When all else fails, there's always public access television

Although I have lived in my studio for nearly three months now, I only recently plugged my television into the cable hanging deftly from my wall to connect to the myriad of local channels that non-Comcast apartment dwellers can receive. Now, while I was screwing the cable into my tv, I won't deny that I would magically receive the full-blown Comcast line up of channels I mean, it happened to my friend Meghann who lives in California; but then again, she believes its because her TV is so awesome that it just picks up on the digital signal from her neighbors. I don't think my 28 inch Sylvania that I got as a high school graduation gift is quite as good as hers but I was, nevertheless, hopeful.

I flipped through the channels that were more than just static fuzz and tallied up that I have the usuals -- ABC, NBC, Fox, CBS, a couple of random NW/Portland-are local channels and of course, two public access channels. I never really cared much about public access television until my final semester at UP, thanks to my Communication Law class where I learned all about the greatness that is public access television. Thanks to Oregon's incredible support and protection of the First Amendment (There's a reason why Portland has the most strip bars per capita than any other city in the United States), Portland's public access television shows can be (almost) basically about anything. I recall my professor telling us about a guy who had a 'naked hour' show.

While I have yet to see any naked hour shows on our public access television stations, I have, thanks to my Shingles which have simulatenously kept me apartment-ridden and up at random hours, watched no fewer than five times, a show called "Nos vivamos en Portland" on Portland's Spanish public access channel. It is, hands down, the worst show I have ever seen. Now, I know that by watching public access channels that I am setting myself up for bad acting, bad editing and bad production, but this show takes the award for Worst Public Access Show hands down (If there was a Razzie category for public access shows, 'Nos vivamos en Portland' would be a consecutive winner). The actors are a bunch of English-native speakers who must have, at one point during their community college Spanish education, must have thought during a study session (drugs probably...almost hopefully involved) that producing a television show where they could practice their Spanish would be a good idea.

It is not a good idea. Giving babies plastic bags to play with would be a better idea. Letting Sandra Bullock make yet another RomCom with Hugh Grant would be a better idea. Heck, letting Sandra Bullock make another movie, period, would be a better idea.

Granted, they've got guts to produce a show that has at least a few viewers every now and then and for that, I applaud them. But maybe, just maybe, they have too much time on their hands. Perhaps they could put their efforts into say, learning a third or fourth language.

Then they could start a tv show and confuse the heck out of everyone. Now that's a show worth watching.

Shingles

Disclaimer: This blog was written while under the influence of vicodin and benadryl. That is all.

It's been far too long since my last post and for that, I apologize (To who am I apologizing, I'm not entirely sure, perhaps the two followers I have). However, this little blog of mine, which I began less than two months ago as a way to rant and, perhaps reduce, stress in my life, had to take a back seat because I have been dealing with stuff much larger than online writing.

That stuff would be Shingles. Yes, on Christmas Eve I noticed, after taking my bra off and changing into pajama pants to watch Knowing (The latest Nicolas Cage movie that, big surprise, lacks acting talent and a plausible plot line), a few small red bumps on the right side of my back. I showed my mom who insisted, for the sake of my sanity, that I need not worry.

She also said she thought it was Shingles.

Like any good American who thinks he or she is a doctor, I looked up shingles on the Internet to confirm my mother's diagnosis. Shingles are (or should I use 'is?' After reading through pages upon pages of online Shingles literature, I have yet to come to a consensus on whether I should use 'is' or 'are' but, considering that Shingles ends with 's,' thus making it plural, my grammatical instincts tell me to use 'are.') caused by the same virus as the chicken pox. Little red blisters pop up in clusters on one side of the body, usually the back, trunk, chest and stomach, and last for weeks, morphing from red hot bands of hellatiously painful blisters to oozing pustuals of pain and disgustingness to flaking and scabbing sheets of grossness. Shingles are further accompanied by sharp lightning-bolt like nerve pain.

In my case, the actual shingles aren't that bad. Sure, I've got no fewer than six major bands of shingles, all in varying stages of pain and ooziness. The worst part of my case of Shingles is the nerve pain. Blinding pain shoots across my right rib cage, crushing me and making me unable to breathe. I'm pretty certain that J.K. Rowling had Shingles pain in mind when she wrote of the searing scar pain that Harry Potter experiences whenever he is near Lord Voldemort.

Shingles are my Lord Voldemort, that's for sure. They're ugly, they're useless and stare at me with such blatant irony that I can't stand it (Lord Voldemort, much like Hitler, was ironic and hypocritical in the fact that neither were 'pure bloods.' Yes, I've just likened my Shingles to Hitler. Again, I've got a cocktail of medicines floating around my blood stream). The irony in my Shingles is the fact that 20-somethings don't often get Shingles...

...unless they're stressed out. So my stress -- over finances, family, work, boys, you name it -- has not only caused me emotional pain; it's now causing me actual physical pain. Of course (Which is actually the exact reaction my friend Jacob had when I told him about my Shingles). And now I'm in so much pain (Okay, currently I'm floating on cloud nine with just a few itchies) that I can't work. If I can't work, I can't bring in money and if I don't bring in money...well, then the entire vicious circle of stress begins all over again.

Sigh. I'm just glad I have vicodin so I can stay relaxed, even if it is artificial.

The New Powell's

I can't remember the last time I stepped inside of Powell's. I can't even remember the last book I purchased. And that hurts.

A lot.

Powell's, as any English degree-bearer or major or professor will profess is Portland's own mecca for all book (and yes I mean book...as in the real, physical paper-made, page-turning entity that is a book) lovers. For me, Powell's is so much more than merely a mecca -- it's my absolute sanctuary amidst this crazy city. Whenever I'm feeling down, a trip to Powell's always cheers me up. If I'm in the mood to celebrate, I head to Powell's to grab a few new reads. Heck, one of my favorite dates of all times has been at Powell's, walking around, drinking coffee and talking books (The date was great but the relationship didn't really last).

On top of that, I can, hands-down, say that the best Christmas gift I've ever received was a $50 gift card to Powell's. While I don't typically enjoy giving or receiving gift cards (they're impersonal, sort of lazy and not nearly as fun to open as a big, paper-wrapped box), this one meant a lot to me because Santa (okay, my parents) realized that I really really REALLY wanted it...perhaps with more fervor than I wanted the second job I just landed.

