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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

Writing Fitness

I already know I’m not in running shape. The 20 and 30 minute walk jogs of huffing and puff lace my Nikes up for every other day for are pretty substantial evidential proof of that.

I’m surprised to find out that I’m out of writing shape…mainly because I didn’t think that was possible.

Yet, here I am, sitting at home with a bag of Trader Joe’s frozen petite peas nestled on my right wrist and forearm (I have to save the ice for cocktails with the world’s worst vodka, after all), nursing what I’m certain is developing tendonitis.

A quick medical lesson for those of you aren’t familiar with tendonitis: As my oh-so-scientific-looking picture shows (And no, I didn’t draw it), tendonitis occurs when a tendon is inflamed from overuse. For the wrist, that means the thin, little muscles and tendons that move these texting, typing, dishwashing hands of mine up, down, left and right are probably throwing little temper tantrums from repetitive keyboard typing and mouse usage.

At first I was a bit afraid I was developing carpal tunnel syndrome after just eight days at my new job but realized, after a bit of Google searching, that since I’m not experiencing any numbness or tingling in my palm, thumb or index finger, that I can luckily rule that secretarial injury out the window.

But then I realized I could be developing tendonitis since my wrist and outer forearm are aching like a beeeeeeeyotch. I first noticed the pain during the final hour of my day at the office (Goodness, how American and adult and suburbanly mature do I sound saying that?!) on Monday but it subsided by the time I was drinking a beer and watching ‘Secretary.’ On Tuesday I noticed that the pain began a little bit earlier in the day and didn’t subside; it was so annoying that I couldn’t bring myself even to Facebook after getting home and carrying the basket at the grocery store was a wee bit more than my tiny wrist and skeletor forearm preferred to carry. Then yesterday the pain began around noon and didn’t go away – probably because my ‘office’ is actually a room equipped with a 24/7 cooling vent that won’t shut off which means it’s freeeeeeeeezing (Yes Mom, I’m imitating you), making me cold to the bones – and working at PB, even for the short time I did, made it worse. Cooking dinner? A nightmare. Changing the radio station while driving my car? Yowch. And don’t get me started on the anguish I had while texting.

It throbbed as I went to bed, even after washing down ibuprofen with the last dregs of my Bridgeport Hop Czar.

It throbbed as I woke up this morning, still zombified. It hurt in the shower while washing my hair, in the car while banging my steering wheel with curses at traffic.

And it hurts now, after sitting for the Channel 13’s hour of The Office with frozen peas on arm.

Hmm. Maybe I should go to the doctor (Or suck it up and stop being a wimp?).

And, from the looks of my condensation-laden bag sweating on my arm, to the grocery store to pick up some non-mushy pods.

The Best Things In Life Return

A recent Time Magazine article had a lead stating that nine out of 10 Americans are moderately or very satisfied with their jobs.

I am beamingly happy to say that I am now one of those nine Americans.

After 54 weeks of piecing together part time jobs, mashing schedules of two and three positions like stubborn middle-of-the-puzzle jigsaw pieces, I landed a real, adult, full-time, salaried and benefitted career.

Just two weeks over a year since graduating from the University of Portland, I (siiiiigh) sold my journalism loving and writing soul to the world of marketing.

And after three weeks of writing scripts and taglines and calls to action, I couldn’t be happier. Apparently, 42.29 percent of my fellow advertising cohorts are also like me, very happy.

It’s a bit odd; so many Websites, journals and articles say that the key to happiness isn’t about having a job or money or financial security but I have to admit, after a tumultuous post-graduation year of paycheck to paycheck survival, my happiness increased 10 fold thanks to this job.

Most of those Websites, journals and articles that pop up on Google results say that true happiness comes from inner peace. But who’s to say that having a job you love isn’t a key piece to having inner happiness?

If I look back at the first year after graduation, it’s easy to complain, whine and cry that the environment I was so readily tossed into was totally and completely unfair. It wasn’t ready for me (Ahem, 12 percent unemployment in Multnomah County alone) and I wasn’t ready for it (Real world, say whaaaaaa?).

It’s easy to say that nobody handed me lemons.

It’s easier to say that if, by freak chance, lemons came my way, I never made lemonade.

Rather, for the first time in my life, I morphed into someone who tossed lemons aside when they came,

mistaking them for some type of mirage of bitter nourishment. I became a reactive individual, clamoring to keep my head just enough above the water to take a hopeful deep breath, rather than the proactive go-getter I had spent the last 23 years of my life as.

I found though, that I wasn’t the only person. A colleague at Pottery Barn waited two years before grabbing a secretarial/receptionist position with the Portland Youth Philharmonic (YAY Jason!!!). A fellow UP alumni who graduated in 2005 with a mechanical engineering degree still can’t find a job in his field after being laid off 15 months ago and now toils away in his garden, blogging about his agricultural adventures in unemployment.

Idleness wore us down.  Paycheck-to-paycheck living wore us down. The American Dream? Ha. Inner Peace? Puh-lease.

But like any period of struggle and strife, I admit that I’ve morphed, and perhaps even grown, as a person. For the first time in my life I am truly independent. While I may have resented my parents last winter for letting their baby girl go without a meal or two, I’m thankful that I’ve learned the masterful art of frugality and budget balancing (how many 20-somethings do you know with that talent?). With a bum hip still bumming me out, I transferred my strained love-hate relationship with running into a fascinating hobby of urban walking, checking out my neighborhood with Walker over a cup of coffee. 

Over the past year, despite EVERYTHING (break ups, shingles, firings, cancer, etc), I’ve somehow managed to become this slightly normal, uber-confident young Portlander.

