Bubble Gum Rap

One of my absolute most favorite occurrences in average, daily life is a freakishly sunny day. Anyone who lives in Portland knows exactly what type of day I'm talking about: After weeks of dreary gray rain and days of what my ex and I used to call skyless days -- skyless because the dreary clouds blend into the gray world around us, eliminating the horizon that cuts the realm between heaven and earth -- we Portlanders will wake up to a bright burning orb shining rudely without invitation into our early morning eyes (Which, as we all know, are the windows to our yet-to-be-caffeinated souls) that forces us out from under the layers of covers we hibernate beneath in a confused state of being:

"Is the sky...blue?" One might ask upon rising out of bed looking out the window at a crisp, cerulean sky.

"What, what is that?" One might respond, pointing out at that strange glowing orb smiling in the sky.

"It's...it's the sun!" The two realize simultaneously in such loud wonderment and awe that an observer might believe the pair were pointing at something they'd never seen before, like a zombie or a non-scary clown or that age-old flying pig.

But no, they're looking at the sun. But I digress. Today's post isn't about waking up to the sun, even though I did indeed, wake up to the morning glory of the sun. Today's post, as foretold by it's title, is about enjoying the first sun of the month in my most favorite way: Rocking out and bumping to rap music while wearing Lady Gaga sunglasses during the drive to work in my 2006 white (and dented and dirty) Hyundai Elantra.

Like any awkward white person, you can imagine I look like Michael Bolton from Office Space except cuter, more caffeinated and hopefully, a little less dorky.

Sidebar: If you haven't seen Office Space just stop reading right now and watch this. Then proceed. End sidebar.

Of course, as I was told today by Clara at work, the 'hardcore rap' I listen to on the radio is in fact, bubble gum rap.

"Oh sweety," Clara, who is the most mom-like figure of all of my friends; she's the sweetest, most caring, most understanding and helpful person who always has your best interests at heart and, as I've mentioned before, doesn't get grossed out when you're a pitting-out, stressed-out, shingles-covered disaster, said. "I'll have to show you hard-core rap."

(I should also mention that Clara has admitted to having days of Christmas music on her family's iTunes)

But until she schools me on what hard-core rap really is, I'm going to keep bumping to my bubble gum rap -- the four or five same songs that play on the radio during the one o'clock and six o'clock hours while I commute to and from the alternative medicine clinic. I'll be a gangsta-g-gangsta with Snoop Dogg while I'm in an Empire State of Mind with Jay Z and, as of recently, being Mr. Flinstone like Lil Wayne (cause I can make your bedrock).

Yes, I know I'm a white girl -- and an awkward and skinny one with short, pixie hair at that. I guess it's the middle-class suburban upbringing in me that feels like a total badass whenever MIA Paper Planes comes on.

I just toss my hands like I'm busting a cap while I'm stopped at a red light until a car pulls up next to me carrying a 20-something-year-old guy who looks at me, smiles and then busts up into unforgivable laughter.

Bubble gum rap indeed.

Give them some love

I'm going to go out on another nice-girlfriend limb and post a brief blog about Quarter Orange and their push to make their very own, very first feature film.

It's about Bigfoot which, as long as its not linked in with anything clown-like (A Bizarro cartoon from last week's funnies in the Oregonian had Bigfoot dressed up as a clown; scariest effing thing in the world if you ask me), is maybe the second coolest thing someone could make a movie about -- I say second coolest only because I'm a die-hard zombie fan and nothing could top a great zombie flick.

Anyway, I'm digressing. Allow the boys of Quarter Orange to tell you about their film:

Quarter Orange makes a feature film!

I think its great that Walker, Kyle, Eli and Jason are putting themselves out there because, as creative people, putting ourselves out there is something that we have to do, even if it means little or no money. As an aspiring writer, I'm working my tail off at two non-writing jobs so I can go dine at restaurants to review them (I don't get paid to do that and I've only managed free meals twice) and writing for an online publication that's incredibly awesome and contains the type of content I love to write (profile pieces about my neighborhood, that is) but sadly, doesn't pay the bills. I'd love the opportunity to have someone support my writing habit (Because yes, it's a habit) so that I can, indeed, binge on writing all I want.

But I know, sadly, that my binge-writing days are yet to come. However, the boys of Quarter Orange are slowly rising to the peak of their potential...they just need a little help.

