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.

Pho or, The reason why I don't mind being hungover

I've been in a bit of a pho fix as of late. I'm not sure exactly what brought on my less-than-a-weekly need for the gelatinous, fresh, salty, savory, spicy, heavenly rejuvinating meat and vermicelli noodle Vietnamese soup, but it's making me feel like my dorky 12-year-old self when I first kissed a boy -- I think about indulging daily and wonder if I'm a bit obsessed each time I give in and order a large bowl of steaming deliciousness.

My obsession for the noodle soup has become so intense and, perhaps unhealthy, that I look forward to waking up after a night of considerable drinking because I know that pho is going to be the best hangover cure. I came to this realization of pho as a cure-all while I had shingles; Walker and I went to Toast and Pho (my first but definitely not last time there) the day after a really bad nerve pain episode for lunch and, after a large bowl of pho gai (chicken soup) I felt freakishly better and stronger, like I was Popeye after popping a can of spinach (Parenthetical sidebar: Does anyone else ever wonder if Popeye's spinach wasn't laced with something stronger like steroids? I, perhaps more than most people, know that spinach is a GREAT iron source but know from experience that it's iron-possessing power's aren't all fantastic enough to grant anyone immediate strength.).Pho is -- dare I say it -- better than coffee, better than a Nalgene of water and much better than any meaty sandwich that usually makes me feel better (Yes, I'm talking Podnah's pulled pork sandwich here).

So I went back to Toast and Pho, two days later, feeling sluggish from nearly three weeks of hard core pain medication, ordering pho gai to go. Three days later Walker and I went to Pho An on Sandy for New Years Eve. And when I started my new job at the clinic, I found myself calling Toast and Pho, making orders for pick up.

"Large pho gai," I'll say illegally as I drive through the Teriwiliger curves after an 11-hour day.

"Ohhhhh you say very well," the lady who works the counter and phones at Toast and Pho tells me.

"Thanks," I respond, feeling a bit of pride at my Vietnamese-speaking ability.

"You must order pho gai a lot. No one know how to say properly," the cute Vietnamese lady says in broken English grammar (That I actually don't even think about correcting for she is my link to a meal of greatness), all at once thanking me for my patronage while mocking my Americanized white-girl pride.

"Yes, yes I order often," I reply half sheepishly, half excited to become a regular because, let's face it, I love being a regular. And who doesn't? Being a regular typically comes with perks (Free pho? Only in my wildest of dreams).

And why shouldn't I? Since I've been raking in more money, thus enabling myself to be less of a frugalista (Jason, please kick me next time we work together) and more of a, dare I say it?, spender, I've celebrated my hard labor with a couple of drinks of the weekend. A mixed drink here, a shot there, a couple of beers way over there; I drink just enough to know that I'll feel slightly hungover but not completely life-hating debilitated the next day solely (or so it seems) so I have a legitimate reason to get pho at 9 in the morning.

I don't know why I try to hide it for  I really have no shame. The cute Vietnamese lady at Toast and Pho must know by now: What white girl with last night's makeup still smeared across her eyes, dressed in a striped ear flap beanie cap hiding her heavily cowlicked hair, donning a baggy gray sweatshirt to hide the fact that she's too lazy to strap on a bra, jeans and beyond-retirement old man slippers comes into a Vietnamese restaurant on a Sunday morning carrying a newspaper (that remains unwrapped throughout the course of noodle and broth slurping) a mere half hour after opening who isn't hungover?

It paints a pretty shameful picture, I know.

But it just tastes so good.

41 Days Later...

As if my infrequent blog posts haven't been evidential proof of my lack of free time and extra energy, the facts that I worked every day for the past six weeks, logging in an average of 53 hours between Pottery Barn and Whole Family Wellness Center while producing three articles for Neighborhood Notes (which involves interviewing, taking pictures, writing and eating a LOT of food) and four food articles/reviews for The Examiner should add up to a sum of me having barely enough time to sleep let alone write blogs for fun.

But that changed on Saturday when I had my
very
first
day
off.

And it was amazing. Simply amazing. Here's a lovely breakdown of how I spent my (I like to think) hard earned day off:

8:35 am -- Wake up, without an alarm, slightly confused like I fell asleep at some place other than where I usually sleep and forgot that I fell asleep there and expected to wake up in my regular bed in my regular studio (I always experience that slightly confusing and panicky feeling whenever I go home to Spokane and forget, upon waking up, that I'm going to be in my old bright yellow bedroom in my parent's house and not in my cushy queen sized bed in my freezing studio). I didn't recognize my own room upon opening my eyes because it just seemed eerily different. After uncurling myself from my burrito-wrap of blankets I realized the difference: My room was light...from the sun...which rose...before I did.

