Kickin' I.T.

Swanlights

2012-01-27T09:13:00.001-08:00

I can't remember, now, how Antony Hegarty and his ethereal yawping came to be a permanent fixture in my music collection. But it's there, on my succession of iPods, embedded in playlists, marked on my womanly heart. The band, Antony and The Johnsons, is sort of an outlier of my tastes, but some days it's the center of my music-soul and everything else shifts to make it the sun. Some days, I have ears for nothing else.

I had a conversation the other day with someone about how kids can sniff out authenticity, and I think every once in a while, my music sensibilities do the same - Antony and the Johnsons melt like a lemon sorbet between courses, clearing the palate of distraction and chaff.

In most of the articles and interviews I've read about Antony, the same few descriptors surface repeatedly: otherwordly, haunting, a gentle-giant, passionate spirit, environmental, transgender. For someone who so easily defies the constraints of simple categorization, it's kind of depressing that journalists continue to use the same restrictive language in discussing him, to make it easy to digest and understand him.

Well, I can pretty much say I don't understand him, and I love that. Never moreso than last night when, on my first trip to Radio City Music Hall (which is flooringly gorgeous, by the by) to see him and a 60 piece symphony perform Swanlights - "such an ambitious production!" replete with Nico Muhly arragements, lasers, a gem-like mobile, Ohne Titel muu muu costuming, a Beyonce cover ("Crazy in Love") and lasers. Did I mention the presence of LASERS? So much laser.

{photo credit: Eduardo Milton}I regret to admit that halfway through the first few songs of the piece, I was trying to make Antony make sense to me. I was suddenly VERY interested in how he does his laundry. Does he have an in-house washer dryer? Does he dry clean the muu muus, or hand wash them? What day of the week does he do this laundry? Does he send it out? I so wanted him to be a real person, and not a 6'2" pillar of feminine power on stage in front of Bjork, and Tilda Swinton, and Rufus Wainwright, and Michael Stipe, and all the other New York art-elite. (Fairly positive that will be the last time I can say all of us were in the same building at the same time, ever).

And then I gave up, because a) I was distracted by the lasers and b) I wanted to let myself get lost in the art of it all, and just experience the questions the piece was asking.

So I did, and it was really great. Just lovely, and inspiring, and magical and authentically weird. Very glad I got to be a part of that celebration, and hope to carry on a little bit of that with me.

Also, time to get myself some lasers.If intrigued, my fave interview of his is here.

I'm 37 now, and as you get older, you revisit the issues that sit with you in the course of your life. I always felt so self-conscious, and I didn't let myself be beautiful for so many years, but by the time you've made your face worthy of being looked at by anyone, you've abandoned yourself in the process. You show up with a pretty face and an empty heart. Life's too short to be slaving around to other people's expectations. We should put on a little make-up to honour the specific dignity that we have within ourselves, but I'm never putting a spot of make-up on for a man again

And, a slightly more accessible song that I lovity love McLoverson:

Come on, Irene

2011-08-26T16:24:00.000-07:00

Eleven years ago I experienced my first taste of worldwide pandemonium in the days leading up to the anticipated Y2K disaster. Do you guys remember that? How scientists and analysts and mainly the news media were convinced that our computers would all freak out and the world would revert to chaos, cholera, and covered wagons? I think even at the time, as 7th grader, I wasn't that worried about it.
The event came and went with a fizzle, and we all entered the new millenium unscathed.

That is, until months later while poking around in the garage for a bike helmet, I pulled back a tarp to reveal two, high density polyethylene tubs. Peeling back one of the lids, I was floored to find them stocked full of cans of baked beans, space blankets, flares, jugs of water, yards of rope, a first aid-kit, flashlights, batteries... basically all the stuff that we'd been required as children to stuff into 1-gallon Ziplock bags and store at school in event of emergency. We called them our "earthquake kits" but in retrospect, they might as well have been called, "panic kits" because in order to bust into those things... one would have to be in dire straits. But right there in my own garage it appeared my dad had assembled one very real "earthquake kit". As my dad can fairly be diagnosed with Everyday Hero Syndrome, this might not surprise you, but at the time, it surprised me: this man was the pillar of logical and rational thought in my world. If he had bought into the Y2K fear mongering to the extent that he'd been forward-thinking enough to be prepared, then who was I to argue that? It shook me a bit.

Not enough to pay heed to any further doomsayers, however - we've survived multiple predicted raptures by now, and no tidal wave has wiped out the state of Oregon yet, so I really try not to buy into that stuff. Which brings us to present day, in New York City.

I wake up late with the sun in my face to the alarm on my cell phone and a missed call from my Uncle Bob in Atlanta. I figure it is his second attempt at trying to get ahold of me to wish me a happy birthday and don't listen to his voicemail until I am out the door on my way to the bus, so I'm a little surprised when his message is, essentially, "there is talk of evacuating the island of Manhattan, let me buy you a plane ticket to come down and stay with us here in Atlanta."

And for the first time in my life, I start to worry about a naturally occurring predicted catastrophe.
It doesn't help that one of my best friends/neighbor/co-worker Katie LOVES The Weather Channel and can pretty much recite to you the ten-day weather forecast at any given moment, which she does on the bus on the way to work.

Once at the office, there is a sort of low-level murmur about the news - each of us speculating and asking aloud what everyone else is planning to do. Mason declares the entire news media to be "full of shit" and predicts that this whole storm is going to be a "kittycat meow-fest". But a growing kernel of intuitive doubt starts to grow inside me as I scan news websites and read the texts and emails that are coming in, all tinged with a bit of lighthearted snarky New York attitude.

One article tells me to"fill my bathtub to the brim with water", in case we need to use it for water pressure in the toilet tank. Um, sorry: my bathtub is gross. Who takes baths in New York? Our tub looks like a slightly tamer version of the one in Buffalo Bill's basement.

A comparative t-chart starts circulating on Facebook:

A co-worker sends a link to an article on the psyches of people who refuse to evacuate impending natural disasters. I note that there are two categories missing: Stubborn New Yorkers, and Those Of Us Who Are Lazy.
I think I fall somewhere in the middle as I have made no moves to flee to Atlanta... but all of a sudden, I make up my mind: As a single young woman living in one of the most intense cities in the world, I would rather be prepared than not. I drop whatever I am doing at my desk and march down to the pharmacy in our building to "buy supplies."

What, exactly, I am preparing for starts to get a little hazy. From the looks of my rapidly filling basket it could either be
a) a camping trip (deck of cards, beef jerky) -or-

b) a "let's stay inside and get baked" college party (pack of lighters, scented candles, brownie mix)

I find myself in the canned food aisle with a similarly dressed Midtown Manhattan professional. We stand, heads cocked, quizzically scanning the labels for anything that doesn't look like dog food.

"I wonder if I even have a can opener in my kitchen...?" she muses.

They are already sold out of flashlights. I buy batteries anyway for a flashlight I don't have- honestly because I think subconsciously, "hmm. valuable for trade and barter."

$89 later I am back in the office. I anticipate my arrival will be met with good-natured teasing. It's not: it invokes an air of fear.
"Were there any candles left?"
"Did you see if they had any coolers? I think I need a cooler."

I accompany some sellers on a client lunch and at this point, Irene is the only thing I can think about. My adrenaline is rushing. I am making mental lists in my head.
I totally freak out our clients - 4 young women also living in Manhattan, away from their parents for the first time.
They start to make lists.
We all start to get email alerts on our phones: "MTA to shut down all public transportation Saturday at noon!" "No trains will be running!" "Evacuation and anticipated flood zone map"

When we say goodbye after lunch, we all nervously laugh and wish one another a safe weekend. "See you on the other side! Ha ha."

On the way back to the office, I stop by an ATM to withdraw some cash- it's out of service. I immediately assume that means it's already out of cash, and walk a block to the next one, quickening my pace. I withdraw a large wad of $20s and surreptitiously stuff them into my wallet and return to work where I find it very hard to concentrate.
I keep humming the few bars I know of that one song that goes, "Here I am!/ ROCK ME LIKE A HURRICANE" and am embarrassed that it is literally all I can think about.

So okay, let's be logical about this: what's the worst thing that can happen? We lose power and have to read and play games and sleep and generally unplug for a while? Totally fine. Fun, even.

Winds get crazy and knock out one of our windows? Unfortunate, sure, but, not life threatening.

But you want to know what really scares me, though? What's really got me worried?

The people.
Specifically, the neurotic, power-hungry, narcissistic people among whom I currently live everyday on this island, except now, IN PANIC MODE.

The post-Katrina looting in New Orleans, a bastion of Southern Hospitality, was bad? Lets see what happens when an 86 year old Jewish woman and a cab driver from Calcutta go head to head over a can of beans at the Fairway on 86th street.

Dennis Hopper in Waterworld will look like a "kittycat meow-fest" compared to the characters who are going to come out of the woodwork here when Irene unleashes her PMS all over this city (hint: probably closer to Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet). She's going to bring the bitchslap, but New Yorkers are going to get their claws out and it is not going to be pretty.

All we can do now is sit, and wait, and hope to God that come Monday, this was another Y2K.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go home to clean the bathtub.

Rash of Untimely Male Deaths Make Women Feel Better About Themselves

2011-08-02T08:46:00.000-07:00

(New York) In an unsettling turn of events, young men in New York City are disappearing.

"They're dropping like flies, out there!" Laura H., Assistant Technical Designer, lamented with a hint a panic in her voice. Laura moved to Manhattan about a year ago, and lives on the Upper East Side with two other young women in their twenties, whose attentions are similarly held rapt by these bewildering disappearances.

According to the 2010 Census, there are 8,175,133 people living in the city of New York. Of that, 1,585,873 live in Manhattan, so this publication is confident in assuming that about 50% of that number, 793,000 are male.
But the figure is rapidly decreasing. Mayor Bloomberg was not available for comment, but it's clear that city officials are mystified by this development, and have no clues as to where these men have gone.

But ask any young woman, and she will tell you with no reservations where their counterparts are:
they're dead.

"Oh, he died. Absolutely. No question," Jessica S., Assistant Merchandiser at Saks 5th Avenue, says, with no trace of irony. "I mean, it's really the only logical explanation. I met Michael a few weeks ago, and we really hit it off. We went to a Yankees game, he paid for everything - he texted me during the work week, said he wanted to see me over the weekend... things were really clicking. He said-" she pauses, a glimmer in her eye. "He said he 'really likes' me...and then... it was like, he vanished into thin air. Nothing. He was gone."

Jessica hasn't heard from Michael in eight days. She assured us she enlisted her friends and roommates to patrol the internet to check on all lifelines. There has been no movement on his Facebook, Twitter, Foursquare, LinkedIn, or GooglePlus accounts.

"He died." Jessica says resolutely. When questioned about proof, in the form of say, an obituary, she dismisses it with a shake of her head. "Of course we checked. Did we find anything? No. It's because they can't keep up with all the... disappearances. It's happening all over the city. I don't know a girl who HASN'T lost someone."

Amanda P., Assistant Media Planner, has been living in Murray Hill for a little over a year, and confirms the startling trend. She met Chris O'Shaunnesey last month at a pub crawl in the East Village, and the two started dating. "We had this really great connection," she says wistfully. "Like, he checked all the boxes, you know? We both don't like mushrooms, his dad works in real estate just like my dad...we both LOVE Bon Iver... you know. Like, the real stuff. Anyway, we were hanging out like, once a week - getting a drink after work, meeting up on the weekends with our friends, and he was so sweet."

Then, tragedy struck.

"We made plans - like, actual SET plans - to go to Long Beach one Saturday. He texted me the Thursday before saying how excited he was to get to spend time with me, and that 'work had been crazy' and so he was looking forward to it... by Friday night I hadn't heard from him and he hadn't responded to my last text, so I called him, and..nothing. I got his voicemail. Still no word from him by Saturday, so I went to the train station anyway, thinking maybe he'd like, lost his phone. Or something."
Amanda sat at the station until 1:45 PM when she finally realized that something was wrong.
"And then it hit me. He totally died. That was really the only explanation."

Respected Manhattan institution of research on dating and relationships, HBO Series Sex and the City, brought this issue to the forefront with the episode "Frenemies" (2000) wherein Miranda is stood up on a date. She calls his home number to give him what-for and finds out that he has, in fact, died.
In what should have been cited as the singular most damaging influence on young women possibly ever, ahead of beef hormones and Bratz dolls, this episode has come to life, in the minds of the maidens of Manhattan.

"This phenomenon has really opened my eyes, and given me some perspective," says Kate M. who works as a Jr. Financial Analyst. "I mean, I now believe in ghosts. This guy Kyle I was seeing... I was pretty sure he was The One, you know? And after like, our fourth date, he just dropped off the face of the earth. I took his passing pretty hard, but, found comfort a few weeks later knowing he was still here," she says, hand pressed emphatically to her heart. "It was the craziest thing, but I could have sworn I saw him at a Cafe Metro on Lexington the other day, near where his office was. This tall blonde guy came in alone around lunch time, and I was like, 'Ohmigosh! It's him!' but then I remembered, obvi, that it COULDN'T be. So, it's just nice to know that like, he's okay, and-" with a sad smile, she says, " And I'm gonna be okay."

With that kind of self-confidence, we have no doubt that she will, in fact, be okay.

I know.

2011-07-24T21:24:00.001-07:00

2011-06-24T09:32:00.000-07:00

It's unsettling to sign someone else's name.

The letters feel foreign, your pen a drunken wanderer, navigating the new bends blindly - "just along for the ride!" your hand would say.
A normally fluid line of loops is halting; the formal curves off by just enough that only you can recognize the forgery.

I usually have, to be perfectly frank with you, pretty lovely handwriting.

Honed in honors classes requiring copious notes, guided by an inherent artist's appreciation for the aesthetically pleasing, this is no accident: it has been as much a deliberately acquired skill as typing fast, or whistling with my fingers.

But I find myself on a hardwood floor at midnight on a Tuesday, relentlessly scribbling someone else's name into the veritable city of books amongst which I am sitting, over and over and over. It is a conscious and exacting task, and I am anxious, because I can't make the slant consistent. I can't coerce the rounds of the letters to be as round as I want them to be. I can't control the pen as well as I'd like to. I can't get the name to cooperate.
It looks forced.

Lindsay Bozanich
Lindsay Bozanich
Lindsay Bozanich
I want each scrawled, constructed inscription to be perfect for her.
For the letters to stand proud, and funny and well-formed and striking, like Linds herself.

Lindsay Bozanich
Lindsay Bozanich
I start in all capital letters- boldly declaring ownership and defying the indoctrined taboo of "writing in books" from which we were discouraged during library class in elementary school. Criss-cross applesauce, seated in rows, quietly reverent of the magic of books.

I knew it would hum like this; that a soothing rhythm would develop: grab a stack of books, crack the cover, tattoo the upper left corner (Lindsay Bozanich, Lindsay Bozanich), appraise the form and figure of it, close the book and place it to the side; repeat.

We punctuate the melody of pen on paper with soft color commentary.
"Oh, have you read the other one by this author? I can't remember the title, but, it was good."
"Gosh, I haven't read this one in a long time."
But mostly, we are silently intent on diminishing the stacks around us, lulled by the music I put on.

When I'd suggested we tackle this, I anticipated it would go this way: two young women, learning to look death in the face and proceed boldly in its imminence. I am as new at this as my hands are at signing a strange permutation of letters. This idea? It was the best I could do, but I am starting to feel the sense of phony marionetting that the pen in my hand probably would if it could feel.
Lindsay Bozanich Lindsay Bozanich Lindsay Bozanich

I booked this trip a few months back, when Linds first started chemotherapy. Despite it being my only trip back home since Christmas, I made it very clear that the visit would be about spending time with her. A young, busy, social, accomplished woman's routine of self-defining activities interrupted indefinitely to pump her body full of toxic poisons would probably welcome a visit from a close friend. I couldn't wait to come and see her in person, try to be there for her and let her know she can count on me. I wanted to, per my friend Mickey's lexicon, "bring the sunshine."

Once with her, somewhat taken aback (surprised in a fully and wholly altruistic, positive way) by how healthy she looks, how resilient she is, how she's still my sasshole of a role model, confidante, and friend - I still felt compelled, or, actually, longed to "make a difference" and "help" her in place of empty platitudes.

Especially after reading a beautiful blog post she penned while sitting with me at a coffee house in northwest Portland, wherein she gently chastised those of us who want to "help" but still aren't willing to dig in where it counts- the hard parts. The "what if I die?" parts. The "if I go, I want this song at my service, but don't call it a funeral, please" parts, anxiously seeking reassurance that no one be allowed to wear black at such an occasion.

So, at her insistence, I step into those shadows.
Surrounded by her books, her most valued tangible manifestation of a legacy, I asked where they would go if she does. And then, to imprint her record of ownership of all these useful, interesting, rich pieces (which she has sought out, owned, loved, bought, received; drawn and learned from), I suggest we write her name in every last one.
(Lindsay Bozanich Linsday Bozanich Lindsay Bozanich)

I want the L to lead the way for the rest of the letters; for the B to convey all the boldness and ambition of the woman it initializes. I want it to be pretty. I want it to last.

In the event that she doesn't make it, but the books do, I want a lonely person thirty years from now to pick up this well-loved copy of a story and feel comforted, knowing they are in good company with "Lindsay Bozanich"- that holding a hand-me-down from such an strong and inspiring woman would somehow impart them with strength and inspiration by simple proximity to her possessions.
I want this person to sense that they have stumbled upon a valuable artifact that is only a singular element of a rich and real history.

Lindsay Bozanich
Lindsay Bozanich
Lindsay Bozanich
Lindsay Bozanich
I am acutely aware that Linds might not be as into this as I am. That she might not be as into the song we are listening to, into this experience I engineered into existence.
It is also now clear that it is not Lindsay who is benefitting fom this book tour- but rather, this is for me.
It's so I don't have to feel so helpless as she loses her hair, and her breasts, and yes, maybe, possibly, even her life.

It's so I can prove to her and to myself that I am a good enough friend that I am willing to confront her mortality with her. To be there for her in a capacity for which she has bluntly and rawly expressed a deep need.

So this isn't about helping Lindsay, I see. This act, specifically, is her way of humoring me - of leading me into a place where we can stand face to face in tears and say, "I might die" and "I know. Are you scared?" and for her to say any and everything she needs to, without me flinching.

I write your name again and again.
Because okay, if we're going to go there, if this vile illness steals away the rest of your years and your books are your progeny, sent off into the world bearing your name and traces of your being, if I know anything about the way this world works, I will run into those books for the rest of my time here. Not haunted by them, but predictably and consistently our paths will cross.
And I want to greet them as old friends in your place, and I will be really, really upset if my handwriting looks bad.

Lindsay Bozanich
Lindsay Bozanich
Lindsay Bozanich

Stand up for real jokes

2011-04-17T20:35:00.000-07:00

Note to self, and all other secretly aspiring stand-up comics in hiding

I went to a comedy show Saturday night. Turns out, cliches aren't funny, so when doing a stand-up routine, feel free to never again speak, or speak of, the following:

1. "Justin Bieber" is not, in itself, a punchline. Same goes for "Sarah Palin." Try harder.

2. "THE SUBWAY" and stories thereof cannot sustain an entire stand-up routine, as true as all your numerous observations and frustrations may be.

3. We get it - Ed Hardy shirts are awful, and so are the people who wear them. ...Good one.

4. Old women: not funny when you're vulgar. It just makes everyone want to cry in discomfort, which isn't why must of us go to comedy clubs.

5. Jews are typically bad at sports, gay men like interior decorating, women's breasts sag as they age - Let's evolve our self-deprecatory material, people.

A Reminder to GO + DO

2011-04-08T08:47:00.000-07:00

Gingerlocks sent me this little tidbit yesterday, which her boss had sent out to the office:

Having a few blogs, a seldom-used Twitter, and a well-worn Facebook account, and now working in the online media industry... I have to admit I'm part of the problem. (A real and true problem, by the way, in my opinion). The first, more obvious part of the problem is that being a creative often doesn't pay very well, and there is money in advertising - not a lot for creatives, I understand, but, still more than other options (just ask the dudes who paint on cardboard in the subway stations).

Then, part of what's going on is that this digital age allows us to express so easily and quickly without benefiting from Thee Process, or truly putting a lot of thought into what it is we're expressing. In fact, I'm doing it right now - I'm at work, in between emails - so while Banksy has a point, there is true art being created and I like that we can all share it.

The solution to this perceived problem, I would think, is that access to all of this shared/reblogged/reposted information would inspire further creativity.

Some things that got me fired up this week to go do me:

There is a ground floor space on the corner of 47th and Lexington, near my office, with windows for walls that often acts as a sort of pop-up gallery space. None of the art installations have really caught my eye the past few months, so I was surprised to walk by one morning this week and see it transformed into a sort of modern lounge all focused around one central piece: a ping pong table.

Then last night, I walked by on my way to the gym and people were playing ping pong on the table, with provided paddles and balls. Because of the glass structure of the space, it essentially framed the action inside as an active art installation. Such a cool thing to witness on my daily commute!
(After I wrote all that I Googled around for the name and address of the space - turns out, yep, that's exactly what it is: The LAB Gallery for installation and performance art).

Soundtracks

2011-04-07T09:34:00.000-07:00

Download the full The Weeknd mixtape here.

Download the full Frank Ocean mixtape here.

Best song to listen to at work on repeat... not that I do that, or anything.

And of course, this vid (not for the squeamish) for which about a thousand of its 5 mil + views I am fairly certain I am responsible:

Moulting

2011-04-06T21:26:00.000-07:00

Same silly stuff here, just needed some cosmetic surgery to keep up with my own aging process.

While the reasons that I started this process (almost three years ago!) might no longer be a factor, there's all kinds of new reasons to continue to see where it goes.

Plus, as a good reminder tonight that while we can all adapt and evolve into better people in different places... it took me all of six months in the busiest metropolis in the country to run into someone from my high school at the gym.

The world is small - I don't know why I keep expecting to live in a bigger, limitless one. And while our pasts don't determine our futures, they certainly have a part in defining who we are... so instead of running from them all the time, I think it's okay to acknowledge that they're there and let them kick it.

Am I in an Abusive Relationship?

2011-03-15T19:40:00.000-07:00

We fight, I cry, we make up.
I get pummeled, and I go running right back into trouble, face first, only to catch the next hit square on the bridge of my nose.
Self-preservation kicks in, I withdraw. I am slowly wooed back into the lull of routine, of surprise pleasantries, the ease of lowered expectations.
I catch one in the teeth.

It's less domestic, more urban, I'd say: I'm in an abusive relationship with New York City.

I've been calling it love/hate but it's getting more complicated than that. Love/hate is surface and simple. There is a psychological cycle to abuse.

How can a city itself pummel you and beat you down? You'd only ask that if you haven't lived in a place like this. But I'm starting to suspect it's the effect of millions of people sharing the same resources- an age old problem, really. There's a whole hell of a lot of us living on this peninsula fighting for the same jobs, the same spot on the Downtown 6 train in the morning, the same men, the same taxis when it rains. And beyond resources, it's a place where Everyone Else's choices have a direct and definite impact on your own life.

I feel like I'm constantly battling to define, to carve out, to defend. And when everyone else is doing that, too, inevitably, there is a strain on resources and you win some, but you lose more.
It's why one of my roommates is about to have her fifth job since getting here last summer. It's why you can be running perfectly on time for work and with the decision of one train conductor who is "momentarily holding the train," be fifteen minutes late.
It's why you can go on six dates, but only really like the one who chooses not to call you back. Concerts sell out in minutes.
One woman decides she wants to watch CSPAN in the morning at the gym and changes the channel away from Reg and Kel.
It's why I can get hired full-time and have a great phone call with the President of the company, but then see Hugh Jackman at the batting cages over the weekend and remember that he makes a bazillion more dollars than I do.

Constant contact with humans equals constant comparison: I can love my outfit when I walk out the door and by the time I get to 77th, wish I were wearing my heeled boots instead because that girl looks SO CUTE.

It's exhausting. And just when I think I have things under control- a routine formed to keep my sanity- it implodes. All of a sudden, I'm working 50 hour weeks because of the needs of other humans and their choices to stay and work later affect MY time.
Or I just want PRALINE FRO YO and 16 Handles decided out of SIXTEEN DIFFERENT HANDLES PRALINE JUST ISN'T GONNA CUT IT THIS WEEK.

But as in any cycle, some days... some days the sun just feels so good on my face in the morning on my walk to the train, and it lights up the space between the buildings on the East River, you know?
Some days, the chocolate chip cookies at City Bakery are so melty, and so chewy, I can't be mad. Or like today, there was a spot for me on the train and it pulled in just as I swiped my card in the turnstile. And while everyone else in the office gets to be in Tahoe for a sales training, I had time to fill out my NCAA Basketball bracket. And even though someone else's choice affected me - that little blue text message light refused to shine on my phone, today - all it takes is one more victory than the loss column to make it worth it.
To want to stay.
To want to do better tomorrow.
To be willing to take one on the chin sometimes.

To get out of an abusive relationship requires a steeliness of one's will, a commitment of one's confidence. That's when you can look eye to eye and say, "You don't scare me anymore. I am better than this." and then take positive steps to reconstruct a better experience for yourself; to build a foundation that won't waver in the wake of whatever the day holds.

Scatterstories

2011-03-02T08:47:00.000-08:00

The hype of Attention Defecit Disorder and its prevalence in my generation/beyond used to annoy me. There was no way all these kids were afflicted with the same issue - they just aren't disciplined enough to concentrate, I would think.

But now, I'm on board with the notion that it's a symptom of our byte-sized, Facebook status-compartmentalized, 140 character at a time, smart phone, smarter search, society. This is nothing new to the experts- it's just that I'm realizing I'm not immune to it.

I think it all started at my last job, where I was confronted with the sit-in-front-of-a-computer-for-8+-hours-a-day lifestyle. When you're staring at this screen, it's so easy to open more and more windows, to search for more and more things, to work on more and more at once... until you realize you've been Alt+Tabbing between windows for ten minutes, or logging back into Facebook for no apparent reason - kind of like that feeling where you walk into a room and forget what you went in there to get.