I happily became…wait for it…an adult.

Whoa.

On an end note; I almost feel bad for the other guy who was hired with me. The 23-year-old landed this scriptwriting position, snatched up the American Dream, with three weeks of his collegiate career left. He won’t have to worry about how to pay rent, how to buy food, how to survive from one day to the next without losing his mind. Part of me, that girl who I used to be 12 months ago, is insanely jealous of him. But the majority of me? The woman I am now hopes the best for him, knowing that he won’t get the opportunity to grow, mature and learn about his self the way I was forced to.

He might not enjoy those lemons as much.

Comeback comeback

So this is the second “I’m blogging again” post that I’ve written since starting my blog way back in late November.

Whatever.

A lot of people have tried the comeback comeback and, considering I’m pretty awesome, I figure that I can re-earn the love and trust and loyalty of the few people who actually read my blog just like others.

I mean just look at Robert Downey Junior: He started his acting career at the age of five and grew up on screen and in the tube throughout the ‘90s (I write like I actually witnessed this but, considering that he was born 21 years my senior, it’s obvious to assume I’m pontificating over celebrity nonsense) before going totally off the drug-induced deep end for a solid five years. He tried to comeback with a role in Alley McBeal in 2000 but didn’t hit life-changing rock bottom until he was on the Oprah Show in 2004 (What is it about that woman?) when he realized he couldn’t actually continue a life of jail and drugs.

Now he’s a super awesome bad ass who runs around in iron suits, beating up bad guys and trying to get into The Avengers. His role as Iron Man is laden with such irony (IRONy?) too that it’s submissively comical: An ex-drug addict superstar cleans up and plays an ex-alcoholic superhero. Classic.

Comeback Specimen Number Two: Britney Spears.

In a one sentence summary of her life; she tumbled down from her throne as a Mouseketeer turned teen idol turned adult-man idol turned cracked out Las Vegas-eloping (to a Wangster, none the less!), Madge-kissing, baby-having, head-shaving nut job. Now she’s all back and hot, making music that makes the white boys at Pottery Barn shake it in the early morning like they’re Beyonce (You know who you are and I miss being all OCD about the store with you terribly).

You might say she only had one comeback attempt but she had two; remember when she tried to be all clean and sober after her second son? As we all saw on Family Guy, which obviously didn’t pan out too well for her.

And the third comeback comeback of the blog post would have to be Brett Favre.

Wait. No…he never successfully came back, did he (Insert an, ‘Oooooh, Sick Burn’ tease here)?

At any rate, what I mean to say through my random celebrity knowledge (Which I did actually have to wiki because, let’s face it, I don’t care enough about celebrity life to have these factoids readily available within my brain), is that I am making my comeback comeback into the blogosphere.  I’ve had enough people tell me that I need to/should blog again (Ahem, Clara) and, to appease and hopefully entertain them, I’ve gone ahead and succumbed to peer pressure.

I should probably work on that slight flaw in my character. If I keep doing everything my friends and family suggest to me I might become a full-on, 24/7 carnivore (Ahem, Walker), dye my hair hot pink or red (Ahem, Mom, Sean) and become really fat, just because I can (Ahem, Diane).

Luckily I don’t have an agent telling me I should get back into the game.

Because Lord knows, the last thing I want to be is a comeback comeback comeback like Brett Favre. Sometimes enough is enough.

Walking

This is why I love walking; it's slow, comfortable, open for conversation and observation with a loved one and I can take pictures of the things I like the most, like daffodils which remind me of cartoon lions.

Lost: Attention Span

If I were able to focus for long enough I'd like to make a poster:

LOST!
Have you seen my attention span? I can't seem to find it anywhere and am fairly certain that it was either stolen or, sadly, it ran away from me.

Last seen: Oh, weeks ago, probably prior to my first day off from work either in Northwest or Southwest Portland.

Reward: My sanity.

But making a poster takes so much work; I'd have to pull out markers and paper and scissors and be all creative and stuff.

Yeah, stuff.

Then I'd have to walk around, in the rain, carrying dozens of copies of my poster and a staple gun (Which I'd have to get from somewhere; a girl just doesn't own one of these) without simultaneously getting distracted by the blooming daffodils or friendly construction workers or lurking transients and avoiding eye contact with babies and old men who think I'm 'cute and artsy' with my short hair and big, billowy scarves.

Which reminds me, I think I need a haircut again.

But if I get a haircut I'll want to get it dyed. Like red or, if I'm feeling really ballsy (yeah, I went there), platinum blonde.

I don't know if I could go blonde though.

I used to want to go super red, like cherry red.

I was once magenta which was pretty great, though not as great as when I dyed my high school track coach's gray mullet purple.

Hey--he said I could.

Wait, where was I? Yes; my attention span.

It's weird; I've always been someone who can sit down and focus and for some reason, over the past month, I've been unable to really just

sit. down. and. focus.

I surf websites like a Vegas dealer hands out cards; shuffling back and forth between news sites, shopping sites and that damned Facebook. I flip amongst the eight tv channels I have like I'm an aging salt-and-pepper haired and moustached man (Yes Dad I am alluding to you here). I can't make up my mind, mainly because my mind is running on all eight cylinders even though it's really not going anywhere.

Maybe I'm just in a funk. Maybe I'm burnt out.

Maybe my brain is just so full of ideas and thoughts that my mind constantly bounces from one to the next by sheer involuntary accident, being unable to move without tilting in between stored memories. It's time that I expunge my brain of these ideas, onto virtual paper (ahem, my much neglected blog) so that I can, perhaps, find my lost attention span.