8:45 am -- Happy that I have a day off while the sun still had to rouse itself bright and early, I remain in bed, watching The Office and texting with Rachel and Walker.

9:20 am -- Think about getting out of bed but decide that the warmth of my electric blanket is just too good to leave and I know that, despite the sun's presence shining through my curtainless window, my 60-year-old hardwood floor is going to be cold on my sockless feet.

9:45 am -- Still in bed, I begin to hear unnerving stirring from up above where The Nympho in my building lives. Seriously, she's a nympho...and a very loud and crazy one at that fact.

Sidebar: My very first weekend in my apartment my friend Matt was in town for the marathon so he stayed with me. Matt and I hadn't seen each other for a solid 10 months and of course, while talking and playing catch up in my studio, we heard the nympho going at it. He asked me if I moved into a brothel. I couldn't give him an answer. End Sidebar.

I can't help but pray that perhaps she is just waking up and getting ready to make one of her crazed mad dashes out of the building. While she is just waking up, she's, unfortunately for me, waking up with one of her many Johns. Her bloodcurdling screams of ecstasy are enough to get me out of my and into pajama pants and blue and yellow polka dot galloshes and over to Fat Straw for a Stumptown-made soy mocha. Taking the mocha back home, I snag my Saturday Oregonian and crawl back into bed, happy to know that The Nymph's John is the short-winded one, if you catch my drift.

11:00 am -- Crossword puzzle complete and newspaper read (There was this super crazy article about a PSU professor who accused a student of being an FBI informant and murderer. I still don't understand it), I finally get out of bed and throw on half spandex pants, the generic watch my sister gave me, sports bra and my Nikes and proceed to push my body through seven miles.

Noon -- Shower and head to New Seasons for lunch. I finally talk with my mom for the first time since last Sunday which is nice because, let's face it, I'm a huge Mama's girl and feel as though I'm without my right arm when I don't speak daily with her. I love New Seasons on the weekends; sure, they're always busy but there is always a mountain of samples. This Saturday's sample platter was all in preparation for today's Super Bowl (Which I did not watch, thanks to a solid PB shift). While waiting for my sandwich I feast on Pirate's Booty, kettle corn, gluten-free pretzels and stone ground corn tortilla chips and guacamole.

1:45 pm -- Arrive back home and, upon being unable to see much of my hardwood floor, decide to clean up a little bit.

1:55 pm -- Bored and sick of cleaning (productivity just wasn't suiting me), I opt to finish a blog post that I began on Wednesday (I told you I've been busy) and, feeling a little rebellious, crack open a beer, just because I can.

3:15 pm -- Itching to get out again and armed with a $50 gift card, I head to Powell's. Hopping in my car I know that the crowds will be out in masses but find a parking spot on the corner of 10th and Everett anyway. An afternoon at Powell's, teeming with people or not, is definitely my ideal activity. I have a route that I typically follow: Enter into the Orange Room, peruse (And I actually mean the real, original definition of the word which means to search intently and deeply, not to scan or skim) through the cooking section before making the rounds in the middle of the room, looking at the islands of sale books. I next enter the Pink Room, rummaging my way through the running books in hopes that something will ignite the kindling of my once ravenous passion. Up the stairs, I head to the Blue Room where novels live. My favorite aisle? The M/S aisle where David Sedaris lives across and down the aisle from Christopher Moore. Checking the $5 sale shelf, I grab Atonement before heading to "B" for the chance that there's a new T.C. Boyle. Finding there is, I grab it and add it to the four other books I've already selected. Next stop is the Green Room where I search through the best seller shelves before heading past the greeting cards and wrapping paper and into the Purple Room where Journalism lives.

4:45 Walker meets me in the Purple Room as I'm drooling over Ralph Steadman's biography/autobiography about Hunter S. Thompson and his experience with working with the founder of Gonzo Journalism. We walk around, checking out the history and Astrology sections (There's nothing like bonding with your boyfriend over an astrology book that explains, by the signs, how much and what type of a bastard your boyfriend is) before heading out the store.