Thus, in the last few years it's been more of a struggle to enjoy reading a full book, and it takes a concerted effort to disconnect - the first few hours or days are anxiety ridden and I'm still jumpy, but then I adjust back to my natural state of unpluggedness.

This new job is also mostly computer based, and is faster paced- so the constant clicking, typing, searching, opening, responding, and scrolling gets to be a way of life, and not just actions at work. I also blame the overstimulation of New York City for this. It's been more pronounced here, for me- this inability to sit still or calm down or focus- so I'm trying to be more deliberate and thoughtful in my actions. Keeping a self-reflective record has always been important to me and since I apparently don't have the patience to do so with a pen these days, I feel like I need to recommit to doing it here.

I attempted Healthy February again this year: I made it to February 4th without a beer. Thanks, office. Being only human, there was really no way I could turn down Friday Afternoon Beer Pong in our break room. But physically, I rejoined a gym and have been diligent in going - so much so, that I shattered a false perception of myself and have rebranded this girl as a "morning person": if I sleep in my gym clothes and am in bed at a reasonable hour, turns out, I LOVE going to the gym before work.

Perks include:
-Being awake when I get to the office
-Already feeling productive, alert, and less sluggish
-Not having to split bathroom time with the roommates
- Fresh towels I don't have to clean, free Q-tips, razors, and body lotion
- Getting to catch Regis and Kelly's opening monologue while I get ready
-A 5 minute walk to work once I'm all ready, instead of a 10 minute dash to the subway->stuffy subway ride-> 5 minute dash to office as I sweat off my makeup and inevitably screw up my hair

And the best part? It frees up other time, which, as you can see by the following chart, is limited these days:

We'll spare you the "OMG YOU NEED TO WATCH THE WIRE IF YOU'VE NEVER SEEN IT IT'S THE BEST SHOW IN TELEVISION HISTORY" rant, as true as that all is, and just leave you with this important breakout:

Other non-sequiters:
- Went to DC for the first time a few weekends ago. Only had time to walk the entirety of The Mall (in the very windy, very sunshiney day, to pay my respects to the monuments Washington and Lincoln, as well as the WWII and Vietnam Memorials), get two great brunches, catch up with college friends, and explore the Newseum (which was fascinating and beautiful! A museum about news media!)

- Have succumbed to nail-polish mania. Get manicures once a week.

- Still miss home, but the sickness part of missing it has subsided somewhat. I've been shoveling sugar free fro-yo from 16 Handles into that empty spot - that, coupled with the knowledge that my mama and aunt will be in NYC for a week at the end of the month has helped considerably.

- Need book recommendations. Just ordered a Miranda July book of short stories at the suggestion of The Dance Fighter - anyone else??

And lastly, most importantly - I am so, so proud of my friends.

I've got a sorority sister skiing all 27 Colorado Ski Resorts in 8 days to raise money and awareness for breast cancer research. Please support her here: http://www.skibumpsfightlumps.org/index.html

I've got a best friend actually battling breast cancer at the age of 28. Even before her diagnosis, we were writing each other weekly emails ("The Tuesday Seven", wherein we'd include 7 random bullet points about our weeks without each other) that manage to either always make me laugh or cry, without fail. Usually both. Read about how she's kicking its ass in her witty, honest voice here.

The Dance Fighter moved to Amsterdam to pursue a dream. Another sorority sister is moving to London this fall. Gingerlocks just got hired full time at a production studio in Portland doing great work with clients like Nike.
These musicians are finding their voice and killin' it:
- Jeff Mott (get me a working link, dude!)
- Justin Klump

Ba and Mr.Ba's business is not only booming while they live here in the city, across the country from their offices, but Ba is working on starting another high-end custom line - this time, of home goods and linens.

And if they aren't doing this stuff, specifically, they are getting into law schools, finishing up MBAs while they hold down other jobs, traveling for fun, volunteering abroad, and always sending me the best care packages I've ever heard of.

I am just so impressed with you all, and am blessed to know you. Thanks for being alive and never settling.

Diareading

2011-02-04T20:09:00.000-08:00

Tonight I went to the Morgan Library (of the "JP Morgan" Morgans) for an exhibit on diaries.
It was free after 7 PM, and as a life-long diarist and now, lackadaisical blogger, I felt compelled to go.

Charlotte Brontë.
Anais Nin.
Tennessee Williams.
Albert Einstein.
Napoleon Bonaparte's surgeon, Dominique-Jean Larrey.
Walt Whitman.
Henry David Thoreau.
FDNY firefighters who survived 9/11.
John Steinbeck.

Over three centuries worth of individual history was laid bare in glass cases for me to read. Sure, all of New York and its interminable current of visitors might read them, too, but so intimate was the encounter, it felt like it could have been just for me.

Second only to a miraculous actualization of the "What dead person would you most want to have dinner with?" game, reading someone's diary is about as close as you can actually get to meeting and knowing them, I would argue (unless their diaries were meant for public consumption, and then I guess maybe they never even really knew themselves - for if not in the pages of a diary, where can one be oneself?).

One man detailed the events of the Boston Tea Party, knowing even then what a monumental and potentially historic event it was.

JP Morgan's diary, in startlingly precocious penmanship, detailed the comings and goings of his 12 year old self in a small, browned date-book, remarking that the first time the girls joined his compulsory evening dance class, he, "had a first rate time."

Larrey wrote of a horrific instance in Napoleon's ill-advised campaign into Russia, wherein tens of thousands died, including children and "mothers who deliberately followed the fate of their children." He reflected that he only survived the ordeal because people in the military knew and recognized him, and got him to safety.

Brontë spoke wistfully but not sentimentally of home as she doodled in the front page of a textbook while a teacher of English at a school that housed only one person worthy of her affection in her estimation. She stated that she was cold, and wished she were at home with her father and her sisters in front of the fire.

Williams detailed a sexual encounter - deemed it a gift from God, even - and the 9/11 records were all facts about the search and rescue process that followed the collapse of the Twin Towers. Little to no emotion evident in the writing, but the existence of the writing itself is enough to show that a man needed to express, to reflect...that he couldn't carry it all himself, and had to instead burden the pages of a small notebook, or loose leaf letterhead he happened to find at his desk.

Einstein's notebook (the page they had it turned to, at least) was all indecipherable equations.

I was most drawn to John Steinbeck's log, which he kept while in the process of writing the Grapes of Wrath. I hadn't ever thought about it before, but it made so much sense to me (as someone who writes, and struggles to write) that a writer would write about writing. If we write to shake things loose from our brains, and reassemble it in front of us in plain sight - if we write to solve problems- why would one not write to help them write?
It was so obvious to me, yet I hadn't seen anything like it before.
The entries were brief, and related his day's work: how many pages written. How he thought it was going. Things he was stuck on.
Having read, and been quite fond of the book in question, it was moving to learn that he struggled with it, and that eventually the characters he crafted helped him finish it, as he learned to lean on them and respect them, "as they are much truer and braver than I," he admitted.

A blog has more of an identity crisis than most diaries ever do. Blogs are meant for public consumption, for engagement and discourse, while unapologetically representing the opinions or voice of the author. Just as artists have sketchbooks and studies, I think most writers have diaries and journals: it houses the ugliness, the raw, the unfinished. And often times, more beauty than our finished products.

The exhibition inspired me to try to be more diligent in both arenas.

LIST-O-MANIA!

2010-12-30T14:52:00.000-08:00

Being a psychotically dedicated maker of lists, the end of the year always gets me all excited: there are superlative lists EVERYWHERE. Typically, they pop up on news sites and my Facebook sidebar and I can't help it... I always click on them. How can you avoid these tempting morsels of distilled and perfectly categorized information?

Top 10 Things Kim Kardashian Tweeted about While On An Airplane!
Top 25 Pictures Published in the New York Times That Involve Snow!
Top 15 Quotes from this season of The Jersey Shore!

The men's lifestyle website for which I currently work has ludicrous Top 10 lists all year long ("Top 10 Reasons Men Love Top 10 Lists" was, honest to God, a headline this year).

But, since high school, my most favorite list every year is put out by a guy I've been friends with since 1st grade.
I can't remember if I've posted it in years past, and am frankly too lazy to double-check, but this list is intense, informative, and incredible.
He alone - without help and without the backing of a bigger blog or music site- takes the time, and more importantly has the passion, to craft an annual

TOP 50 ALBUMS OF THE YEAR

It's a pretty amazing feat and he does it EVERY. YEAR. I generally haven't heard of 85% of the music on the list, and it isn't because he tries to be obscure or obstinately hip - he just listens to SO MUCH MUSIC, and always has. World music, underground hip hop, mainstream radio pop, folk, fusion, classical, instrumental, and any and all combination of them make it on his list.
You can find it here, at AnotherSuckerOnTheVine.blogspot.com.
His past years' lists are there, too.

Happy reading, listening, and discovering!

It Appears I Inadvertanly Moved Home

2010-12-29T13:28:00.000-08:00

After the busiest social week of my life in NYC (sing it with me now, "3 Christmas parties, 2 client engagements, and 1 Mr.Big sighting at a whiskey bar near Central Park"), my exquistely cozy and gray hometown of Portland welcomed me with damp and loving arms, pulling me into the fold of holiday everything.

I managed to artfully squeeze in most everyone and everything I had been missing into my 8 days here, with plenty of family time, Christmas movie classics, Portland bars, and old sweatpants... and then Snowpacalypse, 2010 Edition hit the east coast and SURPRISE. I GOT ANOTHER 5 DAYS AT HOME.

Literally between the time I checked in at the airport and arrived at my gate, my flight was cancelled. The next available seat on ANY flights to JFK, LaGuardia, Newark, Philly or Boston from Portland OR Seattle was this Friday, the 31st.

As I said in an email to my boss and co-workers today, I am starting to think this was all an elaborate scheme orchestrated by my mother to get me to inadvertently move back to Portland by simply stranding me here.

It's not a big deal, as my work has been very cool about it and I don't have any pressing NYE plans to get back for, so I'm trying to be relaxed about the whole thing... but lack of schedule and independence is starting to wear me thin and I think I'm ready to leave, now. Please cooperate, sky.

I feel like we need to talk about something... I've been avoiding it, you've been distant...I've said it once but I'll say it again:

I don't know how to write about living in New York!
As proof that it's all been said, a friend emailed me the following and I feel so honestly that I could have written it, it's eerie...

From this site, is the following:

How to Live in New York City by Ryan O'Connell

Move here when you’re 18 or 22, maybe even 24. Come from somewhere else-the north, south, west, Xanadu- and come to realize that everyone living in New York is a transplant. Even the ones who grew up on the Upper East Side end up moving into a place downtown, which, as you’ll soon discover, is like moving to a different city.

Discover the cruel and bizarre world of New York City real estate. End up spending an obscene amount of money on something called a broker’s fee, first and last month’s rent and a security deposit. Cry a little bit in the leasing office but remind yourself that you’re so happy to be here.

Picture hearing a man playing the saxophone outside your bedroom window. End up hearing a lot of sirens instead. Figure it’s okay because it’s New York and you’re still so happy to be here.

Go out to bars in the Lower East Side because the Internet told you so. Fall in love with a bar called, Max Fish, and always stay out till four in the morning. Eat a falafel and have someone pay for a cab back to your apartment. Watch the sun start to rise while going over the Williamsburg Bridge and feel like your life is becoming some kind of movie.

Eat bad pizza but trick yourself into believing it’s good because it’s made in New York. Do the same thing with bagels and sex.

Meet people who will be your best friends for three or four months. They’ll help you transition into city life and take you to weird bars in Murray Hill. It will be like the blind leading the blind but once you get a firm grasp on things, you can stop returning their phone calls.

Watch your life in New York go through phases. Spend a summer in Fort Greene with a lover and get to know the neighborhood and its rhythms. Once the fling ends, forget the blocks, parks and restaurants ever existed and don’t return unless you have to.

Encounter a lot of people crying in public. Watch an NYU student cry in Think Coffee, a business woman in midtown sob into her cellphone, an old man whimper on a stoop in Greenpoint. At first, it will feel very jarring but, like everything else, it will become normal. Have your first public cry in front of a Bank of America. Cry so hard and don’t care if people are watching you. You pay good money to be able to cry in public.

Work long hours at a thankless job. Always be one step away from financial destitution. Marvel at how expensive New York is, how when you walk out the door, $20.00 immediately gets deleted from your wallet. Understand that even though no one has any money, everyone is privileged to live in New York City.

Go home for the holidays and run into old friends from high school. When you tell them that you live in New York, watch their eyes widen. They’ll say, “Oh my god, New York? That’s so crazy. I’m so jealous!” Have a blasé attitude about it but deep down inside, know they have good reason to be jealous.

Go home and feel relieved to be away from the energy of the city, that punishing 4:00 a.m. last call. Spend the first two days eating and sleeping, getting back to normal. Spend the last two days feeling anxious and ready to get back to your real home. Realize this city has you by the balls and isn’t going to let you go.

Someday you might grow tired of it all though. You might start crying in public more often than you’d like, have a bad break-up and want to pack it all up.

Certain moments of living in the city will always stick out to you. Buying plums from a fruit vendor on 34th street and eating three of them on a long walk, the day you spent in bed with your best friend watching Tyra Banks, the amazing rooftop party you attended on a sweltering hot day in July. These memories might seem insignificant but they were all moments when you looked around the city and felt like you were a part of it all.

When you leave the city, you probably won’t come back. Eventually your life in New York will seem so far away and sometimes you’ll even wonder if it really happened. Don’t worry. It did

Displace/Diss Place/'Dis Place

2010-11-21T21:26:00.000-08:00

Low, full sky. Wrapped like gauze and heavy with rain. Short distances for the eye. You stand on a roof and are confronted with a horizon torn like construction paper - green for trees on the bottom half, ash for the clouds. The ripped, cut, and glue-sticked feel of an organically assembled Pacific Northwest landscape surrounds, encloses, and comforts those living in its fertile cocoon.

I started to have this deep sense of longing for this place- I think they call it homesickness. In French, when you miss someone or something, the verb is reflexive, so it's not "I miss ____". It is always, "_____ is missing from me." I think this is truer.
The homesick feeling started about a week and a half ago and I couldn't pinpoint quite why...
friends aplenty here, and good ones at that. I've been making headway on my quest to find the perfect chocolate chip cookie, so, it couldn't be that. The apartment is coming together slowly, so I'm not sure it's that. The weather has been great and the leaves are changing and every day brings something new here, so why the feeling that something is actually missing from me?

And I realize that this is the longest I've ever been away from home.

To fight this feeling, I have been reading Ken Kesey's masterful work of Pacific Northwestern prose, Sometimes a Great Notion.

"You must go through a winter to understand.

For one thing, Jonas couldn't see all that elbow room that the pamphlets had talked about. Oh, it was there, he knew. But not the way he'd imagined it would be. And for another thing, there was nothing, not a thing! about the country that made a man feel Big and Important. IF anything it made a man feel dwarfed...Important? Why, there was something about the whole blessed country that made a soul feel whipped before he got started. Back home in Kansas a man had a hand in things, the way the Lord aimed for his servants to have: if you didn't water, the crops died. If you didn't feed the stock, the stock died. As it was ordained to be. But there, in that land, it looked like our labors were for naught. The flora and fauna grew or died, flourished or failed, in complete disregard for man and his aims. A Man Can Make His Mark, did they tell me? Lies, lies. Before God I tell you: a man might struggle and labor his livelong life and make no mark! None! No permanent mark at all! I say it is true.

You must go through a least a year of it to have some notion."

I am 350 pages in and am sure it will rank among my all time favorites (barring any type of bullshit hooligan nonsense ending like that other book I've said this about, The Story of Edgar Sawtelle).

______________________________________

Last Monday at work:
"Hey, clear your plans for the week."
"I already did in the evenings, since that VP is going to be in town and you said we should be ready to go out-"
"Nope. The whole week. You're going to San Francisco tomorrow."

And so, on Tuesday, I was on a plane to San Francisco, back to the Best Coast, for a full on real work training at our headquarters, along with another new Account Coordinator from Chicago.

Having been to SF many times and having so many wonderful and close friends there, I was thrilled at the opportunity rather than put out or annoyed at the inconvenience (it was literally such late notice I had to go out and buy socks rather than have clothes laundered).
I got to stay in a gorgeous big hotel room all alone, see said friends, meet many great people at our office there...
and surprisingly, came to find, that after only 10 weeks as an inhabitant of big, mean, New York City, I was a big, mean, New Yorker.

WHY ARE THERE NO CABS!?! I screamed silently, and then, aloud.
WHY ARE YOU ALL WALKING SO SLOWLY!?! I wanted to yell at everyone in my general warpath on the sidewalks.
WHERE ARE ALL THE PEOPLE?! I wondered.
WHY IS IT SO QUIET!?! I asked aloud to myself at 1 AM in my luxuriously fluffy hotel bed.
I had been so eager to get out of NYC and then all I could think about was getting back to its constance: constant energy, constant flow of traffic, constant noise levels, consistency in scenery - block after block of the same coffee shops, repeated in an endless Escher-esque tessellation.
It seems I have developed quite the passionate love/hate affair with this place and basically fostered a burning hatred for the "city" of San Francisco.
Yeah, I said it.
____________________________________

I arrive in New York late Friday, around midnight.
I sleep late Saturday, waking only to let the exterminator in the building.
I go back to sleep, and then finally rise around 1:30. In the space of the next few hours, all on foot, I am able to pick up coffee and a bagel, buy detergent, do a load of laundry at the laundromat,walk to the local second-hand store to purchase a nightstand, go grocery shopping, and walk to the post office to retrieve a package.

Feeling quite accomplished with my day's work, I hustle upstairs to tear open my parcel as reward.

Reward doesn't even begin to describe it. The modest cardboard box from my dear and darling friend Drew at home says simply that it is a belated birthday/care package and CARE doesn't even FINISH describing it! The contents include:

- One ready-make Chocolate Chip Cookie package
- One bag of Lemon-Herb Ricola throat lozenges
- Two bags of local Portland coffee (!!!)
- Two pairs of delightfully warm and soft winter socks rolled into a
- Gigantic green Oregon Ducks mug!
- A bag of holiday PEANUT M&Ms
- and a cute little Duck LED light keychain that QUACKS.

All those things from home make THIS place feel like it could also be my home.
That was the best gift, tucked among those goodies.

When is a house a home?

2010-11-05T10:20:00.000-07:00

We have been living in our apartment for about two weeks, now.

Due to the costs of “getting on one’s feet,” and the fun circus it is to start getting paid at a new job, the apartment remains woefully empty.

One of my roommates has picked up the distinctly New York practice of “street shopping” wherein one simply drags things home that they find on the street, size and practicality of the item depending on the level of alcohol consumed.

We have forbidden anything upholstered, but she has reaped a butcher block for the kitchen hall, a nightstand shaped like a fish, and not one, but two broken microwaves.
Other than our beds, and some fabulous $9.99 clothing racks from IKEA, that is actually all that currently furnishes the place.

Which begs the question, when does a house become a home?

Because right now, I feel like I’m living in a storage unit that has a bathroom.

I realize how little time I actually spend in the apartment, and thus, don’t think it’s urgent to furnish it. But then I think maybe I don’t spend time there…because it’s not furnished.
We’re all in a financial state that calls for a diet of dry ramen and 99 cent slices of pizza, so it’s sort of hard to justify filling a kitchen with fancy pots and gadgetry.

When I got paid the other night, I did actually buy food at the nearby market, and was dismayed to find it was a fancy, expensive specialty market. I spent $50 on hummus, a bag of pita chips, a packet of shredded cheese, a packet of sliced pepper jack cheese, one cucumber, a tray of pre-cooked turkey meatballs, a roll of tin foil, a box of red beans and rice, a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, baby carrots, one can of soup (with a pop top, because we don’t EVEN HAVE A CAN OPENER) and roach traps.
Yes, roach traps.

But that’s a story for a different day.

I don’t think about it much but people keep asking me how the apartment is, how I like living here, and I’m realizing the state of affairs regarding the desolate apartment is really affecting my answer.

Like, one of my favorite parts about living in this city is that you can actually have someone pick up your laundry, do it for you, fold it, and return it. For 75 cents a pound. It is frankly fantastic, and I can justify it as it’s the monetary equivalent of buying detergent & dryer sheets, and spending a few hours in a dingy Laundromat feeding machines with quarters. But this experience was almost ruined for me this week as I got all my clean laundry home and…had nowhere to put it. I lined a cardboard box with plastic bags and put my clothes in there. Oh hey, ghetto dresser.
The raw materials of the space are great, as you can see:

It just takes a little effort, and money, and prioritizing, to create a haven in this crazy place. Which is something I hope to tackle this weekend.
Care packages welcome.

A Bag + A Bed + A Bad Day = A Blessing = A Bag

2010-10-28T18:11:00.000-07:00

Be prepared: this one's coming full circle.

Part I:
It is August 19th, my last day of work at previous Portland job.
In a flush of pride and freedom, pre- post-work cocktails with co-workers, I stop at Nordstrom.

The bag I have been wanting sold out during the Anniversary Sale. I mention this to the sales girl, who promptly finds me a few around the country that have been returned. As a gift to myself - as a celebration, really- I plop my card down and make the purchase.

The purchase:

It arrives in 8-10 business days: in time for my New York departure, but not small enough to fit in my luggage. I set it aside, tags in tact, to be reunited with me later.

Part II:

It is mid-October. I fear the darkening days and the gusts of biting wind warn of the cold to come, so I send for some winter things I have packed up at home, which my mother is nice enough to take care of for me. Among the sweaters, fur accessories, scarves, mittens and boots that arrive in the package, my Badgley bag is the thing I missed most.
It is prettier than I remember- all soft gray leather and bright gold hardware. I leave the tags on a few days longer until I am sure I have my job secured, and then I gleefully break them off and debut the bag.
I wear it every day for a week. It goes nicely with everything, I get some compliments on it, and I am pleased with my purchase.

...Until Saturday, while lunching at the (totally luxe and very fun) SoHo House*

*
with my cousin who is visiting from London, the strap clasp on the bag just up and breaks. Like, out of nowhere, all of a sudden, the thing is in pieces and I can't even FIND all of the pieces.

I am more annoyed and baffled than sad, and my cousin does his best to just knot the chain strap so I can carry it for the rest of the way home. Hmph.

The closest Nordstrom is a train ride away and frankly, I'm not sure I want it fixed if the quality of the bag is such that it could happen again. It's just that, well...it looks SO LOVELY with all of my other things and I feel, without being dramatic, that I need it in my life or I will die.

Part III:

It is October 24 and the roommates and I are moving into our new apartment.
It is bright and spacious (the rooms are not large, but, the spaces between them are, which is kind of remarkable for an NYC apartment) and the flooring is new, and it's only on the third floor, which is an improvement over our 4th floor walkup, and we're all very pleased to have a place to truly call home for at least a year.
Although, we notice rather quickly that it's hard to call a few walls and windows a home when you have absolutely, quite literally, NO FURNITURE with which to make it the calm, comfortable, zen-like space we crave. The one item of décor I have is a framed print that I bought a few weeks ago because the color combination caught my eye, made me stop on the busy street, take a deep breath, and feel wonderful. Anything that has this effect in this city belongs with me, without question.

So I walked in and bought it on the spot. There is a nail in the wall of my new bedroom and so the framed print finds a home.

Part IV:

But one cannot sit nor sleep on a framed print, so I call 1-800-Mattress and select a mattress, boxspring, and frame with free delivery.
The only problem in this flawless plan is that they decline my credit card.

I don't get paid until later in the week and think it best to put a purchase of this nature on a credit card, so I ask if I can just pay on the day of delivery (2 days from now) so I can have a day to clear things up with Capital One. The mattress man says this is no problem and agrees.

It is October 25th, my second Monday at my new job. I end up staying until around 7:45 laboriously working on something that would probably take the previous Account Coordinator about 10 minutes, and leave, starving, and prepared to do phone battle with Capital One. I find the only quiet place between my office and the subway station to talk on the phone – one of those debit-card-entry ATM kiosks at the corner of a bank I don't belong to- and go to work.

I will spare you the details but basically, the credit card company assures me there is nothing wrong with my account, I am not eligible for a credit limit increase, but that this bed purchase should be totally fine. I say, “Well, nothing has changed since yesterday on your end, and it wasn't fine yesterday, so why would it be 'fine' today?”
“It just should be. There's nothing wrong with the account, no holds, no problems, here.”
“Okayyyyy,” I say unconvinced.

To avoid embarrassment on delivery day, I decide right then and there to contact the mattress company again and try to run my credit card again. Of course it is declined. Twice.

I call Capital One again. I have to talk to a different representative. I have to ask for a supervisor.
The moral of the story is that I end up crying in this strange bank kiosk out of helplessness and frustration with a company that is incompetent, incorrect, and infuriating. One young woman is actually compassionate enough to stop and ask if I am okay- this makes me cry harder. Also, I realize I haven't eaten anything but a bagel since about noon.

Part I (Back to the Bag):

I give up and head "home" to my (empty) apartment. I emerge from the station after a suffocating ride on the crowded 6 train, and as I am walking home, something hits me.
I realize there is a little idea sitting in the back of my brain, waving its arms frantically hoping I'll notice. This idea is small, but obvious.

I take heed, pull out my phone, and call a number I know well.

"Hello, this is Lisa in Handbags at Nordstrom Washington Square, how may I help you?"
"Hi Lisa, my name's Jessica. I have a problem, and I think you might be able to help me..."

Lisa reassures me that despite living in a city wherein there are no Nordstrom stores, I can ship the bag in with a note and my account information, and they will credit my account with the amount for which I purchased the bag.

I hang up, quite pleased with myself, and to my surprise, find in the giant black hole of a purse I am actually carrying, a receipt. Not just another Starbucks receipt or a bar tab, but the actual Nordstrom receipt I got when I bought that damn bag.
Seriously, I can't ever find my subway card in this thing, but in the dark, on the street, of course it only makes sense that I would reach into the bag and pull this out.

The amount I paid? $10 more than the bed I just bought. Which means it will just cover shipping.

I am still chuckling about this vivid illustration of divine providence when I get home and walk into my room, and see there, framed on the wall, the print:

Keep Calm and Carry On it reads regally. A commandment, an encouragement - though I see that they are one and the same.