I also may have imagined how dorkishly romantic it would be to be proposed to in the middle of the blue (fiction, poetry and anthologies) section.

Yeah, Powell's is that important to me. So, considering my background and love for Powell's, I'm sure it makes sense why I'm jonesing for a Powell's fix. Unfortunately for my bank account, whenever I go to Powell's, even if just for one specific book, I end exiting the double doors on 11th and Couch with at least three more books than I went in for.

And so, like any Portland addict (meth, marijuana, Stumptown espresso; the drug doesn't matter...we all scratch with fiendish anxiety) struggling to make ends meat, I had to find another outlet. Luckily, a solution was easy to come by: The Multnomah County Library.

It has books...oodles and oodles of them. It lets you puts books on hold over the internet. Furthermore, it ships those books you put on hold via the web to the library closest to you. AAAAAAND, it's f-r-e-e.

It's not quite Powell's, but it's close.

I first started going to the library early after graduation when I didn't have internet at my apartment on Glisan. However, over the last month, I've been frequenting the tiny corner library on NW Thurman and NW 23rd Avenue on a more regular basis.

And just like Powell's, populated with its hippie youngsters, mysteriously cute 20-somethings and, like most popular Portland hang outs, crazies, the library houses a variety of Portlanders. One time there was a man who kept asking a librarian to use the word "figment" in a sentence that doesn't include the phrase, "of your imagination." Another time there was a man who refused to keep his bike outside because he was convinced the rain demons were going to make his bicycle appear drop by drop. Then there was the lady who went psycho because her free-allotted time for the internet had expired and the other guy who hit on me by asking, "Hey, yeah, paid holds are the way to go, aren't they?"

"Yes, they are," I replied as he looked at my, let's face it, non-existent chest. "They enable to me to look for books without running into weirdos." Insert smile-flashing here.

At any rate, the library is a wonderful public service that I have, for such a long, long time, ignored...for reasons I'm not entirely certain of. Perhaps it is my inability to turn books on time (and thus incurring ridiculous fees. I actually didn't receive my college diploma because I owed over $20 to UP's library) or my fear of finding an elaborate terrorist plot tucked neatly in between the pages of the latest Christopher Moore book; nevertheless, I've always shied away from libraries.

Until now. Now, I'm all up in the library's business. I have six books at home and another 14 on hold. I'm signed up for the 2010 NW Portlander's monthly book club and the librarian knows me by name.

Which really, is probably okay. I'll be worried when the regular crazies (Yes, I already know there are regular crazies) begin addressing me by name. I figure I've got a solid two months until that happens, depending on the individual's senility.

For now, I'm off to finish book number three in five days...

A Letter to Portland

Dear Portland,

Try as you might to disown and kick me out of your beloved heart, I am here to proudly announce, with a smirk of pride, that I am here to stay.

Because, dear city of rain, microbrews, Stumptown, Gus Van Sant, bicycle enthusiasts, Ground Kontrol, New Seasons, Forest Park, hippie vegans, Starfucker (Okay, okay, Pyramiddd), cheap beer-serving movie theaters, Podnah's Pit BBQ, farmer's markets, Powell's, best friends and boyfriends, I have landed myself a second job.

A real job, so to speak. 27 applications, three interviews and 10 days later, I can proudly announce myself as a receptionist for Whole Family Wellness Center, a small naturopathic medicine clinic located in my old Southwest Portland stomping ground. At $12 an hour, 25 hours a week, I can manage to be peaceful Zen Amie the Receptionist while maintaining my post as Amie the Awesome Retail Associate.

Life in Portland, despite its unemployment, haggardly city newspaper, e-coli infected water, abysmal excuse of a river, bad drivers and bad memories, is good once again.

Just the security of having a job makes my world so much less stressful. Sure, I might be broke and skipping meals this week in order to 'make it through' to Friday's payday, but at least now I really do have hope secured in a nice contract which begins, perfectly so, on December 29th. My anxiety isn't solitary though; as I was talking to a friend last night who also landed a receptionist position (and is, like me, on the verge of being broke and perhaps, like me, also broken down), I realized that this hungover economy is freaking everyone out. It's almost normal to act nearly bipolar while our hopes and dreams take two steps toward us but leaps in mocking bounds away from us.

It's just, I didn't realize how much not having control of knowing where I would be in five more weeks was affecting me. People at work, in a kindly and worried hushed voice, ask me if I'm doing okay nearly every time I work (Which I appreciate, really. It's just, there are days when I walk out my door believing that I indeed feel and look good only to be brought down with concerns that I look like I'm on the edge of -- I don't what -- insanity? desperation? reason?). What's more is that, upon waking up this morning, all warm and snuggly, I realized that I haven't been dreaming for weeks, suggesting that I haven't actually been sleeping all that well.

I dreamt last night. And the night before (In Christmas music, nonetheless). They weren't good dreams or incredibly memorable ones for that matter, but they were dreams and that's all that matters.

This receptionist position isn't the job of my dreams, not by any means at all. However, it's a step toward that proverbial right direction into being my dream. Heck, David Sedaris (Who I have been listening to for the past four days thanks to a friend who brought me David Sedaris on CD) held a myriad of crappy jobs before landing it big with Santaland Diaries.

Maybe this job will be the one that freakishly launches my writing career. Maybe not. Whatever it might become, I just know that it will mold me into something better here in Portland.

So, bring on the crazy Blazer's fans and the soon-to-be MLS soccer nuts. Bring on the marijuana cafes, the political scandals and all the bizarre apartment mishaps you can think of, Portland. I'm ready to take it all in.


Hugs and Kisses,
Amie.

PS. I'll leave on my own terms, eventually, but probably just for a small amout of time, when I'm good and ready. Today is not that day and you don't get to kick me out. Booya!

Rags or Riches?

Apparently I make too much money money to be considered 'in need.' That's right--I was denied, via snail mail, funds for food stamps today. My cupboards are beyond bare, my fridge is 'stocked' with two three-week-old apples, but my 10-cents-above-minimum-wage job is too beneficial for me to receive help from my state government.