5:32 pm -- Walk swiftly to my car -- it's beginning to rain -- only to find that I got a ticket three minutes ago for having expired tabs. I didn't even know my tabs expired and now I'm slapped with a $60 ticket for not having something that costs $30. As Walker said, the least that the parking police could do is give me tabs, considering I now have to pay $90 for something that I wasn't even aware I had to take care of. I mean really, how's a girl supposed to know about expired tabs?

6:00 pm -- Bundling up for a night out in the neighborhood, Walker and I decide to try Pope House Bourbon Lounge on NW Glisan, just east of NW 21st. I wish the little house-turned-lounge was more happening but, as the music suggested (We walked into the dark lounge to hear Johnny Cash be followed up by Jack Johnson's Bubbly Toes. I like both singers but to who is the restaurant trying to appeal?), the lounge seemed a little of whack. Nevertheless, the pub had Terminal Gravity ESG on tap and one of the stiffest Manhattan's in the neighborhood.

7 ish -- Being a person who loves being around more people, Walker suggests we blow the Pope Bourbon Lounge popsicle stand and trek to New Old Lompoc before it closes (Which is rumored to happen).

And here's where I lose track of time a bit. Two IPAs and a couple sips of harsh well whisky later, I know  we eventually leave Lompoc so I can try Walker's and the Jesses' favorite NW 23rd hangout, Nob Hill Grille. I finally get to savor two sliders and a whiskey neat over simultaneously coyish and sarcastic conversation. I can't help but feel totally spoiled and giddy over one of the most relaxing and happy dates I've had in a long time.

After an attempt to watch 28 Days Later, the combination of happy inebriation and sleep took me to dream land for the night.

A solid day off, even if I did wake up with a headache this morning.

But then again, what's a day off if you aren't going to pay for it a little bit the next day?

I am what I am

I finally understand why I am the way that I am. Or rather, and perhaps more accurately, I've finally been given a plausible theory regarding my love for good food and desire to be a food critic despite my overwhelmingly awkward and unfavorable history against it.

I went out last night with my ex-boyfriend, a move that, I understand, doesn't seem like the best idea to most people. However, the night was pleasant and, throughout the course of a couple of beers ($2.50 special-list pints on Tuesdays and the Mash Tun Pub on NE 22nd and Alberta Street), we accepted what was, moved forward on what it and talked, as we always have, about food.

While he's never been much of a reader, he does relish in reading books about food and restaurants and people involved with food. As we were breaking up he was reading Jeffrey Steingarten's second book (Which I'm still mad I didn't get to read because of the breakup) which, according to Kevin, really details Steingarten's reasoning behind becoming and being a food critic.

One of the chapters is titled, "Brain Storm" and explains how suffering a head trauma could potentially lead one to have an obsession for gourmet food and refined tastes. The chapter's first sentence reads that "a profound interest in food may be caused by a lesion in the anterior portion of the right cerebral hemisphere of one's brain." When Kevin dealt this morsel of information last night I knew he knew I was thinking about when I was five-years-old and ran into a mailbox (Hey, before you judge, know that I was running for my life away from a dog scarier than The Beast in The Sandlot) chipping and swallowing half of my two front teeth and damaging some muscles in my right eye so severely that I developed a head tilt during my childhood years that was corrected only through surgery and near-coke-bottle-lens-sized reading and work glasses (Yes, I am wearing them as I type).

Kev continued recalling Steingarten's chapter, which surveys Steingarten's experience with the doctor who originally told him about Gourmand's Syndrome. The doctor told Steingarten, a glasses-wearing older man, that the most common symptoms of Gourmand's were visual spatial dysfunctions (Like I said, I am wearing coke-bottle glasses right now) and that there is some research indicating that eating disorders spring from brain injuries because even though eating disorders appear to be purely psychological, physical changes are evident too. (Of course, there's a lot of research indicating a lot of causes for eating disorders and I personally don't think there's a solid consensus and don't believe there really ever will be. It's one of those mysteries like whether we dream in color or that age-old standby wonder about the falling tree making a noise in the forest).

Steingarten's doctor continued over dinner at a five-star restaurant within the chapter that "changes in neurotransmitters and serotonin and noradrenalin along with brain lesions affecting the system have been linked to OCD, pathological behavior, kleptomania and so forth." So, people with Gourmand's might not necessarily crave gourmet food but they recognize the superfluous indulgence in steak tartare, black truffles, white truffles, foie gras, sea urchin, pork belly, monkfish liver, lamb burgers, toro (fatty tuna), sweetbreads (the gourmet nugget, if you will), geisha varietal coffee, kobe beef, chicken heart, beef heart, saffron and the like and crave the richness and indulgence of these delicacies.

