Today I wrote a script about farts.
Well, sorta.
Today at work I wrote a script about a pair of panties that stifles the stench of those smelly SBDs.
Okay, fine. It wasn't for a real client. Rather, it was for our monthly lunch time competitions that commences amongst the sales, production and operations teams (As a scriptwriter/soon-to-be-messaging-director, I'm part of the production team). I guess you could call it a company-building exercise, not to mention a reason to begin Friday drinking two hours earlier.
Here's the e-mail we got from our president:
"Hey All,
Ok...Here we go. Today's department competition will require agility, speed, focus and luck. Here are your instructions:
1. Please take a quick look at this website. http://www.gasbgon.com
2. Pay attention ONLY to the "Undergarments" product. Imagine that this is all the company sells.
Your group assignment is as follows:
1. You will need to come up with a new name for the "undergarments product/company"
2. You will need to come up with a quick "tag line" or "slogan"
3. You will need to come up with a 30 second RADIO commercial
4. You can have a solo narrator for the commercial or have several narrators.
12:00 pm -- Lunch starts
1:15 pm -- You will be presenting your new name, slogan and 30 second radio commercial to the rest of the groups.
Points will be award for making us laugh and for coming up with a name, slogan and commercial that sells.
The trophy will be award to the winning department.
Good luck, work as a team and...may the right department win!
And don't forget this fact...the average person passes gas 14 times per day. That stinks!"
Well, here's what the production team came up with:
Under-Wraps 30 Second Spot
[Male Narrator] Excuses. They're like farts. Everyone has them...and they all STINK. But when you're around others, there's NO EXCUSE for making a stink.
[Whoopee Cushion Noise]
[Female] Ewwwwwww!
[Male] It must have been the ferret!
[Whoopee Cushion Noise]
[Male] Duuuuuuuude.
[Male] Barking spider, man.
[Whooppee Cushion Noise]
[Female] Honey! Not under the sheets!
[Male] You wanted Mexican food!
[Male Narrator] Introducing Under-Wraps: Made with carbon-filtered, odor-masking technology that filters AND eliminates that UNSAVORY STENCH.
Stop making excuses. Keep [Whoopee Cushion Noise] under wraps.
To avoid those boomers in your bloomers look for Under-Wraps at fine retail stores everywhere.
Obviously, my team won. And rightfully so; I mean, we ARE the sensitive artists after all.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Confession of a One-time Smoker
I've got a really major confession to make. I mean, it's a big one. You could easily call it a doozy.
I smoked a cigarette.
Okay, that's a lie. I smoked a pack of cigarettes.
I know, I know. I deserve more than just a simple, "Shame on you."
Allow me to explain.
It went down like this. I've been dealing with a slew of stressful and emotional issues of late -- break ups, pending surgeries, insanely demanding job to name a few -- when, there I was, cleaning out my car during what became the most inane of torrential downpours -- according to Portland meteorological records, it was the most rain Portland, the city infamous for gloomy rain, had ever gotten in one time -- when I reached deep underneath my passenger's seat and felt a box like I had never felt before.
Pulling it out, I learned that it was a pack of Marlboro's that belonged to my boyfriend's -- ugh, my ex's -- best friend. I was ready to put the box into my trash bag already teeming with coffee cups and empty Jelly Bellies boxes when I noticed there was still one solitary cigarette hiding beneath the gold foil.
I threw the bag away and kept that solitary cigarette.
I dried off, soaked after half-standing in the rain for 30 minutes (What can I say? My car was messy!), and stared at the cigarette, sitting on my table, beckoning me like I was Alice. I could see the words written on its white, half-crumpled body: "Smoke me," like it was my key through the door to Wonderland.
And so, I did. I grabbed a pack of matches from my closet, ran outside to my apartment's fire escape and lit up.
Trust me, as a runner...yes, now a runner who chain-smoked a pack of cigarettes...I know how awful smoking is for the body. I cherish my lungs, my heart and my body -- they've all been with me and have held their own relatively well so, to completely destroy all three with the puff of one cigarette is seemingly nonsensical. I mean, studies show that smoking just one single cigarette increases the stiffness of the arteries in people my age, 18 to 30, by a whopping 25 percent. That's not good for the body.
Yet, despite these stats, an alarmingly large percentage -- 17.9 of adults in Oregon -- of the US population still smokes. It's really no wonder why the CDC named cigarette smoking as the leading preventable cause of death in our nation.
Most scientific research shows that the compulsion to smoke again after that first cigarette can lie dormant for three years. My compulsion lay low for a whopping 48 hours. As disgusting as it felt afterwards -- the smell of nicotine and smoke lingered in my nostrils while the taste of raw, burning chemicals and tobacco pierced my every taste bud -- I got the point of such pitiful and disgraceful agony and depression that I needed to turn to something.
And that's when my mouth started to get dry. And when my fingers started to itch. And when my new-found arrhythmia began to explode in my chest.
I knew I wanted -- needed -- a cigarette. So, with unsteady footsteps, I walked to the corner store and nonchalantly bought a pack. And then I went to town; huffing and puffing on one right after another until, much to my surprise, I had none left.
And that's when it hit me: Nicotine is, as every healthcare advocate and worker will tell you, the most addictive drug. It's smarmy, making you feel cool...like those ultra hip yet laid-back 20-somethings who read and write in the park. It's comforting, releasing you from experiencing the stress of real life. It's intoxicatingly indulgent...like allowing yourself to have a thick slice of sinfully rich cake.
Unlike that cake's moment on your lips that stays on your hips, the damage caused by a moment with a cigarette isn't possible to eradicate and it's much harder to say, "No thanks," to another cigarette than it is to another slice of cake. Why? As any smoker will probably tell you -- it's the withdrawal that makes the body scream for a kid like ice cream, "YES, PLEASE! I want ANOTHER!"
And so, it's a mind game: At first I'm dealing with the taste in my mouth and the stench in my nose that doesn't seem nearly as bad when there's a cigarette at reach. And the physical effects -- my shaky hands, awkward heart beat, the feeling that my tongue is growing larger and larger. Then there's the dizziness, unbalanced by that awful sense of vertigo like I'm swaying on a boat that has no exit.
It's enough hell to make me wonder, "Why'd I ever do this in the first place?"
I smoked a cigarette.
Okay, that's a lie. I smoked a pack of cigarettes.
I know, I know. I deserve more than just a simple, "Shame on you."
Allow me to explain.
It went down like this. I've been dealing with a slew of stressful and emotional issues of late -- break ups, pending surgeries, insanely demanding job to name a few -- when, there I was, cleaning out my car during what became the most inane of torrential downpours -- according to Portland meteorological records, it was the most rain Portland, the city infamous for gloomy rain, had ever gotten in one time -- when I reached deep underneath my passenger's seat and felt a box like I had never felt before.
Pulling it out, I learned that it was a pack of Marlboro's that belonged to my boyfriend's -- ugh, my ex's -- best friend. I was ready to put the box into my trash bag already teeming with coffee cups and empty Jelly Bellies boxes when I noticed there was still one solitary cigarette hiding beneath the gold foil.
I threw the bag away and kept that solitary cigarette.
I dried off, soaked after half-standing in the rain for 30 minutes (What can I say? My car was messy!), and stared at the cigarette, sitting on my table, beckoning me like I was Alice. I could see the words written on its white, half-crumpled body: "Smoke me," like it was my key through the door to Wonderland.
And so, I did. I grabbed a pack of matches from my closet, ran outside to my apartment's fire escape and lit up.
Trust me, as a runner...yes, now a runner who chain-smoked a pack of cigarettes...I know how awful smoking is for the body. I cherish my lungs, my heart and my body -- they've all been with me and have held their own relatively well so, to completely destroy all three with the puff of one cigarette is seemingly nonsensical. I mean, studies show that smoking just one single cigarette increases the stiffness of the arteries in people my age, 18 to 30, by a whopping 25 percent. That's not good for the body.
Yet, despite these stats, an alarmingly large percentage -- 17.9 of adults in Oregon -- of the US population still smokes. It's really no wonder why the CDC named cigarette smoking as the leading preventable cause of death in our nation.
Most scientific research shows that the compulsion to smoke again after that first cigarette can lie dormant for three years. My compulsion lay low for a whopping 48 hours. As disgusting as it felt afterwards -- the smell of nicotine and smoke lingered in my nostrils while the taste of raw, burning chemicals and tobacco pierced my every taste bud -- I got the point of such pitiful and disgraceful agony and depression that I needed to turn to something.
And that's when my mouth started to get dry. And when my fingers started to itch. And when my new-found arrhythmia began to explode in my chest.
I knew I wanted -- needed -- a cigarette. So, with unsteady footsteps, I walked to the corner store and nonchalantly bought a pack. And then I went to town; huffing and puffing on one right after another until, much to my surprise, I had none left.
And that's when it hit me: Nicotine is, as every healthcare advocate and worker will tell you, the most addictive drug. It's smarmy, making you feel cool...like those ultra hip yet laid-back 20-somethings who read and write in the park. It's comforting, releasing you from experiencing the stress of real life. It's intoxicatingly indulgent...like allowing yourself to have a thick slice of sinfully rich cake.
Unlike that cake's moment on your lips that stays on your hips, the damage caused by a moment with a cigarette isn't possible to eradicate and it's much harder to say, "No thanks," to another cigarette than it is to another slice of cake. Why? As any smoker will probably tell you -- it's the withdrawal that makes the body scream for a kid like ice cream, "YES, PLEASE! I want ANOTHER!"
And so, it's a mind game: At first I'm dealing with the taste in my mouth and the stench in my nose that doesn't seem nearly as bad when there's a cigarette at reach. And the physical effects -- my shaky hands, awkward heart beat, the feeling that my tongue is growing larger and larger. Then there's the dizziness, unbalanced by that awful sense of vertigo like I'm swaying on a boat that has no exit.
It's enough hell to make me wonder, "Why'd I ever do this in the first place?"
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Perfect Playlist
For a bit of shameless self promotion...
Wait...isn't that what a blog is anyway? Whatever.
How about...for a bit of extended shameless self promotion.
I have YET to share that I was on the radio last week with my friend Tony who I work with at AngelVision for 94.7's Widmer's Perfect Playlist.
For those of you NOT from Portland, let me explain: Every weekday at 5 p.m. -- quitting time if you work anywhere else OTHER than AngelVision (Okay I can't complain too much, I typically do leave at 5 every day...but I've always got my laptop bag draping over my shoulder next to my hippie bag which, might I add, I am soooo in the need for a new one) -- Gustav from 94.7 hosts a five song playlist made up by, well, anyone. All you have to do is submit a playlist along with an explanation for your songs and, of course, information about yourself to Gustav via email and hope and pray that your list is awesome enough to get chosen.
Here's what Tony and I submitted earlier this month:
Tony and Amie's Widmer's Perfect Playlist
Theme: A Day at AngelVision
Tony and I work together at a marketing company in Tigard called AngelVision Technologies. AT AV we make impact movies -- 3 to 3 1/2 minute movies that serve as marketing tools for companies to use in 20 different way (We've got to put the company plug in somewhere, right?). My role at AV is as a scriptwriter while Tony is a flash developer. Basically, I write the script for the movie while Tony puts my words and cues and directions into action (But making them way cooler than I could ever imagine). In essence, it's a relationship built to last; I tell Tony what to do and he complies, ten-fold (Isn't that what any girl wants?). I kid, of course...though our two minds have been known to create some of the craftiest, though easily most twisted plots and ideas.
It's a good thing they rarely ever come to fruition (Though our band 80s Montage Limbo would, by far, be the best obscure band...maybe ever).
What really brought Tony and I together, aside from our shared love for sushi, zombies and creating obscure band names, is indeed, music. While Tony's more hardcore than I am on his Pandora (The guy eats through his free 40 hours before the fifth of the month) and despite our shared differences in favorite artists (His = Radiohead, Mine = Jack Johnson), we share enough common bonds to interrupt each other enough during the day over instant messenger to gush about whatever song is streaming through our ear buds (Or, if you're like Tony, giant headphones).
Our perfect playlist is a recreation of our typical day at AngelVision -- starting out dead tired in the morning after a long day AND night of writing and flash development, only to trudge on with more work so we can feel totally gangsta after FINALLY finishing a project...before being stuck in traffic after day's end to finally make it home.
Here's our list of glory:
1. Sleepyhead, Passion Pit (Need we say more? Love the band and the song is perfect to kick the day off with...heck, it's my ringtone and alarm)
2. Work, Hockey (This song hits a couple of points: During our first conversation, Tony asked if I liked hockey, based off a Windows Live status I had up that said, "Wake up with Hockey." Of course, I responded, gushing about the Portland band Hockey...only to find out that he was, in fact, talking ice and pads and sticks and pucks. We also have a special place in our hearts for Canada.)
3. Paper Planes, MIA (There's nothing like celebrating the completion of a project, especially ones for difficult clients, than playing Paper Planes and letting our suburban white kid exterior disappear as we thug around like...well, you know..thugs)
4. No Cars Go, Arcade Fire (Tony's REAL favorite band is Arcade Fire which I, too, am totally down with. They're just...so...good)
5. Home, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros (Every time one of use hears this song on Pandora we ping each other with new lyrics...sort of like a bragging right. Of course, sometimes I cheat and pull it up on YouTube just so I can hear it. It's funky and folky and Jade's voice and the whistling are simply to die for).
And our alternative: Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, The Flaming Lips (This song, of course, is a great alternate to Paper Planes because something, throughout the workday, we have to battle crazy clients who well, try to eat us...and stuff).
At any rate, we received an email back a little over a week after submitting our Perfect Playlist and, within five days were ON THE RADIO.
I don't think I had ever been so nervous in my whole entire life. Okay, that's obviously hyperbolic but I was surprised by how awkward sweaty I got over being on the radio. It was like the feeling you get when going on a first date...multiplied by 10, and on crack. Like really good freak out crack (Of course, not that I would actually know).
The experience actually turned out to be a blast...not that I had an any inkling that my radio debut would turn out otherwise. But still, I'm a nervous wreck prior to any kind of recording where I know SOMEONE is going to be hearing my voice. Nevertheless, despite some shakiness at the beginning (I stuttered a bit when explaining how I got into Hockey) on my part, Tony and I managed to pull off a smooth and seamless radio show. We even had a guy call in half way through Edward Sharpe and demand...okay fine, suggest...that Tony and I get an hour to run music every day because we were, indeed, "Just that awesome."
While we were hoping for some birthday luck on pocketing Arcade Fire concert tickets (It was Tony's birthday the day we went on the air), we ended up with, like everyone else that week, tickets to see Sublime in November. On a Tuesday. Without their real lead singer. We've already vowed to make complete asses of ourselves, demanding old school, REAL Sublime songs.
Go big or go home, right?
Wait...isn't that what a blog is anyway? Whatever.
How about...for a bit of extended shameless self promotion.
I have YET to share that I was on the radio last week with my friend Tony who I work with at AngelVision for 94.7's Widmer's Perfect Playlist.
For those of you NOT from Portland, let me explain: Every weekday at 5 p.m. -- quitting time if you work anywhere else OTHER than AngelVision (Okay I can't complain too much, I typically do leave at 5 every day...but I've always got my laptop bag draping over my shoulder next to my hippie bag which, might I add, I am soooo in the need for a new one) -- Gustav from 94.7 hosts a five song playlist made up by, well, anyone. All you have to do is submit a playlist along with an explanation for your songs and, of course, information about yourself to Gustav via email and hope and pray that your list is awesome enough to get chosen.
Here's what Tony and I submitted earlier this month:
Tony and Amie's Widmer's Perfect Playlist
Theme: A Day at AngelVision
Tony and I work together at a marketing company in Tigard called AngelVision Technologies. AT AV we make impact movies -- 3 to 3 1/2 minute movies that serve as marketing tools for companies to use in 20 different way (We've got to put the company plug in somewhere, right?). My role at AV is as a scriptwriter while Tony is a flash developer. Basically, I write the script for the movie while Tony puts my words and cues and directions into action (But making them way cooler than I could ever imagine). In essence, it's a relationship built to last; I tell Tony what to do and he complies, ten-fold (Isn't that what any girl wants?). I kid, of course...though our two minds have been known to create some of the craftiest, though easily most twisted plots and ideas.
It's a good thing they rarely ever come to fruition (Though our band 80s Montage Limbo would, by far, be the best obscure band...maybe ever).
What really brought Tony and I together, aside from our shared love for sushi, zombies and creating obscure band names, is indeed, music. While Tony's more hardcore than I am on his Pandora (The guy eats through his free 40 hours before the fifth of the month) and despite our shared differences in favorite artists (His = Radiohead, Mine = Jack Johnson), we share enough common bonds to interrupt each other enough during the day over instant messenger to gush about whatever song is streaming through our ear buds (Or, if you're like Tony, giant headphones).
Our perfect playlist is a recreation of our typical day at AngelVision -- starting out dead tired in the morning after a long day AND night of writing and flash development, only to trudge on with more work so we can feel totally gangsta after FINALLY finishing a project...before being stuck in traffic after day's end to finally make it home.
Here's our list of glory:
1. Sleepyhead, Passion Pit (Need we say more? Love the band and the song is perfect to kick the day off with...heck, it's my ringtone and alarm)
2. Work, Hockey (This song hits a couple of points: During our first conversation, Tony asked if I liked hockey, based off a Windows Live status I had up that said, "Wake up with Hockey." Of course, I responded, gushing about the Portland band Hockey...only to find out that he was, in fact, talking ice and pads and sticks and pucks. We also have a special place in our hearts for Canada.)