It is all that I need to make peace with that fact that I am sitting on a deflated air mattress and eating candy corn while listening to How to Dress Well.
This was part of what I was looking for, right?
I signed up for this, I remind myself.

I stare at the print and listen to the sirens, the sports bars, and the city outside.

Necessity Accessories

2010-10-04T09:14:00.000-07:00

One of the hard things about relocating geographically is the total lack of context you have for anything, anyone, traditions, landmarks, necessities, or luxuries.

The first time I traveled to Europe in 8th grade, we had multiple-session prep courses about what to expect, the nature of culture-shock, the lowdown on the buildings we'd be visiting and why, the political climate of the different countries we'd be visiting, and a detailed packing check list.

When I lived in Morocco, there were some hefty orientation classes we sat through upon arrival, and then a series of culture and daily-life seminars we took throughout our summer there. I also had a built-in tour guide in the form of a bubbly host sister.

In moving to NYC, I regrettably did not prepare in the same manner.
I mean, I've seen basically every episode of Friends, Sex & the City, Seinfeld, and Law & Order:SVU, so what else is there to know, right?

To be honest, I did actually start a list of literature and film selections I deemed worthy of absorbing to aid in my New York Education, but did I get around to any of them? No.
I still have yet to see a Woody Allen film.

So I am sort of stumbling along and learning like the grand majority of the other inhabitants of this city did when they first got here in their early 20s, looking for a job and a new sort of challenge with a wisp of adventure.

Part of what I am learning is that things that are "popular" really are popular, meaning, many of the great traditions and quirks of this city are upheld by the population at large, and usually for good reason.

Like, for example, women don't wear Hunter boots (or Sorrells, Sperry's, etc) simply because they're trendy: women wear wellies because they HAVE to. There is so much walking, and when the streets get wet and gross, encasing your foot in a waterproof stomping hoof is pretty much the only answer.
Rainboots are available at every shoe store, in every imaginable color and height and style. Being from Portland, I know that it rains a hell of a lot, but I also know that not every woman owns a pair of rainboots. We have the luxury of driving most everywhere, or own plenty of other weather-wise shoes, and I have never been able to find a really nice selection of boots at local retailers.

Same thing with the great notion of "owning a house in the Hamptons." Hearing of such a thing in Oregon, it sounded like a far off thing that famous people did with an excess of money and a lack of responsibility.
Then after spending a mere week of humidity laden oppression in the city, where the air is trapped between all the buildings and blows up hotly at you from subway grates (and even worse underground, where the thick stagnance of air rests heavily on your skin, and sweats itself out of your pores) I realized people started going to weekend homes out of necessity. Spending a full summer in this city is going to be painful, so I should probably work on securing a space for myself come next June. I'm sure the Trumps have a spare room for me someplace.

Another example is Central Park.
I honestly did NOT understand what all the fuss was about the park when I got here a few short weeks ago. Great... it's green. And pretty. Yep... not as pretty as all kinds of land right outside city limits, though, so, what's the deal?
And then on Saturday afternoon, the weather was so crisp, so gorgeously fall bright, all I wanted to do was be outside, and all of a sudden, the park was the only place I wanted to be. It was the only green space that reflected the sunlight just the right way, and there was all kinds of music playing and food being sold and people playing volleyball and picnicking on the lawn. It is the collective front yard of the city, and I realized I needed it, too.

I also met this guy,

whom I had seen on the subway last week. You know you're making yourself at home when you have a catalogued list of the local bums.
He tried to sell me a two-dollar bill in the park. I declined, but told him I'd seen him around, and I liked his fabulous hat.
"Well thank you, you know darling, things just come together when you got nothing but time on your hands to get high and sew. They just come together."

Another thing I have come to understand is why mod, sleek furniture got popular: I am pretty sure it has to do with the fact that a lot of us here in the city live in ridiculous walk-ups and the idea of getting a fancy bedframe or sofa up 4 flights (nineteen steps each) of stairs is laughable.
Most people my age here just sit at the tables left by the last tenants, and make do with the shelving units that have sat in the apartment for years, and eat out of the bowls left in the cupboards. This might not be a terribly green city, but there is certainly a culture of recycling, reusing, and repurposing.

Take for instance my little studio:

Honestly one of the bigger kitchens I've seen in the city. Furnished with an odd assortment of the lessee's old plastic plates, chipped mug collection, and one bread knife I've been using to slice everything from zucchini to cheese.

Our living room looks like a Goodwill donation center. I think the lessee is coming to claim his "art" this week, but I am going to insist we keep the amazing leather chair (in which I am currently sitting).
I sleep up there!

This is my huge bedroom. And a super classy air mattress, which I am basically sure 50% of the city also sleeps on. (Not this one, specifically, but, whenever I tell someone I just moved here their first follow-up question is, "Oh, do you need an air mattress? Because I have one." City of transplants and nomads, I tell you).

The job progression is, at this moment, at a standstill due to the deluge of rain and my unwillingness to go scout out a Kinkos to scan and email all my paperwork... it's just so cozy in here!
Alright...alright... I'm going.

Pins & Needles

2010-09-28T20:40:00.000-07:00

My limbs fall asleep a lot.

I am not sure if this is a result of poor circulation or the fact that I am always trying to prop myself up in weird ways while I'm on my computer so as to keep the laptop off my thighs (it gets so HOT), but no matter the reason, I stand up and grimace while the pins and needles stick and unstick themselves into my nerve endings.

You know this feeling. There is always this sort of momentary shock, and then the dawning horror that the leg, or foot, is asleep and that there is a hard part to come. That trying to put pressure on the extremity will hurt, and the uncontrollable vascular missiles will fire and explode all up and down the appendage and all you can do is wait until it stops, when it is done.
But you can't just sit there, either: you have to get the blood flowing, the miracle blood that will fill all those barren capillaries, and there are things to do and no slumbering leg will impede your progress to stand up to get that power cord, or answer the phone, or whatever urgent call has drawn you from your awkward crouching position.

To move will hurt, and as you stand, it might kind of tickle, and then in a rush the wave of pain and anxiety burst at the apex. There is a blossoming ripple, a submission to the inevitable, and then, it sort of slowly ebbs to a trickle down one of your shins.
You shudder once as the last of the weirdness escapes through your minor phalanges, and then it's done. You straighten your leg to walk and you put the foot on the floor and follow with the other, and you leave the place where it happened.

That's basically how I feel right now.

I am rising from my cumbersome perch, a position I willingly entered to alleviate another problem-area in my life, and as I am rising to answer this new call, the tingling and the anxiety floor me. The idea that the next step will bring pain, before it is washed away by a pride in trying, scares me and I wait for that climax of a loss of control with dread: I will never find a normal roommate on Craigslist, I will never sell my car, I will never be able to afford an apartment here, no one will hire me. I will have to turn tail and start over.

And I take another step, and all of a sudden, I'm on the other side of it.
There are some loose ends not yet tied up, but there's a beginning to the end of the discomfort: I got a job offer yesterday, and found a place to sublet for the month of October for a VERY good price with a VERY nice girl.

The best news? The job is in an event planning division of an information technology consulting firm: I GET TO KEEP THE BLOG TITLE! Just kidding. Kind of.

I'm waiting to hear a few details, yet, and the living situation could burst at the end of October, but the first wave of terror has passed and I'm standing.

And if you get into a bad situation, lie your way out

2010-09-22T15:26:00.000-07:00

Part of the process of moving away from a city is a series of mini-breakups, I've learned. You leave your hairstylist, you bid adieu to your drycleaner, you abandon your piano teacher.
I mean, I know not every 24 year old has a piano teacher, but, that means my peers have been missing out on some serious life-advice. Here is an unedited 6 minute clip of wisdom that Diana bestowed upon me in our last session.

“Do you have any New York advice for me?” I asked, and inconspicuously clicked "Record" on my phone.

“Uhhhh I know...I was always very cynical, even as a kid, because I left at 13. And when I went to boarding school I met a boy who was 13 or 14 and he was from Connecticut, (and I learned later very rich) and so I, of course, fell immediately for him. And there was a Leap Year dance, and I went dancing, and I was NOT good looking at the time. I had a very good figure but, I had long legs- sexy, you know, but not good looking - and he was very good looking. So I asked him to go with me, and he agreed, and we went to the dance and we started to go out. And then one day he came up to me and he said, 'I would like to have my ring back. Because I now like Bobbi.'
So I went outside and it was raining- pouring rain- and it was a big drama.
And all of a sudden I stopped, and said 'I'm getting wet' and that's what I have to tell ya. That's what you have to do. Because they're very smooth operators. Extreeemely smooth operators- not like here."

I am a little confused by this explanation of her epiphany, but part of me gets it. Part of me perfectly understands what she's saying, in that you have to assess your situation and react according to the facts - according to self-preservation.
She didn't talk anymore about that boy, she just knew what she had to do to get herself out of the rain. It's taken me a few weeks to be able to pull that apart and put it back together again, but I am fairly certain that was her intent.

She continues, almost seamlessly, from one thought to the next:
"Here, the difference between - and I don't know if it's this way or not anymore- but, here in Portland the men are very insecure and they're awkward in their approach. You're not going to get that in New York. They're smooth. Very very slick. Got a whole routine. They're still using it on my friend, and she's 70!
The other thing, and it depends who you meet- what class of people- is that the men don't like to pay for the woman.
If you don't put your foot down, you're going to be paying all over the place. Just say 'I'm not used to it' and say that you can't. Because when you first go out with them, I did that, I thought, 'I'm not gonna pay my money for them. Too bad! You're gonna go on a date, you're gonna pay for it!' and sooo... well, of course if you go out with an older man he'll give you all his money- period, he'll sign it over to you, you know, but someone else, your age, that you're going out on a date with, I know that for a fact, a lot of people are complaining. But not in the high society. Don't let him. Say 'I can't go. I don't have any money.'
So watch out for that, too. I mean, this is what I hear. I'm not sure what goes on.
Oh, and if you get stuck in a bad situation, lie your way out.
I once was at a party, or out with some friends and a young man says to me, 'Would you like to come see my etchings?' Which is so stupid of me, because men have used that one from the beginning of time! What was I thinking?
And so I went with him to his apartment and he locked the door. And I was in there, and I always get out of these things (I'm a great liar) and so I said to him, 'You can do anything you want, but, I just had an abortion. So, I'd bleed to death right now.' And you know what he did?
He accompanied me all the way to the subway! Would have walked me right to my front door, if I'd let him. That kinda thing I used a coupla times there. If you get in a situation where you don't want to be...it works.
You don't want to say anything tacky, like I would, like, 'I have herpes, mister. Thats why.' but you could, if you're really in a mess.
I've been in a coupla situations like that, so, yeah...you just have to warn them what the disadvantages would be."

Thanks, Diana. Will do.
That goes for all of you ladies out there, too.

Conversations

2010-09-19T20:17:00.000-07:00

"Can I just ask you one thing?"
"Okay."
"What are you passionate about?"

I anticipate that I will be speechless, but before I am silenced, I am interrupted by the sound of my own voice:

"Figuring out what I'm passionate about."
He smiles (sadly?) and says,
"Well, that's my hope for you, then. That you figure that out."

---

This song is haunting me. It's a conversation, too.

"Conversation 16" - The National

The National - Conversation 16 from Andrew Lawandus on Vimeo.

---

At a bar in Hoboken, NJ on Friday night, we were out for our friend's engagement party. She works with only guys, who call her "The Big Show", and they were all out with us. So when my feet hurt, I posted up at a table underneath the AC unit, and The Big Show and I chatted over the music while our friends danced, brought us drinks, came to talk to us, put their bags down, pick up their own drinks, etc.
Apparently all of this activity REALLY bothered an outspoken flamboyant young man who approached The Big Show and myself, looked us up and down and said,

"Why is there a rotating line of guys coming up to talk to you? Neither of you are THAT cute."

"EXCUSE ME?!" I shrieked.

My finger went a-pointing and a-waving in his smug face as I very calmly informed him how the gentlemen were with us, they were friends of ours, and what's more, he needed to turn around and walk away and that his unkindness was not welcome anywhere in my vicinity. I think I was too surprised to be anything other than totally honest and taken aback, so nothing clever was spit at him.

I felt very New Jersey, however, telling him to "Walk away. Seriously. Just walk away. You don't know me. Turn around, and walk away."

Another girlfriend had some words with him at the bar, I guess, because within minutes he delivered apology shots to the table. He still wasn't nice, but, a shot's a shot, so I took it.

Lessons learned in New Jersey:

1. Twisted Tea gives you a hangover before a buzz.

2. Hoboken bar life is a lot like Eugene. I felt like I was at Taylor's.
3. No one cares about the Mariner game on in the corner of the bar, even when you excitedly rejoice that they (shockingly) won.

Everyone is Grumpy

2010-09-15T07:57:00.000-07:00

New Yorkers have been living up to their reputation as grumpy jerks.

At first, I thought, "Oh, everyone is much nicer than in the movies and in 80's cop shows!" but then I actually started interacting with people and have started to feel like Will Ferrell in the movie Elf (a likeness that is developing at a rapid rate. I am positive it will only be a matter of days before I break into the guys' locker room and sing a duet with someone who is in the shower).

It started the other day when I made a stop at the New York Public Library. It was after an interview, and I was wandering around taking in the beautiful beaux-arts architecture half expecting to see an incensed Carrie Bradshaw fleeing from the building with a bird on her head.

First, I stupidly asked a library lady about the requirements for procuring a library card, there.
"You can't." She said shortly.
"I'm sorry?"
"You can't check out books here. It's a RESEARCH library."
"Oh." I smiled and forced a giggle to cover my embarrassment. And it wasn't until I apologized for my error that she FINALLY cracked a smile.

And then, I reluctantly realized I had to use the ladies' room, because it being a public building and all, it means you're sharing a restroom with the craziest of the NYCrazy.
The other library lady I asked for directions was similarly stoic, until I broke into a saccharine smile and thanked her profusely. She visibly softened. I was starting to feel like a Care Bear, distributing joy and smiles wherever I happened to break into a dopey grin.

I was washing my hands in the restroom when a young woman stalked in, muttering about how some "white b*tch needta KEEP WALKIN." I thought she was on a hands-free phone device, talking to a friend, so I didn't pay her much attention (at least, not conspicuously - you better believe I was trying to remember every word, though).

The tirade continued in low tones, occasionally punctuated with a loud "WALKIN'!" even as she entered a stall.
Then, and bear with me, but this is funny, a second woman, already in a stall, belched loudly.
The following conversation occurred, with each participant in her own stall, while I pretended to keep washing my hands.

Lady 2: *BELLLLCH* "Excuse me."
Lady 1: "UGH. Who DID that?!"
Lady 2: "I did."
Lady 1: "DAMN. That's NASTY."
Lady 2: "It's a restroom. It's allowed. Plus it's a medical condition, don't be ignorant."
Lady 1: "I don't care WHAT you say, thass GROSS. UnLADYlike."
Lady 2: "If you have a problem, you can leave." *BELLLLCH*
Lady 1: "EEEW! What the f$@! is WRONG WITCHU?"

This continued until I left. I almost opened my mouth to spread some more Care Bear joy, as instructed as a child of the '80s, but I decided I wanted to live to see another day in this fine city. So I kept it shut, and will continue to smile brightly at only people I don't suspect harbor a desire to kill me.

I am Mr. Adolf Kerber

2010-09-12T18:06:00.000-07:00

It is a cold December morning in Portland, Oregon.

Lu is in town from New York for the holidays. We attended a sorority alumnae Christmas party last night, and are curled up in my queen sized bed, nursing cups of coffee to calm our vodka-soda induced headaches.

The floor-to-ceiling mirrors reflect and amplify the crisp gray light that floods in from the panoramic window, framing the skeletons of winter trees, buildings and river beyond.

She opens her Christmas gift from me- a mustard colored, alligator textured belt from Nordstrom.

"Ohh, I love it, it's perfect. Thank you!" she says sincerely. "But hurry up and open mine- I am too excited. It's so good." She shakes her head, smiling. "So good."

The first gift is a pair of stud earrings - little nude pink rosettes.
"Ahhh! I love them!" I gush.
"I found them at the Chelsea craft fair," she says excitedly. "You would love it. You could totally sell your jewelry there. But I saw these and thought they were so you - let me see. Yes. They go PERFECTLY with your hair and skin tone. Okay. Open the other one."

She hands me a yellowed envelope, brittle with the years it has weathered.

It is addressed, in simple courier typeface, to a Mr. Adolf Kerber, who appears to have resided in Louisville, Kentucky.
I glance at the postmark: 1945.

The envelope is torn neatly along one end, and the edges of a letter are visible. I pull it out, unfold it, and read it:

November 26, 1945

Dear Adolf Kerber:

I have your letter and note all you say. I am mindful of what Mr. Berkowitz asked me to do for you. To try to advise you is almost impossible. It is strictly a gamble and you have to come prepared to take the good with the bad. You might be lucky and get a job right away and you might have to wait for months. However, I will give you every assistance that I can, if you decide to come on to New York.

Every best wish.

Kindest regards and best wishes.

Sincerely yours,

(unintelligible man's signature here)

I have to read the last few lines a few times before I can finish, as I've gotten choked up and my vision is swimming.

I look at Lu, pull a face, and reach for her in a hug.

And now, here I am. In her apartment on E 53rd and 3rd Ave in New York City, using her bathroom, refrigerator, 2 dresser drawers, pantry shelf, and house keys. I have two suitcases with me that we've artfully squashed into two corners of the apartment (which, I should add, she shares with two other girls), and she took the day off on Thursday to spend time with me as I acclimated and caught my breath.

In addition to her hospitality, Ba and Mr. Ba have been so helpful and accommodating.
Friday, I spend the day with the Ba's at their lovely place on 72nd and Broadway.

When night fell and the roof got too cold to enjoy, we attended some of the Fashion's Night Out festivities, which basically flooded every neighborhood of the city. The idea was to engage and involve consumers and retailers in a city-wide celebration of fashion, achieved by boutiques staying open later, serving appetizers and complimentary drinks, and providing entertainment from musicians, celebrities, and affiliated designers. From the amounts of people dressed to kill and out to party, I'd say it was a rousing success, and a great community endeavor.

Serendipitously, FNO also corresponded with NYC's Fall Fashion Week, which kicked off last week and runs all this week, too.

It was pretty overwhelming, though.

(Overwhelming = my favorite word to describe my time here, so far).

The Friday highlight was seeing Michael Kors perform a karaoke duet with Idina Menzel (original cast of RENT, and Wicked...and the wife of Taye Diggs. No big deal) at the Madison Avenue Michael Kors store.

The obvious highlight of Saturday? The Oregon Ducks win over the Tennessee Vols!

Things of note:
1. My legs hurt. I think I have walked about 8 miles in the last few days. Yes, that's what I need- bigger legs.

2. I have 2 real job interviews this week (both in publishing, which is weird, but potentially awesome), 1 informational interview (event production), and 1 meeting with a recruiter (more work that would leave time for blogging at a boring 9-5)!
I mean, I think it's getting pretty serious.

My Coming Out Party

2010-09-09T20:58:00.000-07:00

First thing's first: I have arrived in New York City.

I came to the conclusion tonight that writing about New York is probably one of the more daunting tasks one can undertake. It has just been done, and done, and DONE by so many authors, screenwriters, playwrights, poets, graffiti-artists, graphic designers, copyrighters, et al that I wonder whether there is really anything left to be said.

But places are always changing, and the permutations of people at any one place at a given time are infinite, and so I suppose the experiences are also infinite - just as they are in any other city.

I am staying with Lu on E 53rd St, between 2nd and 3rd Ave. This meant nothing to me yesterday, and already it makes a lot more sense.

This morning, we wandered around SoHo (which means "South of Houston", which is a street that runs East/West and is pronounced, "house-tin", I was graciously reminded in a text from the Dancefighter) for a few hours, mostly window shopping and allowing me to get my bearings. We ate brunch at a little place called Boom, which was reasonable and tasty, and then walked to the Trader Joe's in Union Square, on E 14th. From there, we took the subway back up to her apartment, where we promptly collapsed on the couch and watched two episodes of Mad Men.
This was my big debut in the city. Watch out, world. I am here, I am fierce, and I am wearing sweatpants.

From my absence here, you can probably surmise that the last few weeks have been brutally busy and I have been running around like Usain Bolt on crack.

The first week of unemployment was spent prepping for the end of summer bash I hosted. 12 acres, 120 hamburgers, 40 hot dogs, 18 Garden Burgers, 4 kegs of Natural Light (only the finest for my guests), 100 lbs of ice, 6 folding tables, one pop up canopy, two strands of Christmas lights, a stereo, and 500 ft of acquired extension cords later, I had myself a party.

Around 60-70 of my most beloved ones showed up to celebrate and send me off into the great big world, which was a joyful and humbling gift. I appreciated the presence of each guest, and my killer friends who were kind enough to provide the entertainment-
Goodbye Harrison and DJ Yo Huckleberry, as well as Mr.Dancefighter, who was a clutch friend and took about 471 pictures for me. A sampling:

And the second week of unemployment was spent recovering from all of that. And packing all my most important possessions (clothes, jewels, boots, and bags- duh) into two suitcases. And saying farewell/see you soons/see you laters/see you probably nevers to a lot of people.

But you know, people move every day. They make bigger moves than this, and they move farther and with less encouragement pushing and pulling them than I have, so there's no need for melodrama. This is just another day, except now, I'm just kickin it' in a bigger city.

With seriously huge cockroaches.

The Evolution of Stumbling

2010-08-19T10:55:00.001-07:00

Today is my last day of work.

As I was driving here this morning, the phrase that kept coming to mind was that I "stumbled up the back steps and am walking gracefully out the front door." Not that I'm walking all that gracefully, necessarily, just, I look much less like a baby giraffe than I did upon my arrival.

I can't remember when I heard it first, specifically, but I know it was in the context of my sorority. So I went digging around online for the poem, or the story from which it came, and I don't know if this is the one I heard, but I thought it was beautiful.

I also think it's not confined to the experience of being in a sorority, but eloquently expresses the pains and trials of periods of growth in our lives.

"What is __(name of group or organization here)_? If its really anything at all, it is not entirely, a logo, national conventions, monogrammed rings, worn-out
songs, Bylaws, Membership Standards, or a badge. And it is not
entirely an institution, a creed, a legacy, an obligation, or a way of life.

If you're going to insist that it is something, it is only......

Moving in for the first time and slowly learning that all beautiful people have fat legs and use mouthwash and wear last year's coats.

...Long, tired eternities of black coffee and exam snacks when you can't remember the Renaissance architects or the stages of photosynthesis and respiration.

......Borrowing a skirt from Karen and a blouse from Amy, and shoes from Meredith, and a belt and a coat from Liz and passing it off as your own.

...Sitting on the back steps and listening with all your helplessness because she's lost and she's lonely and it seems the whole world just fell into ugly pieces

......And it's coming in very late one night and closing the door to tell someone who's seen you through the hardest years of your life that you're happy now, and you've found someone

...And this all is, I suppose, a kind of evaluation.
You grow up inside these elegant halls, and perhaps you do learn more of the
grizzly, ungrateful circus we call life than if you had lived it somewhere else.

You learn that a football player is sometimes just shoulder pads and that skinny arms sometimes hide a great man. You learn that some lecture halls are just
watery echoes and that there are silent rooms for deeper rivers of
self-reflection. You learn that no matter where you come from or who took you
there, you've still got to find that one small acre that belongs to you, by
yourself.

You learn to wait, because change is slow and change isn't always
right.

You learn that there's still a lot left to believe in and a whole lot more to hope for.

You learn that love has never been easy, and that it's a long time coming.

And if you're very smart, or very lucky, you learn that no matter how big or how messy the world becomes, what is precious and what is permanent is always the same.

And in the very end, you learn that this experience can only be a better way to stumble up the back steps and walk gracefully out the front door."

If you tweak just enough of the scenarios, it could very easily be a job, or a new city, or any of the other things that force us to learn about ourselves.

Kickin I.T. To. The. CURB

2010-08-04T15:52:00.000-07:00

I’ve had this job for two years, two months, and 9 days.
I have complained about it for about two years, two months, and 8 days.

I have worked with some real characters, some cardboard cut-out imposters of people, some fun clients, and a lot of people whose names I cannot pronounce.

I think I have come to appreciate certain things about it, though: my schedule is flexible, my vacation package is fair, I can get away with pursuing other hobbies during the day, I can work from home, I have a steady paycheck, I have my own desk by a window, I rarely have to take work home with me after hours or on weekends.

But we all know my heart is somewhere else, my talents better used elsewhere, and my life not to be spent doing this, blogging furtively in between struggling to figure out how the hell to update a Use Case Document about whatever it was they were talking about in that one meeting.

So why haven’t I left? Why do I feel a choking, knotted sensation in my chest when I think about what it will take to look my team in the face and quit? Why is it that I sweat and inhale shallow, rapid, breaths when I get serious about making myself happy?

I think it has to come down to being more scared of the known than the unknown: the idea that once a decision is made, predictable consequences fall rapidly as paving stones and cement into a path.. a path that I actually set myself.

Which is why on Friday morning, at 9 AM, I am nervously fumbling with my coffee cup and suppressing intermittent spurts of nausea, because I am seated in a conference room with my boss, and I say,
“I’m going to cut right down to business and let you know that I am giving my notice of resignation.”
Without being terribly dramatic, it was more like I heard myself say the words rather than actually think to say them.

My boss Allen wastes no time. “When are you leaving?”
“Welllll-“ I glance at the calendar behind his head. “August 19th.”
“Ah, okay,” he says, looking at something on his computer. “You’re only required to give two weeks’ notice, so we really appreciate that extra week. So, let’s talk about the reasons why you’re leaving…”
I take a deep breath and launch into ALL the reasons.

Ba said later I should have just given him this blog address and walked out of the room, but, I tried to be tactful and articulate while also direct and honest:

That we all know I sort of fell into the job, that it was a steep learning curve for me, that my talents are likely better suited elsewhere.

And oh, that I am moving to New York City the first week of September.

“You’re moving WHERE?!” He laughs. “Do you have a job lined up?”
“Nope!”
He laughs again. “Wow. Well what are you looking to get into?”I want to get into all kinds of things (trouble, my own place, a niche) but I only list a couple.
“Event planning and design, ideally nonprofit. Maybe work for a small media company.”

