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).