3. Paper Planes, MIA (There's nothing like celebrating the completion of a project, especially ones for difficult clients, than playing Paper Planes and letting our suburban white kid exterior disappear as we thug around like...well, you know..thugs)
4. No Cars Go, Arcade Fire (Tony's REAL favorite band is Arcade Fire which I, too, am totally down with. They're just...so...good)
5. Home, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros (Every time one of use hears this song on Pandora we ping each other with new lyrics...sort of like a bragging right. Of course, sometimes I cheat and pull it up on YouTube just so I can hear it. It's funky and folky and Jade's voice and the whistling are simply to die for).
And our alternative: Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, The Flaming Lips (This song, of course, is a great alternate to Paper Planes because something, throughout the workday, we have to battle crazy clients who well, try to eat us...and stuff).
At any rate, we received an email back a little over a week after submitting our Perfect Playlist and, within five days were ON THE RADIO.
I don't think I had ever been so nervous in my whole entire life. Okay, that's obviously hyperbolic but I was surprised by how awkward sweaty I got over being on the radio. It was like the feeling you get when going on a first date...multiplied by 10, and on crack. Like really good freak out crack (Of course, not that I would actually know).
The experience actually turned out to be a blast...not that I had an any inkling that my radio debut would turn out otherwise. But still, I'm a nervous wreck prior to any kind of recording where I know SOMEONE is going to be hearing my voice. Nevertheless, despite some shakiness at the beginning (I stuttered a bit when explaining how I got into Hockey) on my part, Tony and I managed to pull off a smooth and seamless radio show. We even had a guy call in half way through Edward Sharpe and demand...okay fine, suggest...that Tony and I get an hour to run music every day because we were, indeed, "Just that awesome."
While we were hoping for some birthday luck on pocketing Arcade Fire concert tickets (It was Tony's birthday the day we went on the air), we ended up with, like everyone else that week, tickets to see Sublime in November. On a Tuesday. Without their real lead singer. We've already vowed to make complete asses of ourselves, demanding old school, REAL Sublime songs.
Go big or go home, right?
Monday, September 20, 2010
More creativity
I've got a lot of extra time these days...okay...that's a lie; my 70-hour work weeks are not giving me a lot of free time these days (A little distraction goes a long ways)...but nevertheless, I'm finding that I'm gravitating toward more creative writing. I'm not sure where it's coming from or why, now, all of a sudden I think that I might, maybe, perchance be a creative but for some reason, my mind is thinking more lyrically these days.
That said, here's something I wrote over the weekend.
Yes. Judge away.
Berry Kiss
A taste like Once...
Never...before. I came across a
Perfectly Sweet kiss.
Ripe with life. I popped it in my mouth --
Beautiful, Juicy,
And then -- Tart and
Almost Puckery --
With a pop, Like a berry,
It stained my Ripe
Red lips. With passion.
So yes. There it is. Gah.
That said, here's something I wrote over the weekend.
Yes. Judge away.
Berry Kiss
A taste like Once...
Never...before. I came across a
Perfectly Sweet kiss.
Ripe with life. I popped it in my mouth --
Beautiful, Juicy,
And then -- Tart and
Almost Puckery --
With a pop, Like a berry,
It stained my Ripe
Red lips. With passion.
So yes. There it is. Gah.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Aunthood
So holy cow I'm an Aunt. That's right; my brother and his wife Amber gave birth --
Wait.
Scratch that. Try again.
My sister-in-law Amber gave birth on Tuesday to a nine pound eleven ounce beautiful baby girl who she -- and now my brother can come back into play -- and my brother named Kairi Nicole.
That makes ME an aunt -- and of course, this new life in my family is all about how me. Aunt Amie.
Cue girly squeal. I finally got to head up to Tacoma for a quick day trip to see her and the new parents and man oh man oh man.
As I was telling my friend Matty, there's absolutely nothing like a teeny tiny little hand wrapping itself around your finger...and not having even cover a fourth of the length of your finger. It gives you a feeling that totally just eradicates everything sucky that's going on in the world because you've got this adorably innocent and gorgeous little person who's just content to do nothing but rest in your arms, wrapped in a fuzzy pink swaddle and just hold onto your finger.
It was at that moment when Matty sounded that it seemed like I was ready for my own.
Dear god no. I might already love this teeny baby with more gusto than I ever thought I could have for kids but I am by no means up for having any of my own. I'm totally down with being the cool Aunt Amie, the psuedo-hippie (To my family's standards anyway) who has a psuedo-shaved head, wears sandals in the rain, walks and bikes everywhere (Yeah...getting my bike fixed. Woot woot) and prefers acupuncture over western medicine. I'll be the family member she can escape to. I'll buy her lots of cool stuff and teach her the ways of Portland: Good coffee, good beer and good food.
See...the fact that I want to teach my five day old niece about coffee and beer CLEARLY shows that I am so NOT ready for motherhood. Aunthood should suit me well.
Congrats again to my brother and Amber.
Wait.
Scratch that. Try again.
My sister-in-law Amber gave birth on Tuesday to a nine pound eleven ounce beautiful baby girl who she -- and now my brother can come back into play -- and my brother named Kairi Nicole.
That makes ME an aunt -- and of course, this new life in my family is all about how me. Aunt Amie.
Cue girly squeal. I finally got to head up to Tacoma for a quick day trip to see her and the new parents and man oh man oh man.
As I was telling my friend Matty, there's absolutely nothing like a teeny tiny little hand wrapping itself around your finger...and not having even cover a fourth of the length of your finger. It gives you a feeling that totally just eradicates everything sucky that's going on in the world because you've got this adorably innocent and gorgeous little person who's just content to do nothing but rest in your arms, wrapped in a fuzzy pink swaddle and just hold onto your finger.
It was at that moment when Matty sounded that it seemed like I was ready for my own.
Dear god no. I might already love this teeny baby with more gusto than I ever thought I could have for kids but I am by no means up for having any of my own. I'm totally down with being the cool Aunt Amie, the psuedo-hippie (To my family's standards anyway) who has a psuedo-shaved head, wears sandals in the rain, walks and bikes everywhere (Yeah...getting my bike fixed. Woot woot) and prefers acupuncture over western medicine. I'll be the family member she can escape to. I'll buy her lots of cool stuff and teach her the ways of Portland: Good coffee, good beer and good food.
See...the fact that I want to teach my five day old niece about coffee and beer CLEARLY shows that I am so NOT ready for motherhood. Aunthood should suit me well.
Congrats again to my brother and Amber.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Creativity
Remember last week when I was all...hey...look I'm way too much of a pansy to really prove how creative I am?
Well I'm taking a leap today. I'm going to share part of my real work. The writing I keep totally hidden from outside eyes, away from the world that can criticize, rip apart and comment on how totally sucky and utterly worthless of a writer I am.
Fuck all that. Here it goes:
The Beat
And now for my solo.
Left right, left right.
I march to that beat of the different drum.
Left right or right left?
I don't even know anymore.
For here I walk in measured steps
One foot in front of another foot.
A measure in time, a measure of mine
That I cannot take back.
Tick tock, a tocking tick--
The clock on the wall commands my life
Recalls the days of the duet
That shook this home alive.
Silence.
Cue spotlight.
Our measured steps are stopped.
But my solo still walks on.
Please take me with
Don't leave me behind
In rhyme without reason
All cast aside.
I need you, need me
To still be alive.
Not us. But me. No longer we.
For we's but a wisp
Of a measure in time.
Short. Staccato. Bravado. Encore.
Rinse and repeat
I've done it before.
Once more here I go
This time alone
Left right, Right left
I think that I know.
I can do this --
Can live
In a world all alone,
In a measured out world
With mermaids and muses who will sing to me.
The coffee, it's measured.
Just like my life
In spoons with reflections
Of upside down strife.
Right left? No it isn't.
Left right?
Yes I am.
Go ahead. Judge away. [Cringes].
PS...that Go ahead, Judge away thing...not part of "The Beat." Just wanted to clear that up. I mean, who in their right mind (Ha, I first wrote write mind...witty? perhaps...error in typing...for sure) actually puts brackets in their creative pieces?
Fin.
Well I'm taking a leap today. I'm going to share part of my real work. The writing I keep totally hidden from outside eyes, away from the world that can criticize, rip apart and comment on how totally sucky and utterly worthless of a writer I am.
Fuck all that. Here it goes:
The Beat
And now for my solo.
Left right, left right.
I march to that beat of the different drum.
Left right or right left?
I don't even know anymore.
For here I walk in measured steps
One foot in front of another foot.
A measure in time, a measure of mine
That I cannot take back.
Tick tock, a tocking tick--
The clock on the wall commands my life
Recalls the days of the duet
That shook this home alive.
Silence.
Cue spotlight.
Our measured steps are stopped.
But my solo still walks on.
Please take me with
Don't leave me behind
In rhyme without reason
All cast aside.
I need you, need me
To still be alive.
Not us. But me. No longer we.
For we's but a wisp
Of a measure in time.
Short. Staccato. Bravado. Encore.
Rinse and repeat
I've done it before.
Once more here I go
This time alone
Left right, Right left
I think that I know.
I can do this --
Can live
In a world all alone,
In a measured out world
With mermaids and muses who will sing to me.
The coffee, it's measured.
Just like my life
In spoons with reflections
Of upside down strife.
Right left? No it isn't.
Left right?
Yes I am.
Go ahead. Judge away. [Cringes].
PS...that Go ahead, Judge away thing...not part of "The Beat." Just wanted to clear that up. I mean, who in their right mind (Ha, I first wrote write mind...witty? perhaps...error in typing...for sure) actually puts brackets in their creative pieces?
Fin.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
(Non) Creativity?
In the office I share with the other writer at my job I face a haphazardly hung white board. We use the white board for...well...whatever writers and other creatives use white boards for: jokes, drawings and quotations. In the upper right corner is one of a dozen or so condoms that were left in my desk drawer when we moved offices four weeks ago. The wrapper is a girly bubble gum pink and, with enough tape, stuck nicely to the board. Underneath, in matching girly bubble gum pink white board marker, I've written (in girly bubble gum-ish) cursive, "For inspiration."
But this post isn't about the condom or the whiteboard.
I brought it up in the first place because it holds another quotation from last week. During an initial interview, one of our clients told our messaging director that he's counting on him for creativity because -- and I directly-ish quote the client -- "You could say that [he's] mentally handicapped when it comes to creativity."
We couldn't help but laugh because the man was just so frank about it and, by our profession we're labeled as creatives, the other writer and I posted in on our board, lapping up its irony.
I'm not lapping anymore because apparently, according to a survey we got back from a client today, I totally and completely lack creativity. That's a paraphrase of course. The real comments included winning phrases like, "not very creative," "not slick or cool," "lacking uniqueness," and -- my personal favorite -- "clearly not what we wanted."
You see, after a client gives us the "Heck ya! Okay!" on a script, we -- the writers and messaging director -- don't have to deal with it anymore (Which is usually worth celebrating), enabling the client to fill out a survey about the writing/scripting process. Pretty much we ask how they felt their initial interview went (Which...sidebar...I get to host my first one tomorrow!!!), how we can improve our process and what, if any, concerns they might have going into the development process.
This client wrote a fucking novel. Perhaps it's because I wrote them a novel...giving them 14 different drafts. Fourteen different messages, all selling the same blase product. And apparently, it wasn't until we gave them a final ultimatum that they actual decided to choose to accept the final script which, unfortunately for them, wasn't anywhere near my best work.
Creative? Sure. But only to the extent of "I guess this will have to do and I've been working on this for four months and lose the ability to care just a little bit everyday."
I shouldn't complain, really.
But come on...I KNOW I'm creative. I don't flaunt it necessarily (Come on, like any sensitive artist I'm far too much of a pansy to let everyone read everything. This blog works well enough for now...it's an outlet where I don't really have to put my REAL work in front of whoever you all reading this may be), but I know I've got it: Whenever I hear music I'm either directing its music video or choreographing a dance to it in my head. Whenever I watch a thrilling, suspenseful or scary movie I'm always expecting THAT MOMENT (You know...the one that makes you pee your pants just a little...not too much...just enough that you can blame it on the condensation of your $4.25 soda) to be WAAAAY WORSE than it ever turns out to be (One exception is The Departed. Sure I thought that Leo might get shot point blank but come on Scorcese...could he have AT LEAST stepped out of the elevator first? Damn. So good. [Which makes Shutter Island such a shame...]. But I digress...). I imagine different scenarios in my life which I know everyone does...that's just called hope and futuristic wishful thinking but do you think about leaving everything to start an 80's tribute band called 80s Limbo Montage?
Save for Tony, I didn't think so.
I'm trying not to take the survey remarks seriously or to heart but it's a bit of a struggle. I want to do a good job. Fuck, I want to do a DAMN GOOD SUPER AWESOME job.
Shoo (Hey Kurtis...that one was for you)...I KNOW I do.
Damn Canucks. They should know that too.
But this post isn't about the condom or the whiteboard.
I brought it up in the first place because it holds another quotation from last week. During an initial interview, one of our clients told our messaging director that he's counting on him for creativity because -- and I directly-ish quote the client -- "You could say that [he's] mentally handicapped when it comes to creativity."
We couldn't help but laugh because the man was just so frank about it and, by our profession we're labeled as creatives, the other writer and I posted in on our board, lapping up its irony.
I'm not lapping anymore because apparently, according to a survey we got back from a client today, I totally and completely lack creativity. That's a paraphrase of course. The real comments included winning phrases like, "not very creative," "not slick or cool," "lacking uniqueness," and -- my personal favorite -- "clearly not what we wanted."
You see, after a client gives us the "Heck ya! Okay!" on a script, we -- the writers and messaging director -- don't have to deal with it anymore (Which is usually worth celebrating), enabling the client to fill out a survey about the writing/scripting process. Pretty much we ask how they felt their initial interview went (Which...sidebar...I get to host my first one tomorrow!!!), how we can improve our process and what, if any, concerns they might have going into the development process.
This client wrote a fucking novel. Perhaps it's because I wrote them a novel...giving them 14 different drafts. Fourteen different messages, all selling the same blase product. And apparently, it wasn't until we gave them a final ultimatum that they actual decided to choose to accept the final script which, unfortunately for them, wasn't anywhere near my best work.
Creative? Sure. But only to the extent of "I guess this will have to do and I've been working on this for four months and lose the ability to care just a little bit everyday."
I shouldn't complain, really.
But come on...I KNOW I'm creative. I don't flaunt it necessarily (Come on, like any sensitive artist I'm far too much of a pansy to let everyone read everything. This blog works well enough for now...it's an outlet where I don't really have to put my REAL work in front of whoever you all reading this may be), but I know I've got it: Whenever I hear music I'm either directing its music video or choreographing a dance to it in my head. Whenever I watch a thrilling, suspenseful or scary movie I'm always expecting THAT MOMENT (You know...the one that makes you pee your pants just a little...not too much...just enough that you can blame it on the condensation of your $4.25 soda) to be WAAAAY WORSE than it ever turns out to be (One exception is The Departed. Sure I thought that Leo might get shot point blank but come on Scorcese...could he have AT LEAST stepped out of the elevator first? Damn. So good. [Which makes Shutter Island such a shame...]. But I digress...). I imagine different scenarios in my life which I know everyone does...that's just called hope and futuristic wishful thinking but do you think about leaving everything to start an 80's tribute band called 80s Limbo Montage?
Save for Tony, I didn't think so.
I'm trying not to take the survey remarks seriously or to heart but it's a bit of a struggle. I want to do a good job. Fuck, I want to do a DAMN GOOD SUPER AWESOME job.
Shoo (Hey Kurtis...that one was for you)...I KNOW I do.
Damn Canucks. They should know that too.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
The Web
No. I'm not talking about the internet.
So...if you're a tech-savvy super nerd (Ahem, Walker), feel free to stop reading now because my story of the web probably isn't going to interest you.
That said...
I'm talking about a different type of web...the spider web.
It's everywhere. Or rather, to be more realistically and grammatically correct, they're everywhere.
August and September mark one of my favorite times of the year to be a Northwest (Okay, fine...they're all over Stumptown) Portland resident because spider webs are in absolute overabundance (Yes mom, I know you're cringing and wondering how I ever came from your loins but, come on, by now you should know that I'm a psuedo-hippie -- to Spokane standards, anyway -- creature-loving nerdy hipster. I mean, half of my hair is shorn for crying out loud). I first fell in love with them -- and noticed them, to be honest -- at the end of last summer when I was taking a lot of early morning, have-to-get-out-of-the-house-or-else-I'm-going-to-go-crazy walks. Still shining with early morning dew, the spider webs, which decorate bushes, trees, building eaves, fire escape stairwells, road signs and everything in between, simply shine in a glorified omnipresent beauty that's just radiant.
And the spiders that dabble in the middle of these five and eight and thirteen inch webs (Yes, I've measured and taken photos) just hang out, asking whoever stops in jaw-dropping awe in proud mockery, "Yeah...what have YOU done today?"
Turns out...usually when I have the chance to really admire these webs, my answer is, "Eh, not much."
That's how it was this morning, anyway. After a night of tacos and tequila with Walker and Jason, I was..admittedly...a bit slow to the start of my morning. Usually, during the work week, I'm up at 4:30, running by 5 when the spiders are rebuilding their webs after a night of human destruction.
How do I know? Because I'm the one breaking the random web strings flailing like silent assassins from the the trees. They attack my face and brush my cheek with such eerie vengeance which, regardless of how much I don't mind spiders, freaks me out. If anyone saw me karate-chopping with my arms while running up Lovejoy and Cornell at five in the morning, I'm almost certain they'd believe I was yet another neighborhood crazy.