“Well,” he sighs, “I can’t say I’m surprised. I’ve seen this coming for a while.”

I relax, and start to resume normal breathing patterns. We chat lightly for a few minutes and I am overjoyed by his supportive and encouraging response, so much so, that I float away from the conversation and am consumed by an adrenaline rush: the realization that I have the power to make decisions and create change for myself.

I head back to my office, and am greeted by the only co-worker in-the-know, to whom I confided my plans over three or four mojitos a few weeks ago.

“SO?!” she whispers hoarsely, a question in her grin.

We take a walk outside and I recount the conversation, aglow with triumph.

“That is just so cool,” she says smiling, shaking her head. “I am so excited for you, and sad that you’re leaving of course, but only for personal reasons. It is so rare that we advocate for ourselves proactively, you know? There’s a lot to be said for that. So often we respond to the flow, and we roll with punches, but it is a unique and defining experience to grab the reins and really make a decision – make a change like this – for yourself. I am proud of you!”

I’m proud of myself, too.

So it’s really happening: I finally quit my job. I am going to move to New York City with no job, and no family, and no place to live.

I am kickin’ I.T. to the curb, and will start kickin’ it in NYC in September.
I hope you stick around to hear how it goes (spoiler alert: it goes awesomely).

Tasty n Sun

2010-07-22T12:37:00.000-07:00

The Redhead (whom will be renamed, henceforth as "Gingerlocks" because of a recent series of amusing adventures in which she usurped the clothing, bed, dog, and bicycle of a friend over the course of a few days... and then promptly destroyed the bicycle in what I can only imagine was in incident involving a cigarette and/or her mane of hair getting stuck in the spokes) and I have been busy brunching.

She's been terribly swamped with work, and I have been busy with... making myself busy, I guess, that we have had less time during the week to hang out, and thus our weekend brunch escapades have become mandatory, and then stretch far into the afternoon while we fill one another in on every minute detail of our weeks the other may have missed.

An example:

"I had a ridiculous dream Tuesday night. Basically, we were at Ron Tom's
out on the patio, but, everything was underwater. And I was wearing your long
gray dress and you were wearing that thing with the-"
"Oh the shorts. The black one."
"Yes. Same brain. And, we were sitting
there, and I was smoking, duh, and you were talking to me, but Scott was beside
you, and he was like, wearing glasses...AND he was speaking French? I dunno. But
it was WEIRD because behind us, was like, this field. And everyone was playing
kickball. That's all. I just wanted to tell you."
"Wow. That is hilarious. Oh, ps. did I tell you about
what's-her-face?"
"No! But I saw on Facebook that she went to the doctor? Everything cool?"
"Yeah, she's getting x-rays this week, and I guess her sister got a new job,
so that's good news. Oh, speaking of jobs, how's your cousin's boyfriend? Is
that going well for him?"
"Oh GODDD I FORGOT TO TELL YOU! So, last week..."

And so on.

Sometimes I feel bad for the people sitting around us...but mostly, I could care less, because it is my favorite time of the week.

Our new high ranking delicious spot for a food-fest is Tasty n' Sons. It's on NE Williams, and usually has a very long line in the mornings because everyone wants to come try the tapas-style breakfast the city has been raving about. I suggest going around 1 PM, like we did, if you want to beat the wait and have incredible service, like we did.

We had iced coffees, two bambino platters (biscuit, egg, bacon), the maple glazed yams, and a sweet biscuit plate with Oregon blueberries and creme fraiche... all for only $24!

The Portland weather has been very conducive to brunching and gallivanting around town on the weekends.

But sometimes, we don't make it out of the 'burbs and eat at this little local place called The Village Inn, owned and run by a guy we knew in high school. Our server Connie knows Gingerlocks' special off-the-menu order, and Todd the bus boy likes to check on us incessantly.

If anyone has any Portland Brunch recommendations, by all means, send them my way

{ nothing gold can stay }

2010-07-19T11:15:00.000-07:00

Late August: golden tall grass, golden wheat beers, golden days. And a golden birthday for yours truly, turning 24 on the 24th!

I know, technically, it's tacky to throw yourself a birthday party, so let's make it less about that and more about the end of the summer.

You're invited...

It's really just another excuse to plan and host an event with good food, good friends, and the potential for some good stories.

Plus, last time I had a birthday party on the 12 acres of land my family owns in a nearby suburb, it was for my Sweet 16. It was going to be the coolest party ever, except, at the last minute, the co-ed campout part got canceled ...and probably rightfully so. About 30 of us entertained ourselves for the evening playing Sardines in the field, eating cheeseburgers, exploring my grandpa's shedful of dangerous farming contraptions and wielding them like medieval weapons, sitting around a charcoal-briquette campfire (there was a summer ban on bonfires within city limits due to lack of rain), and suffering numerous injuries (two twisted ankles and a car accident for a friend who swerved to avoid a deer on the way to the party).

It's birthday party redemption time.

Re-Workin It

2010-07-15T12:31:00.000-07:00

A friend is in the middle of reading this book, but, I stole it from him and now I'm reading it.

It's called REWORK by Jason Fried and David Heinemeier Hanssone, these two guys who started and run a company called 37signals.

Basically, its premise is that the business world is still using archaic models based on outdated technology. We have the resources and the potential to do such much more with so much less now, and this book outlines ways to capitalize on these things.

It's a fast read with lots of diagrams/word pictures, and I am about halfway through it after sitting down to read it twice.

I'd recommend this book if you have an idea for a business but can't quite seem to get momentum in getting it off the ground. Read it if you want to learn how to work more efficiently and effectively at your current job, or if you think your workplace would be receptive to some process tweaking to result in more productivity. It's a very fast, very simple, very powerful motivator of a book.

I wish EVERYONE IN MY OFFICE HAD TO READ IT. I am thinking about just photocopying pages and taping them up around here.

Leomania, 2010 Edition

2010-07-14T15:44:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning and literally the first thing I thought of when my eyes opened was,

"Gosh, Leonardo DiCaprio has been famous since he was like, 14, and he's somehow managed to stay out jail all this time, and tabloids for most of it. I wonder what he's DOING...oh yeah, Bar Rafaeli and... he's MAKING AWESOME MOVIES. I need to brush my teeth."

I never really went through uber-Leomania when I was a kid. Granted, Titanic was definitely my favorite movie for a few years and I have seen it probably three dozen times, but I didn't have the Romeo+Juliet obsession like many of my peers, and I have never once bought a copy of Teen, or Tiger Beat, or whatever those periodicals are called.

And even in recent years, I have been known to scoff at him as a good actor, since I have this issue where I feel like I'm always watching Leonardo DiCaprio and not his characters on screen.
But maybe it's just because I have a large deep-seated crush on him, I'm coming to realize.

Here's the thing... this guy's filmography is nearly flawless. Look at this:

Shutter Island (2010)
Revolutionary Road (2008)
Body of Lies (2008)
Blood Diamond (2006)
The Departed (2006)
The Aviator (2004)
Catch Me If You Can (2002)
Gangs of New York (2002)
Don's Plum (2001)
The Beach (2000/I)
Celebrity (1998)
The Man in the Iron Mask (1998/I)
Titanic (1997)
Marvin's Room (1996)
Romeo + Juliet (1996)
Total Eclipse (1995)
The Basketball Diaries (1995)
The Quick and the Dead (1995)
The Foot Shooting Party (1994)
What's Eating Gilbert Grape (1993)
This Boy's Life (1993)
Poison Ivy (1992)
Critters 3 (1991)

That's almost 20 years of filmmaking and there is hardly a flop, a flub, or a fluke in there. He chooses smart, difficult roles. He works with talented and proven directors. He is lucky enough to be offered parts, but it's because he's shown he can handle them, as well as acting alongside the greats from an early age (Meryl Streep, Robert De Niro, Sharon Stone, Russell Crowe, Diane Keaton, Gene Hackman, Johnny Depp, Tom Hanks). I admit I haven't seen a few of the older ones, but most of the ones I have seen have been awesome (who didn't love "Catch Me If You Can" or "The Departed"?).

He basically has one of the most impressive film careers in the industry, and he's only 36. He dates super models (and not just any supermodels, Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition COVER MODELS and Victoria's Secret runway models). And he stays out of trouble! DUDE IS BASICALLY REMARKABLE.

And now Inception is out this week and I'm sure it's going to be excellent and he's just going to give all of us another reason to love him.

Especially because he was in Gilbert Grape:

The Hardest Question

2010-07-09T11:59:00.000-07:00

On my brief visit to E=MC in Durham, North Carolina (pre-cross-country 6 day road trip), we are at Allen & Sons BBQ, licking our fingers at red checkered table cloths and drinking sweet tea with a group of his grad school friends when someone poses me the question that probably gives me the most anxiety of all questions ever.

The guys have been throwing the question around the last few days, and are reciting one another's lists back to each other, and I am terrified they are going to turn on me and demand to know my answer. It makes me sweat (or maybe it's because it's 90 degrees with %143 humidity).

Halfway through a bite of my pulled pork sandwich, it happens.

"Okay, your turn. What are your top five favorite songs. Of all time."

Damn. There it is. The anxiety rises in my chest and I eyeball the nearest exit.

I don't know why I get this way! Definitive questions always make me waffle: I feel like I need a top ten, at least, for anything, and even then I have awkward addendums ("Honorable Mentions," Alternates, etc). I cringe when I think about the application I submitted to Princeton University as a high school senior: as part of their folio of information they request from you, they ask you ten simple questions about your preferences in music, movies, art, books and the like.

I stressed out about it for like, a week, filled in my answers, immediately second guessed the impression said answers would give about me, typed and printed new answers, and pasted them on top of the old ones. I might have even done this multiple times for certain questions. (I am sure all of the answers were wholly unimpressive and unremarkable, hence my ensuing letter of rejection).

But I still get like that. I don't even have any "Favorites" sections filled in on Facebook anymore because the idea that my list isn't actually correct or complete or truly representative of me really freaks me out, plus, it changes a lot. So I just scrapped it altogether.

This is all running through my brain as I flail around for a way to start answering this impossible, difficult, frustrating demand to put a box around your tastes and catalogue your love for one of the most lovable things in this life- music- and so I am wholly suprised when I answer almost immediately, with unequivocal confidence,

"Oh, Number 1 for sure is "Night Moves," by Bob Seger."

"AAAAAH! SUCH A GOOD ONE! Great choice! I can't believe I missed that one! So good!" choruses the table.

And then from there I throw out a whole bunch of other ones, only once every tenth suggestion or so moving it into one of the top five spots.

I think the list ended up shaking out something like this:

1. "Night Moves" - Bob Seger
2. "Fast Car"- Tracy Chapman
3. "Neighborhood #1" - Arcade Fire
4. "Lover, You Should Have Come Over," - Jeff Buckley
5. "Come on Eileen"- Dexy's Midnight Runners

With the following somewhere in the top 15:

"Beast of Burden" - The Rolling Stones
"Walking on Broken Glass"- Annie Lennox
"Let's Stay Together"- Al Green
"Just Like Heaven"- The Cure
"The Trapeze Swinger"- Iron & Wine
"Ex-Factor" - Lauryn Hill
"No Sleep Til Brooklyn"- The Beastie Boys
"I Want You"- Bob Dylan
"As Long as You Follow"- Fleetwood Mac
"Don't Stop"- Brazilian Girls

Which is weird, because none of these slots are represented by my favorite bands/artists(Ray LaMontagne, The Decemberists, Neko Case, Air, John Mayer, Fiona Apple, The Black Keys, Wye Oak, Everything But the Girl) which is maybe because I just can't pick a representative one song from any of them? Or maybe it's that a "favorite song" is just chosen by entirely different criteria.

These favorite songs are ones I NEVER get tired of, and am ALWAYS jazzed about when I hear them. They all make me feel something specific, and are often times tied to a moment worth remembering (or in some cases, a moment I wish I remembered, like, when Dance Fighter paid the karaoke DJ $15 so I could sing "Night Moves" at my 21st birthday party. There are pictures, at least).

So, I'm curious- what are your favorite songs? Can you pick just 5? What's your criteria? Are they representative of your favorite artists? Don't be shy!

Pillars of Great Girth

2010-07-08T14:09:00.000-07:00

Over our long holiday weekend I decided to get down to it and really tackle some work around the house to which I needed to attend.
I had some unfinished business, and mustered up the energy to confront the laborious task at hand.
So I brewed myself some coffee, put it on ice, poured myself a tall glass (with a neon bendy straw and a dollop of half and half) and sat outside in the sun:

I was on a mission to finish a book. This was not just any brain-candy beach read I wanted to plow through in a sitting - no, this was the culimination of weeks of reading diligently before bedtime, at lunch, and on weekend afternoons, because this book is something like 973 pages long:

The Pillars of the Earth, by Ken Follett, who, it is rumored, took about ten years to write this beast.
Appropriate, as it took me literally 32-35 hours to read it.

The narrative follows the erection of a cathedral in 12th Century England, and all the many players involved in making this happen, as well as the characters involved in trying to prevent it from happening (and, let me tell you, if I learned anything from this tome, it's that it is F-ing HARD to build a cathedral).

I don't think Ken Follett is a particularly gifted writer in his turn of phrase (he overuses the same adjectives repeatedly, which drives me NUTS) , and he has a disturbing predilection for narrating lengthy visceral battle and rape scenes, of which there are both plenty in the book, graphically detailed to a fault. But his characters are rich, their motives believable, and each is integral to the movement of the story (except one character, Martha, who I kind of kept expecting to play a more pivotal role towards the end, but was disappointed).

There is a ton of interesting information about building in that era, and Follet does a masterful job of bringing the grime, grit, and gore of the 12th Century alive. Also, if you're not sold yet, there's a lot of sex (which always makes me uncomfortable to read about, mostly because I always imagine middle aged Ken Follett painstakingly penning the scene, which kind of weirds me out, because, as an aspiring writer, I don't think that would be fun, or that I could take myself seriously in doing so, but whatever).

If you don't like to read, lucky you:
They're bringing Pillars of the Earth to Starz as an 8 part miniseries this year!
Looks to be entertaining as Rufus Sewell and Donald Sutherland both have parts.

But, thanks for nothing, dudes...WHO THE HELL SUBSCRIBES TO STARZ?

Yeah, I Showered...Once. In May.

2010-07-06T21:00:00.000-07:00

With all of my hype about this being my summer of wedding zaniness, I haven't backed it up (PICS OR IT DIDN'T HAPPEN).

I think this is because the tedium of spending 18 minutes locating your USB cord, plugging in your digital camera to your (inevitably dead) computer, realizing that maybe it's the camera battery that's dead, waiting for iPhoto to load, etc etc etccccc is eye-gougingly lame. When are they going to come out with digital cameras that upload to your iPhoto automatically and wirelessly? (HEY STEVE JOBS, HIRE ME PLZ. THX.) But, somehow, despite all that, I managed to finally upload some pictures of the bridal shower I threw for my dear freshman year college roommate, whom I am not sure has a blogonym on here or not, but will heretofore be referred to as Roommate, Esq. (She just graduated from law school).

Months and months ago, while I was, shockingly!, bored at work, I created this little inspiration board for her shower:

Of course, given the day of May 22nd's totally unpredictable precipitation record, I would have loved to host the event outside (as depicted in the greenery and freshness of the inspiration board) but had to compromise by holding it inside with a ton of flower arrangements.

I forgot to take pictures at the start, so in these the food is mostly gone (a good sign?) but it's the general idea:

I collected old Mason jars for a few weeks beforehand, and did the floral arrangements myself after ordering specific blooms from the local florist.

Roommate, Esq.'s other bridesmaid brought some adorably delectable cupcakes down from Seattle with her, as well as plenty of champagne for the 10 attendees. We only played 2 (tasteful) shower games, and had an excess of food and drink, so I think all in all it was a success.

Tips for myself, for next time:
1. Don't have so much food that needs to be prepared that morning. I tried to space it out over a few days, but, with prosciutto wrapped melon; fingerling potatoes with sour cream, sausage, and chives; a fresh fruit punch; mini cornmeal muffins best served hot ... it was a lot to prepare by 2:00 PM with picking up flowers and arranging them that morning and remembering to shower and get ready on time.

2. Include directions, not just the address in the invitations.

3. Be aware of what flowers are available at different times of year- I was making some rather expensive requests of the florist, who had to set me straight, as the types I was requesting were running around $10/stem in May. He educated me a little and found me some lovely, less expensive, alternatives.

Yeah well, review THIS

2010-06-30T14:23:00.001-07:00

You know it's going to be a great morning when the following three things hit you in succession:

1. You wake up late for work because you're knee deep in a dream wherein you spot Barbara Walters hyperventilating in the middle of a suburban street. Instead of running to her aid, or calling an ambulance, or even asking her how she can even STAND TO BE IN JOY BEHAR'S PRESENCE EVERY MORNING, you swoop down and steal her dog. That's right, YOU STOLE BABA WAWA'S DOG.

2. Once you wake up and shake off that monumental weirdness, you pull into the parking lot at work...where you promptly drop your company laptop on the blacktop. No one's going to notice that dent in the right corner when you turn this thing back in on the day of your inevitable firing, right?

3. You get to your desk, plug in the machine, and, mercifully, it works. But then you get this unwarranted, unsolicited, and frankly UNCOOL email from a co-worker. Not even a boss... just...a co-worker:

"Hi,
Just a heads up (some information from our Test Case creation guidelines):

Analyst e-mails Client at least 48 hrs prior to the Test Case Review Meeting to notify Client that the test cases are ready for review
Documentation will be committed to shared folder; Client will pull documentation from shared folder
E-mail identifies the shared folder and filename(s) of each test case document
E-mail may be the meeting invitation or may be a separate e-mail
Documentation includes the following – all should be submitted at the same time:
Test Matrix (if applicable)
UC Test Cases
UI Test Cases
Client reviews test case documentation prior to Test Case Review Meeting
Client reviews for test case coverage and content issues (inaccurate/incomplete test cases)

Also, you should reserve a meeting room for the Test Case Review Meetings. That way anyone else that would like to or anyone else that is delegated to attend the meeting besides those you invited can come to the meeting.

This is just a bit of advice for you. If all of the analysts are following the same guidelines it works out better for all of us as one team. I know it is sometimes hard working in an environment where we are not employees but are contractors and therefore need to handle ourselves more professionally and differently than if we were employees. I liked it better when I was an employee and felt more comfortable but having been working for this company for almost 16 years, I have kind of gotten used to having to handle things a little differently.

Take Care. "

WELL GUESS WHAT. IF I WORKED HERE FOR 16 YEARS I'D BE DEAD.
Because I would have hung myself with a projector cord in said meeting room.

Everyone complains about how busy they are - how overloaded and overworked they are and how our managers micromanage - and then my own teammate sends me something this nitpicky, obviously taking the time out of her morning to check my schedule, find fault with the way I'd set up a meeting (at the client's desk...because that's where she prefers to have them), take the time to find these archaic guidelines NO ONE uses, and email them to me.

I admit I've never taken direction very well (Sorry Mom. Sorry Dad). But if I were going to start, it would not be because someone sent me this kind of email.

An Unlikely Friendship

2010-06-29T15:12:00.000-07:00

I have a friend from the interwebz.
I can’t tell you her name, because it’s exactly the same as mine. First and last.
…which is the only reason we are friends:
We have almost identical email addresses.

For a while a couple years back, people would mention that they had sent things to me and I would have to tell them that they were crazy because I was not receiving anything.
And then one day, the mystery was solved.

A friend at the time, Michael, emailed “me” something. But it went to the wrong email address, and a girl responded saying, “Hey- just wanted to let you know you have the wrong person. This happens a lot.”
And he responded indignantly, “Well, what do you do with all her emails?”
And she replied, “Uh…nothing?”
And he actually chastised her and said, “What if those were important! What if it were life and death! You should have tried to find her on Facebook!” and generally just made her feel terrible, and after getting ahold of me via other methods, provided my correct email address to her.

So now, this darling girl from New Hampshire, who happens to share my first and last names, forwards me my errant emails diligently.
Thus far, here are a smattering of emails she has been unfortunate enough to have to read, and then pass on:

A girlfriend’s conversation with her mother, that I should date her brother.
(“So we were in the middle of my birthday dinner enjoying some tapas when my mother piped up ‘What about that ____ for your brother?’ Not only did my mother like you, she wants you to date and then marry my older brother. Think about it.”)
Strict instructions on bridesmaid duties and festivity planning.
Mass announcements of new email addresses.
One announcement from an amiga who is back in the states from teaching abroad, followed by a multiple paragraph analysis of her time spent there.
A less tactful request for guests to volunteer to help decorate a reception hall between the wedding and reception. (When forwarded, she said, “Thank god this is for you and not me. I first had a heart attack that I had forgotten a wedding (I already have 5 this summer!!) and I have been roped into special volunteer activities for 4/5 weddings!!”)
Pictures of me (at bars, usually drinking).

And last, but certainly not least:

A labor and delivery series of announcements from my married friends who included, in detailed fashion, information on cervical dilation in quantifiable measurements.

This poor girl, my name twin, has been not only subjected to these nuisances in her Inbox (which I would be terribly miffed about- I take my Gmail very seriously) but then takes the time to forward them on to me, and often times will reply to the original email for me, gently informing them that the intended recipients middle initial is missing from the address.

And then I feel bad for my friends, who have spilled their guts, their plans, their rants and schedules to a total stranger.
My name twin could be a stalker. She could be a baby killer. An identity thief. A powerful businesswoman with hiring power. A Facebook addict, religiously hunting down offenders and memorizing their Interests and Favorite Quotes. An online serial dater … Any number of personality types you wouldn’t want to have your email address coupled with personal information about your life or cervix.

But more likely than not, she’s just irritated that when she goes to check her email, sometimes her only unread messages are spam, coupons, or intimate details about people she doesn’t know.

Let’s respect the name twins of the world and double-check our emails before we send them.

What I Really See When I Read Emails

2010-06-24T15:50:00.000-07:00

Here is a screen shot of my email at work (my thoughts are outlined in vivid color):

Yes, it's true... we have a FOUR HOUR LONG "Ambiguity Training" tomorrow morning at 8AM.

Is this a training on how to BE ambiguous? Or are we being versed in how to NOT be ambiguous? If that's the case, wouldn't it make sense to practice what you preach in scheduling such trainings?!
This obviously makes me want to scalp someone.

Especcccially because this meeting is to be held in the Shasta room at the buildling, which is entirely unfair as some of my best memories of life entirely have come from time spent on Shasta Lake:

Siiiigggggghhhhhhh

The Black Keys - Tighten Up

2010-06-23T00:32:00.000-07:00

Music videos are hard to make, because, they're usually stupid.

This one is kind of stupid, but, the song is so good I already posted it here a few months ago, and at least the concept is cute and doesn't take itself too seriously.

Hardball

2010-06-21T16:51:00.000-07:00

There's nothing soft about a softball.

I would know, as I sustained two (minor) injuries in my game yesterday.

The first could partially be considered my fault (I guess).

1. The set-up:

I play 3rd base.
Greg plays Shortstop.
Greg LOVES COED SUBURBAN SUNDAY SOFTBALL. LOOOOVESSSS.

He loves it SO MUCH that he will stand on the field and direct your every freaking move, no matter what position you play, in a running commentary of encouragement, criticism, and confusing demands.

"Heyyyyoo now now now hum now Kirsti take a step back mk? Hey, hey Steve - comin' ta you, comin' ta you, came to you last time now hup. Alright now now, Gary, now, pitch it in there now, high and out, high and out and ugly, high and out, make it ugly YEAH. GREAT PITCH. YEAH!!!! Alright one down, one down. Hey ALLIE," (he hollers to the left fielder), "ONE DOWN. COMIN' TWO IF YOU GET IT ALRIGHT?!?"

I roll my eyes and grimace, and am not above trading an annoyed head shake with whomever is coaching 3rd base for the other team.

In between innings, when the fielders toss the ball around, he wings it towards the first baseman at full speed. It often goes wild. He dives to make plays, and practically tackles runners to beat them to the bag, women included.

After an errant ball nearly grazed a runner, courtesy of his arm-cannon, I shouted, "GREGGGG. YOU NEEDTA CALM DOWN." I was joking, but enough people on the team laughed hard enough that I think they shared my sentiments.

Anyway, a play occurred in which a ball was hit to the outfield.
The runner from first rounded second and was coming towards third.
I knew a throw would be coming for the tag, so I adjusted my footing to allow the runner an opportunity to slide without taking my legs out from beneath me.
As I shifted my body towards home plate, keeping my left foot on the bag, I saw the relayed throw coming in from Greg. He threw hard, and wide, as I was mid stride, and instead of focusing on the ball, I was still thinking about my feet. I got in place for the catch, but ended up taking Greg's missile of a throw directly in my right shin.

Within seconds the seams of the ball appeared to have tattooed my shin-bone. The indentation of the seams were a deep ruptured purple, the rest of the impacted area turning a bright red and then purpley-yellowed color. My head wobbled and I closed my eyes, to breathe deliberately and slowly, while a ticker tape in my brain ran on a loop with choice 4-letter words.

2. The set up:
After I got on base due to an error, I made it to third. The bases were loaded, and the batter hit the ball softly to the pitcher, so I had to break up the play forming at home plate. Nothing to do but run hard and hope for the best - which, in this case turned out to be the pitcher nailing me in the back of the head with the ball.
I was safe, and more than anything, surprised, and went into an immediate crouch, hands to the back of my head, assessing the extent of the injury.
I stood up slowly and was embarrassed that my eyes were filled with tears, and surrounded by team members. I assured them I was just more surprised than anything and they took good care of me, breaking up one of those fake ice-pack things and sitting me on a bench.

They were all worried because the same thing happened to another teammate the week before, except that she ended up having a concussion! I am sure I didn't get hit as hard, because I never felt nauseous and didn't wake up dead.
That, and my shin still hurts more.

The funny thing I noticed in talking to people about it post-game and at a family Fathers' Day gathering later in the evening is that once you stop playing sports on a regular basis, the amount of injuries suffered on a fairly routine basis drop remarkably. I can't even remember the last time I was physically hurt. The pain and intensity is shocking, but they don't last as long as the other kind of wounds we receive from people.