Which I don't really get, especially when I read an article that describes a man "living in a $750,000 Southwest Portland home...owns two BMWs but is now unemployed and receives nearly $400 in food stamps a month after he lost his job." I live in an old school studio with a less-than-reliable heater and still-busted pipe, make $800 a month and have $695 of bills a month yet somehow, somehow don't qualify for food stamps.

Another article released yesterday revealed data that shows 36 percent of Oregonians are on food stamps. That's one in three Oregon residents, or 650,000 people, who use those little plastic Oregon Trail cards that I am now totally officially jealous of. I know I shouldn't think this -- and perhaps it's really only directed toward Mr. Two BMWs -- but man, what lucky bastards.

A Google search showed in 22 million results for "food stamps." Obviously our nation, not just our little West side hippie state, is having some hunger issues. It makes sense, considering that unemployment still hovers over 10 percent nationally and 11 percent in Oregon. Those numbers are depressing although perhaps not as depressing as the fact that those 90 percent who are employed and those 63 percent of Oregonians who don't have to (or can't I suppose in my case) be on food stamps are hesitant to help out those in need.

As a resident of Northwest Portland, I observe -- and yes, participate -- daily in ignoring those who are in greater need than myself. Every time I walk to work I shift my glance away from the man who sits on the corner of Hoyt and 23rd asking for spare change. I deny the homeless men selling copies of Street Roots in front of Fred Meyer's and Trader Joe's because I know that spending that dollar means three less meals for myself (When I'm buying pasta, that is).

And it makes me wonder, while at work, if the customers who bark at me to find every single queen duvet cover in the store knew that their single purchase could cover my rent and groceries for a month, if they'd change their mind and help a girl out instead of yelling at her like I am their personal slave.

Considering I don't drop a dollar to a man who is forced to sleep outside in below freezing temperatures, probably not.

Once you take away that statistical numbers and data, it's easier to see the sad little world we live in.

Maybe if I buy a Beamer, my life will magically become better. Think the state would help me out with that?

I didn't think so either. Perhaps if I buy a volvo or subaru....you know how Portland loves it's hippie vehicles.

Passion Pit

I am in love, love, love. It's been a while, actually, since I've fallen hard core for a band or solitary musician but here I am, swooning like a brace-faced junior high school girl after just two days of exposure.

Go ahead, call me easy.

Nevertheless, here I am, on my day off, glued to my computer, listening to and looking up information about Passion Pit. I first heard them as I was driving home from my friends' house late Monday night. Passion Pit had just started playing at the Crystal Ballroom, kicking off 94.7's December to Remember concert line up (which, man alive, I hate that I'm too broke to go see any of the shows. Tonight is The Bravery followed by Vampire Weekend tomorrow. Sniff sniff) as I was hitting the I-84 on ramp back west to my freezing studio.

The band opened with The Reeling, one of their more popular songs, followed by an even more popular song (which is now the ringtone of my new phone...trust me when I say that this is a huge feat because I am not an impulsive ringtone purchaser...a person's ringtone says a lot about who they are, unless you're my friend Jacob whose ringtone is from Aladdin. ), Sleepyhead. Sure the songs are poppy and danceable, even for me with my awkward skinny white girl moves, but they hit me quite a bit deeper than most pop songs do (which, let's be honest, barely graze my passionate musical soul). Perhaps it was the fact that the warped techno soundscapes took my mind off of the fact that my car's typically-on-the-ball heater had yet to kick in or perhaps it was the fact that my hangover, which was still full throttle by 10:30 Monday night had mysteriously kicked itself out of my body; but after just two songs, I was in lust.

I went onto the band's website today and found this little morsel that morphed that lust into pure, maniacal love:

"Redemption. Paranoia. Guilt. And brief glimpses of a better tomorrow, all cloaked in pop hooks that truly help the medicine go down."

I need redemption. I'm paranoid at least 18 percent of the time worrying about, well, everything. And guilt...I think my recent batch of hangovers provide ample evidence for my shame and guilt. That's why I'm all about brief glimpses of a better tomorrow. Enter Passion Pit and it's ability to make the lessons of everyday life (ahem, that medicine I take daily when I suffer an empty bank account, broken heater and broken spirit) a little easier to swallow. What more could a girl want from a band at a time when she's struggling with finding the brief glimpses of a better tomorrow?

I think one listener on lala reviewed Passion Pit as "if music were food, Passion Pit would be chocolate cake." Chocolate cake is too flavor of the month for me which is why, for me, Passion Pit is more carrot cake -- constantly good, a little nutty and chock full of surprises.

Bon appetite.

Cosmo Karma

I'm not drinking for a week. At least. Two hangovers in one week is more than enough for me -- or really anyone, for that matter -- to handle. Thursday's PBR hangover wasn't too bad since all I had to do was work a princess shift at Pottery Barn (princess shift = four hours, according to one of my six managers). Today's hangover...oh dear...is

so

much

worse.

The nausea and constant on-a-boat (Not in the good, Andy Samberg way, unfortunately) sensation I'm experiencing today (yes, still at 1:15 pm) is all in thanks to a much-anticipated Pottery Barn Christmas party at a manager's killer Northwest Portland pad that overlooks the entire city. I think I can blame the fuzzies in my head to the fact that, prior to cosmo number one, all I had eaten was a carrot raisin oat bran muffin (which is my near-daily indulgence that I get from Zupans and am quite certain that I'm fairly addicted to them), two cups of coffee and a small handful of breast cancer-friendly peanut M&Ms. I can also place blame on the fact that the cosmo was, hands down, the stiffest drink possibly imaginable to man. It was more vodka than juice, packing more of a punch than punch should pack.

By the time cosmo two rolled around, I had taken a few girlfriend bites of a pulled pork sandwich and had snacked on some deliciously salty tortilla chips and home made guacamole (Passing up on anything avocado is heresy in my book). My stomach, that poor, neglected organ of mine, attacked those nibbles of food like Northwest Portlanders attacked the shelves of bottled water during last week's e-coli scare, pushing and shoving to get it all, all, all. Unfortunately (at least for me today), my stomach sucked up vodka at a less-than-desirable rate as well.