But this morning, as mentioned before, was slower, recovering from a celebratory night with Yeyo (QO landed quite a few jobs lately...woot woot), so instead of an early morning run, I went on a regular-morning (i have to believe that 8 a.m. is 'normal' morning time) walk around the neighborhood while talking on the phone. It was nice...taking time to notice the beauty of nature that, despite living in the city, surrounds me.
Big old spiders. Big old webs, glimmering in the big old sun that danced behind big old clouds in that big old sky.
It was pretty and calming and nice to realize that, even though I'm typically a hustle-bustle, go-go-go individual, the power of nature never ceases to amaze me.
So...if you're a tech-savvy super nerd (Ahem, Walker), feel free to stop reading now because my story of the web probably isn't going to interest you.
That said...
I'm talking about a different type of web...the spider web.
It's everywhere. Or rather, to be more realistically and grammatically correct, they're everywhere.
August and September mark one of my favorite times of the year to be a Northwest (Okay, fine...they're all over Stumptown) Portland resident because spider webs are in absolute overabundance (Yes mom, I know you're cringing and wondering how I ever came from your loins but, come on, by now you should know that I'm a psuedo-hippie -- to Spokane standards, anyway -- creature-loving nerdy hipster. I mean, half of my hair is shorn for crying out loud). I first fell in love with them -- and noticed them, to be honest -- at the end of last summer when I was taking a lot of early morning, have-to-get-out-of-the-house-or-else-I'm-going-to-go-crazy walks. Still shining with early morning dew, the spider webs, which decorate bushes, trees, building eaves, fire escape stairwells, road signs and everything in between, simply shine in a glorified omnipresent beauty that's just radiant.
And the spiders that dabble in the middle of these five and eight and thirteen inch webs (Yes, I've measured and taken photos) just hang out, asking whoever stops in jaw-dropping awe in proud mockery, "Yeah...what have YOU done today?"
Turns out...usually when I have the chance to really admire these webs, my answer is, "Eh, not much."
That's how it was this morning, anyway. After a night of tacos and tequila with Walker and Jason, I was..admittedly...a bit slow to the start of my morning. Usually, during the work week, I'm up at 4:30, running by 5 when the spiders are rebuilding their webs after a night of human destruction.
How do I know? Because I'm the one breaking the random web strings flailing like silent assassins from the the trees. They attack my face and brush my cheek with such eerie vengeance which, regardless of how much I don't mind spiders, freaks me out. If anyone saw me karate-chopping with my arms while running up Lovejoy and Cornell at five in the morning, I'm almost certain they'd believe I was yet another neighborhood crazy.
But this morning, as mentioned before, was slower, recovering from a celebratory night with Yeyo (QO landed quite a few jobs lately...woot woot), so instead of an early morning run, I went on a regular-morning (i have to believe that 8 a.m. is 'normal' morning time) walk around the neighborhood while talking on the phone. It was nice...taking time to notice the beauty of nature that, despite living in the city, surrounds me.
Big old spiders. Big old webs, glimmering in the big old sun that danced behind big old clouds in that big old sky.
It was pretty and calming and nice to realize that, even though I'm typically a hustle-bustle, go-go-go individual, the power of nature never ceases to amaze me.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
'Shups
'Shups, as the apostrophe implies, is short for push ups.
And push ups, for anyone with gangly and/or weak arms like mine know, are the world's absolute worst exercise. As a 14-year runner, push ups have always been the bane of my existence. Sure, I've always needed to have some ounce of enduring strength within my arms, propelling me forward during as race as my strong, buff legs revolved in simplistic, speedy strength. But I've never actually needed them to be Arnold Schwartzenegger buff.
I mean, in all honesty, that'd just look a bit beyond ridiculous.
Though, feel free to take a moment to pause and imagine a 5'8", buck-twenty, pixie haired girl with arms the size of the Governator. I'd definitely make sure to include the slick tanned look, too.
Anyway. Back to reality...
I bring up push ups because tomorrow during work will mark the end of my eighth week of (week)daily exercise sessions that occur between 2 and 3 pm in my office (Which, coincidentally also happens to be 'cookie happy hour' at the cafe downstairs where cookies -- I prefer the lemon coconut [I know, the fact that I eat coconut in a baked good is so hypocritical, considering I liken shredded coconut to cuticles] -- though the oatmeal raisin are also quite tasty). And, as the end of the eighth week I am responsible for doing 40 push ups.
40. F-o-r-t-y. The number of winks that make up a nap. The number of days and nights Noah had to last on that bloody ark of his.
Okay it wasn't bloody...but I like to pretend I'm from England every now and then and use a British 'fucking' on occasion.
Anyway...bloody hell I can't seem to stay on track. Perhaps it's because forty push ups is a lot, especially considering that today's 39 all about rendered me useless for the rest of the afternoon. For the past two weeks, after finishing push ups with four of my coworkers who, sure--are tired and everything, pop up and get ready for sit ups, I simply collapse on my belly and lie on the floor in total agony wondering how the hell I can push myself to a ten mile run and be ready to take on the rest of the day but can't push my body 30-something times up and down without needing to crash for a solid two hours.
I mean, it makes obvious sense -- I've got years of running under my belt...err...feet...but not years of push ups. Still, it sucks.
We've got four more weeks of 'shups -- as that's when one of my coworkers hits 100 (He's a guy...which I'll fully accept as a valid excuse for doing waaaaaaay more push ups than I'd ever care, or be able, to ever do).
Four more weeks? That'll put me at 60 'shups.
Ouch...the thought of that just made my muscles cringe.
Why couldn't I have been a body builder to start out with, eh?
And push ups, for anyone with gangly and/or weak arms like mine know, are the world's absolute worst exercise. As a 14-year runner, push ups have always been the bane of my existence. Sure, I've always needed to have some ounce of enduring strength within my arms, propelling me forward during as race as my strong, buff legs revolved in simplistic, speedy strength. But I've never actually needed them to be Arnold Schwartzenegger buff.
I mean, in all honesty, that'd just look a bit beyond ridiculous.
Though, feel free to take a moment to pause and imagine a 5'8", buck-twenty, pixie haired girl with arms the size of the Governator. I'd definitely make sure to include the slick tanned look, too.
Anyway. Back to reality...
I bring up push ups because tomorrow during work will mark the end of my eighth week of (week)daily exercise sessions that occur between 2 and 3 pm in my office (Which, coincidentally also happens to be 'cookie happy hour' at the cafe downstairs where cookies -- I prefer the lemon coconut [I know, the fact that I eat coconut in a baked good is so hypocritical, considering I liken shredded coconut to cuticles] -- though the oatmeal raisin are also quite tasty). And, as the end of the eighth week I am responsible for doing 40 push ups.
40. F-o-r-t-y. The number of winks that make up a nap. The number of days and nights Noah had to last on that bloody ark of his.
Okay it wasn't bloody...but I like to pretend I'm from England every now and then and use a British 'fucking' on occasion.
Anyway...bloody hell I can't seem to stay on track. Perhaps it's because forty push ups is a lot, especially considering that today's 39 all about rendered me useless for the rest of the afternoon. For the past two weeks, after finishing push ups with four of my coworkers who, sure--are tired and everything, pop up and get ready for sit ups, I simply collapse on my belly and lie on the floor in total agony wondering how the hell I can push myself to a ten mile run and be ready to take on the rest of the day but can't push my body 30-something times up and down without needing to crash for a solid two hours.
I mean, it makes obvious sense -- I've got years of running under my belt...err...feet...but not years of push ups. Still, it sucks.
We've got four more weeks of 'shups -- as that's when one of my coworkers hits 100 (He's a guy...which I'll fully accept as a valid excuse for doing waaaaaaay more push ups than I'd ever care, or be able, to ever do).
Four more weeks? That'll put me at 60 'shups.
Ouch...the thought of that just made my muscles cringe.
Why couldn't I have been a body builder to start out with, eh?
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Mommy Wow! I'm a big kid now?
Yep. I'm a big kid. An official adult and stuff.
Why?
Because today is the day my insurance benefits really officially kick in.
That's right...I can break a leg, break my teeth, break my spirit and have it all fixed...and paid for.
While I don't have any plans on breaking any of the aforementioned, I guess today just gives me peace-of-mind (There's AngelVision speak for you) knowing that, in case something really crappy and painful does come my way -- say the lady who almost hit me during my run this morning hadn't finished applying her lipstick and actually turned into me instead of nearly into me -- I'm covered; good to go.
It's hard at this juncture to not want to go down the highway of political ranting but, considering I have a plethora of friends and loved ones who are my age, working their asses off without a safety net of health insurance, it's inevitable that my typically non-political posting is taking the on ramp at full speed.
A couple of weeks ago the New York Times T-Magazine ran an article about kids my age. The headline pretty much sums up the subject of the eleven page issue: "What Is It About 20-Somethings?" "Why," the subhead asks, "Are so many people in their 20s taking so long to grow up?" One of the reasons...healthcare. The other reason? The economy. It's awesome, really, that our president has allowed those of us no longer in college but without a job like mine to stay on our parents' health insurance plans until we're 26 but, at the same time, allowing us to keep suckling away on that parental teat just pushes us further and further away from real, live independence. It's a way of keeping us half-grown up as psuedo-adults who are almost...but not quite...there.
What pushes most of us down even further is the still-tanked and ever-tanking economy that's ripe only with un-and-underemployment. There are too many degree-bearing 20-somethings with stocks of creativity, passion, drive and talent who are working part-time, unfulfilling jobs (By the way, unfulfilling isn't actually a word. Good thing I've got an English degree and license to make up my own). And here in Portland (Okay, and Oregon in general where the unemployment level is still over 10 percent), the economy is nearly impossible.
It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair!
Wait...this post was about me being a grown up, right?
Anyway...
While I typically don't agree with Nancy Pelosi, I found a quotation from her on Friday while looking up quotations for a client.
(Sidebar for all of those in marketing...don't EVER promise a client you'll find a quotation for them. It takes for fucking ever. And yes...the F-word was indeed necessary. End Sidebar)
Pelosi said: "Think of an economy where people could be an artist or photographer or writer without worrying about keeping their day job in order to have health insurance."
Indeed...where is that economy? And where is the universal healthcare? Where? Where? Where?
Maybe we 20-somethings don't want to grow up just quite yet because there's not a whole lot of awesome to grow up to.
Hmm. I think I broke my spirit somewhere during that joyride.
And here I thought the start of September never looked so good.
Why?
Because today is the day my insurance benefits really officially kick in.
That's right...I can break a leg, break my teeth, break my spirit and have it all fixed...and paid for.
While I don't have any plans on breaking any of the aforementioned, I guess today just gives me peace-of-mind (There's AngelVision speak for you) knowing that, in case something really crappy and painful does come my way -- say the lady who almost hit me during my run this morning hadn't finished applying her lipstick and actually turned into me instead of nearly into me -- I'm covered; good to go.
It's hard at this juncture to not want to go down the highway of political ranting but, considering I have a plethora of friends and loved ones who are my age, working their asses off without a safety net of health insurance, it's inevitable that my typically non-political posting is taking the on ramp at full speed.
A couple of weeks ago the New York Times T-Magazine ran an article about kids my age. The headline pretty much sums up the subject of the eleven page issue: "What Is It About 20-Somethings?" "Why," the subhead asks, "Are so many people in their 20s taking so long to grow up?" One of the reasons...healthcare. The other reason? The economy. It's awesome, really, that our president has allowed those of us no longer in college but without a job like mine to stay on our parents' health insurance plans until we're 26 but, at the same time, allowing us to keep suckling away on that parental teat just pushes us further and further away from real, live independence. It's a way of keeping us half-grown up as psuedo-adults who are almost...but not quite...there.
What pushes most of us down even further is the still-tanked and ever-tanking economy that's ripe only with un-and-underemployment. There are too many degree-bearing 20-somethings with stocks of creativity, passion, drive and talent who are working part-time, unfulfilling jobs (By the way, unfulfilling isn't actually a word. Good thing I've got an English degree and license to make up my own). And here in Portland (Okay, and Oregon in general where the unemployment level is still over 10 percent), the economy is nearly impossible.
It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair!
Wait...this post was about me being a grown up, right?
Anyway...
While I typically don't agree with Nancy Pelosi, I found a quotation from her on Friday while looking up quotations for a client.
(Sidebar for all of those in marketing...don't EVER promise a client you'll find a quotation for them. It takes for fucking ever. And yes...the F-word was indeed necessary. End Sidebar)
Pelosi said: "Think of an economy where people could be an artist or photographer or writer without worrying about keeping their day job in order to have health insurance."
Indeed...where is that economy? And where is the universal healthcare? Where? Where? Where?
Maybe we 20-somethings don't want to grow up just quite yet because there's not a whole lot of awesome to grow up to.
Hmm. I think I broke my spirit somewhere during that joyride.
And here I thought the start of September never looked so good.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Crossword Love
Some call it love. Some call it an obsession. I call it an absolute necessity.
The crossword puzzle is an indulgence I get -- no, have -- to partake in every morning, thanks to the year long subscription to The Oregonian that my parents so lovingly got me for Christmas. Everyday I plan out at least 30 minutes of coffee and crossword time....so yes, during the week when I'm waking up at 4 and 4:30 in the morning to run before work, I'm also figuring in a solid crossword and coffee session.
I know, I know, I already hear people gawking that I wake up THAT early JUST to do the crossword.
But I can't help it.
I've tried -- like today, when I simply woke up, laced up my Nikes with my building key tucked tightly in the tongue and headed out my building door into the early morning darkness without caffeine running through my blood and crossword clues running through my head. It was a good run -- heck, it was a great one (10 miles before 6:15? Yeah, it was real good). But here I sit, with nothing to do at work (Literally nothing. It's been like this for three days now and my writing fingers are itching with idleness), feeling slightly amiss because I have yet to complete any crossword puzzles.
In fact, my little Oregonian is still wrapped in its blue plastic sheath, begging me to read it and not succumb to the diabolic lure of Internet news. I actually think I can hear it sighing, holding back weepy tears from my desk drawer...
"Read me." "Open me." "Do me." "Finish me."
Hmmm. Somehow that turned slightly pornographic.
[Insert commercial break]
My love for the crossword puzzle grew, thanks in large part to the boring classes I had during my college years at the University of Portland.
IMPORTANT CLARIFYING NOTE: Not ONCE did I EVER EVER EVER pull out a crossword puzzle during an English class.
That being said...
Had I never been forced to take Biblical Traditions from a professor who adamantly called me Annie the entire semester (But then mysteriously called me Amie a year and a half later on a random campus pass-by), I probably never would have learned to fold the newspaper just perfectly to cleverly camouflage it amidst my notebooks. Were it not for freshmen level communication studies classes I took as a fifth year, I wouldn't have learned the codes of the crossword (For example: Abbreviations in a clue means an abbreviated answer. And, not Or, adds an "S" to a name. You get the idea).
Nor would I have learned that an "aerie" is an eagle's nest, that Ella Fitzgerald is a jazz legend, that Erma Bombeck is absolutely awesome (Okay the crossword didn't teach me that but her constant appearance in the grid piqued my interest to put my Google skills to work) or that Nikola Tesla was a rival inventor of Thomas Edison.
I don't think I would have learned any of that in my theology or communication studies classes either.
I guess I like the crossword so much for the simple reason that it gives me something to do. It's a time-wasting past time that's actually productive -- I'm learning (as aforementioned factoids clearly prove evident), working my brain and, on the glorious occasion that I fully finish a puzzle, experiencing a glorious rush of accomplishment and pride.
It's dorky, I know. An obsession, of course. But few things are as satisfying as unsheathing the newspaper, flipping through to the crossword puzzle and burying myself in the black and white boxes while I wake up over a hot cup of steaming coffee.
The crossword puzzle is an indulgence I get -- no, have -- to partake in every morning, thanks to the year long subscription to The Oregonian that my parents so lovingly got me for Christmas. Everyday I plan out at least 30 minutes of coffee and crossword time....so yes, during the week when I'm waking up at 4 and 4:30 in the morning to run before work, I'm also figuring in a solid crossword and coffee session.
I know, I know, I already hear people gawking that I wake up THAT early JUST to do the crossword.
But I can't help it.
I've tried -- like today, when I simply woke up, laced up my Nikes with my building key tucked tightly in the tongue and headed out my building door into the early morning darkness without caffeine running through my blood and crossword clues running through my head. It was a good run -- heck, it was a great one (10 miles before 6:15? Yeah, it was real good). But here I sit, with nothing to do at work (Literally nothing. It's been like this for three days now and my writing fingers are itching with idleness), feeling slightly amiss because I have yet to complete any crossword puzzles.
In fact, my little Oregonian is still wrapped in its blue plastic sheath, begging me to read it and not succumb to the diabolic lure of Internet news. I actually think I can hear it sighing, holding back weepy tears from my desk drawer...
"Read me." "Open me." "Do me." "Finish me."
Hmmm. Somehow that turned slightly pornographic.
[Insert commercial break]
My love for the crossword puzzle grew, thanks in large part to the boring classes I had during my college years at the University of Portland.
IMPORTANT CLARIFYING NOTE: Not ONCE did I EVER EVER EVER pull out a crossword puzzle during an English class.
That being said...
