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.