I sent an email to the team today reassuring them I was fine, and despite my proclivity for Dateline stories about latent head injuries causing premature death ("She was totally fine when she went to bed, and then NEVER WOKE UP") didn't die in my sleep.
I felt like saying, compared to the other stuff I've been through in the last few years, this was NOTHING.

In the words of the Knight from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, "'TIS BUT A SCRATCH."

Training Wheels

2010-06-10T14:14:00.000-07:00

My good friend is dating a new guy. Well, technically, he's a man, as he's 35 - 11 years her senior.

She is adorably gushing to me about him over our favorite snack - popcorn and red wine- specifically his maturity, confidence, and ability to articulate his feelings for her so boldly and honestly.

I make a face.
"You know," I say, "I'm sure he is WONDERFUL, don't get me wrong. But, do you think that maybe part of the reason he's so great...is that he's 35? Like, he was probably a complete idiot when he was in his early twenties like all the other guys we've dated, you know?"

"OH," she says wide eyed, "I KNOW. That's so true."

"I mean, give our ex-boyfriends until 35 and I am sure they'll somehow end up as perfectly functioning, respectful, restrained, smarter men... at least, I certainly HOPE they'll have their acts together by then."

"No, you're right." She continues, "He has even said, 'I want my future wife to be able to write my ex-girlfriends a Thank You letter, eventually, since they've absolutely made me the man I am today.' and if it's me, I am totally going to do it."

I shake my head, with a tired smile.
"I better be getting a BIG thank you letter...maybe a giant cardboard check, too, since basically I feel like what I've got right now is a t-shirt that says 'I Made ____ a great boyfriend for someone else and all I got was this stupid therapy bill.'"

We have a good laugh about it, and then I add, "You know what, though? No. If I was that ex-girlfriend getting that letter, I would be PISSED."

We finish our glasses, and lick the bowl clean, and hug goodbye.

While falling asleep, I think about what that letter would look like, what it would say. Whose handwriting it would be in, or if it would be a Facebook message, full of exclamation points and little smiley faces.

"Thank u sooo much for being such a good sport for all those years and taking all the crap that ___ gave u. I think he really learned how to be a kind, loving, honest person from u and I can't thank u enough. All ur tears were totally worth it!! LOL We r sooooo happy :) and it wouldntve happened without u! Love u :) :) :) P.S. U are coming to the wedding, rite?!?"

I stifle the urge to throw up, and just decide if I ever get a letter like that, someone's getting anthrax for a wedding present.
Hypothetically, speaking, of course.

But seriously: fair warning.

Slightly Less Official Summer 2010 Cut

2010-06-08T10:49:00.000-07:00

In honor of the only real sunny day of the year we had on Saturday, which happened to be The Redhead's unparalleled birthday bash, here's a fun, saccharine dose of summer for you:

"Watch the Sun Come Up (Fred Falke remix)" - Example

Stalker Stalking

2010-06-04T14:36:00.000-07:00

I think I've contracted my Dad's "Everday Hero" syndrome.
It could be hereditary, or an unfulfilled niche in my life.

We like saving/helping/fixing, and the more bad-ass the mission, the better.

Our latest (self-assigned) assignment was what drove us both to our laptops, frenetically but methodically poring over public records, social networking sites, and sex offender registries at 12:45 AM Wednesday night.

It all started in church on Sunday, when the newest class of New Members was applauded and introduced. One of the men was in his early 50s, gray at the temples, but not unpleasant looking.

My mom thought of her similarly single friend at the church, and leaned forward to whisper to another friend in the pew ahead of her.

"Hey, maybe there's someone for Sara to date?"
Her friend whispered back, "No. I don't think that would be a good idea."
"What? Why not?"
"Well, he's Tami's stalker."
"WHAT?!" she whispered hoarsely.
"I'll tell you at breakfast!"

So over breakfast, my mother's friend related how her daughter-in-law, Tami, had acquired the attentions of this man.

Tami works as a manager in a local coffee shop.
This man, whom we will refer to as SAM (Suspicious And Malicious), frequents this coffee shop. He is one of those people who actually works from the coffee shop as a consultant or some such nonsense job he can perform while taking up space in someone's business, arrogantly assuming his $2.50 Americano will suffice as rent payment for the day.
He is there so much he's a Regular, now.
And Regulars get to know the baristas, and the managers, and the other Regulars. But no matter your interminable presence, it is not polite to cross privacy boundaries in getting to know these people. You occupy a shared public space during the day; you buy coffee from them; you annoy them with your animated cell phone conversations, but other than that, it is generally acknowledged you keep to yourself.

SAM takes to talking to Tami. Further, he takes to hitting on Tami.
Tami makes it very clear that she is not interested: she is married, and happily so.
His passes persist.
She is more firm with him, and then he takes to hitting on one of the young baristas.
Tami consults with her own manager, and gets permission to start documenting incidents involving SAM.
His attentions get so aggressive that after enough recorded events, Tami has corporate permission to tell SAM he is no longer welcome at that location.

A few weeks later, Tami hears that he has started frequenting the shop again, but only on her days off.
She catches him one day, and he says to her, "Okay okay. Well, I've joined Mark's church. "
Tami balks. She narrows her eyes, tenses, and asks, "Excuse me?" This is the name of the pastor at our church. She presses him, "You mean Lakeview Christian?" He shakes his head, "No, Pastor Mark's church."
Tami processes this information with a steely exterior, betraying no sign of recognition or disturbance. She walks away.

Later that evening, she and her husband make a non-emergency call to the police.

"Oh, that guy? Ohhh yeah. We know about him. Lotta complaints about him. Thanks for letting us know, and please inform us of any further developments."

Then, Tami emails Pastor Mark.
She isn't quite sure what to say or insinuate, and doesn't want to falsely accuse or point a finger, but she also wants to feel safe in her own church, and relates the events to Pastor Mark.
Minutes after sending the email, he replies: "Can I call you?"
As soon as she writes back, "Yes," with her number, the phone rings.

Apparently SAM had raised the hackles of Pastor Mark and staff as well, and there was a sort of uneasiness about his new membership, as well as the rapidity with which he had gained it by taking all of the classes and commitments in a very short and intense timeline.

So with all of this information divulged over breakfast (at which I was not present), I can only imagine the fervor with which the wheels were turning in my Dad's head.
I can imagine them because they were turning in mine, as soon as he told ME all of this.

"I think we should check to see if he's a registered sex offender," Dad says.
"I'll check Facebook, Myspace, LinkedIn....see what we can drudge up on him," I say.

We sit, typing and murmuring.

"OH!" I exclaim, "Got him! Is this him?"
Dad scrutinizes the face in the profile picture. We scan his About Me and Quotes sections, which are public, and full of slightly off-putting things for a grown man to include in a summation of himself:

"I have loved to the point of madness, that which is called madness, that which
to me, is the only sensible way to love"
"The moment people fall in love, they become liers" [sic]
"Life is short…………. Break the rules, Forgive quickly, Kiss slowly, Love truly, Laugh uncontrollably, And never regret anything that made you smile."

"Ewwww" we both groan, rolling our eyes. This guy is officially a weirdo. Plus, of his 54 Facebook friends, 90% are single women with names like, "Sweet D," "Ava Chanel," "Baby Gurl." Their profile pictures are not safe for work.

Upon further searching, we find a Flickr account full of pictures of his dogs. We search sex offender registries in Oregon and California.

My dad admits he actually went into the coffee shop where Tami works to see if he could spot the guy and get an ID on him. He found one obnoxious and aggressive guy, but decided it wasn't SAM... but that he didn't like that other guy, either.

Ultimately, we find nothing incriminating.

I think we're both a little disappointed, and sheepish about it.
But make no mistake, the world is safer because of our efforts.

At least, we'd like to think so.

Help: Hair Me Out

2010-06-03T14:15:00.000-07:00

Wedding #10 is next Saturday. Our lovely Vera Wang dresses arrived yesterday:

Mine needs about a foot hacked off the bottom, but things are going smoothly other than that. Except the eternally raging question... what to do with the hair?

We've got side braids:

Delicious loose side brides from Alexander Wang and Miu Miu runways:

#2

Vera Wang runway bouffants:

And a slew of celebrities with perfect hair, found on Elle.com:
(Getty Images)

So don't be shy- help a sister out. What do you think?

Comment away!

World of Workcraft

2010-05-26T11:03:00.000-07:00

About a month ago, our boss tells us that we will be getting a few new team members to help with the increased workload of this project phase.

"A couple names I don't remember, but, some of you will be pleased to know that Brody Fabinelli will be back."

"WOW!"
"That's great!"
"He's awesome!"
Whoops of joy from my analyst team fill the air. I glance at Jane, who is grinning, and I mouth, "Who is this guy?"
"Oh," she whispers, "He is SO. Cool."

I get a little excited. Someone cool? Working here? He sounds like he could be almost good-looking, young... surely witty or worldly.

Then I reign myself in - okay, if they all know him... he probably isn't YOUNG. But I am still sure he is hot. Maybe silver-fox kind of hot. A little office eye-candy after almost two years in this wasteland? I'll take it.

Cut to two weeks ago.

I am working out of our other office for the day, so I plunk my stuff down at an open cubicle. There is a man I don't recognize at the desk behind me, muttering about his computer, and clicking his mouse methodically. He gets frustrated, and stalks down the aisle of cubicles, his long salt-and-pepper ponytail flicking from side to side with his gait.

My computer boots up and I sip at my coffee absentmindedly when I hear a familiar voice say, "Hi there - staying out of trouble?"
I spin around in my chair to Kyle, our IT support guy. He is standing with my new cube mate, a visiting IT assistant, I presume.

"Oh, hi Kyle."
"Hey, have you met Brody?"

Ah. I should have known.

"Hi Brody, it's nice to meet you," I say, extending my hand.

"Hello." He shakes my hand brusquely. He is middle aged, with the beginnings of an impressive set of jowls.
His hair is parted down the middle, smoothed behind his ears. He has broad stooped shoulders, and can't stand more than about 5'6".
He kind of looks like... a... hobbit? I think. No. Maybe it's his build, he's kind of cave-troll esque. Or, actually, it's the hair! Yes, his hair makes him look like an elf.
My brain is a slot machine full of JRR Tolkien creatures, spinning and slowing, but failing to rest on any one item.
Orc! No no... wait, it's gotta be...a... Gollum? Hold it, no, it's the hair, definitely elf....he kind of looks like the Liv Tyler elf, actually... but, well... no no it's totally troll. I wonder if he's better with an axe, or a bow?

I also notice that he is waiting next to his computer sheepishly, which I now see has an image taking up the whole 15 inch monitor. It looked like this:

No, of course. It couldn't be any other way. Of course he plays World of Warcraft. Of course the only new team member we get in my time here who isn't directly flown in from Bangalore, India on the hunt for a wife plays Warcraft. Why wouldn't he? This makes perfect sense, Universe. I appreciate your consistency. It at least explains why he looks like he belongs in the game.

I purse my lips and crinkle my eyes in a smile, and turn back to my own computer, which might have had my Gmail window up, but come on, at least I didn't DOWNLOAD WoW on my WORK LAPTOP the SECOND I got to my new job. And then try to PLAY it on my client's network, which, by the way, is a state agency, and therefore paid for by tax dollars.

Minutes later, my boss, Allen walks up. "Hey Jessica- Kyle, Brod- oh." He catches sight of Brody's monitor, featuring the sword-wielding, busty digital nymph. So that's why your computer isn't working," he says brightly. "I will.. just.. let you take care of that," he says, backing out of the cube, smirking.

This would have all been more okay with me, had someone actually reprimanded him or, I don't know, fired him maybe?

But no. Kyle proceeds to talk about his Level 80 Paladin and his sick new Divine Shield, and how he had a Horde character for a while, but really prefers to play Alliance... and ON.

AND ON.

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Lady

2010-05-25T16:03:00.000-07:00

I think that's a bastardization of more than one Henry James title, but I will stand by it for this post.

I think I've mentioned this before, but, when I was five, I sat at the kitchen counter of my grandparents' house furiously coloring away with crayons. I expressed my intent to be an artist "when I grow up" and was met with scoffs from both my Uncle and Papa who told me I'd "never make any money at that." That scared me, even then.

In high school I had the privilege of attending a high school with a very intense arts program: Art Seminar was a two year program for Juniors and Seniors only, covering all manner of visual arts instruction, and culminated in a senior art show. I shared the space with my friend Drew, and together, we filled the place with our friends and family who came to see what we'd been working on.

Drew's piece de resistance was this really cool installation that consisted of a series of skulls painted on glass in old window frames.
I was asked to take down a sexually suggestive charcoal drawing of a mostly naked woman wearing lace gloves by school administration.
We also each sold quite a bit of work, which was really exhilarating and humbling.

So Freshman year of college, while I tried to figure out what I wanted to major in, saw me dabble as an Art major. I got accepted to the program Winter Term and then by Spring, had started my basic design classes.

And I hated it.
I got to produce some interesting work and it stretched the way I thought about materials and inspiration and design, and I loved the excuse my fall of sophomore year to take a drawing course that met for 3 hours at a time in a really relaxing, secluded studio space nestled in the trees on the edge of campus. I was getting better, technically, but I felt like I was wasting everyone's time because I wasn't particularly inspired by my fellow students or instructors, and more than anything, was learning I don't *think* like an artist. I could produce a craft with little or no emotional investment, and was very visually judgmental. So I switched to Political Science and never looked back.

Since graduation, I haven't completed a single painting, but I think my need for creative expression is desperately apparent (see: this blog, gusto with which I plan bridal showers, impulsive jewelry design hobby) and maybe more important to my identity than I'd previously given credit.

Much of my prior creations are framed around my parents' house or housed nearby with relatives, but, ever since my laptop crashed, I realized I'd lost a lot of work. Thinking about this loss made me a little panicky, so I analyzed my options and realized there was one last place I could maybe look...

Without getting into a big long story (not like I like those, or anything), once upon a time, a bunch of my favorite media pieces were submitted for me by Someone to an online arts community website, which happens to have been started by Benj Gershman from the band O.A.R. The site, and my relationship to Someone, are no longer functional in the way either once was, but I wondered if digital images of my work were stored somewhere in the depths of someone's, or Someone's, hard drives.

So I emailed Someone who told me, or rather, promised me, he didn't have them, but would do everything he could to track them down for me.

He kept me updated every couple weeks, letting me know he'd emailed Benj (who was on tour) and no luck yet, but, would keep looking into it for me.
I appreciated the effort, but, counted everything as lost.

But wow, did Someone ever deliver.

Last night, I got an email from him with about ten images of my old creations, forwarded to me from Benj, bless his heart. I was seriously choked up, and told my dad, who (sorry, Dad) got similarly emotional.

I replied today, and rather than summarize what I said, here it is, verbatim, because I think I really said what I meant:

"It hit me almost immediately WHY this recovery of lost things is so important to me, so I will try to articulate that to you.
As years pass, we all grow. We learn, we find new interests, we encounter new people who affect or influence us, and everything we interact with has the potential to change us as people. And change doesn't have to necessarily mean transform, but, it's like an addition of layers on top of what we have at our core. Our core can even shift sometimes, I imagine, but, what I am getting at is that we still carry those inner layers with us as part of our identity as we get older. Anyone who has met me in the last few years would have no idea that I am an artist. I wouldn't even use "am" anymore, due to the simple fact that I haven't regularly or passionately pursued visual art for years. But the fact that I was? That at a time in my life it wasn't only something I did, but really helped define me as who I was, that is enough to be a part of my "is", currently. Does that make sense?

And I guess I felt I'd lost a part of myself because, since I am not currently expressing as an artist (at least, not a visual one - writing is different), I have no proof - no record, really, of that history of my identity. I suppose there are still quite a few pieces at my parents' house, but, some of the ones you recovered for me I might never have seen again - effectively forever lost from myself, which was actually a scary prospect.

I don't know why I am so emotionally attached to that cut-out piece with the dogs and the train. It could be that I am still emotionally attached to the song of which it's representative ("The Trapeze Swinger" - Iron & Wine) or remembering the process of creating it: really learning to love and explore my independence, sitting alone at my dorm room desk freshman year of college, windows wide to the afternoon rain, enjoying my own company, cutting and gluing and processing and humming along to the aural art that had inspired the project in the first place. I wish I was better about getting myself back to that place, now, and maybe having this image around will remind me of that.

As far as the kiss painting, that image is so burned into me as a part of who I am, I could never forget it. I had separation anxiety from the actual canvas though, and I'm not sure if I told you this or not, but I actually went so far to track it down that I created a MySpace account a year-and-a-half ago for the express purpose of searching for the girl from my high school who bought it at my senior show. I found her (there's a lot of Sarah Browns in the world, let me tell you) and wrote her a clumy message that basically said, "Hi, You probably don't remember me, but, I think you bought a painting of mine for someone in your family at my senior art show back in high school. I am just writing to say that if it is in a basement somewhere, or hidden in a closet, or it has lost its appeal, I will buy it back from you for twice what you paid for it. But, if anyone at all is still enjoying it, please, by all means, feel no obligation to let me buy it back. I just wanted to know it has a safe place in the world."
And she wrote back a few days later saying, basically, thanks, but, it is now a permanent fixture in their home and there's pretty much no way her mother would part with it. That was totally enough for me.

Anyway, what I am getting at is that these images are not just images. They represent a whole lot more to me and are, in some cases, part of me and my history, and so, part of who I am now - but a part I thought I'd lost. Thank you for helping me reclaim it.
Please pass on my utmost gratitude to Benj (you can forward this even, if you want) for taking the time out of his day to actually sort through Lord only knows how much stuff to get to these, and then email them to you, who took the time out of YOUR days to contact him, and follow up with him, and follow up with me. It's just a truly lovely gesture on both of your parts - him, because he doesn't even know me. And you, because, well, you DO know me, and how I haven't been exactly generous (with grace or patience) in the last few years, so knowing our history, this was just something you really really really didn't have to do. But I'm terribly grateful that you did.

I think that more aptly explains why this hit me in the way that it did.
THANK YOU."

Sharpie sketches for a design piece

Assignment: using only black and white paper cutouts, create a visual representation of your favorite song.

Oil on canvas - inspired by my cousins; bought by my uncle

Oil on canvas; wedding present for friends.

Oil on canvas: purchased by my 1st grade teacher, who now has it framed in her stairwell, which brings me such joy.

My first oil on canvas, and the only one I ever regret selling.

I feel so much relief, and at peace, like after a reunion with estranged friends.

Bills Shoes Booze

2010-05-24T22:08:00.000-07:00

Introducing Crystal Bee, shoe snob and snark-master. From her (hilarious, honest, shoe-centric) site, Bills Shoes Booze:

"crystal bee has worked in the shoe industry for 5 years. she used to blog for a shoe company she once worked for in beautiful portland, oregon. they promptly fired her for being “mean spirited”, “too negative” and having a general lack of respect for grammar and punctuation. (who pays any attention to the syntax of things?) so she started her own blog and named it after her wells fargo checking account, hence the name, “bills shoes booze.” "

Youuuu're welcome.

IDEA: AccountTable

2010-05-24T12:07:00.000-07:00

I have decided I need a hotline from my house to a Hollywood studio exec's office.
I keep coming up with television show ideas and I don't know how or where to pitch them. Here's my latest one, though:

There is a large segment in the consumer market that is insulted by poorly executed media. You wouldn't know it by numbers, necessarily, since Transformers II: Revenge of Megan Fox's Freak Thumbs still blew up at the box office, but there are a lot of smart people in this country who are basically insulted by pandering advertisements, ridiculously unintelligent filmmaking, and jaw-droppingly stupid tv.

My solution would be a television show that functions as an accountability check for these abominations of entertainment. The Soup, Chelsea Lately, SNL's Weekend Update and various other snarky commentary shows do a decent job of getting in jabs where they can at poor executive decison making and worthless media trashdumps, but my show would focus on it exclusively.

The set up would be similar to much British television, wherein you have a quick-witted and knowledgeable host, backed by a panel that changes with each episode. The panel can be celebrity studded or composed of industry experts or executives, or more likely a mix, and each week 3-4 media events would be selected for discussion.

The show would then play the advertisement in question, or a clip of a television series that debuted that week, or whatever the media item is, and then the panel would have a chance to dissect and discuss the merits, or more likely, flaws, in the item. At this point, and here's where the show gets good, the writer or producer (or whomever was responsible for the media item in question) would be a guest on the show, where they'd have a chance to publicly defend their piece. I imagine some good-natured banter, an executive eventually hanging his head in shame with a sheepish smile of defeat, and promising to do better next time.

The writer or producer or director or whomever in the hot seat would get publicity (no such thing as bad press, right?) and a chance to articulate their creative process in arriving at the final crappy product, maybe even showing us that due to budget limitations or this and that, their options were limited, so we might be more understanding that they tried to shove such junk down our tubes.

The show would end each week by spotlighting a delightfully smart or appropriate ad campagin that debuted that week, or a film that came out that was well done, or a creatively clever marketing strategy that launched.

The purpose of all this would be to hold people accountable for the material they produce. It would also continue the trend of transparency, especially in corporate settings, and increase accessibility to the public. It would hopefully start a new era in which we expect more from this country's creatives, and are delivered content that challenges, inspires, and connects with us.

AccountTable is a working title, alluding to accounts in advertising and media, and the sort of round-table discussions that hopefully ensue.

SO who has a rich uncle in LA I can talk to?
What would your suggestions be to make this a functioning and entertaining program?
Would you watch it?

They're called DOnuts, not DONTnuts

2010-05-21T11:23:00.000-07:00

I hope I have your full attention, because I'm about to drop some knowledge:

When someone brings food to something, EAT IT.

This wisdom was first imparted to me by one of the best high school teachers the world has ever known.

He opened class one day, sitting on his wooden stool, by thoughtfully remarking that he wasn't a big advice giver, but if we were to take away anything from him at all that year, the one thing he wanted us to remember was,

"If someone has gone to the trouble to make your day better by
bringing donuts, the least you can do is eat one. Always eat a donut if someone has brought them."

And I think that's an excellent axiom by which we should all live.

On the rainy drive to work this Friday in May, after a long week of meetings and a fair amount of actual hard work on my part, I decided my coworkers deserved a little sugar and cholesterol for their efforts.

I stopped by Donut Land, which is right across the street from Donut King.

Donut Land used to be Winchell's, and we would stop there every Sunday on the way home from church, where my brother would procure two donuts: one rainbow-sprinkle, one cinnamon-twist. I waffled and went through phases- buttermilk bars were my go-to for a while... but then I found apple fritter pull aparts. And then I got really into glazed crullers - or, as "into" a type of donut as you can be, I guess. Basically, I have an affinity for the place.

Donut King, on the other hand, was owned by our Chinese neighbors. One time, my best friend and next-door-neighbor told me, as we rode by the place sitting in the back seat of her parents' Aerostar van, "Oh, I love going there. I always get free donuts because they're our neighbors!"

Um, I had been in there plenty and no one ever gave me any free anything.
So now, some fifteen years later, I still resent them and instead am very loyal to my amigos at Donut Land.

I arrived at work with the dozen, hand-picked selections (maple old fashioned, chocolate glazed, raspberry filled, crullers, blueberry cake, rainbow-sprinkle, plain glazed, plain cake with chocolate glaze and nuts, powdered sugar, etc) and would you believe it if I said the first 3 people to which the donuts were offered REFUSED?

In the immortal words of Stephanie Tanner... (say it with me, now), "How RUDE!"

So now I've eaten two and am feeling a little nauseous.

I Just Drove Across The Country

2010-05-19T12:13:00.000-07:00

I was trying to think of something witty for the title of this post, but, I think the facts speak for themselves, here.

E=MC is done with graduate school for the year at Duke, so this little lady bought a one-way ticket to Raleigh-Durham, North Carolina, and then drove all the way back with him to the Pacific Northwest, home to us both.

Given my limited vacation schedule, we did this in 6 days.

Raleigh -> Birmingham -> New Orleans -> Dallas -> Santa Fe -> Provo -> Portland

Here are some things we saw:

Meeting Minutes

2010-05-04T16:20:00.001-07:00

The following idiomatic expressions were all used today, by one man, in a meeting I attended:

"Low-hanging fruit"

"Hit the ground"

"Bang out"

"Granularity"

"full blown solution"

"blue-sky thinking"

"wherever that functionality fell out at"

I took detailed minutes and drew a picture of a jowly client with googly eyes who was sitting across the table from me.

Yes. This is what I am doing with the best years of my life.
---

We use Microsoft Office Communicator at my office. It is basically a secure Instant Messenging feature for professionals, although, the only person who ever uses it to talk to me is Jane, and our topics of conversation typically involve calculating the best permutations of the emoticons that come with it.
This one is our favorite:

It is an employee, actually sprinting in animation, towards a beer.

---

Since my experiences on my city league softball team and my days at work didn't provide me with *quite* enough uncomfortable or awkward moments in my life, I decided to ahead and join another team... on which one of my clients plays.

It was her idea, and though I'm pretty sure there's nothing explicit in either of our company policies about playing on a beer-league athletic team together, I am fairly suspicious it would be frowned upon. So we're keeping it hush-hush, which is only too bad because I completely dominated at our game on Sunday and wanted to TELL EVERYONE about it.

I think it would be a glorious way to leave this place - for the "secret" to get out and everyone to turn to me with wounded expressions of betrayal and concern around a conference table, my manager asking me, "So then, is it true?"
And I, in an Oscar worthy monologue would ask, "Is what true? That I have had enough of this ridiculous politik? That [client name] and I have been seeing each other outside of work? Well, guess what. It is true- it's all true! And I'm not sorry! In fact, I loved every dirty minute of the game. Loved it, I tell you! And you know what else? I was damn good at it, too. You shoulda seen me out there - in the lights, proud as hell, always goin down' swinging. It was a beautiful thing!"