Had I never been forced to take Biblical Traditions from a professor who adamantly called me Annie the entire semester (But then mysteriously called me Amie a year and a half later on a random campus pass-by), I probably never would have learned to fold the newspaper just perfectly to cleverly camouflage it amidst my notebooks. Were it not for freshmen level communication studies classes I took as a fifth year, I wouldn't have learned the codes of the crossword (For example: Abbreviations in a clue means an abbreviated answer. And, not Or, adds an "S" to a name. You get the idea).
Nor would I have learned that an "aerie" is an eagle's nest, that Ella Fitzgerald is a jazz legend, that Erma Bombeck is absolutely awesome (Okay the crossword didn't teach me that but her constant appearance in the grid piqued my interest to put my Google skills to work) or that Nikola Tesla was a rival inventor of Thomas Edison.
I don't think I would have learned any of that in my theology or communication studies classes either.
I guess I like the crossword so much for the simple reason that it gives me something to do. It's a time-wasting past time that's actually productive -- I'm learning (as aforementioned factoids clearly prove evident), working my brain and, on the glorious occasion that I fully finish a puzzle, experiencing a glorious rush of accomplishment and pride.
It's dorky, I know. An obsession, of course. But few things are as satisfying as unsheathing the newspaper, flipping through to the crossword puzzle and burying myself in the black and white boxes while I wake up over a hot cup of steaming coffee.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Culinary Adventures of a Saucier
Okay...it's time to humbly brag about my latest culinary adventure: Sauces.
If I were a chef, I'd be a saucier (Pronounced sauce-ee-ay). At least, that's where my cooking prowess shined through on Sunday. Even though hot July temperatures warmed up the apartment to a toasty 90 degrees, I spent the majority of my afternoon in our teeny kitchen, sweating over (but not into) steaming sauce pans making two very different yet pretty dang good sauces.
The first was just my typical tomato sauce for a farfalle (bowtie) noodle "lasagna" I made for Clara's friend. I spent a solid 45 minutes dicing onions, garlic, shallots, basil, parsley and chopping tomatoes, bell peppers an mushrooms. Next, I sauteed my aromatics (plus salt, pepper and chili flakes) until the apartment teems with an olive oily-garlic aroma before dropping in two jars of Trader Joe's plain tomato sauce and once can of diced tomatoes, turned down the heat to medium-low then letting that baby simmer for a solid three hours. When it comes to tomato sauces, the longer, the better.
The second sauce is what I'm most proud of (I sort of have the consistently delicious tomato sauce down. Sure, sometimes I make it a titch too salty or tad too runny but those occasions happen about as often as Valentine's Day...once a year, and I'm typically the only one who really rues it), mainly because I totally made it up all on my very own.
The previous Sunday I had purchased a package of bone-in pork chops from Zupan's ($4.36 for 5 ounces of high-quality, lean protein per person? How could I pass that up?) and wanted to use them for dinner for Walker and myself. We still had a ton of berries from our Saturday trek out to suburbia to the Beaverton Farmer's Market that neeeeeeeeeded to be used. So...what did I do? I made a savory sauce for the pork, of course:
Blackberry Mint Red Wine Reduction
1 1/2 pints blackberries
1/2 bottle of cabernet sauvignon
2 cups vegetable or pork stock
1/3 white onion, finely diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
Aromatics: Mint, rosemary, tarragon, finely diced
2 TBSP rendered bacon grease
Salt, pepper
Heat bacon fat in medium sized sauce pan. Once melted and giving off smoky aroma, add aromatics, garlic, onion, salt and pepper. Sautee until you get the heavenly smell of garlic, onions (which should be translucent) and mint swirling in your nostrils (Mixed with the smokiness of the beacon, these aromas are to freaking die for). Add berries. Sautee and coat the berries with aromatic bacon grease, but don't let the berries caramelize...coast them just enough to them sigh, for about two minutes. After two minutes, add wine and stock. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat, cover and let simmer until the sauce reduces to a near-syrupy consistency. The berries won't totally break down, which is good, because it gives your sauce a bit of a thickness.
I was a bit afraid that the sauce might be too sweet but, surprisingly, the smoky flavor of the beacon grease, the savory stock, the full-bodied wine and the refreshingly savory profiles of the aromatics harmonized nicely together and served as a nice sauce for the pork chops which I left very simple: Sprinkled with salt and pepper, I performed a quick sear on both sides, about two minutes each, before finishing the chops in the oven, topped with some sauce and mint sprigs. Grilling the chops would have added another smoky profile to the palate which, indeed, would have been divine.
At any rate, I'm pretty happy with this sauce because it's one of the first I've ever made without first scouring my cookbook, Epicurious or the Food Network for hours, looking for inspiration. And it turned out to be a success (Well, according to Walker anyway).
The next big culinary test is quickly approaching...cooking a once-tried (though ravely reviewed) menu, not for two, but for 15 people. Dun, dun, duuuuuuuuuun.
To be continued...
If I were a chef, I'd be a saucier (Pronounced sauce-ee-ay). At least, that's where my cooking prowess shined through on Sunday. Even though hot July temperatures warmed up the apartment to a toasty 90 degrees, I spent the majority of my afternoon in our teeny kitchen, sweating over (but not into) steaming sauce pans making two very different yet pretty dang good sauces.
The first was just my typical tomato sauce for a farfalle (bowtie) noodle "lasagna" I made for Clara's friend. I spent a solid 45 minutes dicing onions, garlic, shallots, basil, parsley and chopping tomatoes, bell peppers an mushrooms. Next, I sauteed my aromatics (plus salt, pepper and chili flakes) until the apartment teems with an olive oily-garlic aroma before dropping in two jars of Trader Joe's plain tomato sauce and once can of diced tomatoes, turned down the heat to medium-low then letting that baby simmer for a solid three hours. When it comes to tomato sauces, the longer, the better.
The second sauce is what I'm most proud of (I sort of have the consistently delicious tomato sauce down. Sure, sometimes I make it a titch too salty or tad too runny but those occasions happen about as often as Valentine's Day...once a year, and I'm typically the only one who really rues it), mainly because I totally made it up all on my very own.
The previous Sunday I had purchased a package of bone-in pork chops from Zupan's ($4.36 for 5 ounces of high-quality, lean protein per person? How could I pass that up?) and wanted to use them for dinner for Walker and myself. We still had a ton of berries from our Saturday trek out to suburbia to the Beaverton Farmer's Market that neeeeeeeeeded to be used. So...what did I do? I made a savory sauce for the pork, of course:
Blackberry Mint Red Wine Reduction
1 1/2 pints blackberries
1/2 bottle of cabernet sauvignon
2 cups vegetable or pork stock
1/3 white onion, finely diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
Aromatics: Mint, rosemary, tarragon, finely diced
2 TBSP rendered bacon grease
Salt, pepper
Heat bacon fat in medium sized sauce pan. Once melted and giving off smoky aroma, add aromatics, garlic, onion, salt and pepper. Sautee until you get the heavenly smell of garlic, onions (which should be translucent) and mint swirling in your nostrils (Mixed with the smokiness of the beacon, these aromas are to freaking die for). Add berries. Sautee and coat the berries with aromatic bacon grease, but don't let the berries caramelize...coast them just enough to them sigh, for about two minutes. After two minutes, add wine and stock. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat, cover and let simmer until the sauce reduces to a near-syrupy consistency. The berries won't totally break down, which is good, because it gives your sauce a bit of a thickness.
I was a bit afraid that the sauce might be too sweet but, surprisingly, the smoky flavor of the beacon grease, the savory stock, the full-bodied wine and the refreshingly savory profiles of the aromatics harmonized nicely together and served as a nice sauce for the pork chops which I left very simple: Sprinkled with salt and pepper, I performed a quick sear on both sides, about two minutes each, before finishing the chops in the oven, topped with some sauce and mint sprigs. Grilling the chops would have added another smoky profile to the palate which, indeed, would have been divine.
At any rate, I'm pretty happy with this sauce because it's one of the first I've ever made without first scouring my cookbook, Epicurious or the Food Network for hours, looking for inspiration. And it turned out to be a success (Well, according to Walker anyway).
The next big culinary test is quickly approaching...cooking a once-tried (though ravely reviewed) menu, not for two, but for 15 people. Dun, dun, duuuuuuuuuun.
To be continued...
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Gmail Inbox: me, Frank (2) Dear Amie
ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod.
Frank Bruni. THE Frank Bruni. The person I want to BE when I...err...grow up...e-mailed me.
Okay, he e-mailed me back. Whatever. He still wrote MY NAME...his fingers typed out A-m-i-e...and wrote me a personal response back.
Cue 12-year-old teeny bopper girl squeal combined with uncontrollable jumping up and down and waving of the hands in a spirit-fingers-on-crack manner: "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
Okay. That's out of my system ("EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"). Now for the story:
In my very sad and distraught state Thursday night I opened up Frank Bruni's website and wallowed in total gin-induced depression. The website has a couple of tabs including biographical information, reviews for "Born Round" and, lo and behold, a link to his blog, complete with an e-mail address.
For some reason, the fact that he has a gmail account made me highlight and copy the address into a new e-mail.
I wrote with fury:
Dear Mr. Frank Bruni
Frank Bruni. Frank Bruni in Portland, at my favorite bookstore. Frank Bruni, the man whose words finally made me realized that I'm actually, indeed, not a total nut job for overcoming years of tormented relationships with food and wanting to be a food critic. I cannot believe you're in Portland right now.
What's worse is that I can't believe I didn't get into Powell's for your reading and book signing.
I'm not typically a person who swoons over celebrities. I wasn't the girly-girl who had posters of the latest heart throb plastered on my bedroom walls and I rarely look up to a famous person and think, "Yes, I want to be exactly like that."
But -- and I apologize that this probably comes across as a bit stalkerish -- you're a little different. As I mentioned before, I had...a less than normal appetite for food (That's the polite wishy-washy way of putting it anyway) for a large portion of my adolescence. Being a cross country runner throughout junior, high school and college, I found myself in an environment ripe with thinness and the pressure to run well. After all, the less you have to carry, the faster you're going to run. For eight years I pushed myself to be thinner, faster and stronger through means that were detrimental to my mind, body and relationship with food. For years I never found pleasure in food.
What changed? I hate to give attribution to a boy -- especially an ex -- but as I was really finding myself, months after rigorous treatment, I was dating a chef whose passion for food fell into me. Instead of fearing food, I took on an almost Anthony Bourdain approach to eating, trying out whatever, whenever I could. Each new food I introduced into my diet assuaged my fears of enjoying food.
I learned to cook -- and cook well.
I learned to discern tastes and flavor profiles. I began to understand why some ingredients work together and why some ingredients don't.
I began to study the cultures of cuisines and the histories of food (The history of sushi is by far my favorite).
And I learned to unite my passion for food with my skill for writing.
And I learned, thanks to your book, that I'm not crazy for loving food and wanting to write about it.
So, thank you. A lot. While not seeing you tonight makes my Top Five Life Disappointments, I'm hoping that by sending you an e-mail (Though your website says you don't stay on top of the inbox very well), missing tonight will somehow be made up for.
Sincerely,
Amie Dahnke
His response:
Dear Amie,
I'm sorry you didn't make it on Thursday but thank you very for this lovely note. I'm glad the book meant something to you. And I'm touched you read and liked it.
Be well, and good luck in all you do.
Frank
PS - The pulled pork sandwich looks great. Keep up the great writing.
Cue adolescent girlyness: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
Frank Bruni has read my blog.
Ahhhhhhh.
Frank Bruni. THE Frank Bruni. The person I want to BE when I...err...grow up...e-mailed me.
Okay, he e-mailed me back. Whatever. He still wrote MY NAME...his fingers typed out A-m-i-e...and wrote me a personal response back.
Cue 12-year-old teeny bopper girl squeal combined with uncontrollable jumping up and down and waving of the hands in a spirit-fingers-on-crack manner: "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
Okay. That's out of my system ("EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"). Now for the story:
In my very sad and distraught state Thursday night I opened up Frank Bruni's website and wallowed in total gin-induced depression. The website has a couple of tabs including biographical information, reviews for "Born Round" and, lo and behold, a link to his blog, complete with an e-mail address.
For some reason, the fact that he has a gmail account made me highlight and copy the address into a new e-mail.
I wrote with fury:
Dear Mr. Frank Bruni
Frank Bruni. Frank Bruni in Portland, at my favorite bookstore. Frank Bruni, the man whose words finally made me realized that I'm actually, indeed, not a total nut job for overcoming years of tormented relationships with food and wanting to be a food critic. I cannot believe you're in Portland right now.
What's worse is that I can't believe I didn't get into Powell's for your reading and book signing.
I'm not typically a person who swoons over celebrities. I wasn't the girly-girl who had posters of the latest heart throb plastered on my bedroom walls and I rarely look up to a famous person and think, "Yes, I want to be exactly like that."
But -- and I apologize that this probably comes across as a bit stalkerish -- you're a little different. As I mentioned before, I had...a less than normal appetite for food (That's the polite wishy-washy way of putting it anyway) for a large portion of my adolescence. Being a cross country runner throughout junior, high school and college, I found myself in an environment ripe with thinness and the pressure to run well. After all, the less you have to carry, the faster you're going to run. For eight years I pushed myself to be thinner, faster and stronger through means that were detrimental to my mind, body and relationship with food. For years I never found pleasure in food.
What changed? I hate to give attribution to a boy -- especially an ex -- but as I was really finding myself, months after rigorous treatment, I was dating a chef whose passion for food fell into me. Instead of fearing food, I took on an almost Anthony Bourdain approach to eating, trying out whatever, whenever I could. Each new food I introduced into my diet assuaged my fears of enjoying food.
I learned to cook -- and cook well.
I learned to discern tastes and flavor profiles. I began to understand why some ingredients work together and why some ingredients don't.
I began to study the cultures of cuisines and the histories of food (The history of sushi is by far my favorite).
And I learned to unite my passion for food with my skill for writing.
And I learned, thanks to your book, that I'm not crazy for loving food and wanting to write about it.
So, thank you. A lot. While not seeing you tonight makes my Top Five Life Disappointments, I'm hoping that by sending you an e-mail (Though your website says you don't stay on top of the inbox very well), missing tonight will somehow be made up for.
Sincerely,
Amie Dahnke
His response:
Dear Amie,
I'm sorry you didn't make it on Thursday but thank you very for this lovely note. I'm glad the book meant something to you. And I'm touched you read and liked it.
Be well, and good luck in all you do.
Frank
PS - The pulled pork sandwich looks great. Keep up the great writing.
Cue adolescent girlyness: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
Frank Bruni has read my blog.
Ahhhhhhh.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Adrien Brody, I'm sorry.
It's 8 pm on Thursday night and I should be at Powell's listening in jaw-dropping awe to Frank Bruni but I'm not because Powell's was at capacity and so instead I am at home, watching 40 Year Old Virgin, drinking gin and moping in absolute misery.
So here's a blog...not about Frank Bruni as I had originally planned (I will write about why he is so important to me but right now the disappointment is too fresh so I'm going to have to wait on that one for juuuuust the moment), but instead, about a conversation I had last night:
I was tipsily Facebook chatting with my dearest friend Meghann last night (Woes over work forced both of us to the bottle) when we started talking about Adrien Brody. You see, she sent me a link via Facebook that I had yet to respond to so, in my remarkably accurate though not terribly efficient manner of randomly recalling unfinished items on my man "To Do" lists while inebriated, I told her, "Thanks."
Side Bar: Unfinished items on my To Do lists:
1. Cancel Clear Wireless
2. Tell Piper our Pulled Pork Party is postponed (Wow, what an alliterative sentence)
3. Take the giant cardboard bed frame box to Pottery Barn
4. Get my schedule from Pottery Barn for next week
5. Figure out how to successfully terrorize West Vancouver, Canada without getting caught
6. Stop boring people with my random and ridiculously mundane To Do Items
End very elongated and winded sidebar.
After thanking Megs, we sighed because, three years ago when we lived together with Caitlin in the sketchiest apartment-on-stilts (Sure it was only $825 for a 3-bedroom apartment but still, can you spell G-H-E-T-T-O?) we fell in love with the gangly New York-born-and-raised, thrice-broken-big-nosed actor. But just like the letter to Adrien Body said, he sort of just fell off the earth after The Darjeeling Limited, only to return to roles in less-than-rave-reviewed sci-fi flicks. What a shame.
But this blog isn't about Adrien Brody (Or Frank Bruni...siiiiiiigh). Almost as quickly as we reminisced (at this point more drunkenly than tipsily) over Mr. Brody and the three months of Netflix movie watching we dedicated solely to his work, I -- like a fickle seventh grade girl -- voiced that I was "soooooo over" Adrien and into a "more sophisticated, rugged and older man."
A man who isn't afraid to take on crappy roles because when he takes on the good ones, he's really ridiculously good...
An uncredited rough rumbler in The Outsiders? Check.
An ex-con who marries a cop he can't make babies with? Check.
An alcoholic Hollywood screenwriter (Is there any other kind?)? Check.
An Angel who, for some god-awful reason falls in love with Meg Ryan? Yup.
An FBI chemical expert who's the military's LAST HOPE for neutralizing an apocalyptic terrorist threat? Total check.
An ex-Army ranger soon-to-be-ex-con just trying to get home to his wife? (Cue "How Do I Live")?. Check.
A hero AND a villain...at the same time? Check?
A non-alcoholic Hollywood screenwriter (And his fictional brother)? Check.
An OCD-swindler? Check.
An eccentric historian who abides by the skills of Disney screenwriters? Check.
A weatherman who gets hit with a Frosty? Check.
An arms dealer who turns his brother into a coke-fiend? Check.
