure most of you would have already concluded from earlier posts, texts, phone calls, general ire on the internet. It was brown, there is a LOT of money to put my measly salary in perspective, and I had very few acquaintances or friends to unwind with or understand me over the two months I went homeless. My closest family is 1500 miles behind me on that wide, flat highway, and I had really grown to love my home state of Maine, recently getting over the disdain most kids have for small-town America when I moved back there after college.
Park City wasn't very accommodating either. I had a to-do list that just couldn't get done and it started to feel like each endeavor was a personal attack on my character, like the West was lumping me with Mass Holes and other New Englanders everywhere and didn't understand that girls from Maine are really just trying to find nice people and smile at everyone we meet.
I tried on three different occasions to get a library card, being told I had to be on a lease (always made more challenging by the fact that most house-shares don't have all names on a lease), have a utility bill, offer up my kidney to the dark lord of the library system, even promise to name my first-born Park City in order to show my allegiance to the throne. It was a challenge and in my already beaten state, I felt every setback was a personal attack.
Aside from that, I brought all the wrong paperwork to the Post Office when I went for a PO box, was told I hadn't actually been signed up for health insurance at the beginning of November (contrary to what my paycheck was telling me), and found a mouse nesting in my trunk and nibbling all the split peas and dried kidney beans I was storing back there. Hanta virus haunted me, the thought of 1000s of dollars of chewed wires in my 18-year-old car kept me up at night, and I was working 10 hour days and struggling to find time for ME, which in my world means time to RUN MY FEELINGS OUT.
Then, one day, after trying to have the time to do so for a full week, I stopped into the library with my utility bill and, being the true grown-up that I am, that utility bill had not only my name and my PO Box (still my work's), but my actual, physical, Park City town limits address. As in, I could prove that you could see my house from the library front desk. And the lady sitting there on that Saturday afternoon, the same I had spoken with to a cold response on those other occasions, smiled and truly welcomed me to the community. She let me have not only a card (FINALLY!) but even a book to read for pleasure (ha, like I'll have time for that) AND Martha Stewart's Pies and Tarts cookbook. As in, she welcomed me finally into this yuppy world of wonder.
And then, that same day, I bonded with the girl I sit near at work by going to Costco on her card and joining up with some other coworkers at their house for football, ribs, and a frozen journey through the public transit system of Salt Lake to go to a pro hockey game.
So basically, I'm getting to know people, still in the office at 7:00 on a Friday night, but I do have a library card and just scored 24 boxes of only slightly-expired Kashi cereal from our chef, barely saved on its way to feed his chickens.
Barely expired yummies should always go to a starving Team Manager over chickens. Especially after spending $525 yesterday on some new ski kicks (Tecnica boots - why are the only comfy ones always the CRAZY expensive ones?!) and leaving work with a need every night to turn what little remains of that paycheck into 2-buck chuck or the nearest equivalent in this crazy state.
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