(Non) Creativity?

In the office I share with the other writer at my job I face a haphazardly hung white board. We use the white board for...well...whatever writers and other creatives use white boards for: jokes, drawings and quotations. In the upper right corner is one of a dozen or so condoms that were left in my desk drawer when we moved offices four weeks ago. The wrapper is a girly bubble gum pink and, with enough tape, stuck nicely to the board. Underneath, in matching girly bubble gum pink white board marker, I've written (in girly bubble gum-ish) cursive, "For inspiration."

But this post isn't about the condom or the whiteboard.

I brought it up in the first place because it holds another quotation from last week. During an initial interview, one of our clients told our messaging director that he's counting on him for creativity because -- and I directly-ish quote the client -- "You could say that [he's] mentally handicapped when it comes to creativity."

We couldn't help but laugh because the man was just so frank about it and, by our profession we're labeled as creatives, the other writer and I posted in on our board, lapping up its irony.

I'm not lapping anymore because apparently, according to a survey we got back from a client today, I totally and completely lack creativity.  That's a paraphrase of course. The real comments included winning phrases like, "not very creative," "not slick or cool," "lacking uniqueness," and -- my personal favorite -- "clearly not what we wanted."

You see, after a client gives us the "Heck ya! Okay!" on a script, we -- the writers and messaging director -- don't have to deal with it anymore (Which is usually worth celebrating), enabling the client to fill out a survey about the writing/scripting process. Pretty much we ask how they felt their initial interview went (Which...sidebar...I get to host my first one tomorrow!!!), how we can improve our process and what, if any, concerns they might have going into the development process.

This client wrote a fucking novel. Perhaps it's because I wrote them a novel...giving them 14 different drafts. Fourteen different messages, all selling the same blase product. And apparently, it wasn't until we gave them a final ultimatum that they actual decided to choose to accept the final script which, unfortunately for them, wasn't anywhere near my best work.

Creative? Sure. But only to the extent of "I guess this will have to do and I've been working on this for four months and lose the ability to care just a little bit everyday."

I shouldn't complain, really.

But come on...I KNOW I'm creative. I don't flaunt it necessarily (Come on, like any sensitive artist I'm far too much of a pansy to let everyone read everything. This blog works well enough for now...it's an outlet where I don't really have to put my REAL work in front of whoever you all reading this may be), but I know I've got it: Whenever I hear music I'm either directing its music video or choreographing a dance to it in my head. Whenever I watch a thrilling, suspenseful or scary movie I'm always expecting THAT MOMENT (You know...the one that makes you pee your pants just a little...not too much...just enough that you can blame it on the condensation of your $4.25 soda) to be WAAAAY WORSE than it ever turns out to be (One exception is The Departed. Sure I thought that Leo might get shot point blank but come on Scorcese...could he have AT LEAST stepped out of the elevator first? Damn. So good. [Which makes Shutter Island such a shame...]. But I digress...). I imagine different scenarios in my life which I know everyone does...that's just called hope and futuristic wishful thinking but do you think about leaving everything to start an 80's tribute band called 80s Limbo Montage?

Save for Tony, I didn't think so.

I'm trying not to take the survey remarks seriously or to heart but it's a bit of a struggle. I want to do a good job. Fuck, I want to do a DAMN GOOD SUPER AWESOME job.

Shoo (Hey Kurtis...that one was for you)...I KNOW I do.

Damn Canucks. They should know that too.

Adrien Brody, I'm sorry.

It's 8 pm on Thursday night and I should be at Powell's listening in jaw-dropping awe to Frank Bruni but I'm not because Powell's was at capacity and so instead I am at home, watching 40 Year Old Virgin, drinking gin and moping in absolute misery.

So here's a blog...not about Frank Bruni as I had originally planned (I will write about why he is so important to me but right now the disappointment is too fresh so I'm going to have to wait on that one for juuuuust the moment), but instead, about a conversation I had last night:

I was tipsily Facebook chatting with my dearest friend Meghann last night (Woes over work forced both of us to the bottle) when we started talking about Adrien Brody. You see, she sent me a link via Facebook that I had yet to respond to so, in my remarkably accurate though not terribly efficient manner of randomly recalling unfinished items on my man "To Do" lists while inebriated, I told her, "Thanks."