And my boss would rise to his feet, slam a hand on the table and shout around his cigar (because now, in my head, he has a cigar... and is inexplicably in a 3-piece tweed suit with a pocket-watch, his shirt-sleeves rolled to the forearm, the smoke swirling between us), "Goin' down swingin', eh? Well, swing at this: You're fired!" And I'd say, "You can't fire me, I quit. I quit all of ya, ya yellow-bellied cowards! I'm not afraid to live. I'll see ya in the funnies!" and I'd grab my hat (?), and my briefcase (?), turn on a heel and stomp out without looking back, all the way to the train station.

Official Summer 2010 Cut

2010-05-03T22:04:00.000-07:00

It's official- this is all I will be listening to this summer:

"You Could Be The One" - Late Night Alumni

Fan Mail

2010-04-29T14:42:00.000-07:00

Oh, hey, Nate Costa-

It's me, just dropping a line to say hi.

I hope spring training has been going well and that you're pumped about the Spring Game on Saturday. I know you're from California, and all, but as 2/3 year Oregonian, I am sure you understand the emotional roller-coaster the Blazers are putting us all through. So can you also understand how pumped I am for this particular friendly match at Autzen? It is a no-fail, win-win situation for us Northwest sports fans. Gang Green, White Team- who cares? It's all lethal.

For quackheads, this day is a little shot to the veins that gets our adrenaline going for the real thing. So, that being said, the Big Show is still 127 days away.

Nate, that means 127 days you can't get hurt. That is 3048 hours in which you are not, by any means, to steal electronic equipment, strangle your girlfriend, or drive while under the influence of anything other than confidence, poise, and maybe Pixi Stix. We will allow Pixi Stix.

But, hon, there is something you gotta understand: you have a shot, here. You could be The Biggest Man on Campus at a school that is willing to follow you to the bitter end of a BCS Bowl Game, win or lose. We just wanna be there for you, man- so get us there. We have faith in you, we want you to do well, and we think you're no Masoli... so prove us wrong. Make Supwitchugirl write a hit song in which your name rhymes with a catchy food (come on, Costa:Pasta::Masoli:Ravioli... you're a shoe-in)- make us want to be your media-offensive-line, protecting you in the pocket from criticism and comparison. Help us, help you.

But, make no mistake- we've seen an explosive start from Darren Thomas. We've heard the whispers of a second-coming of Dennis Dixon about that kid. We will use him if you suck.

So show up, show us you want this, and strut your stuff this weekend. Don't hurt yourself, don't be an idiot, and we'll be yours. (I'll probably be yours, regardless, thanks to this) :

In You I Trust

2010-04-22T16:37:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday at our lesson, my piano teacher Diana told me something new about myself.

She was talking about her husband and lamented his wide-eyed naivete about people.
"Ahhh," she sighed, "It's because he's a Virgo."

"Really?" I said excitedly and then blurted, "Is that why I am the way I am?" I didn't explicitly explain what I meant, but she knew: I want to know why I trust people so fully and so readily.

"Oh yes," she said, "Yes, it's in your nature. You can't help it."

I felt a softening of relief.

"I'm relieved by that," I admitted. "Because I've been thinking lately about how, despite being burned so badly by people in my past, I haven't learned anything from it."
"No." She countered, more serious and lucid than I typically see her. It was as if she snapped into focus and really wanted me to understand this one thing. "No. You have learned from it. From all of it."

"You think?" I push her.

"Yes yes. It just hasn't changed the way you see people: you don't want to see the world that way. You believe that people are generally good. Don't lose that. Don't turn into me- always thinking someone's out to her her."

Could she be right?
As much as I want to be hardened, to be learned, and to carry my scars as a reminder, I am honestly surprised by the very little amount of resentment or distrust I harbor, even towards the people who have taken advantage of me. I have had a wicked suspicion lately that this is due to stupidity, or a vicious fog of denial, but perhaps it is a pure and simple desire to have faith in people.

This goes against every opportunity I've seized in the past to vocally philosophize about how futile it is to place hope in humanity, and even contradicts any present logical conclusions I arrive at regarding human nature on the whole: we, as humans, fail each other every day. For evidence, watch the local news, an episode of The Jersey Shore, or any number of mid-day talk shows (I think the people on Judge Judy make me the saddest).

But while I intellectually know this to be true, that humans act poorly and it is our regular and base state of being, I don't think it's our intended state. We've made it our natural comfort zone, but the potential for goodness and truth and beauty exists in each of us. We might need a lot of help, but I don't know how to believe that some people are beyond help.

I'm no adherent to Astrology, and recognize that this tendency of mine is part nature, but also due in part to my nurture. I have recently learned only in the last couple years that I can not only count myself lucky for this, but unique. So many of my wise, brave, smart friends were shaped by selfish mothers or lying fathers (or combinations of the two). These friends had to learn early on that people lie, cheat, and steal to benefit themselves, even at the cost of other loved ones.

So I know about these things. I watch the news and I read the headlines and I hear from people I love about all the ways in which other people hurt them, and I myself have had enough experience of my own to know better. Which is why I have been starting to feel guilty and stupid about my self-diagnosed inability to "learn from my mistakes" because that's the only time they're worth anything right?

But Diana is helping me to see that maybe it's not a curse, but a gift. And my unwillingness - not "inability"- to villainize people for their actions doesn't mean I have to villainize myself. A line from a letter calls out to me:

"You're a caring, smart, and wonderful person. You're only guilty of that, not being tricked or incapable."

A therapist once told me to examine my past for things, "red-flags" she called them, that I'd deliberately ignored or let slide. And I tried to internalize these things. But honestly, presented with a situation now, where I cared as much as the ones in the past, I can't say I'd do anything any differently. I acted in love, and if that's the worst thing I can say, I can live with that.

Around that time I even had this conversation with my mother, who, in trying to console me, gently cajoled something to the effect of, "Well, maybe you've learned you just can't trust people," and I, sobbing, replied, "That is NOT a world I want to live in."

Diana offered me the validation I've been seeking on the matter. I know she can be downright dotty, but, I happen to know she's dead right on this one.

Because I trust her.

Hairline Fracture 2

2010-04-20T23:13:00.001-07:00

Workin IT at Office Parties

2010-04-15T15:16:00.000-07:00

My team of co-workers decided a few weeks ago that a morale boosting evening of drinks and non-work-related conversation were in order. I know at most places of business this tends to be a regularly occurring type of get-together. For this group, though, it is pretty much a once or twice a year type of thing.

Which, as you can imagine, really elevates the awkwardness level. (See graphic for reference).

When I first started here, I obviously had no desire to talk about work at the occasional office-birthday lunch. If you recall, I was also asked out by someone, and then basically hounded by a love-crazed Indian man who just wanted some relationship advice. Those experiences are really what led to my ratcheting up the out-of-office-contact drawbridge and filling the moat with professionalism.

But, almost two years later, now, I spend eight hours a day with these people. I know and like our clients. I know what’s going on in most of my co-worker’s lives, to a certain extent (kids names and their frequent visits to principal’s offices; which ones have choir practice and which work on their boats on the weekends; who works second jobs tending bar; who got the best deals at the tire store… that kind of thing). These personal details only just barely dispel the social tension that permeates the room when we get together in a venue that doesn’t involve a conference table.
It might just be the personality of the Business Analyst. It might be that many of them work 8 hours a day at the office and then check their email until midnight and they’ve warped their minds.

It is possible they are just odd people.

So Friday afternoon around 3:30 saw us all pack up our laptops and head to Julio’s casa for a fiesta. His lovely wife Angelica spent the better part of the day cooking for us, and we were all very grateful for her efforts, and the food, mainly because it allowed us to eat instead of trying to talk to each other. To add to matters of painful interaction, we have two teetotalers in the pack.

Never one to succumb to peer pressure, I snagged a margarita and stuck my beer into the provided cooler. And then I got a big plate of Spanish rice, tortillas, shredded chicken, guacamole, black beans, and whatever else I could find on the table. Whenever there was a lull in conversation (so, every two minutes or so) I would take a sip of my drink or a bite of food.
After a couple of hours of this, I was completely stuffed and totally tipsy.

Julio had more to drink than I, and at the insistence of one of the sober gals, TURNED ON THE KARAOKE MACHINE. I mean, why wouldn’t he?

One impressive fact about all of this is that the karaoke machine’s song catalogue was composed of half English-language songs, and half Spanish selections. Even more impressive was Julio and Claudia’s rendition of Elvis Presley’s “Jailhouse Rock”, en Espagnol. Daphne sang Diana Ross and Gladys Knight; Melissa sang a Beatles tune; Roger chose the fairly impossible “Love Shack” by the B-52s and I had to screech/wail the girl parts; Mike said he had to go but we forced him into Sinatra’s “Fly Me To The Moon” which was probably a mistake. I reclaimed the microphone for “Bohemian Rhapsody” (backup vocals from Julio) and all the while… this was not getting any less uncomfortable. It is hard enough to muster the confidence to sing your favorite shower-practice song in a loud, crowded bar – so sitting in someone’s living room with your half-dozen half-drunk, half-sober co-workers, singing to a sped up MIDI file, is a profoundly embarrassing and humiliating activity.

But maybe my brain is warped now too, after all the nine-to-fiveing… because I think I actually had fun.

Challenge: Do it for someone else!

2010-04-13T09:54:00.000-07:00

How did everyone's challenges go last week?
Did you take good care of yourself?

Did you "see what love can do and dare"?

I did: a very close family friend, and one of the single most lovely people on this good earth, is battling her Nth bout with cancer. It just keeps coming back, and she keeps beating it...but of course it is frustrating, exhausting, and spirit-crushing.

We're part of a small-group that's doing a Bible study, and the love and support of this group has been pouring out steadily. In a society that is self-centered, often shallow, and obsessed with meaningless pursuits (not to mention how this appears daily in my own life) it is very moving and humbling to witness friends take such good care of each other. Love is binding, healing, and hopeful.

This week's challenge #3, then, is to do something small for someone else.

Buy the person behind you in line a cup of coffee; write a small note to a co-worker or someone you see everyday but typically take for granted; leave a bigger tip than usual; pick up a little gift for a loved one (their favorite magazine, candy bar, a 6-pack of a good microbrew).

I think we all do nice things for people most days of the week, but I want to be intentional about it this week.

Examples of notes you can leave:

My Weekend in Comestibles, Pt. II

2010-04-12T09:54:00.001-07:00

Healthy February is officially dead to me.

Now in the middle of April, I have reverted to my gobbling and guzzling habits, leaving no strip of bacon, and no glass of Malbec, untouched.

The Redhead and I have taken up tennis (stop laughing) basically in direct reponse to our other new commitment: visit a new brunch place each Saturday.

Last weekend, we ate at Everett St. Bistro in the Pearl District.
1140 NW Everett Street
Portland, Oregon 97209
p 503.467.4990

(Image from VJ_PDX on Flickr)
I had heard wonderful things from friends about this French-style bistro, who serves Stumptown Coffee, and at which you can buy freshly crusty baguettes and assorted cheeses, but I wasn't sure it would be a conducive environment for a lazy morning in no rush to get to the bill.

I was so wrong.

The Redhead and I ordered Joe’s Special (spinach and sauteed garlic scrambled eggs and topped with shaved parmesan) and then some delicious sea salt and olive-oil waffle treat topped in bacon crumbles. We eat, and swap half way through the meal.

This weekend, we tried Junior's Cafe. It doesn't appear to have a website, but it does have a new chef.

(Image by Andrea McCorckle on Flickr)

1742 SE 12th Avenue
Portland, Oregon 97214
p. 503.467.4971

We sat outside, at one of two rickety tables, and it was honestly a little too cold to do so, but the hot coffee kept coming. The Redhead ordered the sweet ("Yummy French Toast" topped with "organic banana" (plus) and some yogurt I could have done without (minus)); I got the savory (a spinach/pesto/roasted red pepper scramble with some seasoned taters and wheat toast slathered in butter).

The other thing I've been busy digesting (other than Mexican food, which I honestly managed to eat for no less than SEVEN meals last week somehow?) is Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything.

It is approximately 500 pages covering the birth of the universe and, I am assuming, bringing us to the time of the book's publication (2003). Not a particularly science-minded girl, this presented itself as a scary challenge to me. The good news? Bryson himself is not science-minded, so the book reads basically as a Cosmology for Dummies.

I borrowed it from a friend, thus am not at liberty to loan it out when finished, but if you have a gap in your reading schedule, I would recommend buying it on Amazon, or finding it at the library (remember those things?).

Aural Invaders

2010-04-08T22:51:00.000-07:00

I became enamored of Wye Oak last year with their atmospheric and burning release The Knot. New track from their new EP: Wye Oak- "I Hope You Die"

Always a fan of all things Black Keys, including this rad new teaser from their next Danger Mouse produced album, Brothers, set to drop (legally) May 18.
The video is dumb, but the song is bomb.

Another folk/indie supergroup, Gaygns brings us a Kenny G inspired slow jam? Whatever, if it features Justin Vernon (Bon Iver) vocals (which it does), then I'm in. Gayngs - "The Gaudy Side of Town"

And, new(ish) from The National - "Bloodbuzz Ohio"

Thanks to Pitchfork for the heads' ups. Check out their Forkcast for free songs alllways.

Nineteen Years

2010-04-07T15:00:00.000-07:00

I don’t know how to write about my brother.

It is his nineteenth birthday, today, and I wanted to write him something he could look back on later and feel good about. I wanted to tell some funny stories and make some observations and to tie it up lovingly without gushing, but for whatever reason, it is too hard. He’s such a complex person that I don’t know how to even talk about him to people without a lot of, “well, yes and no”s, and, “kind of, but not really?”s and “he can be, but, isn’t always” sorts of nuanced caveats. Part of it may be that I don’t have a lot of distance from him (physically or otherwise, these days, since we are currently sharing a bedroom wall, a bathroom, and the DVR box). Part of it is that I don’t know who he is really, and I think mainly, he’s not sure who he is, either. More, he’s not confident in the amazing person he can become.

We are very different in some respects, and practically identical in others:
I am an extrovert; he is an introvert.
I love to immerse myself in new and strange experiences; he likes to immerse himself in the sectional sofa in the bonus room and play Xbox.
I trust and generally respect authority; he questions, probes, and pushes it.
I jump through hoops because it’s easy; he says “to hell with your hoops” and wants to know why it’s being asked of him.
I do things assuming they have merit; he has to see the merit in something before doing it.
He played varsity sports; I lettered in choir, art, and leadership.
He expects people to have a sense of humor about everything; I am typically wary of upsetting people.
We both love words and are talented at vocabulary games (Boggle, Scrabble, etc). We both struggle in math. We both are really into finding and listening to good music (mainly indie rock and electronic for me; hip-hop for him). We both roll our eyes at the dinner table at the same things (Mom’s confusion about the difference between “doing a 180” and “doing a 360”; Dad’s long-winded jokes with the flubbed punchlines ) and we both laugh at the dinner table at the same things (Mom’s stories about the cute kids at work; Brother’s constant insertion of Family Guy plotlines into serious political or humanitarian discussions; Dad’s good college stories). We both miss our dog, Keats. We both want to have lots of kids so they can have each other in a larger family than we managed to be a part of.

The thing is, he’s had some pretty heavy health complications in recent years which have coincided with the already decidedly difficult process of becoming a young man. It has been supremely hard to watch him suffer this injustice. I have faith that he will come out of this stronger, deeper, and better but sometimes, he doesn’t have that clarity or confidence. So today, for his birthday, I am going to wish 19 things for his future.
Nineteen things I couldn’t wrap up with a bow; nineteen things he might not even know to ask for; nineteen things to which he can look forward.

Nineteen things:
1. I hope you can wake up in the morning and feel excited about tackling the day.
2. I hope you start to write more, so we can have the privilege of knowing what’s going on in your head.
3. I hope you stop worrying so much.
4. I hope you find a girl that makes you feel like the most important man on earth.
5. I hope that you will attend the college of your choice.
6. I wish for you a college experience that teaches you about others, about the world, about yourself, and about the important distinctions between Coors Light and Bud Light.
7. I wish for you a college graduation.
8. I wish you a fulfilling career or series of jobs that taps into your sensitive heart, your sense of humor, and your skills as a deep thinker.
9. I wish that you would discover the merits of a varied and well-cultivated wardrobe (not that I don’t love your white tees, it’s just…they so plainly reveal your affinity for ketchup).
10. I wish you the desire for more.
11. I wish that you would learn how to operate a vacuum. Or a dishwasher. Or a washing machine.
12. I hope for you that Kraft continues to develop microwavable foodstuffs, so that you never go hungry.
13. I wish that you would actually record and release the Ill Advised Mixtape.
14. I wish that you will soon see yourself as the handsome, unstoppable, smart, worthy person the rest of us see.
15. I wish (okay, for us both) that the second part of Metalocalypse Season 3 would hurry up and air.
16. I wish for you to be my future kids’ favorite uncle (so far, you’re the default, but you never know what kind of in-laws I could end up with).
17. I wish for you the interest in, and opportunity to, travel and see this great big small world we live in.
18. I wish for you the perspective, someday, on the absolute blessing our parents are, not only in our lives, but in the lives of others. They are really really cool people.
19. I wish you health. And joy. And a full, bright, tomorrow.

Happy birthday, brother.

And, of course: I love you.

Challenge: Do it for yourself!

2010-04-05T15:41:00.000-07:00

I think it would be fun to challenge us all to something new every week.

Trying something new every day for a while helped to get me through some difficult times, but I eventually got to a place where I didn't need the distraction, and some of the new things I did generated so many other projects, time commitments, and engagements that I didn't need to focus on it anymore.

It's still important to be goal-oriented, though.

We'll start easy.

Challenge #1: Do something for yourself this week!

Watch that baseball game even if the dishes are dirty.
Get a massage.
Bring treats to the office and have one yourself.
Let yourself read a trashy magazine instead of a brain-stimulating non-fiction textbook for twenty minutes.

I bought myself flowers for $3.99 at Trader Joe's and they will brighten my whole week.

Challenge #2: "See what love can do and dare"
Okay, I know there are two here, but I figured we could start out with a bang. Plus, this is a good one to do always.

The challenge actually comes from a hymn we sang in church this week on Easter Sunday.
The accompanying music is from Beethoven's 9th Symphony, "Ode to Joy" and it really resonated with me. Regardless of our beliefs or reason for our own odes to joy, I think it's a beautiful mantra for one's week:

"Christ is risen! Raise your spirits

From the caverns of despair/

Walk with gladness in the morning/

See what love can do and dare."

My Relationship With John Mayer, Part II

2010-04-02T15:04:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, Katy generously called me to let me know that through her job she had procured two tickets to the Tuesday night John Mayer concert at the Rose Garden, and wanted to know if I would be her date for the evening.

I accepted gratefully, and so on Tuesday, I started to wonder: what if tonight, this night, is the night I get to meet John Mayer again? What if the fates align, and we actually get to hang out for real this time, and he remembers us? What if we take him up on that rain-check to catch a midnight show, and he is taken by my charming wit and my totally cool demeanor and thinks I'm HILARIOUS and wants to hang out with me ALL THE TIME? What if he’s not as much of a douchebag in person as everyone says he is? WHAT IF WE ARE MEANT TO MEET AGAIN!?

And then, magically, things started to align…

First, on that October day, 9 years ago, I happened to have pulled on some socks that may or may not have been Halloween themed (okay, they were). At the in-store performance, since Katy and I were basically sitting at his feet as he played, John leaned over and asked about the socks, interrupting my mortifying show-&-tell only to show us his own, purple striped socks. This Tuesday, in March, I am housesitting and have with me only one pair of socks: they are, fatefully, Easter themed. This either bodes well for my day, or means I need to grow up and get some real socks.

Second, Katy and I go to dinner, and everything on the menu is 50% off. What!? Yeah, HALF OFF! No, really. I eat myself into a near sushi-coma, and then we drive to the Rose Garden where we, again, fatefully, find a REALLY good parking spot. The only problem is that my wee Ford Focus is about 3 inches too big to fit between the SUV in front of us, and the two-wheeled, car-sized trailer parked behind.
“What is that thing even DOING parked here?” Katy asks in annoyance.
“I don’t know,” I say, “But, what happens if you just, you know, put a shoulder into it?”
I am joking, but Katy actually tries it, and to our total shock and amazement, she moves it about a foot backward, creating more than enough room for me to park. We are terribly pleased with ourselves.

THEN, after obtaining beer for ourselves in the arena, we head to our seats. The Rose Garden has a capacity of roughly 19,500 people for Trail Blazer games. Tonight, all the 300-level seats are closed, as well as a portion behind the stage, leaving what Katy and I estimate to be around 11,000 or so people at the show. I also know of only 3 other people going to this concert, making the odds of me sitting next to someone I know approximately 3 in 11,000, or a VERY SMALL PERCENT CHANCE.

Thus, you can imagine my surprise when I sit down RIGHT NEXT TO The Redhead’s mom.
“SHUT. UP.” I deadpan.
“YOU ARE KIDD-DING ME!” she shouts.

This series of well-timed and lucky occurrences is only adding good energy to that vibe in the back of my mind that I am trying not to look at head on, lest it disappear like a star. I cannot help but truly believe that the Universe is on my side, and the night could very easily go anyway I so desire.

This is cemented once the show starts. Katy remarks to me that in the seven times she’s seen Mayer live, he’s never played her favorite song, “Comfortable.” I am about to bet fifty dollars he doesn't play it.

And then, he does.

You know what happens next- can’t you feel it? The whole day has been leading up to it.

We decide to make the most of our mojo, and, after the show, plot the most direct route to where we assume the tour buses will be. We fluff our hair, stand up tall, and stride down halls and through the parking garage, down cement stairs, and down an inclined driveway. And there we see them: about a dozen tour buses, semi trucks, vans, and vehicles.

Our eyes widen, we slow, and Katy turns to me to say, “Well. They’ve come a long way since that 15-passenger van with the Ralph Wiggum window sticker, huh.”

We join the other hopeful hangers-on: only a handful, really, leaning on a cement wall, peering across a lane or two of driveway, and through two chain-link fences, woven in black plastic so you could barely see through them. Rose Garden security mills around, half-assedly trying to get us loiterers to leave:
“If you’re waiting for John Mayer, he already left. Got on one of them grey buses there and took off right away.”

Katy and I ignore him and survey the scene.
We are the eldest of the group, by a solid four or five years.
We are also not sure at all from where John and crew will emerge to actually get to these buses. In fact, even if they go a semi-roundabout route, our efforts in getting him to notice, acknowledge, and approach us will have to be monumental, not to mention monumentally embarrassing and drastic.

“Alright, so, you know if he does actually come out here, we’re going to have minimal time to actually get his attention, so I think we need to maximize our efficiency with word choice,” Katy posits, verbalizing my actual thoughts. “What is the shortest combination of words that would achieve this?”

Duct-tape wallets.

This is the eloquent phrase on which we were pin our hopes.

And then, a funny thing happens. I play out, in my head, just what exactly, I think, is going to transpire. All my brilliant conversations I have planned are definitely meant for a corner table in a dark bar over drinks. What am I going to do, now, here? Ask to get onto the tour bus? Have him sign my friggin’ ticket stub? Have him look me straight in the face and have no idea that we have ever met? I mean, the poor guy has over THREE MILLION people following his Twitter account, hanging on his every word and always asking and pecking and wanting something from him. I see myself as he will see me: just another rabid fan.

He just came out and played for thousands of people, not to mention a mostly acoustic set in a very intimate way; a set rife with old favorites and memories and he did this for people like us. It’s a career I don’t think I could ever handle: there are choices involved that say, “I am hereby relinquishing control of my privacy, my free-time, my innermost thoughts and goals, and I am handing them to you all.”

Up on stage, effortlessly dismantling “Assassin” from his newest album, Battle Studies, it occurrs to me how separate he appeared. He was trying so hard to give something to everyone in a really personal way, and I think he achieved that, but in other ways, he was so isolated. That is a guy that can only ever date the Jennifer Anistons and Jessica Simpsons of the world, I realized; a guy that can get away with recording a cover of a Jimi Hendrix song on an album; a guy that gets interviewed in Playboy magazine and then probably takes home the centerfold.

“It’s been a long time since 22…” echoes in my thoughts, a line from another Battle Studies song. And for him, it really truly has been. It’s hard enough to see anyone you care about grow without you; even more daunting can be recognizing growth in yourself. I don’t need the same things anymore, either, and it has certainly been a long time since fifteen.

Katy and I turn to each other with sheepish expressions: “Ready to go?” I ask.
“Yup.” She says.

So we leave without knowing what would happen if we stay, but what we can guess at, we are not sad to be missing.

The luck and the socks and the parking and the cheap sushi all amounted to a revelation that we already got the perfect night, nine years ago; that being a fan now doesn’t mean getting rewarded for any kind of devotion, but being happy for his success. That we’re all older, and all different, and it doesn’t have to be better or worse.

And that, besides, after declaring me to be his secret girlfriend, John Mayer never technically broke up with me.

So as just another rabid fan, sure - he doesn't owe me anything. But, John, come on- as a girlfriend? I mean, you at least owe me the courtesy of a face-to-face breakup.
I think we can agree on that.

My Relationship With John Mayer, Part I

2010-04-01T14:49:00.000-07:00

At the end of my freshman year of high school, to the soundtrack of primped boy bands and pimped-out radio rap, I stumbled across an artist in a way that is now practically extinct. What with YouTube, Myspace Music, and iTunes, a truly talented artist can get mega-exposure in no time, but what it took in 2001 was a mislabeled download on Napster. “I am pretty sure- like, ridiculously positive- that this is a super rare Dave Matthews song,” my friend said. “You can hear it in the vowels.” I nodded, but knew that it was not a South African singing. I also knew that I was in love.

That was the first time I heard John Mayer.

Hellbent on spreading his gospel, I joined an online message board, bought albums, burned copies for friends, and traded live shows with other fans who could not get enough of this young, phenomenal guitar player from Atlanta with the voice of melted chocolate.

I was fifteen the first time I met him. Bright eyed and beaming, Katy and I approached him after his acoustic in-store performance at the now defunct Music Millenium store. I was wearing a light pink shirt I’d made in allusion to one of his songs that read, “I’m a sucker for you” with a little lollipop on it. He was about to be wearing a t-shirt I’d made for him that said, “Two hot teenage girls in Portland love me.” We took a picture with him in it, and he signed my shirt: “John Mayer- thinks ya clever and cool (and hot!)” while his bassist, David Labruyere, signed it, “I’m a sucker for you, too!” We were two of about forty people there. I also handed them a ribboned bag with gifts for the rest of the band: duct tape wallets I’d made myself.