I was wasted. Embarrassingly so. I still can't recall what time we left the party last night nor do I remember much of the ride home (Thanks again, Clara). I somehow managed to hang my keys on the light switch, which hangs about six inches to the left of where my key hook actually is. I was also able to lock my door although I do recall fumbling with it for a solid 45 seconds (Which, in drunk-recall time, could actually have been minutes or hours). Negating these so-called feats of mine is the fact that I dropped my new phone, cracking open the back case (No Mom, it's not broken) and had a great conversation -- that I can't really recall fully -- before passing out in my wool tights and flannel dress (That's a terrible description of what is actually one of my favorite outfits).

The worst part about today's hangover is that I am carrying it around with me all day through the, not one, but TWO job interviews I have today. I was able to keep it buried during my first one (I'll attribute that to adrenaline) but now, while waiting for my second one, I'm feeling a bit nauseated again. I've eaten more today than I have in the past two days (Eggle Bagle sandwich for breakfast, pho for lunch and enough coffee to fuel a medium-sized office) and have been popping advil like crazy. I know I should be more excited for this next interview but all I can think about is how wonderfully inviting a pair of big sweatpants, my old man slippers and a baggy t-shirt sound. Add in some bad TV, my favorite fleece blanket and perhaps a few slices of vegan pizza and I'll be golden.

If I can just make it through the next three hours, I'll be golden. Three more hours and I can recoup. Three more hours and I can take off my give-me-a-job boots (Not to be confused with fuck-me boots or fuck-me pumps) and give my hangover the proper attention it deserves. I did work hard for it, after all.

Some might say my priorities aren't straight but hey, at least I have goals in life. Right?

The Best Things in Life Return

Yesterday, sweet sweet yesterday, was another day of freebies. Nothing free fell haphazardly onto my lap or smacked me in the face like some free things do but instead, had simply piled up like a stack of rainy day coupons. After the week from beyond the depths of hell that I had, I figured I was more than due for a little rainy day loving. The arrival of my new cell phone, the Samsung Intensity (in Flamingo Red, might I add) marked the first freebie of the day. As I was telling a friend today, having a new phone makes me feel somewhat richer, less ghetto (which, according to a coworker is synonymous for 'missing a part' or 'lacks the ability.' Indeed?) and all around happier. So much for trying to not be a materialistic person (Cue Madonna here...).

Riding on my new phone high, I decided, after a mere 90 minute shift at work during which I donned the most atrocious hair style (Beyond JBF hair that can almost be branded as scandalously cute, my hair was simply tweaking out as bad as the meth heads who roam Chinatown), I was going to cash in a free hair cut card at a new salon in Northwest Portland.

The salon is called Cupcake salon, located at 2328 NW Westover, just behind NW Everett and NW 23rd, in that weird little area across from Ben & Jerry's (Another key freebie location during the early summer), Phil's Meat Market (Hooray for $5 bento), Pharmaca (Hooray for vegetarian iron supplements) and the liquor store (Hooray for nearby booze!). The salon shares a building with a pet store called Hip Hound on the second floor. Walking in, I was instantly greeted with heat (It might not have been rainy yesterday but it was damn cold!) and Christmas music. My stylist was Kai (There are at least two other stylists), a newbie to Portland from San Diego. I thoroughly enjoyed talking with her about Portland --- the food culture, club culture, drink culture and of course, the life of NW Portlanders. Talking with her was a nice change from the "fuck the man" attitude that I usually come across at Bishop's where I usually get my hair done.

The cut is super cute, albeit really hella short...which is fine, considering that I am totally fine with letting a stylist have some creativity with my hair. I liked the fact that she suggested multiple ideas and options for my hair, such as keeping part of it in the back longer (No, NOT like a mullet) so I could don a better faux mohawk. She also styled in three different ways so I could know my options and how to pull them off.

I felt bad that she gave such great service for free so I tipped her and thanked her for the hour she spent on my hair. It was such a great experience that I'll probably go back -- when I have money of course -- for my next cut.

A free phone, free hair cut and life yesterday was very, very good.

PS -- Cupcake Salon doesn't have a website yet but the salon's number is 503.295.7700. I highly, highly recommend it!

Thanks, MJ.

Let's begin today's therapy session with a few words from Michael Jackson. Please allow 5:45 for this masterpiece to really hit you because, trust me, you'll want to hear all his whoops! and ows! to really understand this blog (Feel free to raise your hands, close your eyes and let your feet thump to the power of MJ):

You are not alone.

Now that the mood is set and we have that 1995 classic running through our minds, I can rightfully begin today's thoughts. Technically, my thoughts come from Wednesday while I was reading the front page of the Oregonian I picked up from a cafe. The day's largest headline, while not bannering the top of the page, screamed in blocky bold font: "New grads in record debt." Subhead: "Earning ability during a recession isn't enough to get ahead of college loans."

I am not alone, indeed. While I am lucky enough to have graduated from UP without student loans (Apparently 63 percent of the 2008 Pilot alumni are saddled with some form of student debt), I am, as the newspaper implies, "getting a tough reality check [with] the toughest job market in decades." In fact, the article cites that "national unemployment rates for college graduates ages 20 to 24 rose from 7.6 percent in 2008 to 10.6 percent his year," according to a report by The Project on Student Debt, part of the Berkeley-based Institute for College Access & Success.

In a bittersweet manner, it is comforting to know that there are others out there exactly like me: degree-toting superstars sitting -- gratuitously, of course -- in underemployed jobs, itching to do something meaningful with our lives (Sing it to me MJ!) but unable to find the person or company to let us or help us do it. It's sweet because, I am not alone but it's bitter for the same reason too. If my fellow alumni are anything like me, they're getting hungrier and hungrier (literally and metaphorically speaking) for something bigger and better and are stepping up their games in order to satiate that hunger.

Perhaps, in the long run, because of our youthful drives, my generation will wind up doing really fantastic things in the future. We don't have to be, like a business journal reported last week, the newest 'lost generation' that is going to be worse off than our parents' generation (Not that they're living sheisty lives or anything) in terms of financial stability and overall net earnings. We don't have to maintain these less-than-ideal lifestyles. We don't have to settle for underemployment. We don't have to settle, period.

But until that day of unsettling presents itself on my calendar, I have Michael to get me through those nights. It's too bad he was just so creepy looking in '95. Definitely not his hay-day (May he rest in peace).

Debbie Downer? Try (uhhh) Ursula Upper!