Side Bar: Unfinished items on my To Do lists:
1. Cancel Clear Wireless
2. Tell Piper our Pulled Pork Party is postponed (Wow, what an alliterative sentence)
3. Take the giant cardboard bed frame box to Pottery Barn
4. Get my schedule from Pottery Barn for next week
5. Figure out how to successfully terrorize West Vancouver, Canada without getting caught
6. Stop boring people with my random and ridiculously mundane To Do Items

End very elongated and winded sidebar.

After thanking Megs, we sighed because, three years ago when we lived together with Caitlin in the sketchiest apartment-on-stilts (Sure it was only $825 for a 3-bedroom apartment but still, can you spell G-H-E-T-T-O?) we fell in love with the gangly New York-born-and-raised, thrice-broken-big-nosed actor. But just like the letter to Adrien Body said, he sort of just fell off the earth after The Darjeeling Limited, only to return to roles in less-than-rave-reviewed sci-fi flicks. What a shame.

But this blog isn't about Adrien Brody (Or Frank Bruni...siiiiiiigh). Almost as quickly as we reminisced (at this point more drunkenly than tipsily) over Mr. Brody and the three months of Netflix movie watching we dedicated solely to his work, I -- like a fickle seventh grade girl -- voiced that I was "soooooo over" Adrien and into a "more sophisticated, rugged and older man."

A man who isn't afraid to take on crappy roles because when he takes on the good ones, he's really ridiculously good...

An uncredited rough rumbler in The Outsiders? Check.
An ex-con who marries a cop he can't make babies with? Check.
An alcoholic Hollywood screenwriter (Is there any other kind?)? Check.
An Angel who, for some god-awful reason falls in love with Meg Ryan? Yup.
An FBI chemical expert who's the military's LAST HOPE for neutralizing an apocalyptic terrorist threat? Total check.
An ex-Army ranger soon-to-be-ex-con just trying to get home to his wife? (Cue "How Do I Live")?. Check.
A hero AND a villain...at the same time? Check?
A non-alcoholic Hollywood screenwriter (And his fictional brother)? Check.
An OCD-swindler? Check.
An eccentric historian who abides by the skills of Disney screenwriters? Check.
A weatherman who gets hit with a Frosty? Check.
An arms dealer who turns his brother into a coke-fiend? Check.
A motorcycling superhero with a flaming skull? (Unfortunately) Check.
A coked-out cop (Ooooh you thought I was going to go with ex-con, huh?) rolling around in post-Katrina New Orleans? Check.
A faux-superhero with the most seriously awesome sideburns ever? Ooooh baby yeah.

Yes, dear friends. I am currently in love with Nicolas Cage.

I don't know what it is about him...most will agree with me that he's not particularly attractive (Though when the man's wearing an expensive suit and carrying lots and lots of guns, I'm a bit turned on). Still, women find him attractive and guys want to be him. If it weren't for the fact that he's famous, he'd be just another awkward American holding a 9-5 job. With that hair and pasty complexion he could probably be some kind of computer nerd; a coder or (no offense Tony) animation developer perhaps?

But his acting....it's pretty freaking awesome. I personally like Roger Ebert's words:

"There are often lists of the great living male movie stars: De Niro, Nicholson, and Pacino usually. how often do you see the name of Nicolas Cage? He should always be up there. He's daring and fearless in his choice of roles and unafraid to crawl out on a limb, saw it off and remain suspended in the air. No one else can project inner trembling so effectively. He always seems so earnest. However improbably his character, he never winks at the audience. He is committed to the character with every atom and plays him as if he were him."

Considering I'm not a movie critic nor nearly as skilled as a reviewing wordsmith as Ebert, I'll deftly admit that I cannot say it better myself.

And that's okay...for now I'll just sit back, relax and pop up a great Nic Cage flick to cheer me up. after all, there's only so much slap stick comedy I can take.

Just call me The Terminator

Prologue: I wrote this during lunch today (In lieu of reading for my book club, dangn't!) so please excuse that the first sentence is now so blatantly dated and false.

In four hours from now I have to call into Pottery Barn to check if they're going to use my on-call...

...Because as I've mentioned before, I'm back at Pottery Barn.

Just call me The Terminator.

I know, if you're not someone who works there (or maybe you are and just don't get it) or who hasn't talked with me in the last three weeks, I can hear you scoffing and see you scratching your head as you shake it in disbelief at me, wondering Whyyyyyyy is GOD'S name would I go back to a job where I earn mere pennies above minimum wage just to help uppity women and love-crazy newlyweds pick out the perfect botanical arrangement.

But hear (Errr....read) me out: Thought I'm working in a retail store, I'm not actually working retail.