(Okay, seriously. Stop judging. This is hard enough to admit, and I don't need you snickering over there about it).

“Are you guys going to the show tonight?” they asked. We nodded enthusiastically; not wanting to explain that the venue was 21 and over only.
Katy and I went anyway, peering into the bar and grill from tiptoe in the venue lobby, standing on chairs and stairs to get glimpses of this musician we knew would be Eric Clapton famous in only a matter of years. That was the thing about being a John Mayer fan so early on: we were all just sure it was simply a matter of time before he blew up. We were just trying to soak up as much of him as possible until then.

After the show, we decided we wanted one last shot at trying to hang out with these guys. We ended up waiting out by the loading area, near an erratic homeless guy who kept requesting that someone play "Freebird", and after about half an hour, the band members came out, spotted us, and welcomed us to the safety of the other side of the cyclone fence. Once identified as the wallet-makers, we were lauded and thanked graciously and Katy and I tried not to choke on our own excitement.

And then John Mayer strode over easily, lanky and boyish, only 23 at the time.
“Hey, there they are!” he said, greeting the group with arms wide, his head a-tilt. "How cool of you guys to wait for us!"

After stooping to hug me, unbelievably, he stood with an arm around my shoulders, folding me into himself, AND even more unbelievably, placed his lips to my forehead. I was in danger of plummeting to the pavement in a veritable swoon. Katy and I kept avoiding eye contact, lest we devolve into melty pools of teenage girl.

“Hmm, you’re very kissable, you know that?,” he sort of murmured into my hair. I held very still, trying not to mess up whatever this obviously colossal misunderstanding was. I was Cinderella, except, instead of a ball gown, I was wearing an honest-to-God accidentally MATCHING red-leather jacket with the one person on the planet I had been practically dying to meet in the way that only a teenager can obsess about. I totally Taylor-Swifted the situation, comparing myself to princesses and fairytales while Taylor Swift was still basically in diapers.

JUST. HOLD. STILL. KEEP BREATHING. DON'T MAKE ANY SUDDEN MOVEMENTS.

“Tell you what,” he continued, dropping his voice. “You are just going to be my secret girlfriend. We’re not going to tell anybody, you’re just going to be my secret girlfriend, is that okay?”

This is the part in the tape where it stops and makes that funny sudden-halting noise: Now, I recognize as a 23 year old young woman just how totally off this is. But I think part of a rise to fame is learning how to deal with the ardent affections of people, and the responsibility of discerning when it is, and is not, appropriate to reciprocate. He was apparently still trying to figure this out. Seeing my actual dreams literally materializing in front of me, no one saw me object.

“So, hey, what are you guys doing for the rest of the night?” John asked earnestly, after about a half hour of hanging out in the cold, bantering about tours, Portland, bands, and the merits of Nexcare bandaids.

Katy and I had learned earlier, from a man at the in-store performance, that Tim Reynolds was playing a sold-out midnight solo show. He bragged that he was a photographer, and alluded to the fact that he could easily get us in. Unfortunately, he totally gave us the creeps, so we smiled politely and eluded him for the rest of the afternoon.

“Oh, are you guys going to that Tim Reynolds show?” we asked nonchalantly.

“Yeah, we are. Do you want to come with us? I think it’s sold out, but we’re on the list so don’t worry about that. ”

Katy and I sucked in our breath.

And then went on to make what I still regard as the biggest mistake of MY ENTIRE LIFE.

“Ooh… “ I said, pulling a face. “Yeah, we were invited to that earlier by some guy, but, we aren’t 18 and he said he could ‘get us in’ but… we weren’t really comfortable with that,” I admitted. Katy gave a nod of agreement. "Plus, we should probably be getting home..."

In case you missed that, we just turned down a personal invitation to attend a concert with John Mayer and friends.

“You know what, “John remaked, “Wow. That is so impressive. Because, you’re very beautiful young ladies- and to be aware of, and protective of, that beauty? That’s really beautiful in itself. Don’t lose that.”

(How do I remember that, nine years later? Uh, how would I NOT remember that, is the real question).

Tour manger Scotty came out to round up his troops and distribute some of the night’s earnings to the guys. Our eyes got wide when we saw that he was pulling a stack of cash OUT OF HIS DUCT-TAPE WALLET.

“Don’t you go breaking my heart!” John turned around and hollered, pointing, as we waved goodbye and wished them a fun evening.
I didn’t stop smiling for ten days.

Since 2001, John Mayer has released 3 more albums, along with multiple side projects with the John Mayer trio and other artists. He has won a shelf full of Grammy Awards. He bought a place in New York. We’ve both dated other people (you know how it goes- long distance relationships are hard) and through the tours and tabloids and time, I lost interest in this artist to whom I’d formerly felt so close – I was now a nameless face in a crowd of thousands at amphitheater concerts, and part of what had interested me so much had dissipated. And you know what? He's changed. His very public descent into douchedom was enough to turn anyone deaf to his talent.

The spell was broken, and I'd moved on.

That is, until last Tuesday, anyway.

Part II coming soon.

Taking our relationship to a whole new level

2010-04-01T14:38:00.000-07:00

If you have found this blog via the magick of the interwebz, and you want to ask me a question or give me feedback or send me ideas for posts, I've got a new email address specifically for this purpose:

KickinITatWork@gmail.com

Don't be shy!
Don't be gross!
Be nice!
Be bold!
Don't send me pictures of your pet lizards!

Katherine Heigl Wants To Be Me. (Part II)

2010-03-26T11:14:00.000-07:00

Let's continue this little journey down the memory-aisle together.
[I got a lot of positive feedback on the graphic inclusions yesterday, so, there are more where that came from].

First, a look at the dresses in wedding numbers 4-6:
It's actually a little disheartening how accurate these depictions are. Also, don't forget, they're not flattering floor length sweepers: you have to actually picture them hitting me mid-shin. You know, the most flattering place for a dress to hit on anyone, let alone a shapeless pre-teen.

#4 Aunt Ann & Uncle

Junior bridesmaid: 3rd grade. This dress portrayed the awkwardness of the Junior Bridesmaid better than any other dress before or since. A tea-length version of the bridesmaids’ floor-length gowns, and constructed of navy blue raw silk, this dress was a monster. Not a monstrosity, necessarily, just, a lot for an 8 year old in June. Full shoulder puff, cubic zirconia buttons, full skirt. My brother wouldn’t eat anything at the reception and the chef at the Portland University Club decided from then on to always serve crustless peanut-butter & jelly finger sandwiches at event buffets.

#5 Aunt Angela & Uncle
Junior bridesmaid: 4th grade. This dress took first runner up in the Awkward Junior Bridesmaid category. “What, do you think you’re going to come slinking out in some number with a slit up to here?” my mom asked impatiently as I made at face in the mirror at the alterations place. As a matter of fact, yes. Yes, I did. What I ended up with was appropriate, and actually quite cute, for the round-bellied, flat chested body I was stuck in.

My brother was in this wedding, too, and ended up tearing his all-white tuxedo nearly off by the time he got down the aisle, cummerbund and bowtie in hand.

I taught myself how to fashion dice out of candle wax at the rehearsal dinner, which was also where I learned to give a proper handshake.

This was also the reception at which I was caught in the crosshairs of the wedding photographer's lens as the first in line at the dinner buffet. Not a lot has changed.

#6 Maryann & Matthew – Mom’s cousin
PROMOTED: Candle lighter: 6th grade. This was, at the time, the best dress I’d worn yet (still a version of white and floofy, but had a little off-the shoulder action and I got to wear my hair down). The highlight of this wedding was that it was in Houston, and we got to go to Six Flags.

#7 Kim & Greg – Mom’s cousin (yeah, there are a lot).
Candle lighter: I don’t even actually remember how old I was for this…somewhere between 7th grade and freshman year of high school? Too old to be lighting candles at a wedding in a floor-length, gauzy, silver cupcake. The groom’s mother actually made myself and her granddaughter matching dresses and I don’t remember being entirely displeased with it. This marked my first “big girl” hair updo; still too young to sneak wine at the reception, though. A groomsman sang an inebriated rendition of Billy Joel’s “Scenes From an Italian Restaurant.”

#8 – Urban Cowgirl & Groom
PROMOTED: Bridesmaid. Age 22. We spent most of the school year helping our housemate, the bride, plan the wedding, and had a great time figuring out how to do all of our bridesmaidenly duties while still in college. We tried to throw her an engagement party, but her fiancé couldn’t make it, so it ended up consisting of a bunch of drunk sorority girls.

We tried to throw her a shower, but we didn’t have any money. Our sorority advisor graciously offered to host it, and it once again resulted in a gathering of a bunch of drunk sorority girls.

We did, however, have a fantastic time at her bachelorette party at a resort in Central Oregon (we ran into a rogue bachelor party at at karaoke bar). The wedding was also a blast: I actually sang during the ceremony, made slightly difficult as we each had a can of Natural Light in our hands from waking to aisle-walking. Her talented aunt actually made our lime green raw-silk halter dresses and we all ended up looking like fierce Stepford Wives. I managed to rip my dress on the dancefloor whilst fist-pumping to a Meatloaf song.

#9 – Ba & Groom

Bridesmaid: Age 22. A dramatic production from start (proposal in the South of France) to finish (a winery in Napa, CA) and an absolute treat to be a part of. It ended up being a mostly paid-for vacation and I spent a week away from work lounging by the pool of a private estate in wine country, getting my nails did. And eating… a lot- thanks to our Private Chef. The Redhead and I recently saw the wedding DVD and were really impressed that the camera caught two things that perfectly portrayed just how single we both were:
1. Our food-babies, trying to bust out the front panels of our floor length, fuchsia satin, Melissa Sweet gowns.
2. Our total obliviousness to the bridal bouquet toss, opting instead to direct our attentions to an aggressive sampling of the event’s dessert bar.
Oh, and it was 108 degrees that day.

Our home for the week:

Predictions about weddings #10 & #11 to follow in Part III...

Katherine Heigl Wants To Be Me.

2010-03-25T08:59:00.000-07:00

In 2008 a movie came out called 27 Dresses.

It stars Katherine Heigl and the annoying girl who always plays the somewhat crazy slut (see: 13 Going on 30, Arrested Development, Modern Family) and Lon from The Notebook. It’s about the protagonist’s inability to say no to being in other people’s weddings and then coping with her “always the bridesmaid: never the bride” complex.

On the one hand, I am grateful for this film as it basically maps out what my life will be like if I continue in this dangerous vein of bridesmaidery.

On the other hand, I kind of hate this film as it basically maps out what my life will be like if I continue in this dangerous vein of bridesmaidery.

Ladies and gentlemen, I will be in my 11th wedding this summer.

I will admit that I haven’t been a bridesmaid that many times, necessarily, but at 23, it’s still kind of ridiculous. I would much rather my life be based on this wedding film.

Kidding (kind of) - it is always such a touching gesture to be included in someone's wedding: they are making a commitment to LOVE someone. That is so hard, and so noble, and so life-altering that it is a real gift to be present in someone's life for that, let alone stand at the front with them in support and encouragement (or itchy formal ankle socks, or in satin, or in whatever else they've got you wearing).

Another cool thing is that despite their common components, no two weddings are ever alike, and are in fact, as unique as the people they celebrate.

Let's move to the statistical breakdown.

And these are only the weddings I've been IN. I know some people who have only ever attended three or four weddings in their whole lives. If I had to estimate, I'd say I've been a guest at around thirty total.

Some anecdotal supplements to go with the numbers (Part I):

#1. Heidi & Andy – Mom’s cousin

Flower girl: Three years old. I wore a pastel pink be-bowed frock with poofy sleeves, poofy socks, and poofy underpants. I spent most of the ceremony outside with my dad, pretending to paint the potted plants with a feather I found. One of the other bridesmaids passed out. My mother was actually in this wedding too in the most hilarious light peach bridesmaid dress and some raw silk heels dyed to match (which, of course, I thought were the most beautiful shoes on the planet, as a child, and would tromp around the house in them, watching the light catch in the rhinestone brooch at the toe).

#2 Geoff & Ursula – Mom’s cousin
Flower girl: Four years old. I wore the same ensemble, and since the guest list was basically the same, I suffered the indignity of the “Oh God you saw me in this outfit the last time you saw me” feeling. I think I walked down the aisle to a Kenny G song, was jealous of Cousin Pat’s date Miki, and was awarded a wedding-party-gift at the rehearsal dinner: a stuffed animal rabbit that, when switched on, would wriggle its nose, raise its ears slowly, and, with a mechanical whirring of gears, lurch around the room haphazardly. It was, in retrospect, one of the more terrifying things I owned as a child. Bunnicula come to life.

#3 Uncle John & Aunt
Flower girl: Second grade. At their engagement announcement I hugged my aunt to be and, with my arms around her waist, asked, “Do I get to be in the wedding?” She laughed and said, “Oh honey, I think you were in this wedding before I was.” I remember my great-grandfather gallantly fending off a swan with his cane before the ceremony, the pastor having the precursor of a heart-attack during the vows (whose violent coughing fit prompted my aunt to wonder if they had actually been legally wed?), and my brother stealing the show during my father’s toast by mimicking the last few words of every line, not unlike the Giuliani kid in 1994.

Mostly Healthy March

2010-03-23T14:40:00.000-07:00

I figured a follow-up on my health kick would be appropriate, for the sake of personal posterity.

And speaking of personal posteriors, mine truly did benefit from Healthy February.

I was pretty disciplined:

- I drank no coffee for the whole month! I have since, slowly, allowed myself back on the caffeine train, mostly because it is the one thing I look forward to in my work day. THE ONE. THING.

- I made sure to exercise 3-4 times a week. I am currently operating on a 2-3 times a week basis in March, but with the weather improving, am doing more outdoorsy things, like, playing tennis with The Redhead for a few hours on Saturday (it still counts as exercise if you're drinking vodka Slurpees right? Whatever. Sounds about right for "Mostly Healthy" March).

- I never got enough sleep. Still don't.

- I was much better about drinking lots of water. Still am!

- I refrained from drinking for (most) of the whole month. Even socially, and no wine with dinner. Except, I quit a weekend early. 3 1/2 weeks was the longest I'd gone without drinking since before college, I believe, so, that was totally overdue.

- I actually lost about 6 pounds. So, all in all: worth it. The most lasting effect, I believe, is the craving my body has for exercise when I don't get enough. Or, relearning how to eat smaller portions of healthier food.

That being said, tonight is another eating competition for people from work. I'm not sure I ever told You Guys this, but I was in one of these in November. The contest was who could finish the 2 LB cheeseburger (6 patties in all) at the Old Market Pub and Brewery. This is what it looked like, before it got owned:

I was the only girl to finish. But three big men went on to win, as they each ordered an extra patty.

The sad part? Not the most full I had ever been. Thanks, college.

The contest tonight is who can eat the most hot-wings in 10 minutes. Tempting as it sounds (I could totally kill it), I think it would be best to continue in the vein of being mostly-healthy, and I will simply be a spectator.

Don't look now...but, I think our little girl is growing up.

"Stuff White People Like"

2010-03-22T13:13:00.001-07:00

AKA, "Stuff I Like".

What started as a blog back in 2008 by a guy named Christian Lander and his friend has now evolved into a book, speaking tours, and most awesomely, a 365-day desk calendar that my favorite Platonic Boyfriend got me for Christmas.

If you aren't familiar, it's a satirical take on what your typical affluent, educated, left-leaning, environmentally and socially conscious white North Americans are into. Examples include: Asian Girls, Being Offended, Taking a Year Off, Wes Anderson films, Farmer's Markets, etc.

So every day at work I get to learn about something I typically already know about myself (i.e. "Girls With Bangs" or, "Locally Roasted Coffee" as I set my cup down and brush my bangs out of my eyes in a defensive huff) and then I always email it to the Platonic Bf. This is a nice little ritual we have and is a good excuse to look like I'm typing something important every morning when I get in.

This weekend I couldn't help but realize just how WHITE I am. It started to dawn on me Saturday morning, as I squinted past all the strollers at the Portland Farmer's Market, holding, again, my locally roasted coffee, having just left brunch at a trendy spot with a line out the door on the East side; having eaten at a really new trendy spot the night before ("shared small plates"at a place that butchers their own meat) and planning the rest of the afternoon around a trip to the driving range, so I could spend some time in the great outdoors.

There are like, six things in there I should be embarrassed about. But, I am deciding to embrace it and share with you all that places I went and dined at so you too, can eat at them, and who knows, shake things up with a little diversity

Dinner at Olympic Provisions - 107 SE Washington St.Portland, OR 97214

Small, but unique, beer selection, large bottled wine selection; lively but intimate atmosphere; reasonable menu of diverse game and meats...until you are told by the server that they are "small plates, meant to be shared. For a group of this size (6) you could probably order the whole menu." She left, and we rolled our eyes, since each dish ran around $12. I ordered the roasted carrots ($5) which were delicious, of course, and sampled the braised rabbit leg, as well as the brussel sprouts, kielbasa, and some polenta.

Brunch at Pine State Biscuits - 3640 Southeast Belmont StreetPortland, OR 97214

For $8-$10 you can get a great breakfast sandwich involving some combination of fried chicken, cheese, gravy, bacon, eggs, pork, sausage, more cheese, and apple butter. They serve Stumptown coffee, and the side of hashbrowns looked like a nice addition. There's very little seating indoors, and depending on what time you go, there is a line out the door, but if the weather's nice, it's a pleasant wait, and the line moves quickly (10-15 minutes or less, I'd say). You can also order the food to go.

The Portland Farmers' Market - Portland Park Blocks

On the first day of spring there were babies and puppies EVERYWHERE. If this freaks you out, best go to Whole Foods instead. But if you are okay with small things that frolic or are carried in marsupial pouches by fresh-faced owners (parents?) then you should check out the lovely produce, gorgeous bursts of cut flowers, and edible delectables here. The people-watching is pretty top-notch, too.

(Photo credits are from each of the venue's respective websites).

LOST

2010-03-22T00:07:00.001-07:00

No, this is not about that show you all love.
(And I'm sure I'd love, too, but we all know I need another show to watch like I need a mouthful of broken teeth).

It's about that feeling when you realize you have totally, eternally lost something.
Not someone, not an intangible or metaphorical kind of loss, but the kind of sinking dread you experience when the truth becomes apparent that you are never going to see/touch/smell/use that THING again.
It is always jarring to me that despite my constant revelations about "what a small world it really is" the world can seem so vast and overwhelming when it contains a lost object.

We have important relationships with objects, especially the ones that become our possessions. They either perform actions, or record our own actions, or are there with us when we make memories, and thus, they become more than just Things.

When I was a kid I was utterly terrified of house fires. My parents had just bought one of those "Safety Ladder" contraptions and placed it in my brother's room, under his Thomas the Tank Engine bed: in the event of a fire, we would all run to his room, unfurl the 10 ft plastic ladder out his window, and then drop from the fiery blaze of our beloved home another twenty feet into a pile of inevitable broken bones. The recent discussions of our Fire Plan had really freaked me out, and so before I fell asleep at night, I would make mental lists of all the things in my room I would try to toss out the window ahead of me, saving them from loss-by-conflagration (a word I did actually know at the time, thanks to my Uncle John).

On this list was, first and foremost, my rainbow-crocheted baby blanket (which, despite my reverence and adoration of it, was not actually made of rainbows, but was simply rainbow colored). Winnie-the-Pooh, my first stuffed animal, who had long since lost his one and only possession (a red shirt) would follow close behind.

As I got older, the list morphed. There were more things I simply could not imagine living without.

Pooh was released in favor of adding hefty photo albums. Then, spiral-bound journals, autographs from celebrities, and my cell phone. Next, notes from my boyfriend, my passport, my grandmother's pearls, and a few precious books.

Now, if I had to think about it, I'd probably have to say most of my boots, my Michael Kors handbag, and my laptop.

Which brings me to my main point: it didn't take a house fire, but my laptop is gone.

After that start-up incident last week, I didn't panic, but decided to just go with it and take the outcome as it was handed to me. The guys at the Apple Genius Bar were very friendly and helpful (though not as sympathetic when I admitted I didn't have everything backed up). I expressed my loyalty to Apple products, and my frustration that this is the second Mac laptop I've had that's crashed, and this one wasn't even three years old. I am a stock holder, and a devoted user, and despite my frustrations, would likely buy another Macbook.

Alex, the guy behind the Genius Bar, did his best, but deemed it a crashed hard drive. All data declared gone. I still didn't panic, but rationalized calmly that most of my music was on my iPod, photos on Facebook, all my important documents (undergrad thesis, resume, college journal) were in my Gmail Inbox or on a thumb drive, as well as my study-abroad pictures and important work documents. He was nice enough to replace and install the hard drive for free (something about an Apple Quality Care program? WIN) and then sent me on my way.

It was actually kind of freeing, in a way. When else would I have actually taken the time- and had the guts- to delete all those pictures of me and the ex? What was I saving all those college syllabi for? I didn't need all those things after all, it seemed.

The hard part didn't come until today, when the first actual loss registered:
All photos from my trip to Amman, Jordan in 2008 for a cousin's wedding - gone. Totally, and utterly gone from this good earth.

I never put them on Facebook, because they were mostly of me and family, and never got them onto another drive for whatever reason (stupidity, namely).
It was a fabulous and fun 14 days of parties, celebration, site-seeing, eating, drinking, dancing, laughing and extended family that I will never get to relive through pictures again.

I also, just this minute, came to the flattening realization that a big piece I'd been working on- a raw personal account that was hopefully going to function as the working basis of my first book - was not saved to my thumb drive as I could have sworn it was.

So, we lose things. Sometimes we know where we left them, but still can't get them back: a language dictionary in an airplane seat-back pocket; favorite sunglasses at a restaurant; cell phones in bar bathrooms; countless earrings and contact lenses and softball mitts and Nalgene bottles. Other times, we have "no IDEA where" we could have possibly left them and our houses are "only so big and those keys can only be so many places."

And now with the advent of technology, things that mean the most to us can vanish into thin air.

But you know? I'll take it in stride. I still have my health. And my family. And the ability to re-write that book.

And you know what else?
I've still got Blanky and Pooh.

The Ides of March

2010-03-16T00:09:00.000-07:00

BEWARE THE IDES OF MARCH

From our friends at Wikipedia:

"The Ides of March (Latin: Idus Martiae) is the name of March 15 in the Roman calendar. The term ides was used for the 15th day of the months of March, May, July, and October, and the 13th day of the other months.[1] The Ides of March was a festive day dedicated to the god Mars and a military parade was usually held. In modern times, the term Ides of March is best known as the date that Julius Caesar was killed in 709 AUC or 44 B.C. Julius Caesar was stabbed to death in the Roman Senate led by Marcus Junius Brutus, Gaius Cassius Longinus and 60 other co-conspirators.
According to Plutarch, Caesar was warned by a seer to be on his guard against a great peril on the Ides of March. On his way to the Theatre of Pompey (where he would be assassinated), Caesar saw the seer and joked "Well, the Ides of March have come," to which the seer replied "Ay, they have come, but they are not gone."[2] This meeting is famously dramatized in William Shakespeare's play Julius Caesar, when Caesar is warned to "beware the Ides of March".

On this day, in 2010, so far I have a 2007 Macbook that is refusing to start up properly, and one flat tire repair turned-$288-three-tire-purchase at Les Schwab (and you know how much I love it there).

So while we're being suspicious, I'm going with the bad things happen in threes theory. E=MC posited today that perhaps I've just had a bad week with The Machine.

Exactly 7 days ago now marks the Blender Incident (wherein, already late for work, my beloved morning protein smoothie routine backfired- nay, exploded- in the kitchen...EVERYWHERE. Counters, floors, window, cupboards, faces, ceiling! BERRY MAYHEM).

So here's hoping three is the limit. It's about all my cold little heart- and bank account- can take.

Waiting in the wings on the ailing laptop, by the way:

- New CellarDoor 24 Jewelry designs

- Two essays for this here blog

- About a billion Podcasts I am dying to get transferred to my iPod. This American Life, The Moth, and Battleship Pretension, mainly. Do you listen to Podcasts? If so, which ones?

Easy Company

2010-02-26T12:13:00.000-08:00

My father has instilled in me a great sense of reverence for the American Military.

I know most people feel this way, and nations around the world feel it for their own brave forces who serve and protect. It is nothing new. I am not unique in this. I am even far-removed, having only one military man in the family: my papa, who served on the USS Mt. Katmai in the Korean War with the Navy.

I even grapple ideologically with the idea of nation-states and border-lines and the protection or separation therein, and thus the idea of a military force run by a government, tied to a patch of land on which I just happened to have been born.
While exploring a certain career path in the last year, I expressed these frustrations to a young man working for a branch of the government in Foreign Service. He responded,

“You're exactly right, however, the few sometimes have to sacrifice certain comforts for the masses. I'd love to live in Portland, work at a nice little ski shop or cafe, take the kids to Forest Park and spend summers singing Garth Brooks classics at campfire, but somehow I found myself speaking Arabic with five years of experience as a Marine Sergeant. …I have an amazing family and network of Oregon friends, however, like I said above, in order for them to continue living a comfortable bike-friendly life on 23rd and Burn', some of us have to go abroad and make sure their best interests are maintained”.

I think that he so eloquently articulated the reason people serve their country- we have a way of life we want to continue enjoying, and other nation states are going to do the same, and sometimes, that causes conflict that merits defense.

So despite my interest in, and deep gratitude for, our nation’s military history and presence, I haven’t done a whole lot of research or been very involved in further understanding it or supporting it. I had some great high school classes and college courses that really engaged me, and I do my best to express my thanks to servicemen & women when I meet them in my daily life, but I think largely I avoid learning too much lest it really disturb me or call me to an uncomfortable level of action.
I have admittedly never seen the film Saving Private Ryan (1996) from beginning to end, and had not seen the HBO miniseries Band of Brothers (2001).

Until this week.