First things first:

Major kudos and a big chocolate cookie goes out to anyone who can think of a better female name than Ursula. I'm rather embarrassed to have kept such an atrocious blog title but come on, I had to continue the polar opposite theme of blog posts I've been maintaining for the past few days.

Preface over. And so it begins.

It actually begins, probably ironically and deservedly so, with me waking up rather groggily and hungover this morning (Last night, in contrast to the past few nights, was happy drinking with friends at a birthday celebration at Chopsticks II, a questionable Chinese restaurant/karaoke dive bar on East Burnside. Even I -- beer and food snob extraordinaire -- won't say no to free PBR). It, of course, is my newly re-re-restored (Yes, I've had a lot of mentality and emotional restorations in the past few months. Deal with it...I have) optimistic spirit that was hiding cowardly either behind empty beer bottles and shots of whatever or underneath the heap of blankets I keep on my bed. It came back because, for the first time in the last ten or so days, I have hope again.

That's right; hope....that little flutter of nervous butterflies that gets you all excited and tingly and grade-school giddy for the happening of something absolutely wonderful...has caught up with me again. And let me tell you, it's a fantastic feeling, mainly because I worked hard to make it happen. I mean, sure I did my fair share of bitching, moaning, drinking and crying about how unfair life is, how poor I am, how frustrating everything is (Yes, you can insert the teacher's voice from Charlie Brown here and I won't be even remotely offended) but I've also been working my tushy off to gain some hope (Turn Charlie Brown teacher voice off here).

After having spent all of Monday applying to jobs (26 in all), I was able to go to sleep last night with one interview in the bag and will be able to curl up in bed (Hopefully not shivering in my 55 degree studio) tonight with a second interview on deck for this coming Monday. To sweeten the deal a bit more, I received a new writing assignment from one of my editors due in ten days (Which means, regardless of whether I land either potential job, I'll be in Portland through at least January. Woot woot!).

I also got my new phone (Hooray for free upgrades, right?), cleaned my apartment and am waiting to embark on a reunion with a good friend over cheap pizza.

Hope: Much nicer than a hangover.

I wonder if I could be a slogan writer...I mean heck, I could have made thousands working on Obama's campaign with my wit and ability to write to the "Average Joe."

...But seriously, I need help with that name.

Sobriety

I'm pretty sure that my Irish roots took hold of me over the past weekend (And by weekend I mean the entire last week) because I wasn't just living in an Irish drama, complete with the bread-winning sop (who of course wastes all hard-earned funds on a pint), female drama and cold, lonely nights; I was starring in one. My role? The bread-winning sop. My English professors must be so proud (I didn't learn nothing from college after all).

Whenever I read Irish dramas or novels or watched films about Irish life, I could never really sympathize with the male household figure because, in most films and novels, the Man of the House was the bad guy. He was the guy who had a dead-end job and starved his kids and cheated on his wife and sang sad war songs because he spent all of his money on what was promised to be just one (but often turned into four and five) pint.

But now, in light of recent events of me being nearly broke and on a three week countdown until I possible move back home to Spokane with my parents, I'm starting to sympathize with the Irish novel's antagonist. True, I don't have kids to feed (Thank goodness!) but I do have myself to feed and, as of late, I've been choosing wine and beer over fruit and vegetables. My reasoning, which I like to assume is the same rationalizion process that my Irish male ancestors engaged in, is that I am still getting enough calories to be alive (Beer isn't calorie-friendly, people...my butt and hips can tell you so) and kicking and that the buzz of enough booze makes me oblivious to the fact that I'm broke, frustrated and struggling.

Drinking is a weird form of escapism. It's cheap and makes me feel cheap the next morning when I wake up and recall the empty bottles (usually three at most...I'm still a lightweight) with my groggy eyes and groggier head. The shame is more evident when I wake up alone since that infers that I was drinking alone and can't even recall good times from the night before.

I'd almost prefer my angry Irish wife and empty-bellied Irish lot to wake me up and ask me where breakfast is. But I don't have that. Instead, I have myself and I'm far scarier than even the scariest, shrillest and angriest Irish wife (Fictional or real, it doesn't matter).

Waiting

For as good of a runner as I am (or perhaps once was, considering that I'm in such poor shape that a 5-miler is now a long and incredible-energy-consuming run for me), life has used its second wind and kicked to catch up with me. The last few months of "Everything will be alright," "It'll all work out" and "Just have faith" have all of a sudden and unexpectedly morphed into simply, "Oh shit." All of my efforts of running this race that everyone calls life (How's that for the cheesiest of cheesy metaphors?) have deteriorated: In my pushing and striving and churning during this race, I've somehow been passed by the stronger and faster competitor that most people refer to as reality.

What a bitch.

I talked with my mother on the phone today (Okay, it's not technically fair to refer to her as my mother since I only use the phrase, "my mother" when she has made me mad or irritated) to figure out what the heck I am going to do come January when I don't have enough money to pay for my rent. Despite talking for nearly 30 minutes (Which I know, doesn't seem like long but I was on my lunch break and had little time for a long, drawn-out heart-to-heart nor the patience to wait to hear what she and my dad had decided), the two of us were unable to come to much more of a conclusion than waiting.

I hate waiting. I hate waiting simply because I am not a person who can sit back and sit patiently for something to occur. I am a go getter; a doer, if you will. But for some reason, I feel like I have been waiting; waiting for that something better to happen, waiting for things to get better, waiting for my life to begin. But, as my mom reminds me, "This...this waiting, anxious, scary, unknown fear and feeling you're experiencing day in and day out is life."

Seriously, what a bitch. Whoever thought that this is what life after college would be like? Aren't we all supposed to land stellar jobs, live in cookie cutter houses and pop out 2.5 babies with our incredibly amazing and loving significant others? I never imagined that food stamps, bill collecting callers and minimum wage jobs would be a part of it.

I for one, am defeated by it.

At least temporarily. More to follow. I guess I'll keep whoever may read this waiting.

For that, I apologize.

Desperation or Stealing. You choose the title.

No...I haven't become desperate enough to begin stealing things (although I did kype a granola bar from work today) but I am taking my friend's piece and linking it to my blog because his words are more formative and coherent than anything I could even attempt to write tonight.

Yet it's everything I could ever say, think or feel for myself right now had I the desire, will or even energy to write something good.

