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?

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!

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.

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.