On Sunday, I wasn’t feeling too well, and decided to let myself have an afternoon on the sofa watching whatever I could find, for as many hours as I could. After making it halfway through a Lifetime Movie (“The Pregnancy Pact”…don’t bother) I came across the HBO On Demand selections for this month and there was Band of Brothers.

My dad has loved this show since before he even got to see it. We bought him the DVD set for Christmas one year, and he has watched it multiple times since then, though carefully spaced through the years so he forgets just enough of the details in between viewings to really enjoy it again. He is an avid reader, and has read the Stephen Ambrose book on which the series is based. This makes him an invaluable asset to have around when watching.

So as soon as the swell of music started in the credits and I prepared myself for the emotional ride that was to ensue, Dad slipped into the room and situated himself in the leather recliner to watch with me.

It is now Friday, and we have made it through six of the ten hour-long episodes, last night getting in two and staying up til 12:45 or so. To hell with waking up for work on time: we’ve got more important things to worry about.

Last night as I was going to bed, again moved and shaken by the drama of Easy Company, of the 101st Airborne Division, that had played out before us, Dad said to me, “You know, I think this is going to rank as one of my favorite things I’ve ever gotten to share with my daughter.”

If you’d like to borrow him, he is an excellent provider of footnotes and explanations, or you can come to my house to watch The Pacific, HBO’s follow-up to Band of Brothers that tracks what was going on in the other theater- arguably an entirely different kind of war. It starts March 14th, and I am sure will be equally as informative, inspiring, and humbling.

I Could Afford These Clothes...

2010-02-16T17:20:00.000-08:00

...I just don't want them, that's all. (Pssssssssssssssssssshhhhh yeaaaahhhh).

Spring fashion week in NYC is underway with the usual mix of new and established houses touting their Fall 2010 Ready to Wear lines.

(My lucky girl Ba is there, gallivanting with Tim Gunn and sharing tents with Anna Wintour's icy bob- hope you're having fun while I sit here in my cube, love).

Some things I am seeing (not with my own eyes, but via the ever living-vicariously-friendly Style.com

(All photos from Style.com by Marcio Madeira)

ADAM
Adam Lippes Fall 2010 RTW collection makes me want to burn everything in my closet and wear only his line during autumn months. Lots of warm textures, cognac leather accents, slouchy layers (in both clothing and accessories), and refreshingly earthy palette with metallic pops.

Tracy Reese
Loving the hair on these models! Lots of untamed wave in a big side pony.

Noticing lots of platformed, close-toed, nude heels (this particularly from Victoria Beckham):

And, since apparently it's best to leave the serious fashion-blogging up to tweens now, I will willingly admit I don't really know what I'm talking about but here are more pictures of stuff I like and will have to patiently wait to see trickle down into affordable bastardizations at chain department stores.

Erin Fetherston:

Diane Von Furstenberg:

Devi Kroell:

I NEED that hat. For what? For... um, romantic Siberian adventures, duh. And running to the grocery store when I'm out of red wine and Cheez-Its.

I also have decided that I have to be a LOT more careful about the clothes I give away in the future, because if I still had all the stuff that used to be in my dress up box (grandma's shawls and tiny clutches, mom's skirts from the late 70's, patent leather pumps, amazing costume jewelry...) I used to torture my brother by dressing him in such things, so if I find those pictures, I'll be sure to share so we can look at what my wardrobe Could Have Been.

At 13 the only mag I was reading was Cosmo...

2010-02-15T23:02:00.000-08:00

...and that was just for the quizzes.

May I introduce to you, if you aren't yet privy to her musings on fashion, style, and icons, Miss Tavi Gevinson.

(Photo Credits: Tavi herself)

Newsflash: girlfriend is 13.
She has one of the most buzzed-about blogs STYLE ROOKIE in NY Fashion circles and is sitting in primo seats at all the fun shit going on in NYC this week (which, if you didn't know, is fashion week).

I am totally impressed by her sense of humor, her discerning eye, her articulate compositions, and her total bravery.

Seriously, when I was 13 I was definitely tearing pages out of magazines and plastering them on my bedroom wall, but they were of mostly naked male models, not of Rodarte designs, McQueen inspirations, and Lanvin runway shows. I also only wore Tommy Hilfiger or Ralph Lauren Polo brand items of clothing so I would be cool, obviously, with the occasional Paul Frank tee thrown in there if I felt like being alternative that day.

It gets a little demoralizing, though, when you start looking up to people who are ten years your junior, but for this spritely being, I'll cope.

Tavi, I'm yours.

Scarespider

2010-02-12T12:52:00.000-08:00

“I was thinking about having Papa over for dinner on Sunday. You haven’t seen him for a while and he’ll probably really want to hear about your trip,” my Mom says as she files her nails in even strokes. She’s sitting on my bed, which is comically large in this bedroom. The heavy, wood framed, queen-sized piece, sits about eighteen inches away from the massive matching bureau, both of which served as sort of consolation prize for my significant downgrade in square footage when we moved into this house four years ago.

“What do you think I should make?” she continues, “I could make salmon but, OH MY GOSH! WHAT-“ she points at the spot above my bedroom door, “WHAT IS THAT??? IS THAT A SPIDER? PAAAAAT! PAT! COME HERE!”

“Mom! Shh, stop.” I laugh, “It’s a spider, yes, but, it’s dead.” It has, in fact, been dead for probably about as long as we’ve lived in the house.

“Well what in the world is it still doing up there?”

We take a second to examine the dark, crumpled smear, our heads cocked and noses scrunched in question.

“It’s a scarecrow,” I explain.

“I’m sorry?”

“Well, more like a scare-spider I guess."

“Huh. Okay.” She pauses, and then, “That’s just kind of…gross, don’t you think?”
“I mean, I guess,” I shrug. “The weird thing is though… it works.”

The pest control in our house has always largely been managed by my father. Instead of bug-killing, he humanely and calmly would grab the Spider Trap from the laundry room (a mason jar and a piece of thin, stiff cardboard) and would neutralize the situation in our bedrooms and common areas by scooting the many-legged creature into the jar and releasing it from the back door in a perhaps-just-as-lethal arc. Over the deck, out into the lawn it would soar, though one would be remiss to come back into the house without first double-checking the jar and doing the obligatory jim-jam body wriggle to ensure the security of the home.

The rest of us could manage the silverfish infestation well enough- there was no crunching noise or excess of paper towel needed as insulation against the act of the smush.

One summer, we had a flying ant infestation. I kid you not, those things were positively TERRIFYING. Just AWFUL. Fodder for a Ridley Scott film, the stuff nightmares are made of. They were coming in from some hole in the cabinet under the kitchen sink, and were about a full inch in length.

The very worst part was their thick, yellow stained-glass wings that made the most skin-crawling sound when fluttered. I am struggling, even now, not to vomit as I recall it.

You’d be home alone one afternoon, microwaving a hotdog or some such summer sustenance when you heard it: the unmistakable friction of scaley wings. The microwave would sound its beeps of conclusion, and you would freeze, the gooseflesh rising despite the sweltering July temperatures. Slowly, you’d reach behind you, fumbling for the microwave door, the frank, the white enriched bun and the ketchup bottle, all the while keeping both eyes on the ant-soldier. It would amble, stop, rub its filthy legs together over a crumb on the floor, and you, barefoot, would contemplate your escape route while munching on the hotdog.

A napkin squish had proven earlier in the week to be a really disturbing experience, as the strong armor of the ant-beast really required a firm and unswerving commitment to squishing. This proved difficult when your thumb and forefinger went in for the kill and were met with thrashing, thick legs and the whole napkin/half-dead ant-dragon situation was thrown to the floor with a girlish shriek, the kitchen fled on sunburned legs. At this rate, they were going to have full range of the house in days.

Vacuuming appeared at first to be a good solution, but the idea of just moving the living creature into another space where it seemed it could just mate with the other prisoners really freaked me out, and I abandoned that idea, dreaming of flying-ant armies marching back out the tube attachment, coming for me in my sleep.

Thus, necessity was truly the mother of my invention. I found a small, dense rectangle of plywood in the garage, about 9 inches by 7 inches. I brought it into the kitchen, and wrapped a paper towel around the board once, Scotch taping the edges on the backside of the board.
I either carried the board with me while making lunches, or left it near the microwave, in the event of an ant ambush.

What this weapon allowed me was the safety of distance, protection from creepy sounds, and absolute victory, until Dad had time that weekend to spray. It worked best if I had a stool, or if I had time, to scramble onto the kitchen counter. There, I would wait for the ant-demon to be in the middle of the kitchen floor, and, before it could sense its impending death, WHAM! The plywood weapon had been dropped on it squarely from a height of probably 6 feet: the collision of the wood and the linoleum shrouded the sound of the crunching of the exoskeleton, which made me queasy, and I didn’t have to get anywhere near the disgusting thing to kill it. Plus, clean up just involved removing the paper towel over the garbage can, and re-wrapping the plywood.

Genius.

Until my more-genius notion of bug scarecrows, or, in this present instance, of the Scarespider. Since its fateful smooshing, I have honestly, I swear to you, not seen a single other bug in this bedroom. It is immortalized as a broken-legged, gut-smeared testament to my strength and don’t you forget it, arachnid community of Oregon.

Surprised even still by its effectiveness, sometimes I stare at the spot in the morning when I wake up, before I can rouse myself from bed. I think about the ability of the display of one defeat to preempt another. How beings can sense, out of self-preservation, when they are not welcome somewhere, as if they can smell the ghosts of the failures of their predecessors.

It’s why we don’t waltz into dark alleyways in cities; why we don’t willingly vault ourselves through manhole covers into sewers- why you don’t ever ever ever lock yourself in the bathroom when the murderer gets into your house: we have heard stories, and seen examples, of how these are not havens of hope and life, but dark tombs. So we try to avoid these situations- just sidestep them altogether.And gazing at that that Scarespider made me realize I’ve had a Scareboyfriend up for over a year.

The sad, smeared remains of the last one left on display, constantly referenced in conversation and determinant of moods – at first certainly meant to keep other possibilities at bay, but then, after a time, just a weird reminder of the power of hurt and decay.

When I get home from work tonight, I think I’m going to wipe the Scarespider off the wall, and clean up the stain with a little soap and hot water.

Healthy February!

2010-02-09T12:18:00.000-08:00

In college, I would have ridiculed this idea, and the person presenting it to me would have likely been met with a Cheesy Gordita Crunch to the face.

A friend of mine created this personal challenge for himself a few years ago, and it has since evolved into a group month-long effort to promote health and wellness after the fatty fall-out of holiday debauchery. Since graduation, I have struggled to find a healthy balance of all my vices (vodka sodas, keeping really odd hours, anything full of melted cheese, walking home from bars barefoot) and will often eliminate one at at time from my life, but decided the time had come for a full overhaul.

Thus, Healthy February has begun.

The ground rules are simple: No fast food, no junk food, no caffeine addictions; Try to work out 4-5 times per week; Drink the recommended 64 oz of water a day; Get more sleep; and, the hardest one for most of us- no boozin'.

I started to wean myself off coffee and most edible crap in the last week of January, and then went full steam ahead last week. I suffered minor caffeine headaches (I really really miss my morning cup of coffee with my crossword), and then this weekend, suffered minor alcohol withdrawals (symptoms included shyness, boredom, and coordinated dancing).

It's only been a week, but I have been really good about buying more fruits and vegetables and incorporating them into my diet.

Tips and Tricks I've used so far:

- Drinking green tea instead of coffee. At work, I like to have something hot to drink, and this is a nice alternative to the office Folgers IV I ususally ram into my jugular.

- Making lunch the night before. When everything is all packaged and easy to grab in the morning to throw into my reusable lunch tote, I am guaranteed to eat healthy and save money.

- Substituting fiber rich, low carb pitas for bread. Great lunch = one pita, smear it with low or non-fat cream cheese, and pile on the cucumbers, green peppers, baby spinach, celery, and turkey lunch meat. Finish with a twist of fresh ground pepper and roll it up!

- Smoothies for snacks and breakfast! Dump 3/4 cup nonfat plain yogurt (I use Nancy's), 5-6 frozen whole strawberries, 1 banana, a dollop of orange juice, and 1 scoop of vanilla whey protein powder into a blender in the morning and stay full until lunch time.

- Zumba class at the gym is probably the best thing that ever happened to my workouts. Dance Fighter came with me the other day and concurred. There are always guys in the class, so don't be shy, boys.

Other than that, I am totally failing at getting more sleep, but all in all, I feel less sluggish and more energetic once the day gets started.

Who knows how much of Healthy February will spill over into March Mayhem (the Iditarod fast approaches...) and Alcoholic April, but for now, I feel great and want to get you on the bandwagon.

Piano Lessons

2010-02-05T11:36:00.000-08:00

Piano lessons are every other Thursday at 6:30 PM.
I drive in from work, eat at the little Lebanese restaurant Habibi, and then walk across the street to the Arts Building. Each studio is a concentration of creative energy, and all over the building, people are creating and dreaming and thinking in these little rooms. You can hear the uncertain tapping of drum kits, the repeated arcs of the practiced aria, and the fluidity of Chopin preludes imbue the halls from the space beneath each door. If all the tenants were there at the same time, say on a rainy Saturday morning, what would happen if all the doors were flung open at once? All that energy bursting out to fill the negative space in the hall would create a collision. A symphony? A cloud of dissonance?

I go to the door where the heavy and dutiful pounding of a Bach piece beckons me and wait to knock, because I don't get to hear Diana play often. She gets to a place that I feel is an appropiate hesistation and I knock twice and turn the knob.

The room is chock full of things, in part due to her living situation: she and her husband have been living in a hotel for years now. When you ask her for how long, she'll say a few years. When you really press her, the truth surfaces: "Twenty years, now, I guess...gee, has it been that long?" The other reason is her livelihood, as Diana has turned into a fierce merchant of books in her later years. Every morning she wakes up, gathers her empty suitcases, takes the lightrail, and then a bus, out to a Goodwill donation center in Beaverton. There, she fights for elbow room and prime position with the other book hawks for classics, rarities, out-of-print editions, and literature on music. She buys them up, stuffs her luggage, hefts the suitcase onto the bus (or cons a man to heft it for her, depending on her willingness to play the part of a senile old hag), transfers to the lightrail, rides back into Portland, and treks to Powell's Books where she tries to sell her acquisitions.

She also deals in antique silk scarves and vintage mens' ties at local resale shops, teaches piano lessons, and plays the piano at Rimsky Korsacoffee in SE Portland on Saturday nights.

She is a character in the most brilliant ways, and deserves, after a Hobbesian "poor, nasty, brutish" latter-half of existence, immortality. Diana belongs in a book, and I intend to put her there.

"I love Bach," she pauses for emphasis, "Because Bach loved God."

Diana is always convinced that someone has been in her studio, meddling, stealing, confounding, and "putting their paws" on her extensive collection of sheet music. She typically spends 7-15 minutes per lesson searching fervently for a piece that she is sure she stored one place, but is inevitably in another place. This is never her fault, and she is constantly raising suspicion about one conspiracy or another that must be building against her. The most recent one being the inspector who came to assess the home she and husband own near Lewis & Clark college (why they don't live in it is fodder for the novel - I wouldn't want to ruin the story): "He said we need a new roof...I don't know about these things. Just because it has a hole in it, that means we need a whole new one? I just don't know. I think he's low-balling us so his slumlord wife can buy up the house cheap."

I picked my way through a dumbed-down Sibelius piece, and then drove her home, to her hotel in the city, where she doesn't belong.

Yes, but, which direction?

2010-02-02T23:19:00.000-08:00

"...A long
obedience
in the same
direction..."

-Friedrich Nietzsche

Though Nietzsche can be credited with the phrasing, it has since been appropriated by Eugene Peterson as the title of a book, which I am currently reading.

This sentence fragment has been looming in the recesses of my mind since the first time I heard it, replaying itself as a cadence, scrolling on a marquee.

I quite like the sound of it, though the implications are daunting. What could it mean? What does it mean for me? What would such a discipline yield?

I'm learning that it creates a rhythmic peace; a quiet determination; a humbling of the self. Humility is such a mystery to me, and it is a transformation that actually frightens me. It is the release of control, the relinquishing of the reins and the admission that I might not know, or I might not be, which bubbles up my anxiety.

But we know that humility is an important lesson- it is a virtue, one that we are taught as children and one that is drilled into us as we age. In fact, I think I have come to realize it is the last thing we learn on this earth- a parting shot as our liver-spotted skin sags and our hair falls out and our teeth rot with age. There is nothing graceful about aging, which is why aging gracefully is such a lovely and desirable trait in people. Humility is a by-product of obedience.

In addition to humility, "a long obedience in the same direction" suggests a decision- a repentance, or a turning away from the alternative, which is to say, the other direction. Obedience is willful, as opposed to simple compliance. Obedience implies a striving, a longing. It also implies a sort of reward, or at least does to me, because it isn't an infinite obedience - it's a long one. Something that is long eventually ends.

Anyone who has read anything I've been processing through this last year knows about my fascination with obedience, freedom, and decision-making. I think this is just another tool in learning how to harness those powerful ideas. The full quote reads:

"The essential thing ‘in heaven and earth’ is. . . that there should be a long obedience in the same direction; there thereby results, and has always resulted in the long run, something which has made life worth living."

Even Nietzsche, with his nihilistic tendencies, could believe that.

Into IT II

2010-01-25T16:01:00.000-08:00

I finished one of Oprah's favorite books this weekend (you know, a female coming-of-age story involving the golden triad of weight, sexual assault, parental relationship issues, and the triumphant conquering of all three):
She's Come Undone by Wally Lamb

A few humble notes:
1. How is this not a movie? Or, more to the point, why hasn't Oprah made this a movie?
2. The characters are rich, unlikeable, and real. Though I didn't love the story (or the telling) considerably, I have a feeling the characters will sneak up on me in the coming weeks.
3. It was long.

If you haven't read it, I would recommend a lot of other books before this one. Maybe if you were at the beach, alone all weekend... with a broken tv set. And there wasn't a dictionary or gossip magazines from four summers past to paw through.

I'm also still obsessed with this watch that Ba talked me into buying in LA in October:

This is the Michael Kors Oversized Runway watch in gold.

If you want to see how giant it actually is, check it out on Carmen Kass (shown in silver):

I am actually seeing these timepieces on women of all ages, in all different styles, all over the place. I think it's because they're really affordable for a clean, gorgeous piece, and they are an unfailing conversation starter for me at work, at bars, and wherever else I happen to be (mainly those two places, it seems).

Also- about six months late on this one, but despite my recent acquisition of Shazam, I only recently found out what this song from the "500 Days of Summer" trailer is, thanks to my favorite Platonic Boyfriend.

The Temper Trap 'Sweet Disposition' @ Yahoo! Video

Temper Trap >> "Sweet Disposition"

And finally, as a CNN.com homepage kind of person at work (Pros: easy headlines, good mix of international and domestic news Cons: Stupid videos, Too many videos, Headlines about Speidi and the Gosselins) I only recently came to understand that the re-vamped look is due to HUGE. This agency is doing some solid work for really cool clients, including Amnesty International, About.com, Adult Swim, Ikea, and JetBlue - they also just inked a deal with Target. I really like their clean aesthetic.

And, just for good measure- welcome to my favorite part about Sundays:

Photo: Lacey Terrell/HBO

Into IT

2010-01-21T16:54:00.000-08:00

Couple things I am digging these days:

1. Chanel's "Vamp" line of lip and nail colors.

2. The triumphant return of cross-body bags. Look ma, no hands!

3. Big Love. Comcast On Demand has all of Season 3 right now, so if you have ten spare hours to get caught up...do it. It is now one of my favorite shows of all time.

Letting Go and Broken Roads

2010-01-14T18:55:00.000-08:00

I am currently reading the Bible – ostensibly in ninety days, though if not I'll be thankful to get through it in any amount of days.
The Old Testament is difficult for many reasons. I thought I could handle it on my own, but the need for a place to ask questions and vocalize frustrations and delight in revelation arose shortly, so I joined my mother's small group.

These women have all played instrumental roles in my development as a woman- and I am blessed to have had so many mothers. Now, I am honored to have them as my own friends. They are a fierce, wise, funny, and deeply loving group and I just feel better knowing that as I go about my day, I've got them in my corner.

I have a terribly hard time with the story of Job.
It is not easy.

God uses him to get the best of the devil. In doing so, he destroys Job's life – almost literally, to the point where it would have been easier to have his OWN life obliterated, but instead God allowed for the deaths of Job's wife and children.

My biggest issue with this is that in the end, for his trouble, God basically replaces Job's family with a new one.
This is supposed to make everything okay?

Perhaps it doesn't need to be just- the whole point is that the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, and he doesn't just taketh away from The Bad Guys, he does it from the Good Ones, too. HE alone is, in the words of GW Bush, The Decider, and doesn't owe anyone anything.

So that is hard for me- and a lesson no one likes learning, that bad things can happen to good people. But specifically, Job's family was wrenched from him during the hardest time in his life – in ANYONE'S life!- and he mourned for them. He rent his clothes and he wept and he did what we would all do- he hurt. He probably felt like he was on fire for months on end. I bet he felt that his insides- his very being- was charred to delicate, worthless ash, vulnerable to collapse at the slightest provocation. When his know-it-all friends came to console him and dole out their advice, he probably stared at a spot over their shoulders to avoid making eye contact and nodded feebly to appease them.
Job probably couldn't sleep- or when he did, he would sleep for days, with no reason to open his eyes in the morning. He had no discernible reason to remember to breathe.

And “the Lord made him prosperous again and gave him twice as much as he had before...The Lord blessed the latter part of Job's life more than the first. He had fourteen thousand sheep, six thousand camels, a thousand yoke of oxen, and a thousand donkeys. And he also had seven sons and three daughters...Nowhere in all the land were there found women as beautiful as Job's daughters, and their father granted them an inheritance along with their brothers” (Job 41:10-15).

See, what I want to know is, what if Job missed his first kids?
In this whole story, that's what hurts me the most.
I'm sure the second set of three daughters were lovely girls, but what if the first three were his joy? What if the middle one brought him daisies in the morning, and left them near his hand before he awoke. And what if the eldest moved gracefully: the kind of light movement that makes you realize the beauty and value of living creatures when it catches your eye? What if his youngest daughter, his baby girl, had an endearing sneeze? And every time his second-round of daughters would sneeze on spring days, a sharp shooting pain would rupture something in Job's heart, and wrench him from a good day into a cloud of sad remembrance?

Did he view the new family as a replacement? And how far did he have to fall before he let it all go and in return, was granted the tools to help him recover?

A more secular rendering of this story is found in the axiom oft-quoted by the eternally heartbroken and woebegone Facebook generation: sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together.

What do we need to let go before we can start rebuilding? Can we only start the process by fully letting go and welcoming the “replacements” - or do we have to be ready to view all respective replacements as not replacements at all, but the end prize: the real goal all along.

I wonder if Job would have said, “God bless the broken road, that led me straight to you,” or if he'd felt finally complete in joy.

Waiting for the better thing to fall together.

Weather Beaten: A Cycle of Abuse

2009-12-10T22:28:00.000-08:00

One of the things I have come to find endearing about my fellow dwellers of the Pacific Northwest is that we are absolutely never prepared for the weather.

In Las Vegas, it is always really hot.

In Chicago in the winter, it is unfailingly cold and windy.

Most of the southeastern United States is humid in the summertime.

But the weather changes so often, and often so drastically, here in the Portland area, that we never really get used to any type of weather for too long. The summers can be wet, dry, cold, or hot. The winters can be wet, dry, cold, or warmish. I don't know where the saying originated, but a classic elevator social-filler is, "Don't like the weather? Wait five minutes! Ha ha ha!"

So basically, we are always constantly taken by surprise by the weather, which I'm starting to think is really funny.

Maybe sort of the way a goldfish forgets everything it knows every three seconds. Or the way a jack-in-the-box never fails to be terrifying, but you anticipate it anyway?

Or maybe it's just a willful naivete, and that's why I think it's cute.
When it gets below 32 degrees, all we talk about is "how cold it is out there!"

"How are ya today?" "Oh, just tryin' to stay warm!"

This summer, we had a ridiculous heat wave. The problem is, it's never any extremity for very long, so it doesn't pay to buy a window unit air conditioner (or the heated blanket, the window scraper, the good pair of gloves, a decent pair of sunglasses, etc). So one night after lounging at Jayhawk's pool until about 11 PM, when the temperature finally melted below 90 degrees, I came home to my apartment to find that the Little Roomie had reclaimed the fan I'd borrowed from her. She assumed I was out for the night, and had both fans: I had zero.

This revealed me as one of The Unprepared, and it also made sleep impossible: I dragged a comforter onto our cement porch and slept outside on top of it.

It kind of keeps the mundane (the weather) exciting, I guess.

Here's to you, Portland. May you never carry an umbrella, own waterproof boots, learn to lift your windshield wipers away from the glass, or remember to buy tire chains until we're in the throes of a blizzard.

The Joys of Vimeo

2009-12-07T21:25:00.000-08:00

Fujiya & Miyagi 'Ankle Injuries' from Tom Lindsay on Vimeo.

The First Snow, Canon 7D from Reid Carrescia on Vimeo.

I'll be gone from KORB on Vimeo.

Stalling

2009-12-02T12:53:00.000-08:00

I don't know where my head has been. I haven't been writing much. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed when I find that other people have already said It. And, oftentimes, said It better.

I recommend two books for the rainy season of knotted quilts, hot tea, slate gray evenings, and sitting on heaters. For the season where saying It is often less effective than either experiencing or doing It. Whatever That may be.

Both are by Marilynne Robinson:

"It is one of the best traits of good people that they love where they pity. And this is truer of women than of men. So they get themselves drawn into situations that are harmful to them. I have seen this happen many, many times. I have always had trouble finding a way to caution against it, since it is, in a word, Christlike." (p 187)

"Memory is the sense of loss, and loss pulls us after it. ...There is so little to remember of anyone - an anecdote, a conversation at a table. But every memory is turned over and over again, every word, however chance, written in the heart in the hope that the memory will fulfill itself, and become flesh, and that the wanderers will find a way home, and the perished, whose lack we always feel, will step through the door finally and stroke our hair with dreaming, habitual fondness, not having meant to keep us waiting long."

"But if she lost me, I would become extraordinary by my vanishing."