I mean hey, if this poor writer helped out, you can too!

Amie Dahnke: Food Critic

So I now understand why food critics get fat. I mean, sure, anyone who critiques food for his or her profession is bound to be curvy regardless of how much he or she works out; it's just part of the profession. Frank Bruni, the writer and food critic who I admire most (He used to be the restaurant reviewer for the New York Times, was a guest judge on the Food Network's Iron Chef America, wrote a memoir that helped me acknowledge that I'm not insane for wanting to be a food critic despite my history, and is now a writer for T Magazine, producing lofty and wonderfully-structured profiles that are worth more than any photograph...but I digress in admiration), always struggled with his weight and Jeffrey Steingarten, most familiar to Food Network viewers as the robust white-haired judge on Iron Chef America (Can you tell which cable channel I miss the most?) used to be a svelte, fit man.

But now he's kind of big.

And this morning, my size two Gap jeans are fitting a little bit tighter (You could call me, as my sister and I so immaturely coined when I was in high school, a jumbo shrimp: A woman who is wearing clothes that are way too tight for her and is thus bulging out. Jumbo = woman; shrimp = clothes) than they did last night thanks to a seven course meal I had at Santa Fe Taqueria last night.

I sampled two burritos, three tacos and more chips, salsa and guacamole than really one person should probably handle. I tasted beef, pork, chicken and fish. I ate cheese and sour cream (No, my body is not  happy today). I lushed on a margarita (After a glass of wine from Umpqua Bank ala Elephant's Deli) and lots of water (I'm thinking that water is the key to preventing me from eating too much).

I was surprised I could waddle the 1 1/2 blocks home. I mean, it's not like I ate both burritos and all the tacos (Okay, okay, I ate all of the fish and carnitas tacos. I can't help it; I love me some grilled fish and spicy pulled pork); but I definitely ate more than I usually do in one sitting.

Perhaps, as of late (ahem; since I became impoverished in November), last night's meal was one of the largest I've had (Save Thanksgiving and my three days home during Christmas when I gained three pounds in 72 hours). And it was so good.

And I got to write about it...which is the best part about a dining experience for me. I simply love being able to express how food tastes and smells and what the atmosphere of a place is like. In our society, dining out has such a bad rap: It's either too high of a financial burden or too much of a health cost.

I say 'patooey' to that. People; dining out is such a joy. As humans, we're pretty unique in the animal kingdom because eating is actually a social activity. It's not often in the wild you'll find animals digging in together unless, perhaps you run across a venue of vultures (There's a fun fact of the day. Another one: A group of vultures circling around in the air is called a kettle. Don't say you never learned a thing from reading my blog) ripping apart an innocent carcass. For humans, dining is a sensory experience that brings out memories and emotions that simply have to be shared with other people.

Why? Because sharing a bite of anything bridges gaps between strangers and makes connections. It's the first step in kinship, friendship and relationships.

And that's why I like dining out and why I like writing about food...which apparently, I can do rather well. I just got an email from the Santa Fe Taqueria's GM inviting me to chit chat with her.

Sweeeeeeeeeet.

A Glutton for Punishment

This is a word for word, cough for cough, doubled over debilitating hack for doubled over debilitating hack recount of the thoughts in my head during my four mile run this morning. I was too lazy, tired and nauseated to be able to focus on writing so instead, I am (cough cough) holding my recorder at the base of my chin as I lay on my back on my purple shag rug, where I have collapsed in out-of-shape misery.

Fuck me (Rolls over with hand on side).

Enjoy.

I forgot that I am a runner. The dual forces of Nature and Nurture (or if you prefer a Christianity-based telling of the story of creation, then please refer to the force of God) crafted me into the mold of Runner -- I'm lanky, have bountiful lungs (Cough, cough, cough) and possess the inate inability to do any other sport besides one that requires one foot in front of the other (Add the direction of  'turning left' and you've morphed cross country running into track) well. And although my running log of the past year might show differently, I actually used to be a fairly good runner, regardless of what Google searches of my name may or may not tell you.