A motorcycling superhero with a flaming skull? (Unfortunately) Check.
A coked-out cop (Ooooh you thought I was going to go with ex-con, huh?) rolling around in post-Katrina New Orleans? Check.
A faux-superhero with the most seriously awesome sideburns ever? Ooooh baby yeah.
Yes, dear friends. I am currently in love with Nicolas Cage.
I don't know what it is about him...most will agree with me that he's not particularly attractive (Though when the man's wearing an expensive suit and carrying lots and lots of guns, I'm a bit turned on). Still, women find him attractive and guys want to be him. If it weren't for the fact that he's famous, he'd be just another awkward American holding a 9-5 job. With that hair and pasty complexion he could probably be some kind of computer nerd; a coder or (no offense Tony) animation developer perhaps?
But his acting....it's pretty freaking awesome. I personally like Roger Ebert's words:
"There are often lists of the great living male movie stars: De Niro, Nicholson, and Pacino usually. how often do you see the name of Nicolas Cage? He should always be up there. He's daring and fearless in his choice of roles and unafraid to crawl out on a limb, saw it off and remain suspended in the air. No one else can project inner trembling so effectively. He always seems so earnest. However improbably his character, he never winks at the audience. He is committed to the character with every atom and plays him as if he were him."
Considering I'm not a movie critic nor nearly as skilled as a reviewing wordsmith as Ebert, I'll deftly admit that I cannot say it better myself.
And that's okay...for now I'll just sit back, relax and pop up a great Nic Cage flick to cheer me up. after all, there's only so much slap stick comedy I can take.
So here's a blog...not about Frank Bruni as I had originally planned (I will write about why he is so important to me but right now the disappointment is too fresh so I'm going to have to wait on that one for juuuuust the moment), but instead, about a conversation I had last night:
I was tipsily Facebook chatting with my dearest friend Meghann last night (Woes over work forced both of us to the bottle) when we started talking about Adrien Brody. You see, she sent me a link via Facebook that I had yet to respond to so, in my remarkably accurate though not terribly efficient manner of randomly recalling unfinished items on my man "To Do" lists while inebriated, I told her, "Thanks."
Side Bar: Unfinished items on my To Do lists:
1. Cancel Clear Wireless
2. Tell Piper our Pulled Pork Party is postponed (Wow, what an alliterative sentence)
3. Take the giant cardboard bed frame box to Pottery Barn
4. Get my schedule from Pottery Barn for next week
5. Figure out how to successfully terrorize West Vancouver, Canada without getting caught
6. Stop boring people with my random and ridiculously mundane To Do Items
End very elongated and winded sidebar.
After thanking Megs, we sighed because, three years ago when we lived together with Caitlin in the sketchiest apartment-on-stilts (Sure it was only $825 for a 3-bedroom apartment but still, can you spell G-H-E-T-T-O?) we fell in love with the gangly New York-born-and-raised, thrice-broken-big-nosed actor. But just like the letter to Adrien Body said, he sort of just fell off the earth after The Darjeeling Limited, only to return to roles in less-than-rave-reviewed sci-fi flicks. What a shame.
But this blog isn't about Adrien Brody (Or Frank Bruni...siiiiiiigh). Almost as quickly as we reminisced (at this point more drunkenly than tipsily) over Mr. Brody and the three months of Netflix movie watching we dedicated solely to his work, I -- like a fickle seventh grade girl -- voiced that I was "soooooo over" Adrien and into a "more sophisticated, rugged and older man."
A man who isn't afraid to take on crappy roles because when he takes on the good ones, he's really ridiculously good...
An uncredited rough rumbler in The Outsiders? Check.
An ex-con who marries a cop he can't make babies with? Check.
An alcoholic Hollywood screenwriter (Is there any other kind?)? Check.
An Angel who, for some god-awful reason falls in love with Meg Ryan? Yup.
An FBI chemical expert who's the military's LAST HOPE for neutralizing an apocalyptic terrorist threat? Total check.
An ex-Army ranger soon-to-be-ex-con just trying to get home to his wife? (Cue "How Do I Live")?. Check.
A hero AND a villain...at the same time? Check?
A non-alcoholic Hollywood screenwriter (And his fictional brother)? Check.
An OCD-swindler? Check.
An eccentric historian who abides by the skills of Disney screenwriters? Check.
A weatherman who gets hit with a Frosty? Check.
An arms dealer who turns his brother into a coke-fiend? Check.
A motorcycling superhero with a flaming skull? (Unfortunately) Check.
A coked-out cop (Ooooh you thought I was going to go with ex-con, huh?) rolling around in post-Katrina New Orleans? Check.
A faux-superhero with the most seriously awesome sideburns ever? Ooooh baby yeah.
Yes, dear friends. I am currently in love with Nicolas Cage.
I don't know what it is about him...most will agree with me that he's not particularly attractive (Though when the man's wearing an expensive suit and carrying lots and lots of guns, I'm a bit turned on). Still, women find him attractive and guys want to be him. If it weren't for the fact that he's famous, he'd be just another awkward American holding a 9-5 job. With that hair and pasty complexion he could probably be some kind of computer nerd; a coder or (no offense Tony) animation developer perhaps?
But his acting....it's pretty freaking awesome. I personally like Roger Ebert's words:
"There are often lists of the great living male movie stars: De Niro, Nicholson, and Pacino usually. how often do you see the name of Nicolas Cage? He should always be up there. He's daring and fearless in his choice of roles and unafraid to crawl out on a limb, saw it off and remain suspended in the air. No one else can project inner trembling so effectively. He always seems so earnest. However improbably his character, he never winks at the audience. He is committed to the character with every atom and plays him as if he were him."
Considering I'm not a movie critic nor nearly as skilled as a reviewing wordsmith as Ebert, I'll deftly admit that I cannot say it better myself.
And that's okay...for now I'll just sit back, relax and pop up a great Nic Cage flick to cheer me up. after all, there's only so much slap stick comedy I can take.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Just call me The Terminator
Prologue: I wrote this during lunch today (In lieu of reading for my book club, dangn't!) so please excuse that the first sentence is now so blatantly dated and false.
In four hours from now I have to call into Pottery Barn to check if they're going to use my on-call...
...Because as I've mentioned before, I'm back at Pottery Barn.
Just call me The Terminator.
I know, if you're not someone who works there (or maybe you are and just don't get it) or who hasn't talked with me in the last three weeks, I can hear you scoffing and see you scratching your head as you shake it in disbelief at me, wondering Whyyyyyyy is GOD'S name would I go back to a job where I earn mere pennies above minimum wage just to help uppity women and love-crazy newlyweds pick out the perfect botanical arrangement.
But hear (Errr....read) me out: Thought I'm working in a retail store, I'm not actually working retail.
I'm working as a member of, what our GM (Bless Michelle for her love of Mike and Ikes and willingness to share them during late night floor set shifts) creatively calls, The Visual Five (Though not to be confused with The Jackson Five). In essence, with four other people (Including Rob and George...err...Jeff who insist on acting like Meryl Streep in "The Devil Wears Prada," calling me "Emily" in that long, drawn out would-be-creepy-if-coming-from-anyone-else voice), a couple of days a week making sure the store stays up to the standard of, what what the William-Sonoma President called last week, "Pottery Barn Heaven."
Go ahead, you can "Oooooooh" and "Aaaaaaaah." It's impressive, I know.
Mocking condescension aside, I am actually pretty excited about coming back to The Barn after a four week hiatus. Why? Because I have, in my opinion anyway, the best job an employee could hold there.
Here's why:
1. I work my own schedule and work sparingly. Sure, when floor set is due or there's a gigantic corporate visit hanging ominously over the store's head, I'm putting in an additional 15-plus hours during my 40-plus hour AngelVision work weeks. But, for the most part, I'm scheduled on-call for three hour shifts once, maybe twice a week. I always get Friday nights off and I'll never work on Saturdays ("Why yes, I'll take one more drink."). Love it.
2. I get to "dress down" for work. No, I can't wear sweatpants or flip flops (Like I can...and do...at AngelVision) but I no longer have to don wool tights underneath a sun dress in 90 degree weather (You know, when Portland actually has 90 degree weather). After all, how can anyone expect me to hang jars, haul down heavy lamps, life gigantic garden urns (Excuse me, the proper PB term is "Oversized." Indeed.) and stretch myself like Spiderman across bays of shelves while wearing heels and a dress? Exactly. Instead I get to wear khakis and, when I can get away with it, jeans, a plain t-shirt and my trendy (Four of us at PB sport the same color) Chuck Taylors.
3. I don't have to help customers. I know, this sounds bad...really bad...but after a long day of mentally-taxing work, writing scripts and plotting to best my bully, I'm pretty tired and my strained mental capacity of being nice is sometimes out of gas...
4. ...So instead, I get to put my tightly-honed OCD skills to use. Sure, if a customer comes up and asks me a question, I'll answer it but typically will push the guest to another employee (Which is best for all parties around because even though I work with the products doesn't mean I've got the best ability to sell it). But for the most part, you'll find me at 310 NW 23rd Avenue creating displays around the store, arranging flowery bouquets, stacking picture frames on tables and steadying baskets of pillows in vignettes. As my mom said, it's a good way for me to put my creative mind to use in a different way than what I'm used to.
5. I get to move around. I know, even without Pottery Barn I can easily exercise or move my hiney after eight hours of computer-faced sitting but sometimes I'm just so exhausted that I want to go from sitting to laying down (Sad and pathetic, I know). But being at PB, I am moving and shaking, lifting tables, moving sectionals into elevators, climb up ladders and busting out into the occasional awkward white girl dance.
6. And of course, there's the fact that I like everyone I work with. Sure, the place can buzz with more gossip than TMZ (Okay, okay, that's a gross overstatement but, just like 20 inch inserts, we've usually got plenty in stock), but I genuinely enjoy everyone I work with. They're nice. They're real. They make me laugh and remind me that life doesn't have to be so cut-throat serious.
So sure, from time to time I'll be putting in 14 and 15 hour days, wanting to pull my already shorn hair out from tired frustration (Though pure exhaustion would probably prevent me from doing so), but I'm glad to be back.
Especially because I still get my discount. Woot woot.
Epilogue: They did not use my on call. Even better.
In four hours from now I have to call into Pottery Barn to check if they're going to use my on-call...
...Because as I've mentioned before, I'm back at Pottery Barn.
Just call me The Terminator.
I know, if you're not someone who works there (or maybe you are and just don't get it) or who hasn't talked with me in the last three weeks, I can hear you scoffing and see you scratching your head as you shake it in disbelief at me, wondering Whyyyyyyy is GOD'S name would I go back to a job where I earn mere pennies above minimum wage just to help uppity women and love-crazy newlyweds pick out the perfect botanical arrangement.
But hear (Errr....read) me out: Thought I'm working in a retail store, I'm not actually working retail.
I'm working as a member of, what our GM (Bless Michelle for her love of Mike and Ikes and willingness to share them during late night floor set shifts) creatively calls, The Visual Five (Though not to be confused with The Jackson Five). In essence, with four other people (Including Rob and George...err...Jeff who insist on acting like Meryl Streep in "The Devil Wears Prada," calling me "Emily" in that long, drawn out would-be-creepy-if-coming-from-anyone-else voice), a couple of days a week making sure the store stays up to the standard of, what what the William-Sonoma President called last week, "Pottery Barn Heaven."
Go ahead, you can "Oooooooh" and "Aaaaaaaah." It's impressive, I know.
Mocking condescension aside, I am actually pretty excited about coming back to The Barn after a four week hiatus. Why? Because I have, in my opinion anyway, the best job an employee could hold there.
Here's why:
1. I work my own schedule and work sparingly. Sure, when floor set is due or there's a gigantic corporate visit hanging ominously over the store's head, I'm putting in an additional 15-plus hours during my 40-plus hour AngelVision work weeks. But, for the most part, I'm scheduled on-call for three hour shifts once, maybe twice a week. I always get Friday nights off and I'll never work on Saturdays ("Why yes, I'll take one more drink."). Love it.
2. I get to "dress down" for work. No, I can't wear sweatpants or flip flops (Like I can...and do...at AngelVision) but I no longer have to don wool tights underneath a sun dress in 90 degree weather (You know, when Portland actually has 90 degree weather). After all, how can anyone expect me to hang jars, haul down heavy lamps, life gigantic garden urns (Excuse me, the proper PB term is "Oversized." Indeed.) and stretch myself like Spiderman across bays of shelves while wearing heels and a dress? Exactly. Instead I get to wear khakis and, when I can get away with it, jeans, a plain t-shirt and my trendy (Four of us at PB sport the same color) Chuck Taylors.
3. I don't have to help customers. I know, this sounds bad...really bad...but after a long day of mentally-taxing work, writing scripts and plotting to best my bully, I'm pretty tired and my strained mental capacity of being nice is sometimes out of gas...
4. ...So instead, I get to put my tightly-honed OCD skills to use. Sure, if a customer comes up and asks me a question, I'll answer it but typically will push the guest to another employee (Which is best for all parties around because even though I work with the products doesn't mean I've got the best ability to sell it). But for the most part, you'll find me at 310 NW 23rd Avenue creating displays around the store, arranging flowery bouquets, stacking picture frames on tables and steadying baskets of pillows in vignettes. As my mom said, it's a good way for me to put my creative mind to use in a different way than what I'm used to.
5. I get to move around. I know, even without Pottery Barn I can easily exercise or move my hiney after eight hours of computer-faced sitting but sometimes I'm just so exhausted that I want to go from sitting to laying down (Sad and pathetic, I know). But being at PB, I am moving and shaking, lifting tables, moving sectionals into elevators, climb up ladders and busting out into the occasional awkward white girl dance.
6. And of course, there's the fact that I like everyone I work with. Sure, the place can buzz with more gossip than TMZ (Okay, okay, that's a gross overstatement but, just like 20 inch inserts, we've usually got plenty in stock), but I genuinely enjoy everyone I work with. They're nice. They're real. They make me laugh and remind me that life doesn't have to be so cut-throat serious.
So sure, from time to time I'll be putting in 14 and 15 hour days, wanting to pull my already shorn hair out from tired frustration (Though pure exhaustion would probably prevent me from doing so), but I'm glad to be back.
Especially because I still get my discount. Woot woot.
Epilogue: They did not use my on call. Even better.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
A month later...
Yikes. It's been a very long time since I've posted a blog. I was chatting with a friend today who is blogging about his gardening expeditions who (on another Google chat occasion) confessed, after having previously boasted how easy and profitable blogging is...that everyone could do it, that updating a blog regularly takes more work than he originally thought.
Duh.
Sure, it's time consuming and, if you're a perfectionist or work-a-holic like me, the need to write a well-crafted column after a 10 or 12 or, like last Wednesday, 15 hour work day, is just plain crazy. Of course, I could be like my coworker and blog during work in lieu of working on a script but I actually enjoy my job and find that working on anything else during the day is well, to be Captain Obvious, counterproductive.
(Caveat: I know I published this during work today but I already had it written so I am by no means a hypocrite....right?)
At any rate, it's been far too long since I've blogged, which is unfortunate because I have so many wonderful things to write about (Which people are of course, dying to read about...maybe...hopefully...in my dream world, anyway)...
...Like our new apartment (Hello roof top neighbors)...
...And Fourth of July weekend when Meghann visited (Hello bottle of tequila)...
...And my new obsession with brackets [Hello new aside tool]...
...And coming back to Pottery Barn (Hello floor set)...
...And figuring out how to triumph over an office bully (Hello alter ego)...
...And starting a book club at work (Hello Ayn Rand)...
...And, you know, life in general (Hello World).
So enjoy the next few posts as I try to play catch up for the past month of the virtual cold shoulder.
Duh.
Sure, it's time consuming and, if you're a perfectionist or work-a-holic like me, the need to write a well-crafted column after a 10 or 12 or, like last Wednesday, 15 hour work day, is just plain crazy. Of course, I could be like my coworker and blog during work in lieu of working on a script but I actually enjoy my job and find that working on anything else during the day is well, to be Captain Obvious, counterproductive.
(Caveat: I know I published this during work today but I already had it written so I am by no means a hypocrite....right?)
At any rate, it's been far too long since I've blogged, which is unfortunate because I have so many wonderful things to write about (Which people are of course, dying to read about...maybe...hopefully...in my dream world, anyway)...
...Like our new apartment (Hello roof top neighbors)...
...And Fourth of July weekend when Meghann visited (Hello bottle of tequila)...
...And my new obsession with brackets [Hello new aside tool]...
...And coming back to Pottery Barn (Hello floor set)...
...And figuring out how to triumph over an office bully (Hello alter ego)...
...And starting a book club at work (Hello Ayn Rand)...
...And, you know, life in general (Hello World).
So enjoy the next few posts as I try to play catch up for the past month of the virtual cold shoulder.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Culinary Adventures of a Southern Belle
As vowed in a previous blog, I have cooked something brand new. I spent most of my Sunday in the kitchen trying my hand at a new recipe and cooking technique.
The role of my precious beets was insignificant (The greens wilted and I had used two of three making borscht the day before). But, I must confess -- boisterously tooting my own haute horn -- that I was pretty successful venturing out of my culinary cushion of comfortable classics and into a palatable pilgrimage of -- that's right -- pulled pork.
The idea for pulled pork practically leaped off of the news page last Tuesday when The Oregonian's FOODday section featured pulled pork recipes. But, after a week of long days and longer nights (Damn Nymph), I didn't get around to implementing it until Sunday afternoon.