In fact, Steingarten argued against his doctor -- who, I might add, says that Gourmand's Syndrome is bad for a person to be 'afflicted by' -- saying that he's okay "pleading guilty to an obsession with beauty, edible or otherwise."

Could I really have Gourmand's Syndrome? Probably not. I'm not a kleptomaniac and, despite my obsessive and compulsive fretting over the lifestyles at work (It's a good thing I've recently been officially assigned as a visual associate at Pottery Barn), I'm not, in medical definition terms, OCD. Still, it's nice to have another key as to why I, the once-food-fearing, fat-avoiding freak of a girl is now striding to becoming a try-everything-at-least-once food critic.

And as a food critic, I definitely plead very, very guilty to my obsession with edible beauty.

Oh...and yes, I've eaten everything in my aforementioned list of delicacies.

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.

When all else fails, there's always public access television

Although I have lived in my studio for nearly three months now, I only recently plugged my television into the cable hanging deftly from my wall to connect to the myriad of local channels that non-Comcast apartment dwellers can receive. Now, while I was screwing the cable into my tv, I won't deny that I would magically receive the full-blown Comcast line up of channels I mean, it happened to my friend Meghann who lives in California; but then again, she believes its because her TV is so awesome that it just picks up on the digital signal from her neighbors. I don't think my 28 inch Sylvania that I got as a high school graduation gift is quite as good as hers but I was, nevertheless, hopeful.

I flipped through the channels that were more than just static fuzz and tallied up that I have the usuals -- ABC, NBC, Fox, CBS, a couple of random NW/Portland-are local channels and of course, two public access channels. I never really cared much about public access television until my final semester at UP, thanks to my Communication Law class where I learned all about the greatness that is public access television. Thanks to Oregon's incredible support and protection of the First Amendment (There's a reason why Portland has the most strip bars per capita than any other city in the United States), Portland's public access television shows can be (almost) basically about anything. I recall my professor telling us about a guy who had a 'naked hour' show.

While I have yet to see any naked hour shows on our public access television stations, I have, thanks to my Shingles which have simulatenously kept me apartment-ridden and up at random hours, watched no fewer than five times, a show called "Nos vivamos en Portland" on Portland's Spanish public access channel. It is, hands down, the worst show I have ever seen. Now, I know that by watching public access channels that I am setting myself up for bad acting, bad editing and bad production, but this show takes the award for Worst Public Access Show hands down (If there was a Razzie category for public access shows, 'Nos vivamos en Portland' would be a consecutive winner). The actors are a bunch of English-native speakers who must have, at one point during their community college Spanish education, must have thought during a study session (drugs probably...almost hopefully involved) that producing a television show where they could practice their Spanish would be a good idea.

It is not a good idea. Giving babies plastic bags to play with would be a better idea. Letting Sandra Bullock make yet another RomCom with Hugh Grant would be a better idea. Heck, letting Sandra Bullock make another movie, period, would be a better idea.

Granted, they've got guts to produce a show that has at least a few viewers every now and then and for that, I applaud them. But maybe, just maybe, they have too much time on their hands. Perhaps they could put their efforts into say, learning a third or fourth language.

Then they could start a tv show and confuse the heck out of everyone. Now that's a show worth watching.

Shingles

Disclaimer: This blog was written while under the influence of vicodin and benadryl. That is all.

It's been far too long since my last post and for that, I apologize (To who am I apologizing, I'm not entirely sure, perhaps the two followers I have). However, this little blog of mine, which I began less than two months ago as a way to rant and, perhaps reduce, stress in my life, had to take a back seat because I have been dealing with stuff much larger than online writing.

That stuff would be Shingles. Yes, on Christmas Eve I noticed, after taking my bra off and changing into pajama pants to watch Knowing (The latest Nicolas Cage movie that, big surprise, lacks acting talent and a plausible plot line), a few small red bumps on the right side of my back. I showed my mom who insisted, for the sake of my sanity, that I need not worry.

She also said she thought it was Shingles.