My talent as a junior high, high school and eventually Division I collegiate runner most definitely stems from my passion for the sport. Something about running is just so refreshing and personal; it's always served as a sanctuary for me. I could always lace up my shoes and head out the door for a four or eight or 15 mile run and feel much, much better than before, both mentally and physically speaking. And even though I run more recreationally these days (I refuse to call myself a jogger...which I believe I have the right to do considering I've logged in a sub-5 minute mile, a thank you), that passion and love for the burning muscles and aches and pains of high mileage weeks still live in me.

That hidden passion is probably why last week my friend asked (via Facebook, of course) if I wanted to be on his firm's team for the upcoming Shamrock Run. Regardless of the fact that I'm still recovering from having Shingles and further disregarding that I haven't logged a step in my Nikes since the day before Christmas Eve, I merrily signed up for the 15K length of the run (15 kilometers is a smidgen over nine miles).

Merrily might be the wrong word. It is much too happy and optimistic of a modifier describing my, what I can only describe as slightly insane and poorly-thought-out decision.

Hastily is a more appropriate adverb.

Six days passed once I was "officially a member of Team Cowlitz County Prosecutor's Office" before I realized that in less than two months I was going to have to run nine miles. Now, the runner in me, even without training, would be able to run nine miles. Of course, the competitor in me would take the first two miles of the fun run at a sub-7 minute pace, peter out around mile three, sludge through mile four before doing what my high school teammates and I dubbed the Truffle Shuffle (It's the run we imagined that Chunk from The Goonies would be capable of doing) for the remaining five miles. So I decided to lace up my shoes and train like a good runner ---

--- Or what used to be a good runner. I am so, so beyond being a physically fit, let alone a good runner. Fourteen months of spotty running have left me terribly, terribly out of shape.

Sidebar: Now, I hear my coworkers and friends guffawing my statement that I am, indeed out of shape but you've got to understand that I actually am: I might still wear size 2 jeans and be able to go out in public braless without really anybody noticing but I am more Beyonce-ish today than I was when I graduated college (And, if you're comparing the 2010 version of Amie to the post-high school graduation Amie, I'd look like Kirstie Alley ala Fat Actress standing next to Calista Flockhart ala Ally McBeal) and less likely to take the stairs than the elevator simply because stairs take the wind out of me and make my once-strong quadriceps burn. End sidebar.

Getting back into shape is always the worst pain anyone could go through (This coming from a Shingles survivor). My four mile run today nearly killed me. Each street I turned on (I'm too much of a pansy to run the hills of Forest Park quite yet) came with an increasing wave of agony. My stomach cramped up in mile one with such intensity that I wanted to blame the freshly purchased soymilk I splashed my morning coffee with for going bad (It isn't bad; the expiration date doesn't come to pass for another six weeks) or perhaps the banana that I didn't eat before heading out the door.

Burning lungs set in during mile two; each inhale and exhale felt like my lungs were  being seared on an old cast iron fry pan that wasn't stick-proof. Rounding myself west up Burnside for the start of mile three, my legs began to feel the tension too.

Burnside became my Everest. Each block I passed -- 17th, 18th, 19th -- was like a major basecamp on my trek up to 23rd. As I watched the cars gliding down eastbound Burnside, carrying people sitting comfortably while drinking coffee or bluetooth talking, I couldn't help but think how wonderful it would be to jump in front of one of the cars and let it run me over. As I passed NW 20th Place (That bastard of a street that adds another block to my run; I mean really, what's the point of having a NW 20th Avenue AND a NW 20th Place?), I let the thought of being hit by a car pass over me; the screaming fury of the end of mile three would cease and I would be totally pain free -- albeit after intensive and overly expensive surgery --  recovering in a hospital bed, doped up on more pain meds than I could ever imagine.

But of course, after I learned to walk again I know that somewhere, at some point, over some new social media, a friend would pop up and ask me if I wanted to join his team for a fun run and the runner, that damn glutton for punishment, in me would say yes and I'd be here, nearly passed out on my studio floor from exhaustion and pain, training for a fun run all over again.

The Status Update

I just very recently updated my Facebook profile for no reason other than the fact that I felt like it and, like most 20-somethings who grew into almost-adulthood with Facebook (I was a freshman in college when Facebook first came to be the social phenomenon that rules the world of college students, post-college students, pre-college students, siblings of college students, parents of college students and even parents of parents of college students), part of my identity is tied into what my Facebook profile states about me.