I'm working as a member of, what our GM (Bless Michelle for her love of Mike and Ikes and willingness to share them during late night floor set shifts) creatively calls, The Visual Five (Though not to be confused with The Jackson Five). In essence, with four other people (Including Rob and George...err...Jeff who insist on acting like Meryl Streep in "The Devil Wears Prada," calling me "Emily" in that long, drawn out would-be-creepy-if-coming-from-anyone-else voice), a couple of days a week making sure the store stays up to the standard of, what what the William-Sonoma President called last week, "Pottery Barn Heaven."

Go ahead, you can "Oooooooh" and "Aaaaaaaah." It's impressive, I know.

Mocking condescension aside, I am actually pretty excited about coming back to The Barn after a four week hiatus. Why? Because I have, in my opinion anyway, the best job an employee could hold there.

Here's why:

1. I work my own schedule and work sparingly. Sure, when floor set is due or there's a gigantic corporate visit hanging ominously over the store's head, I'm putting in an additional 15-plus hours during my 40-plus hour AngelVision work weeks. But, for the most part, I'm scheduled on-call for three hour shifts once, maybe twice a week. I always get Friday nights off and I'll never work on Saturdays ("Why yes, I'll take one more drink."). Love it.

2. I get to "dress down" for work. No, I can't wear sweatpants or flip flops (Like I can...and do...at AngelVision) but I no longer have to don wool tights underneath a sun dress in 90 degree weather (You know, when Portland actually has 90 degree weather). After all, how can anyone expect me to hang jars, haul down heavy lamps, life gigantic garden urns (Excuse me, the proper PB term is "Oversized." Indeed.) and stretch myself like Spiderman across bays of shelves while wearing heels and a dress? Exactly. Instead I get to wear khakis and, when I can get away with it, jeans, a plain t-shirt and my trendy (Four of us at PB sport the same color) Chuck Taylors.

3. I don't have to help customers. I know, this sounds bad...really bad...but after a long day of mentally-taxing work, writing scripts and plotting to best my bully, I'm pretty tired and my strained mental capacity of being nice is sometimes out of gas...

4. ...So instead, I get to put my tightly-honed OCD skills to use. Sure, if a customer comes up and asks me a question, I'll answer it but typically will push the guest to another employee (Which is best for all parties around because even though I work with the products doesn't mean I've got the best ability to sell it). But for the most part, you'll find me at 310 NW 23rd Avenue creating displays around the store, arranging flowery bouquets, stacking picture frames on tables and steadying baskets of pillows in vignettes. As my mom said, it's a good way for me to put my creative mind to use in a different way than what I'm used to.

5. I get to move around. I know, even without Pottery Barn I can easily exercise or move my hiney after eight hours of computer-faced sitting but sometimes I'm just so exhausted that I want to go from sitting to laying down (Sad and pathetic, I know). But being at PB, I am moving and shaking, lifting tables, moving sectionals into elevators, climb up ladders and busting out into the occasional awkward white girl dance.

6. And of course, there's the fact that I like everyone I work with. Sure, the place can buzz with more gossip than TMZ (Okay, okay, that's a gross overstatement but, just like 20 inch inserts, we've usually got plenty in stock), but I genuinely enjoy everyone I work with. They're nice. They're real. They make me laugh and remind me that life doesn't have to be so cut-throat serious.

So sure, from time to time I'll be putting in 14 and 15 hour days, wanting to pull my already shorn hair out from tired frustration (Though pure exhaustion would probably prevent me from doing so), but I'm glad to be back.

Especially because I still get my discount. Woot woot.

Epilogue: They did not use my on call. Even better.

A month later...

Yikes. It's been a very long time since I've posted a blog. I was chatting with a friend today who is blogging about his gardening expeditions who (on another Google chat occasion) confessed, after having previously boasted how easy and profitable blogging is...that everyone could do it, that updating a blog regularly takes more work than he originally thought.

Duh.

Sure, it's time consuming and, if you're a perfectionist or work-a-holic like me, the need to write a well-crafted column after a 10 or 12  or, like last Wednesday, 15 hour work day, is just plain crazy. Of course, I could be like my coworker and blog during work in lieu of working on a script but I actually enjoy my job and find that working on anything else during the day is well, to be Captain Obvious, counterproductive.

(Caveat: I know I published this during work today but I already had it written so I am by no means a hypocrite....right?)

