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.

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?

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.

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!

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!

Passion Pit

I am in love, love, love. It's been a while, actually, since I've fallen hard core for a band or solitary musician but here I am, swooning like a brace-faced junior high school girl after just two days of exposure.

Go ahead, call me easy.

Nevertheless, here I am, on my day off, glued to my computer, listening to and looking up information about Passion Pit. I first heard them as I was driving home from my friends' house late Monday night. Passion Pit had just started playing at the Crystal Ballroom, kicking off 94.7's December to Remember concert line up (which, man alive, I hate that I'm too broke to go see any of the shows. Tonight is The Bravery followed by Vampire Weekend tomorrow. Sniff sniff) as I was hitting the I-84 on ramp back west to my freezing studio.

The band opened with The Reeling, one of their more popular songs, followed by an even more popular song (which is now the ringtone of my new phone...trust me when I say that this is a huge feat because I am not an impulsive ringtone purchaser...a person's ringtone says a lot about who they are, unless you're my friend Jacob whose ringtone is from Aladdin. ), Sleepyhead. Sure the songs are poppy and danceable, even for me with my awkward skinny white girl moves, but they hit me quite a bit deeper than most pop songs do (which, let's be honest, barely graze my passionate musical soul). Perhaps it was the fact that the warped techno soundscapes took my mind off of the fact that my car's typically-on-the-ball heater had yet to kick in or perhaps it was the fact that my hangover, which was still full throttle by 10:30 Monday night had mysteriously kicked itself out of my body; but after just two songs, I was in lust.

I went onto the band's website today and found this little morsel that morphed that lust into pure, maniacal love:

"Redemption. Paranoia. Guilt. And brief glimpses of a better tomorrow, all cloaked in pop hooks that truly help the medicine go down."

I need redemption. I'm paranoid at least 18 percent of the time worrying about, well, everything. And guilt...I think my recent batch of hangovers provide ample evidence for my shame and guilt. That's why I'm all about brief glimpses of a better tomorrow. Enter Passion Pit and it's ability to make the lessons of everyday life (ahem, that medicine I take daily when I suffer an empty bank account, broken heater and broken spirit) a little easier to swallow. What more could a girl want from a band at a time when she's struggling with finding the brief glimpses of a better tomorrow?

I think one listener on lala reviewed Passion Pit as "if music were food, Passion Pit would be chocolate cake." Chocolate cake is too flavor of the month for me which is why, for me, Passion Pit is more carrot cake -- constantly good, a little nutty and chock full of surprises.

Bon appetite.

Debbie Downer? Try (uhhh) Ursula Upper!

First things first:

Major kudos and a big chocolate cookie goes out to anyone who can think of a better female name than Ursula. I'm rather embarrassed to have kept such an atrocious blog title but come on, I had to continue the polar opposite theme of blog posts I've been maintaining for the past few days.

Preface over. And so it begins.

It actually begins, probably ironically and deservedly so, with me waking up rather groggily and hungover this morning (Last night, in contrast to the past few nights, was happy drinking with friends at a birthday celebration at Chopsticks II, a questionable Chinese restaurant/karaoke dive bar on East Burnside. Even I -- beer and food snob extraordinaire -- won't say no to free PBR). It, of course, is my newly re-re-restored (Yes, I've had a lot of mentality and emotional restorations in the past few months. Deal with it...I have) optimistic spirit that was hiding cowardly either behind empty beer bottles and shots of whatever or underneath the heap of blankets I keep on my bed. It came back because, for the first time in the last ten or so days, I have hope again.

That's right; hope....that little flutter of nervous butterflies that gets you all excited and tingly and grade-school giddy for the happening of something absolutely wonderful...has caught up with me again. And let me tell you, it's a fantastic feeling, mainly because I worked hard to make it happen. I mean, sure I did my fair share of bitching, moaning, drinking and crying about how unfair life is, how poor I am, how frustrating everything is (Yes, you can insert the teacher's voice from Charlie Brown here and I won't be even remotely offended) but I've also been working my tushy off to gain some hope (Turn Charlie Brown teacher voice off here).

After having spent all of Monday applying to jobs (26 in all), I was able to go to sleep last night with one interview in the bag and will be able to curl up in bed (Hopefully not shivering in my 55 degree studio) tonight with a second interview on deck for this coming Monday. To sweeten the deal a bit more, I received a new writing assignment from one of my editors due in ten days (Which means, regardless of whether I land either potential job, I'll be in Portland through at least January. Woot woot!).

I also got my new phone (Hooray for free upgrades, right?), cleaned my apartment and am waiting to embark on a reunion with a good friend over cheap pizza.

Hope: Much nicer than a hangover.

I wonder if I could be a slogan writer...I mean heck, I could have made thousands working on Obama's campaign with my wit and ability to write to the "Average Joe."

...But seriously, I need help with that name.

Waiting

For as good of a runner as I am (or perhaps once was, considering that I'm in such poor shape that a 5-miler is now a long and incredible-energy-consuming run for me), life has used its second wind and kicked to catch up with me. The last few months of "Everything will be alright," "It'll all work out" and "Just have faith" have all of a sudden and unexpectedly morphed into simply, "Oh shit." All of my efforts of running this race that everyone calls life (How's that for the cheesiest of cheesy metaphors?) have deteriorated: In my pushing and striving and churning during this race, I've somehow been passed by the stronger and faster competitor that most people refer to as reality.

What a bitch.

I talked with my mother on the phone today (Okay, it's not technically fair to refer to her as my mother since I only use the phrase, "my mother" when she has made me mad or irritated) to figure out what the heck I am going to do come January when I don't have enough money to pay for my rent. Despite talking for nearly 30 minutes (Which I know, doesn't seem like long but I was on my lunch break and had little time for a long, drawn-out heart-to-heart nor the patience to wait to hear what she and my dad had decided), the two of us were unable to come to much more of a conclusion than waiting.

I hate waiting. I hate waiting simply because I am not a person who can sit back and sit patiently for something to occur. I am a go getter; a doer, if you will. But for some reason, I feel like I have been waiting; waiting for that something better to happen, waiting for things to get better, waiting for my life to begin. But, as my mom reminds me, "This...this waiting, anxious, scary, unknown fear and feeling you're experiencing day in and day out is life."

Seriously, what a bitch. Whoever thought that this is what life after college would be like? Aren't we all supposed to land stellar jobs, live in cookie cutter houses and pop out 2.5 babies with our incredibly amazing and loving significant others? I never imagined that food stamps, bill collecting callers and minimum wage jobs would be a part of it.

I for one, am defeated by it.

At least temporarily. More to follow. I guess I'll keep whoever may read this waiting.

For that, I apologize.