Just this week, for example, I've let people know that I'm simultaneously living like a preschooler, taking mid-morning naps, while toiling away like an adult workaholic who puts in 52 hours within five days. I've also posted three fairly-well written and exciting blog posts (Okay, so I know that my tax blog was haphazardly thrown together and is more of a rant than anything else, but what are you going to do?). And I've also, as mentioned in the previous graf (Ooooh look at me using journalism lingo like I'm a real, live journalist),  updated my profile: I added my receptionist position at Whole Family Wellness under my jobs, updated my favorite TV shows, added Neighborhood Notes into my web sites box and, without much hesitation or thought, changed my relationship status from "single" to "in a relationship."

All I can say is holy cow. As someone who produces reading content for other people, I like to think that I have some grasp on what people find enjoyable to read. I mean, a person can fundamentally be a great writer -- he can have such beautiful sentence structure that it makes you weak at the knees (That person for me, by the way, is T.C. Boyle) or she can be such a master of grammar and punctuation that any deviation from the technical rules of writing is unbelievably powerful (I know I'm a parentheses  and dash abuser, thus making my favorite punctuations almost annoying at times) -- and produce boring content that people still read. Other writers can have really interesting subjects but have such awful writing abilites that attempting to get through a sentence makes your ears and eyes bleed (Ahhh memories of editing articles at the Beacon and during my stint at the Writing Center). I think that I'm somewhere in between those polarities; I think I produce flowing sentences with enough wit and interesting content but still struggle with organization and, as this blog post is evidence for, random rambling.

Or so I thought. For all of the articles I find in the New York Times or Oregonian or OPB, all of the blog posts, all of the status updates about both wonderful and awful things that have happened to me, I have never, EVER received as much feedback as I did when I changed my relationship status. Who knew that my love life was so interesting to others? I most certaintly didn't; in fact, my status hadn't been changed for 30 minutes before I had three comments and a friend Facebook chatting with me about my new beau. The response befuddled me, to be honest.

But then I slept on it and thought about this so-called phenomenon a bit more. People like romance and love and happy endings. As humans, we crave companionship and enjoy watching or reading about others going through strife, whether it's serious or comical (Yes, I'm differentiating between your typical chick flick and romcom) and still finding each other in the end. Heck, most of my favorite novels are about two people falling in love: Pride and Prejudice, The English Patient (Okay so they don't end up together; whatever) and Walk Two Moons, to name a few. I think that we enjoy being a part of romance because it makes us forget about the less-than-great things in life (death and clowns in my case) because we know that somewhere out there, two people are happy.

I'm figuring that's what the 14 people who have since commented on my relationship status update are feeling anyway. And that's okay.

Just don't expect gushy details any time soon. A girl doesn't kiss and tell, after all.

Death and Taxes (Okay not really death, just taxes)

Seriously, taxes suck. A lot.

I got my first paycheck yesterday from my new job (I know, it's sort of weird to get paid on a Thursday but I'm not complaining about that because I've got the set up to where I receive bank from Pottery Barn the day after depositing a paycheck from WFW; not a bad gig if you ask me) which I should be totally celebratory and super excited about.

And I was: Over the past couple of days I've been contemplating all of the wonderful things that I would be able to do with my paycheck: I dreamed of paying ALL of my bills (and more than just the minimum!), for example. I imagined buying a friend a birthday present and taking another out for a birthday dinner. I wrote grocery list after grocery list in which I bought enough supplies to stock my pantry, fridge and  freezer. I pictured myself chit-chatting with my stylist while getting a much needed haircut and going out on a date after buying a much wanted dress.

I believed, naively, that I could do so, so much with this first paycheck. I believed it all until I saw how much money the government took out for taxes. Of the $393 I earned, I only got to deposit $278.37 of it. That's right; the freaking idiotic jerk heads FICA, Social Security and of course, Oregon's Income Tax (we'll call it OIT from here on out) rallied and snaked over $114 of my hard earned money.

What punks.

I was probably a bit too over zealous in my thinking -- truly the epitome of wishful thinking, I know. Nevertheless, it is nice -- and sort of odd, actually -- knowing that I have money not just to live off of, but to spare. I mean, between both paychecks, I will have more money in my bank account than I've had in months.

Woo hoo.

And to think, two weeks from now is going to be even better. Double woo hoo!