After walking to Safeway with Walker in the slightly drizzling June-uary morning to pick up pork shoulder and collard greens, I paid homage to my southern roots, throwing on my housewife apron (Okay I'm neither a housewife nor do I own an apron) and flopping open my Joy of Cooking cookbook to cook up a mean and manly meal of pulled pork with North Carolina-style barbecue sauce, spicy vinegar coleslaw and slow-braised collard (pronounced cawl-uhd) greens.
Now, I was pretty scared that I had bitten off more than I could chew but it turns out that slow-roasting pork and slow-braising vegetables is like water off of a duck's back: easy, easy, easy.
Pulled Pork with Spice Rub:
I made a spice mixture of cumin (Which you can buy bulk at Safeway!), paprika, ground chili powder, brown sugar (pronounced shu-gah), nutmeg (A substitution for mace, which my recipe called for at 1 tsp. nutmeg for 1/4 tsp. mace), salt and pepper. Do I know the actual measurements? Of course not...but equal parts brown sugar and paprika with hefty and equal bouts of salt and chili powder seemed about right. I got two pork shoulder roasts, about 2 pounds each, which I rubbed tenderly with the spice rub, whispering to with love and care, to take up every little morsel and grain of spice. I'm sure Walker thought I was crazy.
In an oven-safe pan, I heated up rendered bacon fat (What else would I use?), shimmied both roasts in and browned all sides, about three minutes each side. Then, with my oven preheated to 325 degrees, I popped that pot -- tightly covered with aluminum foil -- onto a center rack in my oven and let it brood for three aroma-inducing hours.
Collard Greens:
In another big pot (Big pots equate to Southern cooking in my book) I tossed six strips of roughly chopped uncured Applewood smoked bacon (It's the only kind you can get from Trader Joe's). Letting those get nice and crispy -- which is key, because the two hours of braising they'll undergo can make them as limp as a dishrag -- I tossed in salt and pepper before adding 3 cups water and 1 cup beef broth (I would have gone equal parts but was low in stock), letting it come to a whisper of a boil before adding one head of coarsely chopped, de-ribbed and de-stemmed collard greens. After making sure the greens wilted a smidgen and were completely swimming in the bacony-beefy stock, I reduced the heat to medium-low, covered them and, like my pork shoulder, let them stew for two hours in aromatic heaven.
North Carolina Barbecue Sauce:
Now this recipe I took directly from my Joy of Cooking cookbook but tweaked it with 1 TBSP of honey after tasting it and, much to my heat and spice-taking palate and chagrin, finding it hotter than a two dollar pistol. In this North Carolina sauce (Dubbed North Carolina-style because it isn't tomato/ketchup based) I included 3/4 cup apple cider vinegar, 3/4 cup distilled white vinegar, 1 TBSP hot sauce (I'd reduce this next time), 2 TBSP sugar, 2 tsps chili flake and salt and pepper to taste. While it wasn't nearly as good as what Podnah's Pit BBQ offers, it's spicy acidity ended up mixing well with the smoky-sugary warmth of the pulled pork.
Spicy Vinegar Coleslaw:
Since I can't have dairy and Walker doesn't like mayonnaise, I had to concoct a dairy-and-mayo-free coleslaw recipe. Again, calling on my beloved Podnah's, I tried to recreate a vinegar-based coleslaw with apple cider vinegar, a splash of lemonade (I would have preferred a freshly-squeezed lemon but didn't have one on me), Dijon mustard and vegetable oil. Whipping that up, I poured it over a mixture of chopped jalapeno pepper (reduce the heat by removing the membrane and seeds) shredded cabbage, carrot and, as promised, beet and let it sit 20 minutes before serving.
And oh, what a grand serving it was: Cold, crunchy coleslaw and hot, tender pulled pork stacked high and voluptuously between beautifully buttered buns slathered with get-all-over-your-face-and-don't-even-care barbecue sauce. Mmmm. Mmmm. Mmmm.
That sounded much more pornographic that it should have...
...but really, it was deliciously sinister enough to make a preacher curse.
I sure do reckon.
The role of my precious beets was insignificant (The greens wilted and I had used two of three making borscht the day before). But, I must confess -- boisterously tooting my own haute horn -- that I was pretty successful venturing out of my culinary cushion of comfortable classics and into a palatable pilgrimage of -- that's right -- pulled pork.
The idea for pulled pork practically leaped off of the news page last Tuesday when The Oregonian's FOODday section featured pulled pork recipes. But, after a week of long days and longer nights (Damn Nymph), I didn't get around to implementing it until Sunday afternoon.
After walking to Safeway with Walker in the slightly drizzling June-uary morning to pick up pork shoulder and collard greens, I paid homage to my southern roots, throwing on my housewife apron (Okay I'm neither a housewife nor do I own an apron) and flopping open my Joy of Cooking cookbook to cook up a mean and manly meal of pulled pork with North Carolina-style barbecue sauce, spicy vinegar coleslaw and slow-braised collard (pronounced cawl-uhd) greens.
Now, I was pretty scared that I had bitten off more than I could chew but it turns out that slow-roasting pork and slow-braising vegetables is like water off of a duck's back: easy, easy, easy.
Pulled Pork with Spice Rub:
I made a spice mixture of cumin (Which you can buy bulk at Safeway!), paprika, ground chili powder, brown sugar (pronounced shu-gah), nutmeg (A substitution for mace, which my recipe called for at 1 tsp. nutmeg for 1/4 tsp. mace), salt and pepper. Do I know the actual measurements? Of course not...but equal parts brown sugar and paprika with hefty and equal bouts of salt and chili powder seemed about right. I got two pork shoulder roasts, about 2 pounds each, which I rubbed tenderly with the spice rub, whispering to with love and care, to take up every little morsel and grain of spice. I'm sure Walker thought I was crazy.
In an oven-safe pan, I heated up rendered bacon fat (What else would I use?), shimmied both roasts in and browned all sides, about three minutes each side. Then, with my oven preheated to 325 degrees, I popped that pot -- tightly covered with aluminum foil -- onto a center rack in my oven and let it brood for three aroma-inducing hours.
Collard Greens:
In another big pot (Big pots equate to Southern cooking in my book) I tossed six strips of roughly chopped uncured Applewood smoked bacon (It's the only kind you can get from Trader Joe's). Letting those get nice and crispy -- which is key, because the two hours of braising they'll undergo can make them as limp as a dishrag -- I tossed in salt and pepper before adding 3 cups water and 1 cup beef broth (I would have gone equal parts but was low in stock), letting it come to a whisper of a boil before adding one head of coarsely chopped, de-ribbed and de-stemmed collard greens. After making sure the greens wilted a smidgen and were completely swimming in the bacony-beefy stock, I reduced the heat to medium-low, covered them and, like my pork shoulder, let them stew for two hours in aromatic heaven.
North Carolina Barbecue Sauce:
Now this recipe I took directly from my Joy of Cooking cookbook but tweaked it with 1 TBSP of honey after tasting it and, much to my heat and spice-taking palate and chagrin, finding it hotter than a two dollar pistol. In this North Carolina sauce (Dubbed North Carolina-style because it isn't tomato/ketchup based) I included 3/4 cup apple cider vinegar, 3/4 cup distilled white vinegar, 1 TBSP hot sauce (I'd reduce this next time), 2 TBSP sugar, 2 tsps chili flake and salt and pepper to taste. While it wasn't nearly as good as what Podnah's Pit BBQ offers, it's spicy acidity ended up mixing well with the smoky-sugary warmth of the pulled pork.
Spicy Vinegar Coleslaw:
Since I can't have dairy and Walker doesn't like mayonnaise, I had to concoct a dairy-and-mayo-free coleslaw recipe. Again, calling on my beloved Podnah's, I tried to recreate a vinegar-based coleslaw with apple cider vinegar, a splash of lemonade (I would have preferred a freshly-squeezed lemon but didn't have one on me), Dijon mustard and vegetable oil. Whipping that up, I poured it over a mixture of chopped jalapeno pepper (reduce the heat by removing the membrane and seeds) shredded cabbage, carrot and, as promised, beet and let it sit 20 minutes before serving.
And oh, what a grand serving it was: Cold, crunchy coleslaw and hot, tender pulled pork stacked high and voluptuously between beautifully buttered buns slathered with get-all-over-your-face-and-don't-even-care barbecue sauce. Mmmm. Mmmm. Mmmm.That sounded much more pornographic that it should have...
...but really, it was deliciously sinister enough to make a preacher curse.
I sure do reckon.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
The Nymph
I think it's time I finally write about The Nymph.
I mean, I've lived in The Plato for almost nine months now and have just casually mentioned her from time to time.
Okay, I've ranted about her more than once but I figure, since I haven't actually made "The Nymph" a tag in my blog feed that I've been fairly successful in keeping the stories to a minimum. There's part of me that just feels bad about gabbing about an innocent person without his or her knowledge.
But that part of me is gone, rubbed away by the lack of sleep I've gotten over the past four days thanks to The Nymph.
She's not keeping me up with sex (Uh, okay...that's a sentence I never imagined I would write except maybe if I were creating conversational dialogue in a book about a guy whose nymphomaniac girlfriend or wife doesn't let him sleep because she's constantly needing to feed the beast); no -- The Nymph's latest loud escapades involve moving furniture, every day, for the past four days, at four in the fucking morning.
Yes...(unlike Dane Cook), I did say fucking.
For the life of me, and for all the creative juices I have flowing through my head on any given day, I cannot think of a solitary reason -- good or bad -- whyyyyy anyone would be moving furniture for the first, let alone the second, third and fourth, time at four in the morning.
I mean, maybe she has an incredible eye for decoration and spacial arrangement and only gets bursts of inspiration right before the sun comes up. If that's the case, maybe I should get her a job at Pottery Barn doing Visuals.
Okay, maybe not....especially if I'm returning to PB to be part of the Visual Five (No....that's not a team of super heroes, sadly).
Or maybe Walker's theory of The Nymph owning a sex swing is right...and she just has to move it...constantly. But I actually haven't heard her having sex in the morning; just moving furniture.
In all honesty, I don't know what loud noise I prefer to have myself unwillingly subjected to: Her loud sex, her loud sobbing or her loud furniture banging.
No, not that kind of banging.
I mean, when she's having loud sex, I have to hear her moaning and screaming and her squeaking bed and sometimes, when it's really bad -- or I guess really good, depending on what receiving end you're on -- feel the shaking of her floor reverberate down my walls and through my own squeaky hardwood floor. It makes me feel voyeuristic and icky, like I need to take a long, long shower (Which I usually do in the hopes that, by the time I'm finished, she is too).
When she's crying, I sort of just feel bad for her and that makes me want to bring her cookies and hot chocolate and see if she's okay because her sobbing is just so intense. I've sobbed like that before...when my grandmother died and when I tore my hip flexor...that uncontrollable sobbing where you can't even breathe. Her sobbing eradicates all the frustration and anger and grossed outness I have while I hear her having sex; and that just irks me even more.
And now she's got this new fad of early morning furniture rearrangement. It's just plain awful. Sure, she's not making any verbal noise but the constant dropping and dragging of, what I can only imagine is very heavy, furniture (or maybe dead bodies?) is just nerve wracking...
...especially at four in the morning. On the first morning, Saturday, I awoke with such a startle that I clenched Walker's arm (He slept through it) in fear that the sky was falling down (Uhm helloooo! Have you seen Donnie Darko?). Sunday's rude awakening elicited an, "Are you kidding me?!" accompanied with throwing my arms up to the ceiling in disbelief. Monday's rearrangement brought death threats. Today's warranted this blog.
It's a good thing -- for her safety and my unincarcerated freedom -- that we're moving soon. Who knows what might happen otherwise.
I mean, I've lived in The Plato for almost nine months now and have just casually mentioned her from time to time.
Okay, I've ranted about her more than once but I figure, since I haven't actually made "The Nymph" a tag in my blog feed that I've been fairly successful in keeping the stories to a minimum. There's part of me that just feels bad about gabbing about an innocent person without his or her knowledge.
But that part of me is gone, rubbed away by the lack of sleep I've gotten over the past four days thanks to The Nymph.
She's not keeping me up with sex (Uh, okay...that's a sentence I never imagined I would write except maybe if I were creating conversational dialogue in a book about a guy whose nymphomaniac girlfriend or wife doesn't let him sleep because she's constantly needing to feed the beast); no -- The Nymph's latest loud escapades involve moving furniture, every day, for the past four days, at four in the fucking morning.
Yes...(unlike Dane Cook), I did say fucking.
For the life of me, and for all the creative juices I have flowing through my head on any given day, I cannot think of a solitary reason -- good or bad -- whyyyyy anyone would be moving furniture for the first, let alone the second, third and fourth, time at four in the morning.
I mean, maybe she has an incredible eye for decoration and spacial arrangement and only gets bursts of inspiration right before the sun comes up. If that's the case, maybe I should get her a job at Pottery Barn doing Visuals.
Okay, maybe not....especially if I'm returning to PB to be part of the Visual Five (No....that's not a team of super heroes, sadly).
Or maybe Walker's theory of The Nymph owning a sex swing is right...and she just has to move it...constantly. But I actually haven't heard her having sex in the morning; just moving furniture.
In all honesty, I don't know what loud noise I prefer to have myself unwillingly subjected to: Her loud sex, her loud sobbing or her loud furniture banging.
No, not that kind of banging.
I mean, when she's having loud sex, I have to hear her moaning and screaming and her squeaking bed and sometimes, when it's really bad -- or I guess really good, depending on what receiving end you're on -- feel the shaking of her floor reverberate down my walls and through my own squeaky hardwood floor. It makes me feel voyeuristic and icky, like I need to take a long, long shower (Which I usually do in the hopes that, by the time I'm finished, she is too).
When she's crying, I sort of just feel bad for her and that makes me want to bring her cookies and hot chocolate and see if she's okay because her sobbing is just so intense. I've sobbed like that before...when my grandmother died and when I tore my hip flexor...that uncontrollable sobbing where you can't even breathe. Her sobbing eradicates all the frustration and anger and grossed outness I have while I hear her having sex; and that just irks me even more.
And now she's got this new fad of early morning furniture rearrangement. It's just plain awful. Sure, she's not making any verbal noise but the constant dropping and dragging of, what I can only imagine is very heavy, furniture (or maybe dead bodies?) is just nerve wracking...
...especially at four in the morning. On the first morning, Saturday, I awoke with such a startle that I clenched Walker's arm (He slept through it) in fear that the sky was falling down (Uhm helloooo! Have you seen Donnie Darko?). Sunday's rude awakening elicited an, "Are you kidding me?!" accompanied with throwing my arms up to the ceiling in disbelief. Monday's rearrangement brought death threats. Today's warranted this blog.
It's a good thing -- for her safety and my unincarcerated freedom -- that we're moving soon. Who knows what might happen otherwise.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Culinary Adventures
After a near solid week of cooking dinner, I've decided to push my cooking to a new level. But, before I continue with the why and how, let me detail the what that led me to this decision. My menu for the previous week:
Sunday: Chicken tomato curry with bell peppers, mushrooms, onions and shrimp.
Tuesday: Fresh fettuccine with with garlic, shrimp, chicken, pancetta (Yeah, three meats). Side salad of mixed greens and the BEST Roma tomatoes and the ripest avocado I've had to date, dressed with my go-to, homemade balsamic vinaigrette (balsamic vinegar, honey, salt, pepper, shallots, dijon mustard and olive oil).
Wednesday: BLOAT sandwiches on ciabatta rolls (BLOAT, I'll admit, is a Walker/Amie co-creation: Bacon, lettuce, sauteed onion, avocado, tomato and pan-fried turkey cutlets).
Thursday: Carna asada burritos with sauteed bell peppers and onions, white rice, refried beans and homemade guacamole and salsa.
Friday: Lemon garlic pappardelle with pancetta croutons (Yes, you read that right) and broccoli. Salad of mixed greens, avocado and Roma tomatoes, served with the usual balsamic vinaigrette suspect.
Saturday: Egg scramble with onions, bell peppers and pancetta served with multigrain toast and blackberry jam (Okay so Saturday was a Walker meal; I don't do breakfast all that often).
All in all, a solid week of eating in (Which we celebrated last night with happy hour pints at Laurelwood and a tipsy sushi -- I was tipsy, not the sushi -- dinner). Even though last week was slightly stressful, between work, not sleeping and gaining more angst over our pending move, I thoroughly enjoyed coming home at night, taking off my bra, slipping on some sweat pants and hospital socks (The epitome of sex appeal, I know) and cracking open a beer to sip on while I embark on a barrage of onion mincing (Which always, always makes me cry), garlic crushing, meat tenderizing and pasta boiling. It's soothing and calming. Even when I'm worked up and irritable, an hour in the kitchen always makes the frustrations of the day melt away (Though I'm sure the beer doesn't hurt).
But I'm ready to take my cooking further. I've realized, now that I buy food for another person other than myself, that I'm constantly purchasing the same goods. My freezer is always stocked with peas, spinach and broccoli. I've always got onions, bell peppers, mushrooms and avocado in my fridge. My love for Oregon fruit aside, I'm always armed with bananas and apples, regardless of the season. While having the usuals to fall back upon isn't necessarily bad, it's a rut I'm definitely ready to break out from.
So, with my Joy of Cooking cookbook that Santa brought me from the North Pole three Christmases ago, a bit more expendable of a food budget and a boyfriend who's willing to try anything I bring home and/or make (The boy tried a fingerful of Tofutti the other morning), I've decided to make one new thing a week.