So, thanks Jacob.

Here goes:

http://everydumbkid.blogspot.com/2009/11/that-sinking-feeling.html

Pessimism

Apparently it doesn't take me very long to have a complete upheaval in my emotional state of well being. I woke up this morning with the intent of going out to breakfast with a friend and her parents only to find out that I am, yet again, broke, thanks to the weekend's onslaught of bill paying and grocery buying.

Every ounce of the previous day's optimism vanquished from my body in such a raging fashion that I wasn't sure if my windows were fogging up from my 1920's steam heater or from me. Laying in bed, I cringed as I had to text my friend to let her know that I will indeed, not be making breakfast, because my bank account isn't going to let me.

And so, like I always do whenever I realize how poor I am, I go into a downward cycle of shame, guilt and frustration (Much like my friends did two nights ago). Pulling my covers over my head, I curled up in a ball and tried to figure out how the hell I got here. I graduated from a great school but don't have a real job. Heck, I held better jobs during the summers while I was in school. Now, I find myself applying for crap jobs like being a pet sitter or customer service representative because those are the only jobs I feel qualified to do, regardless of my degree from said great school. My fridge, much like my recent stores of hope and optimism, are empty and I simply do not have the funds to refill either of them.

How am I going to eat? How am I supposed to pay rent? These questions filter through the melee going on between my emotions and my logic while I try to figure out just how much longer I can hold out living here on my own in Portland with a 20-hour a week part time job.

The answer (sigh) is January, if I spend no more than $12 a day. It seems doable; it really does. But what if it isn't? What if I fail and have to move back home?

My mom says this doubt and uncertainty is part of growing up and I am certain she is right. I just wish it didn't kick my ass so much.

And so, feeling completely defeated, I'm just going to curl up and watch more Grey's Anatomy. I guess there's some sort of relief in watching people save other people's lives, even if it is just on TV.

Optimism

It's not often that I am the optimistic or overly-happy individual in a crowd. That's not to say that I am dark and twisty (I've been watching a lot of Grey's Anatomy as of late, so excuse the Meredith Grey descriptors) or that I'm some kind of sad, cup-half-empty vampiric fiend who sucks the happy and joy out of my golden-sunshiney comrades, because I'm not like that. I just tend to be a bit....more cynical.

But then last night happened. I was simply sitting in a car, driving around Northeast Portland with three of my friends who were, rightfully so, heavily complaining, ruing and cursing the recession. Plagued by money problems (Mo' Money, Mo' Problems is so beyond false that it, yet again, makes me question the integrity and value of rap and its lyrical contributions to society), it seemed that my friends had sort of admitted defeat.

"Do you think that this is as bad, right now, as the Great Depression was?"

"Totally."

"Probably."

I piped up; "No way." I could tell, by the silent response that my pseudo-optimistic comment received, that they weren't buying it.

"The Great Depression was far worse," I continued. And it was; unemployment was nearly doubled what it is today, food lines were blocks long and our stock market crash wasn't nearly as cliff-leaping as it was 70 years ago. Our economy, according to the President and his economic gurus, is picking up and eventually, (also according to our country's higher ups) we'll start picking up too.

And, despite my cynicism and typical disbelief in politicalese (That's my made-up word for political speak), I do believe that my life is starting to pick up. Sure, I'm not making any more money than I was a year ago or even three months ago (I'm sadly making much less) but my life is picking up because I am optimistic; even happy, if you will.

For so much of the last seven years of my life I have fought against being happy. Somehow I had managed to do the one thing that my father, a man of sometimes sage, sometimes not-so-sage wisdom, has told me not to do: I let someone or something else control my happy. Whether it was a loser boyfriend, a caustic friendship, an unhealthy relationship with food or an over obsession with running and fitness, I have always let other forces control how I felt. More often than not, I let those outside factors make me live saddled with negative emotions : sadness, guilt, shame, frustration, anger.

But now…now I am in control of my happy. I’m not entirely certain what has changed; there aren’t words to describe the sudden click in my brain that magically switched like binary code from a zero to a one (or vice versa) to make me in control of my happy. Yet something did. Perhaps, in retrospect, my decisions over the last few months – breaking up with my boyfriend of three years, moving out on my own, staying in Portland but not going to graduate school – have helped transform me into this less chaotic, neurotic, psychotic hermit I used to be into someone nearly normal.

I laugh (I’ve been told it’s infectious) more often and I cry less frequently. I go on dates to dive bars and coffee houses, relishing in the quirky joints nestled in the tired parts of the city. I have make-up and baking dates with real, live girls who are quickly becoming my best friends. I run less and am finally in love with my body. I think I’m in love with myself which, in a totally non-narcissistic fashion, makes me the happiest.

We returned to my friend's house to make dinner and relax. While my friends continued their much-needed and therapeutic venting, I started chopping up an aromatic storm in the kitchen, thinking of the words to one of my favorite songs by Regina Spektor (Whose lyrical contribution to society could sometimes be questioned -- the line "Do you remember the time when I only ate boxes of tangerines?" is a good example -- but the following possess solid contributory power), "On the Radio," because they just seemed so damned fitting:

"No this is how it works
You peer inside yourself
And take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take the love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else's heart
Pumping someone else's blood."

Indeed.

The Best Things in Life

The best things in life really are free. I mean sure, you could give them to the birds and the bees and give me money (I can't help that I'm a sucker for cheesy but catchy song lyrics), but for now, while I'm in this phase of survival, I'll take all the free stuff I can get.

Of course, free stuff doesn't typically just fall into my lap. Thanks to some karma god who ensures that I have the worst of luck (There's a solid reason my old cross country coach nicknamed me after Elliot, the blond pseudo-ditsy, incredibly unlucky -- yet ever persevering -- character from the TV show Scrubs), I am on the receiving end of good and free fortune less than the average citizen. I can in fact catalog the most recent instances when unearned SWAG has found its way into my pocket:

1. Sophomore year of high school, homecoming dance. My then-boyfriend and two cross country teammates went bowling after the dance. While exchanging my heels for the oh-so-fashionable bowling loafers, I found a $20 bill hiding underneath the bench.