Neighborhood Notes

As though working two jobs at 60 hours a week wasn't enough for me, I've gone ahead and taken on a new freelancing gig. I mean, what's the point of busting my butt at two non-writing jobs if I'm not going to pursue writing in all of my free time (You know, the few hours I have in between Pottery Barn, Whole Family Wellness, trying to have a social life now that I have the means to do so and that most-sacrificed past time I like to call sleep)?

Right, there is no point. So bring on the writing.

Here's the new gig: Thanks to Walker, whose company, Quarter Orange, is on a full-on marketing barrage to promote their very own short-film night at Radio Room, located on NE Alberta St. this coming Monday from 9 pm to midnight (If I'm not a good girlfriend promoting them on my sometimes-read blog, I don't know how one can define 'good girlfriend.'), I got in touch with a web site, Neighborhood Notes. On my free half-day Saturday morning I uploaded my resume as well as three writing samples (including my blog post about the Annex and some of my restaurant reviews) and by Tuesday afternoon, I was contacted to become a writer.

Talk about a quick hire. It's funny; I looked for MONTHS during the end of graduation to end up at Pottery Barn (which I of course, love but there's no denying the fact that my $130,000 piece of paper that says I graduate from UP is worth $8.50 an hour) but a whim of an application lands me a new freelancing position within four days. The world definitely works in weird ways.

Anyway, about the site: Neighborhood Notes started as a blog by a regular Portland citizen, Lynnette Fusilier, who joined the Pearl District Neighborhood Association (I love me some neighborhood associations) in 2002 and, being what I am sure is an overachiever (Hey, I've only Gmail chatted with her once), took on being a coordinator for everything Pearl District. Her blog grew in readership (which makes me think that maybe, just maybe, blogging isn't as ridiculous as it seems) and quickly bloomed into a Portland-wide phenomenon, covering every teeny tiny neighborhood that makes Stumptown the quirky city it is.

And now I get to write for the site.

I'm pretty stoked because I get paid and some pretty sweet perks too (Insert Steve Carrell as Michael Scott at the paper conference bragging about SWAG here). The pay is...okay...ranging at about $.10 a word but the perks are pretty neat, mainly because they include free tickets to shows (ballet, theatre, opera, concerts, you name it) as well as happy hour invites and hopefully, if my food writing skills come to fruition, free meals, too. I get to conduct interviews, meet new people over coffee and tea, write drafts and work on a deadline.

Deadline. I love that word; both syllables emphasize such an importance of finality. Dead -- as in, that's it; no more. Line simply brings up a myriad of cliche sayings: "No going past this line," "Crossing the line," "The finish line" or thanks to my stint at Clara's two Tuesday's ago when I watched The Biggest Loser, the dreaded Yellow Line.

Gosh, it's like I'm a real, live writer again. I've been in such a slump lately, with my column for the Regence Group all finished for the 2009 year (I'm semi-patiently awaiting the content calendar for the 2010 year), that I've felt less college-graduated-freelance-writer and more minimum-wage-worker. It's nice to know that I'll be paid for my writing from here on out (At least some of it) and that I'm about to have a much larger audience.

Anyway, expect my first article to appear on Neighborhood Notes in about two weeks; I've been handed a doozy of an assignment that's going to take some real research...

...which reminds me; the site's Writer's Guidelines instructs the writer to "write what you know." If that isn't a sign that this site is a good fit for me, I don't know what is --- Writing what I know is all I know! is one of my most basic tenets of writing after all.

$.99 Salmon and Chips

Casinos, in my humble and probably unworthy opinion, are a weird phenomenon. The casino is a place where you go, usually with your friends, to spend money in the hopes of gaining more money but armed with the knowledge that you're probably going to end up losing money. I mean, I get that casinos are just another form of entertainment, much like a movie, sports game or going out to eat, but at least I know that when I drop $10 for Avatar or $65 to see Coldplay (because let's face it, I'm the person who is going to be attending a concert far more often than a Blazer's game) or $30 on sushi, I'm getting something somewhat tangible back: A 3D-thrill ride, Chris Martin's forehead sweat and the best nourishment handily known to mankind. Dropping money at a casino? Well that just makes me feel cheap and used.

I bring up casinos in major part (Okay, in total part) to my commute to work today.