Like any good American who thinks he or she is a doctor, I looked up shingles on the Internet to confirm my mother's diagnosis. Shingles are (or should I use 'is?' After reading through pages upon pages of online Shingles literature, I have yet to come to a consensus on whether I should use 'is' or 'are' but, considering that Shingles ends with 's,' thus making it plural, my grammatical instincts tell me to use 'are.') caused by the same virus as the chicken pox. Little red blisters pop up in clusters on one side of the body, usually the back, trunk, chest and stomach, and last for weeks, morphing from red hot bands of hellatiously painful blisters to oozing pustuals of pain and disgustingness to flaking and scabbing sheets of grossness. Shingles are further accompanied by sharp lightning-bolt like nerve pain.

In my case, the actual shingles aren't that bad. Sure, I've got no fewer than six major bands of shingles, all in varying stages of pain and ooziness. The worst part of my case of Shingles is the nerve pain. Blinding pain shoots across my right rib cage, crushing me and making me unable to breathe. I'm pretty certain that J.K. Rowling had Shingles pain in mind when she wrote of the searing scar pain that Harry Potter experiences whenever he is near Lord Voldemort.

Shingles are my Lord Voldemort, that's for sure. They're ugly, they're useless and stare at me with such blatant irony that I can't stand it (Lord Voldemort, much like Hitler, was ironic and hypocritical in the fact that neither were 'pure bloods.' Yes, I've just likened my Shingles to Hitler. Again, I've got a cocktail of medicines floating around my blood stream). The irony in my Shingles is the fact that 20-somethings don't often get Shingles...

...unless they're stressed out. So my stress -- over finances, family, work, boys, you name it -- has not only caused me emotional pain; it's now causing me actual physical pain. Of course (Which is actually the exact reaction my friend Jacob had when I told him about my Shingles). And now I'm in so much pain (Okay, currently I'm floating on cloud nine with just a few itchies) that I can't work. If I can't work, I can't bring in money and if I don't bring in money...well, then the entire vicious circle of stress begins all over again.

Sigh. I'm just glad I have vicodin so I can stay relaxed, even if it is artificial.

The New Powell's

I can't remember the last time I stepped inside of Powell's. I can't even remember the last book I purchased. And that hurts.

A lot.

Powell's, as any English degree-bearer or major or professor will profess is Portland's own mecca for all book (and yes I mean book...as in the real, physical paper-made, page-turning entity that is a book) lovers. For me, Powell's is so much more than merely a mecca -- it's my absolute sanctuary amidst this crazy city. Whenever I'm feeling down, a trip to Powell's always cheers me up. If I'm in the mood to celebrate, I head to Powell's to grab a few new reads. Heck, one of my favorite dates of all times has been at Powell's, walking around, drinking coffee and talking books (The date was great but the relationship didn't really last).

On top of that, I can, hands-down, say that the best Christmas gift I've ever received was a $50 gift card to Powell's. While I don't typically enjoy giving or receiving gift cards (they're impersonal, sort of lazy and not nearly as fun to open as a big, paper-wrapped box), this one meant a lot to me because Santa (okay, my parents) realized that I really really REALLY wanted it...perhaps with more fervor than I wanted the second job I just landed.

I also may have imagined how dorkishly romantic it would be to be proposed to in the middle of the blue (fiction, poetry and anthologies) section.

Yeah, Powell's is that important to me. So, considering my background and love for Powell's, I'm sure it makes sense why I'm jonesing for a Powell's fix. Unfortunately for my bank account, whenever I go to Powell's, even if just for one specific book, I end exiting the double doors on 11th and Couch with at least three more books than I went in for.

And so, like any Portland addict (meth, marijuana, Stumptown espresso; the drug doesn't matter...we all scratch with fiendish anxiety) struggling to make ends meat, I had to find another outlet. Luckily, a solution was easy to come by: The Multnomah County Library.

It has books...oodles and oodles of them. It lets you puts books on hold over the internet. Furthermore, it ships those books you put on hold via the web to the library closest to you. AAAAAAND, it's f-r-e-e.

It's not quite Powell's, but it's close.

I first started going to the library early after graduation when I didn't have internet at my apartment on Glisan. However, over the last month, I've been frequenting the tiny corner library on NW Thurman and NW 23rd Avenue on a more regular basis.

And just like Powell's, populated with its hippie youngsters, mysteriously cute 20-somethings and, like most popular Portland hang outs, crazies, the library houses a variety of Portlanders. One time there was a man who kept asking a librarian to use the word "figment" in a sentence that doesn't include the phrase, "of your imagination." Another time there was a man who refused to keep his bike outside because he was convinced the rain demons were going to make his bicycle appear drop by drop. Then there was the lady who went psycho because her free-allotted time for the internet had expired and the other guy who hit on me by asking, "Hey, yeah, paid holds are the way to go, aren't they?"