2. Freshman year of college (That's right; three whole years between freebies), San Francisco's China Town. I was in SF for a journalism conference with three of my colleagues. We went to lunch in Chinatown, stuffing ourselves with dim sum. As we were pulling our debit cards out, a man and his wife who were sitting at the table next to us stopped us and asked to pay for our meal, citing the fact that his daughter was in college on the East Coast and he could only imagine her delight if someone had done the same for her. I only count this freebie as 1/3 of one, considering that two others got in on the action too.

3. Last summer of college; dinner at Murata's. Enough lovey-dovey giggling and schmoozing with a Japanese Intel higher up earned my now-ex boyfriend and I one of the most filling, delicious and expensive meals of raw fish and sake imaginable. It helped that, with my short hair and fair skin, he thought I looked like Princess Di (I still don't see it but if it gets me free toro, I'll put on a crown and practice my white-gloved wave). Kampai!

And honestly, I think that might be it, aside from the occasional "We messed up your drink so the next one's on us" coupon from Starbucks and the once-every-blue-moon free beer from some nice guy I'll decide to strike up a conversation with. What I've learned is that, to really reap the benefits of the freebies, you have to search it out yourself...

...which brings me to yesterday when I went cupping at Stumptown's Annex location on SE Belmont and 34th. Cupping, or coffee tasting, at the Annex is totally free and a super great opportunity to try new coffees AND learn about the drink that makes the world run. Although I have been twice before, yesterday's experience was especially welcoming and enjoyable (perhaps because it was also a date, which is always, always enjoyable). During a cupping at the Annex, tasters get to try six different varietals, ranging in smooth to bold. Each varietal comes from a farm from different regions of the world that Stumptown has direct trade relationships with. The cupping ritual is vital to ensuring that a coffee is not only delicious, but consistent in its taste as well. It's a soothing process, filled with bold aromas (Tasters are to put their noses just centimeters away from the coffee multiple times, including while slowly breaking the oily crust that forms while the coffee is stewing) and bolder tastes that are so damn wonderful they make their way through your entire body and curl your toes (And who doesn't like a good toe-curling experience?).

We got to try coffee from Costa Rica, Kenya, Colombia, Ethiopia and Indonesia. My favorite was the Ethiopian coffee, which carried aromas and flavors of wild berries and cider -- not a spicy cider, but a thick, almost syrupy and molasses cider. If little wood nymph creatures had just tried to make wine by squashing berries with their feet and then decided to stomp out a tribal dance on my palate, that's how the Ethiopian varietal tasted.

The best part, as I mentioned before, is that the cupping was totally, one hundred percent gratis. AND the Annex does it twice a day, at 11 am and 3 pm, every day.

I'm on the lookout for more free stuff this wonderful, unemployed city has to offer.

Laundry Money

Every time I come home I always take inventory of what my parents have laying around. In what can only be described as the utmost moochiest of mooching, I gather up and load into my car at least half of the items I make note of. Over the past five and half years since I began (And yes, finished) college, I have permanently borrowed from my parents house the following:

Razor blades (Although to my credit, I bought my own for the first time last May)

Mascara (My mom buys the fancy schmancy kind from Macy's where she always receives 'free' gifts in return for her $100+ purchase)

Baking supplies, including cookie cutters, a flour sifter, measuring spoons and (my favorite) sprinkles

Towels (Both of my parents are a bit OCD when it comes to certain items. For example, my father has more guitars, boats and CDs than any solitary person could possibly use. My mother's obsessive collecting is a bit more practical; she has more towels than any two people could ever, EVER use.)

Socks (See above regarding my mother's aforementioned obsession with towels.)

I also always, always gather change. My parents' house is decorated with random vessels -- urns, vases, baskets, bowls, you name it -- of change; lots and lots of change. Throughout the past five or so years I'm fairly certain that, thanks to my change gathering ability whenever I am home, my parents have paid for more of the laundry that I do in Portland than my own toiling has. I figure they aren't going to miss it, since all the hundreds of dollars (I'm really not exaggerating here) in silver and copper are simply cluttering their house. Plus, I'm their daughter and they shouldn't mind helping me out a little bit, regardless if they are aware of their formidable contributions or not...right?

Right.

Despite everything, this trip home was no exception to my kleptomaniac endeavors. While I mostly scourged the house for photographs, I also managed to fill up a Ziploc sandwich-size baggy half way full of quarters. Without counting it, I took the baggy (shame-free) to the bank where, for the first time in two days, I pulled out my debit card and deposited the quarters.

The damage? $28.75. That's enough to cover laundry costs for two months....or a full tank of gas...or a week worth of groceries...or two weeks worth of coffee...or five weeks worth of beer.

It's also a fairly solid sale shopping trip to the Gap.

Decisions, decisions.

Fatherly Advice

I'm home in Spokane for my 'weekend' off, taking a much needed and long overdue break from trying to be a real, live and responsible adult. After a short five hours, I got home and just finally felt...relaxed. I've been so stressed out (see my last blog entry) as of late that I realized, upon entering the familiar warmth and comfort of my parents' house, I haven't taken a good, long breather.

After tucking into a good dinner, the family sat around the TV watching (God forbid) the CMAs (I know one person of all my Portland people who listens to country. I love her to death but I just can't do country). During one of about a million commercial breaks, my dad turned to me and asked me about my writing jobs.

"I've only got one, dad."

"Oh."

"But I'm looking. Always looking."

And here's where my dad, who usually offers such sage and logical advice, suggested to me something that I never thought I'd hear come out of his mouth.

"Well, why don't you get a job as a cocktail waitress?"

Granted, trying to get a job as a cocktail waitress isn't a bad idea. After all, I have my Oregon food handler's card even though I've never worked in a restaurant. Waitresses can make pretty decent money and I would definitely love the influx of cash tips (as would my baristas who I have been tipping less). I could work evenings as a waitress while keeping my day job at Pottery Barn and still continue to write for the Regence Group (and any other writing job that I stumble upon). My father's next comment is where the sage and wisdom and all-around fatherly protection falls away:

"It'd be perfect. You'd make good money and you can meet a guy."

Job recommendations and love life advice. Apparently, they go hand in hand for my father. And what's more, my father thinks it's a good idea for me to get a job where possibly intoxicated men can (and apparently to my father, hopefully will) hit on me.

Perfect.