Sidebar: How sweet is it that I actually have a commute to work now? It's like I'm a real, live adult with a real, live job. End Sidebar.

While heading into the Terwilliger curves this gray Monday morning on I-5 southbound, I swerved past a semi that had an advertisement plastered on its backside for a casino. The new frugalista in me (Ugh, kick me next time you see me for using 'ista' as an actual suffix in my writing) immediately noticed the giant red "$.99" painted in the middle of the advertisement.

"What could possibly be just 99 cents?" I wondered as I veered abruptly between lanes (Those curves are scary and if you're not careful, quite dangerous, too. They should ban trucks with ads that boast of cheapness for that reason), coming dangerously close to a woman applying lipstick (Sure, talking on your cell phone is now a primary offense in Oregon but feel free to apply your Covergirl Clear Last Lipshine until the cows come home).

Turns out, a lot of things at Angel of the Winds casino, a Vegas-style casino up in Washington (Hey, I can Google) will cost you less than a dollar: You can dine on, what I'm sure is made of the finest, freshest and most local ingredients, strawberry shortcake, biscuits and sausage gravy, pepperoni French bread pizza, a corndog and French fries, Katie's famous chili (Famous maybe only because it's advertised on the back of a semi?) and, my personal favorite, salmon and chips.

Salmon? For $.99? You can't be serious. I might be cutting back on my food spending budget (My shrinking waistline shows the damage that a menu of coffee, tea, bread and the occasional piece of fruit will do to a person) but I am in no way, that desperate for a steal of a deal. The addition just simply doesn't make sense: There is no way that potatoes and oil costs less than a dollar, let alone salmon, breading and the oil needed to fry it in costs less than a buck (And let's not forget the costs of labor, shipping, storage and service supplies). I might not be a business major and math may no longer be a forte of mine but I've got enough common sense locked up in my brain to just say no to fish that costs less than a dollar.

Especially when it comes from a casino.

So this is what it's like to be high

I am pretty damn blitzed right now. While I'm not out of my mind baked right now (Hey, I can produce a blog post after all), I'm definitely baked enough that, were you to prick me with a toothpick to test my doneness, I'd leave but a few gooey marks of still-raw batter, indicating that I still need a bit more oven time. Still, I'm definitely stoned enough that, as much as I tried to hide it during the last few hours of my 7 1/2 hour day at Pottery Barn, I showed classic signs of dopey aloofness. As if I need the proof, here's a conversation I had over Facebook chat with a manager:

Kurtis: How are you feeling lady?

Me: Oh fine and dandy. I left 1/2 an hour early cause i was, well, you know, stoned.

Kurtis: Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat? You were stoned? Couldn't tell.

Me: duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuude I know. Not good. Not good at all. I feel all funny like I'm at Candy Mountain.

Kurtis: you ARE at Candy Mountain!

The sad thing is that Kurtis is probably right. I am, thanks to the eight bottles of pain pills -- both OTC and prescription (which aren't my prescriptions but hey, what are you going to do when the doctor won't get back to you?) -- and antihistamines (drugs makes me itchy), definitely on Candy Mountain: a magical place with talking unicorns that doesn't really make sense to anyone unless you have a weird sense of ridiculous humor or, as in my case, are high.

Of course, anyone who knows me knows that I've never danced with Mary Jane and don't really ever plan to. It's just not my thing and well, I'll leave it at that (Again for those who know me, you get what I'm talking about). Regardless of my stance on pot, I think that I have some kind of idea what its like to be stoned. Mainly because, ever since about three pm today, I've been loopy and relaxed while giggling at the most ridiculous things (Ahem, Charlie and Candy Mountain) and yearning for foods like chocolate chip cookies and tacos.

And muffins.

And Mike and Ikes.

Oooh -- and a tuna melt. I don't even like tuna melts; the thought of canned tuna mixed with mayo sitting next to a slab of melted cheese on buttery bread is actually pretty nauseating...but still sounds so damn good.

What was I talking about? Yes, being high. I've been pretty A-D-D all day today, unable to concentrate on simple tasks like finding a pillow for a guest or reading a full article in the Sunday paper. My attention span is thus next to nothing (hence the reason why this post has taken me over four hours to write) as is my short term memory (I failed greatly trying to tell a friend tonight what I did during my day yesterday and how my day  today at work was).