And by new I mean something I've never EVER made or eaten before. So whether that means cooking with a new ingredient or whipping up a dish that I randomly flip and point to in my cookbook, I'm going to be stretching my culinary skills and taste buds to new heights.
This week I'm working with beets. Clara and I paid homage to my old stomping grounds on Sunday by going to the Farmer's Market up in Hillsdale. We both purchased the biggest beets I've ever seen. They're Chioggia beets (Pronounced kee-OH-gee-yuh)! Although Chioggia beets are sweeter than typical beets, I'm planning a more savory meal that uses both the beets and the beet greens (I've never cooked nor eaten beet greens so it's a double whammy culinary expedition that meets both prerequisites of my weekly culinary adventure).
Here's the plan:
Shredded beets and coarsely chopped beet greens sauteed in garlic and thyme butter with mushrooms and seared steak. I'm pretty excited because it's a play off of a recipe I found on Epicurious.com (I'm doing steak instead of chicken and garlic and thyme instead of orange zest). The entire dish is cooked in one pan so it should all taste pretty freaking delicious and, if I execute it well enough, the earthiness of the mushrooms and the savory, pungent flavor profile of the thyme should combat harmoniously against the sweetness of the beets. And the garlic? Well, garlic goes with everything!
I'll try to take photos...though doing so will dramatically increase the chances of me setting off the smoke alarm here (I have a crazy affinity for making the entire studio smoky when I pan fry meat).
Although, come to think of it, this apartment doesn't actually have a smoke alarm.
So yes, pictures to come, indeed.
Sunday: Chicken tomato curry with bell peppers, mushrooms, onions and shrimp.
Tuesday: Fresh fettuccine with with garlic, shrimp, chicken, pancetta (Yeah, three meats). Side salad of mixed greens and the BEST Roma tomatoes and the ripest avocado I've had to date, dressed with my go-to, homemade balsamic vinaigrette (balsamic vinegar, honey, salt, pepper, shallots, dijon mustard and olive oil).
Wednesday: BLOAT sandwiches on ciabatta rolls (BLOAT, I'll admit, is a Walker/Amie co-creation: Bacon, lettuce, sauteed onion, avocado, tomato and pan-fried turkey cutlets).
Thursday: Carna asada burritos with sauteed bell peppers and onions, white rice, refried beans and homemade guacamole and salsa.
Friday: Lemon garlic pappardelle with pancetta croutons (Yes, you read that right) and broccoli. Salad of mixed greens, avocado and Roma tomatoes, served with the usual balsamic vinaigrette suspect.
Saturday: Egg scramble with onions, bell peppers and pancetta served with multigrain toast and blackberry jam (Okay so Saturday was a Walker meal; I don't do breakfast all that often).
All in all, a solid week of eating in (Which we celebrated last night with happy hour pints at Laurelwood and a tipsy sushi -- I was tipsy, not the sushi -- dinner). Even though last week was slightly stressful, between work, not sleeping and gaining more angst over our pending move, I thoroughly enjoyed coming home at night, taking off my bra, slipping on some sweat pants and hospital socks (The epitome of sex appeal, I know) and cracking open a beer to sip on while I embark on a barrage of onion mincing (Which always, always makes me cry), garlic crushing, meat tenderizing and pasta boiling. It's soothing and calming. Even when I'm worked up and irritable, an hour in the kitchen always makes the frustrations of the day melt away (Though I'm sure the beer doesn't hurt).
But I'm ready to take my cooking further. I've realized, now that I buy food for another person other than myself, that I'm constantly purchasing the same goods. My freezer is always stocked with peas, spinach and broccoli. I've always got onions, bell peppers, mushrooms and avocado in my fridge. My love for Oregon fruit aside, I'm always armed with bananas and apples, regardless of the season. While having the usuals to fall back upon isn't necessarily bad, it's a rut I'm definitely ready to break out from.
So, with my Joy of Cooking cookbook that Santa brought me from the North Pole three Christmases ago, a bit more expendable of a food budget and a boyfriend who's willing to try anything I bring home and/or make (The boy tried a fingerful of Tofutti the other morning), I've decided to make one new thing a week.
And by new I mean something I've never EVER made or eaten before. So whether that means cooking with a new ingredient or whipping up a dish that I randomly flip and point to in my cookbook, I'm going to be stretching my culinary skills and taste buds to new heights.
This week I'm working with beets. Clara and I paid homage to my old stomping grounds on Sunday by going to the Farmer's Market up in Hillsdale. We both purchased the biggest beets I've ever seen. They're Chioggia beets (Pronounced kee-OH-gee-yuh)! Although Chioggia beets are sweeter than typical beets, I'm planning a more savory meal that uses both the beets and the beet greens (I've never cooked nor eaten beet greens so it's a double whammy culinary expedition that meets both prerequisites of my weekly culinary adventure).
Here's the plan:
Shredded beets and coarsely chopped beet greens sauteed in garlic and thyme butter with mushrooms and seared steak. I'm pretty excited because it's a play off of a recipe I found on Epicurious.com (I'm doing steak instead of chicken and garlic and thyme instead of orange zest). The entire dish is cooked in one pan so it should all taste pretty freaking delicious and, if I execute it well enough, the earthiness of the mushrooms and the savory, pungent flavor profile of the thyme should combat harmoniously against the sweetness of the beets. And the garlic? Well, garlic goes with everything!
I'll try to take photos...though doing so will dramatically increase the chances of me setting off the smoke alarm here (I have a crazy affinity for making the entire studio smoky when I pan fry meat).
Although, come to think of it, this apartment doesn't actually have a smoke alarm.
So yes, pictures to come, indeed.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Adieu Pottery Barn...I think...maybe?
So. No need to soften the blow but...
I finally put in my two weeks at Pottery Barn. Last Sunday, on my one-year anniversary at the Barn, I wrote a sad little note, left it on the desk in the managers' office and left for home.
I thought that today and tomorrow was my last weekend. Turns out, as I learned an hour into today's 7 (which turned out to be 6 and some change) hour shift that today, due to the fact that the store was way the hell over in payroll dollars, was my last day.
Walker shot me a text on Thursday morning around 10 to say that (per my request in my two weeks notice notes) I wasn't on the schedule for next week. An odd shock of emotions jolted my body; I was finally going to get my weekends back. But I was also sad knowing that, after just 12 hours (ahem, 6 and some change), I was going to be done at Pottery Barn. It seemed so informally final. So weird.
I shouldn't be sad, really. I shouldn't even care: I'm leaving a barely-above-minimum-wage, part-time job that requires me to cater to the sometimes-uppity and always-rich people who patron our store (when I'm still laid-back, realistic and not-quite-rich) for a new full-time, salaried career. Everything about my life is about to better itself (I'm ignoring the Notorious B.I.G's wane of 'Mo Money, Mo Problems') now that I'm making more money:
Better apartment (Ahem, bigger!) Better healthcare (Actual healthcare...meaning I don't have to keep telling Kaiser Permanente that I'm a visiting member and still don't have a member records number...). Better peace of mind knowing that for the first time in my life I'm going to be able to independently thrive (PS for an example of the type of writing I do at AngelVision, the last paragraph -- sans parenthetical asides -- is a damn good example of my mad marcom skills).
But you know what?
I'm actually a little uneasy about leaving Pottery Barn.
It's hard to leave a place that's been so flexible and unbelievably supportive over the twelve months...a place where I've met great friends, a wonderful boyfriend who I'm apartment searching with and a basketful (we'll go with an XXL Beachcomber's size basket) of people who genuinely care for me.
I've had a lot of people pushing me to finally put my two weeks in at Pottery Barn after landing the job at AngelVision a month ago. And finally, I decided it was time. AngelVision is, as promised, a very demanding job: I've already got projects and scripts up the wazoo (Fun etymology fact of the day: Wazoo is indeed slang for...uh...you know...originally derived from the Pama-Nyungan languages -- the family of Australian languages -- and thought to refer to the uh...you know...of animals, especially the kangaroo) so much to the point that I'm taking my laptop home after 8 1/2 solid hours of clickity-clack typing.
It's so much work that it just taxes my mind to the point that I'm simply pooped on the weeknights and worthless on the weekends. Today for example, I slept in until 8:20, drank lots of coffee, ran 4 miles, ate breakfast then slept for another 45 minutes after moping around worthlessly for 2 hours. The thought of working retail when I'm so exhausted just exhausts my exhaustion. It makes me moody and, as Walker can attest to, less than desirable and fun to be around, let alone live with.
And that's not good because, really, I am a happy and cheery person.
Nevertheless, after shutting off the main lights after closing for the final time (maybe?!), I can't help but feel a wee bit sad. After so much bitching about the job...I just don't get this feeling that I'm going to be missing out on something.
Weird. Very weird indeed.
I finally put in my two weeks at Pottery Barn. Last Sunday, on my one-year anniversary at the Barn, I wrote a sad little note, left it on the desk in the managers' office and left for home.
I thought that today and tomorrow was my last weekend. Turns out, as I learned an hour into today's 7 (which turned out to be 6 and some change) hour shift that today, due to the fact that the store was way the hell over in payroll dollars, was my last day.
Walker shot me a text on Thursday morning around 10 to say that (per my request in my two weeks notice notes) I wasn't on the schedule for next week. An odd shock of emotions jolted my body; I was finally going to get my weekends back. But I was also sad knowing that, after just 12 hours (ahem, 6 and some change), I was going to be done at Pottery Barn. It seemed so informally final. So weird.
I shouldn't be sad, really. I shouldn't even care: I'm leaving a barely-above-minimum-wage, part-time job that requires me to cater to the sometimes-uppity and always-rich people who patron our store (when I'm still laid-back, realistic and not-quite-rich) for a new full-time, salaried career. Everything about my life is about to better itself (I'm ignoring the Notorious B.I.G's wane of 'Mo Money, Mo Problems') now that I'm making more money:
Better apartment (Ahem, bigger!) Better healthcare (Actual healthcare...meaning I don't have to keep telling Kaiser Permanente that I'm a visiting member and still don't have a member records number...). Better peace of mind knowing that for the first time in my life I'm going to be able to independently thrive (PS for an example of the type of writing I do at AngelVision, the last paragraph -- sans parenthetical asides -- is a damn good example of my mad marcom skills).
But you know what?
I'm actually a little uneasy about leaving Pottery Barn.
It's hard to leave a place that's been so flexible and unbelievably supportive over the twelve months...a place where I've met great friends, a wonderful boyfriend who I'm apartment searching with and a basketful (we'll go with an XXL Beachcomber's size basket) of people who genuinely care for me.
I've had a lot of people pushing me to finally put my two weeks in at Pottery Barn after landing the job at AngelVision a month ago. And finally, I decided it was time. AngelVision is, as promised, a very demanding job: I've already got projects and scripts up the wazoo (Fun etymology fact of the day: Wazoo is indeed slang for...uh...you know...originally derived from the Pama-Nyungan languages -- the family of Australian languages -- and thought to refer to the uh...you know...of animals, especially the kangaroo) so much to the point that I'm taking my laptop home after 8 1/2 solid hours of clickity-clack typing.
It's so much work that it just taxes my mind to the point that I'm simply pooped on the weeknights and worthless on the weekends. Today for example, I slept in until 8:20, drank lots of coffee, ran 4 miles, ate breakfast then slept for another 45 minutes after moping around worthlessly for 2 hours. The thought of working retail when I'm so exhausted just exhausts my exhaustion. It makes me moody and, as Walker can attest to, less than desirable and fun to be around, let alone live with.
And that's not good because, really, I am a happy and cheery person.
Nevertheless, after shutting off the main lights after closing for the final time (maybe?!), I can't help but feel a wee bit sad. After so much bitching about the job...I just don't get this feeling that I'm going to be missing out on something.
Weird. Very weird indeed.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Hump Day
Today has been a rough day. For no real reason in particular I haven't been sleeping all that well and today was definitely a result of the four hours of sleep I've managed to wink in over the past two days. It's not a case of the Mondays but rather, as the rest of the working world calls it, a case of the Humpdays.
No. I'm not talking about anything pornographic or icky (I hate the word hump with as much passion as I do the word horny. They both just sound so gross).
Allow me to pull some definitions:
Ala Urban Dictionary:
1. The middle of the work week; used in context of climbing a proverbial hill to get through a tough week.
2. Wednesday, the middle of the week, implying you have to 'get over the hump' before you can anticipate the weekend.
3. The middle of the week or the beginning of the weekend, depending on your level of addiction to alcohol.
Ala Dictionary.com:
1. The middle of the work week, usually Wednesday.
Sadly, since I no loner have access to the Oxford English Dictionary since I graduated UP 13 months ago, I can't dive into the serious etymology of Hump Day.
So I Googled instead (Yes, I know...I am indeed a giant dork).
Apparently Wednesday is just a mediocre middle day in most worlds...real and fictional.
There's AE Bray's nursery rhyme, "Monday's Child," that decries Wednesday's child as full of woe (IF...yes, big IF, I ever have kids, I'm sure my mom will hope I have a Wednesday child since, as she and my father have told me numerous times, if I were the first child, I would have been the only.). Solomon Grundy was married on a Wednesday, fell ill on a Thursday and was buried by Sunday (I DO plan on getting married someday but definitely NOT on a Wednesday).
In Winnie the Pooh, the cruddy nature of the "Blustery Day" is attributed to it being "Windsday" (a play off of Wednesday, just in case you didn't catch that). And in Richard Brautigan's "In Watermelon Sugar," Wednesday is the only day the sun shines gray (Considering his troubled life and eventual suicide, it's probably best he was a Montana boy who didn't know that in Portland, the sun shines gray every day).
But it's not even in literature and poetry where Wednesday is a crappy day (PS as I write this the once-sunny day is vanishing under a sheet of heavy, heavy rain). In astrology, the planet Mercury represents Wednesday. Mercury, a/k/a Apollo, is simply the messenger (Maybe there's a reason for that adage, "Don't shoot the messenger" because it sucks to be the proverbial bearer of bad news.), noted for his swiftness and speed...a flat out lie considering the length of the modern day Wednesday. I think that the first century poet Manilius probably had it right when he called Mercury inconstant and vivacious.
If we shoot over to the Bible, we get Ash Wednesday (Caveat: This is all coming from a non-religious individual who attended a private Catholic university so take the commentary with a grain of salt). Yes, of course, it's a wonderfully spiritual day on the whole but it comes with the confessing, fasting and the promise to not eat meat for FORTY WHOLE DAYS. Plus as it was at my college, most people are hungover from going nuts the night before on Fat Tuesday.
So, as one can see, Wednesdays are blah all around. For me, Wednesday's few saving graces are all modern-day guilty pleasures like the Willamette Week (Of which I only read the Dish section. I pick up the free weekly paper solely because it means I get a THIRD crossword puzzle to work on), America's Next Top Model (WGN is rerunning the Petite Model season, fyi) and no boyfriend until later at night to make fun of me for indulging in either (Quarter Orange duty calls). On my cross country team in college Wednesdays were always an easy training day; no practice and either a light run, cross training or a total day off.
Considering my lack of sleep and the fact that my body feels more zombie-like and less humanoid, I'm going to pay homage to my cross country team training schedule and take the day off from running (I've gone a solid 12 days in a row!), kick back with an IPA and watch ANTM while doing the crossword puzzle.
Of course, that's after I finish this ginormous internal project that's due...oh...today.
Hump Day indeed.
No. I'm not talking about anything pornographic or icky (I hate the word hump with as much passion as I do the word horny. They both just sound so gross).
Allow me to pull some definitions:
Ala Urban Dictionary:
1. The middle of the work week; used in context of climbing a proverbial hill to get through a tough week.
2. Wednesday, the middle of the week, implying you have to 'get over the hump' before you can anticipate the weekend.
3. The middle of the week or the beginning of the weekend, depending on your level of addiction to alcohol.
Ala Dictionary.com:
1. The middle of the work week, usually Wednesday.
Sadly, since I no loner have access to the Oxford English Dictionary since I graduated UP 13 months ago, I can't dive into the serious etymology of Hump Day.
So I Googled instead (Yes, I know...I am indeed a giant dork).
Apparently Wednesday is just a mediocre middle day in most worlds...real and fictional.
There's AE Bray's nursery rhyme, "Monday's Child," that decries Wednesday's child as full of woe (IF...yes, big IF, I ever have kids, I'm sure my mom will hope I have a Wednesday child since, as she and my father have told me numerous times, if I were the first child, I would have been the only.). Solomon Grundy was married on a Wednesday, fell ill on a Thursday and was buried by Sunday (I DO plan on getting married someday but definitely NOT on a Wednesday).
In Winnie the Pooh, the cruddy nature of the "Blustery Day" is attributed to it being "Windsday" (a play off of Wednesday, just in case you didn't catch that). And in Richard Brautigan's "In Watermelon Sugar," Wednesday is the only day the sun shines gray (Considering his troubled life and eventual suicide, it's probably best he was a Montana boy who didn't know that in Portland, the sun shines gray every day).
But it's not even in literature and poetry where Wednesday is a crappy day (PS as I write this the once-sunny day is vanishing under a sheet of heavy, heavy rain). In astrology, the planet Mercury represents Wednesday. Mercury, a/k/a Apollo, is simply the messenger (Maybe there's a reason for that adage, "Don't shoot the messenger" because it sucks to be the proverbial bearer of bad news.), noted for his swiftness and speed...a flat out lie considering the length of the modern day Wednesday. I think that the first century poet Manilius probably had it right when he called Mercury inconstant and vivacious.