Dealing with Stress

Nobody likes to be stressed out. My general manager at Pottery Barn is stressed out -- so much to the fact that she actually was physically ill all last week and is walking around (rightfully so!) with a teeny tiny bottle of aromatherapy lotion to help calm her down (It's amazing what the holiday seasons will do to a person, especially one in charge of a major retail store in Portland. It has to be tough and the fact that she can do it with such grace and charm and slightly erratic neuroticism is respectable in my book. I know I would have totally gone off the deep end by now, trying to deal with all the glittery ornaments, intricate floor visuals and pending visits from Pottery Barn head honchos.). I am beyond stressed out. In addition to losing my extremely well-paying personal assistant job last week, I found out today that my mother is pretty darn sick and that my brother and his wife lost their baby.

I don't know how to deal with such loss. I mean, I've dealt with death before: my grandfather when I was a junior in high school, my grandmother right after I finished my junior year of college and then my other grandfather the end of my fifth year of college, as well as a friend from school in the same month as my grandfather's death. By no means do my losses make me a professional griever -- what a terrible job that would be. Rather, they make me even sadder with each additional mourning I must go through.

Whether we're rich or we are poor or struggling to even make ends meet, dealing with the stresses of every day life is going to eventually get to us. Today, the stresses of dealing with every day life -- loss of a job, loss of a future family member, loss of my ability to be a stoic, independent individual got to me. I totally broke down at work today, crying at the end of my lunch break in front of far too many of my work associates. You see, I'm not a person who typically offers my emotions to another person. Although I am a highly emotional person (which I see as an attractive, positive attribute to my personality), I usually fear letting other people see that side of me. Rather, I am someone who, as aforementioned, is stoic and independent. Yet today, stress got the best of me and made me a weeping, vulnerable person.

Stress made me human today. Which is new for me...not that I feel superhuman or better than others; on the contrary, I usually feel distanced from those around me because of my fear of letting others in. Furthermore I've realized that this transition period of "I don't know what the hell I'm doing working at a part time retail job and not being in school" is all part of being human. For the first time in my life I'm experiencing a down turn in my life. Like our current 'economic crisis' I am experiencing a negative shift in resources. Of course I have fewer funds but more importantly (maybe?), I have less in my emotional strength bag to draw from. However, I have learned through my experiences today that where I am richer is in my relationships. Not only do I have coworkers who care for me (Nobody made fun of me for having a mascara streaked face at the lunch table), I also have friends who are willing to endure tears, snot, beer and the movie Airplane (my all-time shadoobie hits the fan flick)...as well as my crazy crying emotions.

And that makes me pretty lucky.

I still think I'll invest in some aromatherapy lotion. I think my GM is on the right track with that.

The Next David Sedaris?

I did a really, really, really bad thing yesterday.

Well, perhaps bad isn't the correct word. Shameful or pitiful might be more accurate describers of the act that I pulled off after walking home after a seven hour shift at Pottery Barn last night. You see, during my lunch break, I checked my email at my favorite local coffee shop, Fat Straw, only to find out that the great personal assistant job that I landed just three weeks ago had been taken away from me, thanks to an MBA-wielding smarty pants who can apparently do his and my job with ease. Needless to say, I wasn't feeling all that great about myself after my break and spent the final three hours of my shift indulging in major self-loathing and moping (Not even my manager's attempts at playing cupid were helping lift my spirits). The self-loathing continued as I passed by the Plaid Pantry, picked up a six pack of Full Sail IPA ($5.98 for a six pack = the city's cheapest prices), a box of Mike and Ikes and headed home to peruse Craigslist, yet again.

And this is when the really, really, really bad/shameful thing happened. Even though I have a degree and have a lot to offer the world outside of retail, I still found myself scrolling down the pages of open retail positions. One caught my eye in an almost ironically sardonic fashion:

Macy's Santaland in Downtown Portland is hiring!

Full and Part Time Seasonal positions available immediately!

Greeter, Photographer, Cashier and PC Computer Operator positions for seasonal Christmas employment. Santaland work hours begin during the week of Nov 16 thru Dec 24. Must have a neat appearance, pleasant personality and enjoy working with the public. No prior experience necessary...we will train all staff. However, being handy on a PC computer is extremely handy!

We offer flexible scheduling, full and part time hours and a wage/bonus of $9.50 DOE. Must be able to pass a background test and drug test prior to employment.

Please reply with the email above or at MacysSantaland.com Please list the position of interest, resume/prior experience, and availability during the season.

We have lots of fun!

While downing the last ounces of my IPA, the nasally voice of David Sedaris, one of my favorite authors, entered my head. The author became famous after writing and reading on This American Life, Santaland Diaries, essays about his experience as a Macy's Christmas elf. Maybe I could do the same?

Cracking open my second beer and washing away almost all self-respect, I totally applied. For nearly 500 words I gushed about how much I adore little kids, how much I love the holiday season and how I am more than capable -- excellent, actually -- at keeping my cool during crazy and hectic situations (Can you figure out the one truth in that list?). I've been promised to be contacted in two business days. Expect an update soon.

First Entry

So here it is. A blog; a real, live, virtual record of my life after I graduated college some six months ago in an economy that houses, as the newspapers report, an unemployment rate higher than the recession of the 1980s. Born in 1986, I obviously was oblivious to the stress and gloomy world in which my parents were raising three kids. Twenty-three years later, here I am, living in a somewhat spacious studio in Northwest Portland where my certificate of graduation with an English degree hangs proudly on the wall, fully aware of the consequences of decisions made and promises lost by higher ups who, for the sake of my knowledge, know me only as a statistic.

Fortunately, I am not one of the city's 11.5 percent unemployed inhabitants. A month after graduating from the University of Portland, I was lucky enough to land a part time retail job at Pottery Barn in my neighborhood while keeping three freelance writing gigs that I held through college. While my hours at Pottery Barn have indeed increased, my writing gigs have come and gone: Two companies have folded and my short stint at two of Portland metro area's local community newspapers have passed as well. Thus, with a part-time, barely-above-minimum-wage paying job coupled with the ever pending cycle of bills and rent (as well as an attempt to have a social life...a single girl living in the city has to get herself out there every now and then), I am forced to put my creative skills into profitable endeavors.

This blog, which I will use as record for the ups and downs that are sure to continue to crop up, is just for fun.