But, for the first time in a while, I feel totally at peace; all at once relaxed, soothed and happy. It's a feeling I could get used to.

Contributing to society one cupcake at a time

I'd like to point out that despite marking the near completion of week two on 24/7 pain meds that I haven't been totally worthless to society. Sure, I've loafed around, unable or unwilling to move more than three times within 10 hours, and have read, written and worked less since the start of the new year than I did in the past three months. Regardless of the fortnight's incredulously sedentary happenings, I'd like to take this blog post to highlight the one truely productive activity I completed: Baking cupcakes.

My friend Clara celebrated her 25th birthday on Thursday and I, despite loathing the celebration hooplah that accompanies some of society's most ridiculous "holidays" like Valentine's Day and disregarding anniversaries, love, love, LOVE birthdays. There are few things better in the world (free things, real mail and surprise flowers) than getting the one day to glow, shine and relish in glorious pomp and circumstance the fact that you came into this world, crying, slimy and naively ready to conquer anything. It's even better when others recognize that day, whether by today's standards of a simple text message or Facebook shout out or by good old fashioned baking.

In Clara's case, I chose all the above, inserting inside jokes about bad Van Morrison cover bands through Facebook and a quick "I'm happy you're my awesome friend who takes care of me when I'm in horrific amounts of pain and doesn't say anything when I get nervous because I'm about to show you my naked bum" Happy Birthday (About the naked bum: Clara took me to her home on Tuesday when I was in major pain crisis at work and helped me change into pajama pants. I was wearing a thong and my modesty, despite my Level 10 pain, came through. Clara didn't mind.). But neither digital message nears comparison to how much fun I had baking cupcakes for Clara and the rest of Friday's Pottery Barn gang.

I decided, while sitting in front of the computer at my new job  on Thursday afternoon thinking about how hungry I was, to make milk chocolate cupcakes with peanut butter frosting. After rushing home before my boyfriend met me, we headed to the store for supplies (A task not easily done after 10 hours of working on a continuous stream of vicodin) and set ourselves to baking. We painstakingly ripped open the Betty Crocker box of cake mix (Which we found out, thanks to Walker's iphone that you can buy it in bulk on Amazon for way, way cheaper) and transformed that mysterious brown powder into deliciously rich, yet light and airy, cupcakes by substituting buttermilk for the water (A trick I learned from the cupcake giftee herself).

The frosting really topped the cupcakes off (no pun intended). While I might cheat and use box mixes for the cake from time to time, I never go store-bought with my frosting. For my peanut butter frosting I trusted myself to my Joy of Cooking book that I got as a Christmas gift three years ago (When my knack for cooking and baking really began to flourish).  The recipe is as follows:

1/2 cup creamy peanut butter (Although I bet chunky peanut butter would be good too if you like a frosting with some texture)

3 oz. cream cheese at cold temperature

1 1/2 TBSP butter softened at room temperature

3 TBSP cream or milk

1 tspn vanilla

Mix above ingredients until smooth (I'm talking baby bottom smooth. If your butter is too cold you'll end up having little chunks of butter hiding in the frosting which is a bit rich unless you're Paula Deen).

Add in 2 2/3 cups powdered sugar, one-third at a time and beat just until smooth and desired consistency is reached.

Now, for all of the baking supplies I have (which pales in comparsion to Clara's. That girl puts me to shame, which is probaby why her blog is aptly named Bite Size Love), I learned -- with the peanut butter, cream cheese, butter and milk already in my yellow Kitchen Aid mixer I've appropriately named, "Happy," -- that I was missing vanilla.

"Just put in peppermint. Nobody will notice," Walker suggested after peering into my pitiful baking drawer that I was crazily rifling through, wishing that vanilla would secretly appear.

I stared deftly at my grinning boyfriend whose sarcastic suggestion reminds me that there's always room for improvising. I thought of my Royal Icing which I use for sugar cookies, recalling that I substitute lemon zest for vanilla, simply because I like a less-sweet frosting and that the three cups of powdered sugar that recipe calls for is sweet enough for Willy Wonka.

"Uhm, I'll just use lemon zest," I said with wavering confidence.