If we shoot over to the Bible, we get Ash Wednesday (Caveat: This is all coming from a non-religious individual who attended a private Catholic university so take the commentary with a grain of salt). Yes, of course, it's a wonderfully spiritual day on the whole but it comes with the confessing, fasting and the promise to not eat meat for FORTY WHOLE DAYS. Plus as it was at my college, most people are hungover from going nuts the night before on Fat Tuesday.
So, as one can see, Wednesdays are blah all around. For me, Wednesday's few saving graces are all modern-day guilty pleasures like the Willamette Week (Of which I only read the Dish section. I pick up the free weekly paper solely because it means I get a THIRD crossword puzzle to work on), America's Next Top Model (WGN is rerunning the Petite Model season, fyi) and no boyfriend until later at night to make fun of me for indulging in either (Quarter Orange duty calls). On my cross country team in college Wednesdays were always an easy training day; no practice and either a light run, cross training or a total day off.
Considering my lack of sleep and the fact that my body feels more zombie-like and less humanoid, I'm going to pay homage to my cross country team training schedule and take the day off from running (I've gone a solid 12 days in a row!), kick back with an IPA and watch ANTM while doing the crossword puzzle.
Of course, that's after I finish this ginormous internal project that's due...oh...today.
Hump Day indeed.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden #%&*#@! Sun
Warning: I'm a bit of a potty mouth in this post.
For a very brief 15 minutes this afternoon I saw blue sky.
No, I'm not kidding.
For those of you readers who aren't Pacific Northwesterners (Which might be just Meghann, Rachel, Timmy and the occasional random outsider who might, maybe, perchance stumble across my blog), you don't know how incredibly awesome seeing blue sky was.
We had just finished our weekly Friday lunch time meeting (Which actually sorta sucked because my sandwich -- we always get lunch purchased for us on Fridays, courtesy of a department in the company -- was slathered in gut-wrenching cream cheese so I was forced to buy my own lunch) and were back in our cave of an office when our boss came to talk with us, the messaging team. He was in the midst of explaining how we need to really hammer down on perfecting the narration aspect of our Impact Movies (since our writing and graphics are already pretty bomb) when I, gazing past him, blurted out:
"Holy shit, that's blue sky!"
I was obviously mortified; embarrassed by my foul-mouthed word vomit and apparent inability to pay full attention to what my boss was saying at the time and scared because I interrupted the flow of creative reconstruction of a major step in our scriptwriting process.
I was indeed the new girl who wasn't paying attention to the man who signed her paychecks.
Shit.
It wasn't even that...I mean, it mostly was, but there's also the factor that the big boss intimidates me. I'm pretty sure he is indeed a genius and because of that, I find myself super hesitant when speaking around or directly to him. I don't want to sound like an idiot, which doesn't actually happen to me often (I swear I'm smart and articulate...Jacob would call that smarticulate). However, I've found myself sounding like a total ditzy airhead (or perhaps the platinum blonde I've made myself to be) in front of him (I was actually surprised I landed the full-time position here, considering that I've never had such a bad and awkward interview as I did when I spoke with him prior to being hired). So, to blurt out something so remedially obtuse was really, the icing on the idiot cake.
Especially because my interruption didn't go unnoticed.
"What?" My boss asked.
"Oh...uh...there's...uhm. A break. In the clouds. And...uh...yeah...the sky...the sky is blue. Blue sky."
Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.
"You don't say? Well there it is. It's about fucking time."
Phew. Crisis averted.
But yes, there was a teeny, tiny sliver of blue sky this afternoon. After a month's worth of rain in the first four days of June, the third wettest May in history and a record-breaking 25 days of measurable rain in April, the slice of blue sky was a slice of hope for better, warmer and drier days to come.
Honestly though, they can't come soon enough. I'm ready to let these pasty white legs see some sunlight for a change; to not wear hooded jackets when I walk from car to apartment; to be able to wear sandals without having soggy toes afterwards.
Not that I'm complaining; I'm well aware I've established residence in Portland where we're as famous for rain as we are for great coffee, great beer and a great abundance of homeless people. And that's okay...sometimes a good rain is cleansing and soothing (Also like coffee and beer, though not really like homeless people).
But, after three months of rain with just a teaser of warm weather, I think we Portlanders (and all Pacific Northwesterners, for that matter) deserve a little big of Mr. Sunshine love.
It's about fucking time, after all.
For a very brief 15 minutes this afternoon I saw blue sky.
No, I'm not kidding.
For those of you readers who aren't Pacific Northwesterners (Which might be just Meghann, Rachel, Timmy and the occasional random outsider who might, maybe, perchance stumble across my blog), you don't know how incredibly awesome seeing blue sky was.
We had just finished our weekly Friday lunch time meeting (Which actually sorta sucked because my sandwich -- we always get lunch purchased for us on Fridays, courtesy of a department in the company -- was slathered in gut-wrenching cream cheese so I was forced to buy my own lunch) and were back in our cave of an office when our boss came to talk with us, the messaging team. He was in the midst of explaining how we need to really hammer down on perfecting the narration aspect of our Impact Movies (since our writing and graphics are already pretty bomb) when I, gazing past him, blurted out:
"Holy shit, that's blue sky!"
I was obviously mortified; embarrassed by my foul-mouthed word vomit and apparent inability to pay full attention to what my boss was saying at the time and scared because I interrupted the flow of creative reconstruction of a major step in our scriptwriting process.
I was indeed the new girl who wasn't paying attention to the man who signed her paychecks.
Shit.
It wasn't even that...I mean, it mostly was, but there's also the factor that the big boss intimidates me. I'm pretty sure he is indeed a genius and because of that, I find myself super hesitant when speaking around or directly to him. I don't want to sound like an idiot, which doesn't actually happen to me often (I swear I'm smart and articulate...Jacob would call that smarticulate). However, I've found myself sounding like a total ditzy airhead (or perhaps the platinum blonde I've made myself to be) in front of him (I was actually surprised I landed the full-time position here, considering that I've never had such a bad and awkward interview as I did when I spoke with him prior to being hired). So, to blurt out something so remedially obtuse was really, the icing on the idiot cake.
Especially because my interruption didn't go unnoticed.
"What?" My boss asked.
"Oh...uh...there's...uhm. A break. In the clouds. And...uh...yeah...the sky...the sky is blue. Blue sky."
Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.
"You don't say? Well there it is. It's about fucking time."
Phew. Crisis averted.
But yes, there was a teeny, tiny sliver of blue sky this afternoon. After a month's worth of rain in the first four days of June, the third wettest May in history and a record-breaking 25 days of measurable rain in April, the slice of blue sky was a slice of hope for better, warmer and drier days to come.
Honestly though, they can't come soon enough. I'm ready to let these pasty white legs see some sunlight for a change; to not wear hooded jackets when I walk from car to apartment; to be able to wear sandals without having soggy toes afterwards.
Not that I'm complaining; I'm well aware I've established residence in Portland where we're as famous for rain as we are for great coffee, great beer and a great abundance of homeless people. And that's okay...sometimes a good rain is cleansing and soothing (Also like coffee and beer, though not really like homeless people).
But, after three months of rain with just a teaser of warm weather, I think we Portlanders (and all Pacific Northwesterners, for that matter) deserve a little big of Mr. Sunshine love.
It's about fucking time, after all.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Movin' On Up!
I hate moving. The whole idea of packing up every little piece of my property, whether it's my black pub style table and corresponding wobbly stools (We're talking Target here, not Pottery Barn) or one of 12 dinner plates (This time we're talking IKEA) is just exhausting. I loathe getting boxes together and filling them in an organized fashion with trinkets and dishes and books and toiletries only to have to unpack them within the following days.
Then there's the cleaning. It's not as though I keep a dirty apartment (My mother would be so ashamed) or anything but I just have this nagging guilty conscious that forces me to perform the deepest scrub on any place I leave behind (Save for the last place I live that is, but hey--I was jipped out of my Eight Pound Oreck in that deal so I don't feel much remorse). I'll wipe down walls and scrub corners with a toothbrush until I've inhaled so many cleansing fumes that I'll start scrubbing spots that are more a figment of my intoxicated imagination (It's also at that point that I usually get distracted and think it'd be a good idea to go on some kind of Gonzo crusade).
I personally blame my three years living in UP dorms for my inane moving-out cleansing ritual. At the end of the school year, RAs would scrutinize our dorm rooms like a grandma scrutinizes fingernails, pointing out with horror and dismay the teeniest, tiniest, most minute speck of dirt. Unlike grandma though (hopefully!), UP charged a bleeping dollar for every one thing left in the dorm room. I once had to pay for a dried leaf the size of my pinkie nail.
And of course, along with the packing and cleaning, there's the whole finding a new place to live process and the accompanying stress that hides in its back pocket. I always get bullet-sweating nervous that I won't be able to find a place to live, despite the fact that Craigslist touts an average of 90 new listings at my price range in Multnomah County alone each day. Obviously I'm going to be able to find a new place to live but that still doesn't stop me from embarking on my search for a new abode weeks before its even sensible to start the application process.
Nevertheless, despite loathing the actual moving process, I can't help but be totally and completely stoked that I'm moving at the end of this month. Thanks to a 100 percent increase in my monthly budget, I'm able to afford a bigger apartment so that Walker -- bless his heart for putting up with being squished in a studio for three months -- and I can live more like adults in a real, live, well-put-together apartment and less like close-quartered college roommates.
Where we're going to live yet...well, we haven't figured that part out yet. But anywhere than where we are now will be better. It's not that The Plato is all that bad...there are worse places out there (Gresham, Tigard and Hillsboro to name a few). It's just become a bit inconvenient as of late, what with my apartment manager threatening to kick me out because Walker has a set of keys and The Nympho's Johns confusing my apartment for hers (I had a guy on Monday who, honestly -- looked 14 at best, knock on my door, push his body partially into our studio in search for her). My early mornings sometimes conflict with Walker's late night so the fact that he can legally have a set of keys would make our daily routines a bit smoother. My early morning runs and stretching routines won't bother his beauty sleep and his late night post-QO meeting drinkfests won't bother mine.
Now that I've put my (our) 30 days into the landlord, I'm starting to get antsy about finding a place, even though I'm still 9 days away from being able to make any kind of deposit. And there's the fact that we'll be headed to Spokane for Hoopfest (No, not to play 3-on-3 basketball...we're going to watch my brother and his friend play hungover) the last weekend of June, possibly leaving us with just weekdays, probably more realistically weeknights to move all of our stuff...
...which we have a lot of. Combined, we have enough place settings to throw a killer three-course meal dinner party for two dozen people -- predinner drinks and postdinner coffee included -- without washing a single dish. I have as many books (Helloooo English major!) as he does movies (Hellooooo Film major!) and the sheer quantity of appliance we have probably require more than one packed-to-the-brim car trip to our yet-to-exist new place.
We've yet to nail down where we want to live...though the lure of Northwest living is a luxury I've definitely gotten used to. Forest Park? Shopping? Close to work? Coffee every three feet? Yeah...leaving this area would definitely force me to make a change in my daily routine that I'm not quite sure I'm ready or willing to make.
I can only handle so much change at one time, after all.
Monday, May 31, 2010
AngelVision
Upon admiring the fact that I've written three blogs in the same number of days (and shoot, the same number of months), I realized that:
1) They all mention my new job and
2) I have yet to describe my new job.
Ahem...my new career.
It all started on a bleak Sunday afternoon off from Pottery Barn. Feeling utterly sorry for myself, I hopped onto Craigslist's job postings for the first time in weeks, searching in mistaken vain for anything worthwhile.
Sure, there were more crap receptionist positions and I found myself looking for another part time retail job. I kept looking at jobs that required minimal thinking, minimal heart and minimal passion. I kept selling myself short...but I didn't want to.
So I looked into the writing jobs...which, as any of my fellow freelance writers/English degree bearers will know, are far and few in between. If I wanted to "be a contributer" to a "well paying" website, I could maybe earn an extra $100 a month, writing for 40 hours a month (Trust me, that's crapola pay, even for a freelance writer). Venturing out of my comfort zone, I perused through the marketing tab of the Craigslist classifieds.
And that's when I saw it: A position as a Junior Scriptwriter.
No cover letter necessary. Just a resume, links to worked I've done and is published and the answer to three questions:
1. If you could take any vacation, all expenses paid, where would you go and what would you do?
2. If you could have coffee with anyone in the world, who would it be and why?
3. What's your favorite TV show?
If I wrote something that piqued their interest, I'd get a call back.
I got a call three days after shooting an e-mail. Five days later, an initial 15 minute interview that turned into an hour-long chit chat fest. Eight days later I was eating lunch with the entire company, critiquing and reviewing Impact Movies.
Three days later I was hired on as a scriptwriter for AngelVision Technologies. Yes, I've sold my soul, temporarily giving up the righteousness of journalism to be a capitalism whore.
Yes, I'm a marketing writer but the perks of the company are well worth it: I'm on salary and, after 2 1/2 more months, I'll start to receive real, live benefits. The company itself is quite astonishing: Last June AngelVision was named the 24th fastest growing company in Oregon, has been listed three times in Inc. Magazine's fastest growing companies and has won more than 165 awards for Internet advertising, email and viral marketing.
We're pretty much BA at what we do.
So what's my role? After receiving/hearing the messaging director's initial interview with a new client, I research the client and it's product and/or service then write a script for a 3 1/2 minute movie. It's a pretty fun challenge for me, considering I've never written for a medium that appeals to two senses; usually I just write for people to read. Now, I get to stretch my mind and let my creativity flow through narration AND visual movement. I'm surprised by how liberating the ability to write for visual cues is.
At any rate, the Impact Movies I've already written in the past two weeks won't be finished products for another 2 1/2 months...but rest assured, I'll flaunt them once they're done.
And in case you were wondering, here are the answers that got this process and my adult life started:
1. Hands down, my dream vacation is a four month tour eating my way through Asia. I would spend my first two months teeing off in the far South, enjoying Indonesia and Singapore for coffee, then bellying into Southeast Asia for Thai, Laotian and Vietnamese cuisines. I would spend my third month solely in China, venturing to as many different regions as possible before relishing my last four weeks soaking up sake and sushi in Japan. It's a trip I've been planning for a solid two years now.
1) They all mention my new job and
2) I have yet to describe my new job.
Ahem...my new career.
It all started on a bleak Sunday afternoon off from Pottery Barn. Feeling utterly sorry for myself, I hopped onto Craigslist's job postings for the first time in weeks, searching in mistaken vain for anything worthwhile.
Sure, there were more crap receptionist positions and I found myself looking for another part time retail job. I kept looking at jobs that required minimal thinking, minimal heart and minimal passion. I kept selling myself short...but I didn't want to.
So I looked into the writing jobs...which, as any of my fellow freelance writers/English degree bearers will know, are far and few in between. If I wanted to "be a contributer" to a "well paying" website, I could maybe earn an extra $100 a month, writing for 40 hours a month (Trust me, that's crapola pay, even for a freelance writer). Venturing out of my comfort zone, I perused through the marketing tab of the Craigslist classifieds.
And that's when I saw it: A position as a Junior Scriptwriter.
No cover letter necessary. Just a resume, links to worked I've done and is published and the answer to three questions:
1. If you could take any vacation, all expenses paid, where would you go and what would you do?
2. If you could have coffee with anyone in the world, who would it be and why?
3. What's your favorite TV show?
If I wrote something that piqued their interest, I'd get a call back.
I got a call three days after shooting an e-mail. Five days later, an initial 15 minute interview that turned into an hour-long chit chat fest. Eight days later I was eating lunch with the entire company, critiquing and reviewing Impact Movies.
Three days later I was hired on as a scriptwriter for AngelVision Technologies. Yes, I've sold my soul, temporarily giving up the righteousness of journalism to be a capitalism whore.
Yes, I'm a marketing writer but the perks of the company are well worth it: I'm on salary and, after 2 1/2 more months, I'll start to receive real, live benefits. The company itself is quite astonishing: Last June AngelVision was named the 24th fastest growing company in Oregon, has been listed three times in Inc. Magazine's fastest growing companies and has won more than 165 awards for Internet advertising, email and viral marketing.
We're pretty much BA at what we do.
So what's my role? After receiving/hearing the messaging director's initial interview with a new client, I research the client and it's product and/or service then write a script for a 3 1/2 minute movie. It's a pretty fun challenge for me, considering I've never written for a medium that appeals to two senses; usually I just write for people to read. Now, I get to stretch my mind and let my creativity flow through narration AND visual movement. I'm surprised by how liberating the ability to write for visual cues is.
At any rate, the Impact Movies I've already written in the past two weeks won't be finished products for another 2 1/2 months...but rest assured, I'll flaunt them once they're done.
And in case you were wondering, here are the answers that got this process and my adult life started:
1. Hands down, my dream vacation is a four month tour eating my way through Asia. I would spend my first two months teeing off in the far South, enjoying Indonesia and Singapore for coffee, then bellying into Southeast Asia for Thai, Laotian and Vietnamese cuisines. I would spend my third month solely in China, venturing to as many different regions as possible before relishing my last four weeks soaking up sake and sushi in Japan. It's a trip I've been planning for a solid two years now.2. I've had the hypothetical "If you could have coffee with any person in the world" conversation multiple times within my adult life and I've always come back to Hunter S. Thompson, the driving force behind Gonzo Journalism. Sure, he was always on some type of mind warping substance (In fact, I'm sure my coffee date with him would most likely be laced with Wild Turkey bourbon) but his genius, creativity and passion for writing is -- and probably will be -- unmet within the realms of American journalism.
3. My favorite TV Show is The Office. Is any explanation really necessary with this answer?
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