"Yes, they are," I replied as he looked at my, let's face it, non-existent chest. "They enable to me to look for books without running into weirdos." Insert smile-flashing here.

At any rate, the library is a wonderful public service that I have, for such a long, long time, ignored...for reasons I'm not entirely certain of. Perhaps it is my inability to turn books on time (and thus incurring ridiculous fees. I actually didn't receive my college diploma because I owed over $20 to UP's library) or my fear of finding an elaborate terrorist plot tucked neatly in between the pages of the latest Christopher Moore book; nevertheless, I've always shied away from libraries.

Until now. Now, I'm all up in the library's business. I have six books at home and another 14 on hold. I'm signed up for the 2010 NW Portlander's monthly book club and the librarian knows me by name.

Which really, is probably okay. I'll be worried when the regular crazies (Yes, I already know there are regular crazies) begin addressing me by name. I figure I've got a solid two months until that happens, depending on the individual's senility.

For now, I'm off to finish book number three in five days...

A Letter to Portland

Dear Portland,

Try as you might to disown and kick me out of your beloved heart, I am here to proudly announce, with a smirk of pride, that I am here to stay.

Because, dear city of rain, microbrews, Stumptown, Gus Van Sant, bicycle enthusiasts, Ground Kontrol, New Seasons, Forest Park, hippie vegans, Starfucker (Okay, okay, Pyramiddd), cheap beer-serving movie theaters, Podnah's Pit BBQ, farmer's markets, Powell's, best friends and boyfriends, I have landed myself a second job.

A real job, so to speak. 27 applications, three interviews and 10 days later, I can proudly announce myself as a receptionist for Whole Family Wellness Center, a small naturopathic medicine clinic located in my old Southwest Portland stomping ground. At $12 an hour, 25 hours a week, I can manage to be peaceful Zen Amie the Receptionist while maintaining my post as Amie the Awesome Retail Associate.

Life in Portland, despite its unemployment, haggardly city newspaper, e-coli infected water, abysmal excuse of a river, bad drivers and bad memories, is good once again.

Just the security of having a job makes my world so much less stressful. Sure, I might be broke and skipping meals this week in order to 'make it through' to Friday's payday, but at least now I really do have hope secured in a nice contract which begins, perfectly so, on December 29th. My anxiety isn't solitary though; as I was talking to a friend last night who also landed a receptionist position (and is, like me, on the verge of being broke and perhaps, like me, also broken down), I realized that this hungover economy is freaking everyone out. It's almost normal to act nearly bipolar while our hopes and dreams take two steps toward us but leaps in mocking bounds away from us.

It's just, I didn't realize how much not having control of knowing where I would be in five more weeks was affecting me. People at work, in a kindly and worried hushed voice, ask me if I'm doing okay nearly every time I work (Which I appreciate, really. It's just, there are days when I walk out my door believing that I indeed feel and look good only to be brought down with concerns that I look like I'm on the edge of -- I don't what -- insanity? desperation? reason?). What's more is that, upon waking up this morning, all warm and snuggly, I realized that I haven't been dreaming for weeks, suggesting that I haven't actually been sleeping all that well.

I dreamt last night. And the night before (In Christmas music, nonetheless). They weren't good dreams or incredibly memorable ones for that matter, but they were dreams and that's all that matters.

This receptionist position isn't the job of my dreams, not by any means at all. However, it's a step toward that proverbial right direction into being my dream. Heck, David Sedaris (Who I have been listening to for the past four days thanks to a friend who brought me David Sedaris on CD) held a myriad of crappy jobs before landing it big with Santaland Diaries.

Maybe this job will be the one that freakishly launches my writing career. Maybe not. Whatever it might become, I just know that it will mold me into something better here in Portland.

So, bring on the crazy Blazer's fans and the soon-to-be MLS soccer nuts. Bring on the marijuana cafes, the political scandals and all the bizarre apartment mishaps you can think of, Portland. I'm ready to take it all in.


Hugs and Kisses,
Amie.

PS. I'll leave on my own terms, eventually, but probably just for a small amout of time, when I'm good and ready. Today is not that day and you don't get to kick me out. Booya!