It turns out, zesting about 1/2 of a large-sized lemon and adding that into my frosting was an awesome idea. And of course, I should have known the tart and nutty combination of lemon and peanut butter was going to be a winner from the get go: Three summers ago while on a rainy July day-trip to the coast, my now-ex and I traveled through Seaside, picking up salt water taffy at a Tazmanian Devil rate (I love the stuff, what can I say?) before locking ourselves in his Subaru to read Harry Potter for the day (It was raining and there was nothing else to do and the 7th book had just come out that day).

One of the salt water taffy stores sold peanut butter-lemon salt water taffy, a combination that made us both simultaneously skeptical and interested (It happens when you're both foodies). The taffy was phenomenal; the richness of the peanut butter is warm to the palate, a definite comfort food treat that makes you close your eyes and think of curling up with your sweety under a blanket next to a fire while its snowing outside (hey, I can do cliche fantasies, too). But the tangy pop of lemon adds a kick of tango fun, morphing that romantic fireside snugglefest into something a bit -- Yes, I'm going to go there -- sexier.

The sexy snugglefest session was indeed the perfect topping for the richly light buttermilk milk chocolate cupcakes. The milk chocolate added the third cornerstone of taste perfection, the sweetness, to the unexpected harmonious duo of salty and sour.

But the best part of the cupcakes? The sprinkles of course. As Clara and I firmly believe, you can't have a cupcake without sprinkles. Okay, okay, you can; but why would you want to?

And so, while I might not have been the friendliest of neighbors (I've been rude to the nympho above who recently got a TV and in her typical loud fashion, has to have it on at an ungodly high level), the best family member (I've barked at my mom and ignored calls from my sister because I've been in so much pain and pathetic agony) and especially the best employee (I haven't helped a guest decorate with Pottery Barn accessories or furniture in weeks!), I was at least able to make my friends and coworkers a little happier, one delicious cupcake at a time.

Hello? Are there any aminals in here?

Well, I'm not entirely sure why I titled my post after a line from Lilo and Stitch -- perhaps I felt so inclined to because I watched the movie less than a week ago, loopy on Vicodin and Benadryl, on the denouement of one of my Shingles nerve pain attacks -- but I did, so just accept the quoted title.

More likely than not, we can assume that my quoted question (In case you don't know the movie or can't recall the scene, the quotation is Lilo's, when she goes into the humane society looking to adopt a dog; however, they're all hiding on the ceiling -- you have to love the lack of gravity and logic in Disney cartoon movies -- because they're afraid of the freak blue creature that we come to love as Stitch) is an out-reach to anyone who usually reads my blog since, let's face it, I've been totally MIA (Not to be confused with MIA) for the entirety of the new year and I'm sure you've all been terribly worried about me (Or at least my imaginative thoughts assume you've been).

Rest easy; I've been doing well. The Shingles (If that's not the name of a solid, one-hit-wonder emo band, I don't know what is)pain is nearly gone, thank goodness. Although I had a major pain attack on Tuesday morning while at Pottery Barn (Yes, there's nothing less humiliating than crying...no, bawling...in complete agony in front of all of your coworkers and being so writhed in pain that you can't even undress yourself to put on comfortable pajamas), I've been able to manage the pain, through a combination of vicodin, tyenol, ibuprofen and a decent amount of sleep, and begin to join the ranks of everyday society, yet again.

In fact, I was even able to actually, finally start my new job full time on Thursday. The job -- I'm a receptionist at a small naturopathic and acupuncture clinic in Southwest Portland -- is wonderful. It's relaxing, sitting on a comfortable office chair, greeting patients while zenning out (yes, I added a gerund to zen; what now?) to the hums of the noise maker and soft music. After a half day of organizing stock rooms and unwrapping pre-wrapped gifts at Pottery Barn, it's nice to just chill (especially while getting paid for it). While I've only completed two 10 hour days (Many, many more to follow), I think that I'm going to be able to handle it just fine. Of course, last night I was so exhausted that I spent the night watching Friends while my friends whipped themselves into a baking frenzy, producing lemon bars (complete with a pinch of orange zest) and chocolate chip cookies, so we'll see how long it takes for my energy levels to plateau.

Just as long as I don't come down with the damn Shingles again, I think I'll be able to manage anything that's tossed my way.

Man, I hope I didn't just jinx myself.

Anyway...thanks for bearing with the "I'm Back" update. Expect more blogs to come more frequently.