At any rate, it's been far too long since I've blogged, which is unfortunate because I have so many wonderful things to write about (Which people are of course, dying to read about...maybe...hopefully...in my dream world, anyway)...

...Like our new apartment (Hello roof top neighbors)...

...And Fourth of July weekend when Meghann visited (Hello bottle of tequila)...

...And my new obsession with brackets [Hello new aside tool]...

...And coming back to Pottery Barn (Hello floor set)...

...And figuring out how to triumph over an office bully (Hello alter ego)...

...And starting a book club at work (Hello Ayn Rand)...

...And, you know, life in general (Hello World).

So enjoy the next few posts as I try to play catch up for the past month of the virtual cold shoulder.

Movin' On Up!

I hate moving. The whole idea of packing up every little piece of my property, whether it's my black pub style table and corresponding wobbly stools (We're talking Target here, not Pottery Barn) or one of 12 dinner plates (This time we're talking IKEA) is just exhausting. I loathe getting boxes together and filling them in an organized fashion with trinkets and dishes and books and toiletries only to have to unpack them within the following days. 

Then there's the cleaning. It's not as though I keep a dirty apartment (My mother would be so ashamed) or anything but I just have this nagging guilty conscious that forces me to perform the deepest scrub on any place I leave behind (Save for the last place I live that is, but hey--I was jipped out of my Eight Pound Oreck in that deal so I don't feel much remorse). I'll wipe down walls and scrub corners with a toothbrush until I've inhaled so many cleansing fumes that I'll start scrubbing spots that are more a figment of my intoxicated imagination (It's also at that point that I usually get distracted and think it'd be a good idea to go on some kind of Gonzo crusade).

I personally blame my three years living in UP dorms for my inane moving-out cleansing ritual. At the end of the school year, RAs would scrutinize our dorm rooms like a grandma scrutinizes fingernails, pointing out with horror and dismay the teeniest, tiniest, most minute speck of dirt. Unlike grandma though (hopefully!), UP charged a bleeping dollar for every one thing left in the dorm room. I once had to pay for a dried leaf the size of my pinkie nail.

And of course, along with the packing and cleaning, there's the whole finding a new place to live process and the accompanying stress that hides in its back pocket. I always get bullet-sweating nervous that I won't be able to find a place to live, despite the fact that Craigslist touts an average of 90 new listings at my price range in Multnomah County alone each day. Obviously I'm going to be able to find a new place to live but that still doesn't stop me from embarking on my search for a new abode weeks before its even sensible to start the application process.

Nevertheless, despite loathing the actual moving process, I can't help but be totally and completely stoked that I'm moving at the end of this month. Thanks to a 100 percent increase in my monthly budget, I'm able to afford a bigger apartment so that Walker -- bless his heart for putting up with being squished in a studio for three months -- and I can live more like adults in a real, live, well-put-together apartment and less like close-quartered college roommates.

Where we're going to live yet...well, we haven't figured that part out yet. But anywhere than where we are now will be better. It's not that The Plato is all that bad...there are worse places out there (Gresham, Tigard and Hillsboro to name a few). It's just become a bit inconvenient as of late, what with my apartment manager threatening to kick me out because Walker has a set of keys and The Nympho's Johns confusing my apartment for hers (I had a guy on Monday who, honestly -- looked 14 at best, knock on my door, push his body partially into our studio in search for her). My early mornings sometimes conflict with Walker's late night so the fact that he can legally have a set of keys would make our daily routines a bit smoother. My early morning runs and stretching routines won't bother his beauty sleep and his late night post-QO meeting drinkfests won't bother mine.

Now that I've put my (our) 30 days into the landlord, I'm starting to get antsy about finding a place, even though I'm still 9 days away from being able to make any kind of deposit. And there's the fact that we'll be headed to Spokane for Hoopfest (No, not to play 3-on-3 basketball...we're going to watch my brother and his friend play hungover) the last weekend of June, possibly leaving us with just weekdays, probably more realistically weeknights to move all of our stuff...

...which we have a lot of. Combined, we have enough place settings to throw a killer three-course meal dinner party for two dozen people -- predinner drinks and postdinner coffee included -- without washing a single dish. I have as many books (Helloooo English major!) as he does movies (Hellooooo Film major!) and the sheer quantity of appliance we have probably require more than one packed-to-the-brim car trip to our yet-to-exist new place.

We've yet to nail down where we want to live...though the lure of Northwest living is a luxury I've definitely gotten used to. Forest Park? Shopping? Close to work? Coffee every three feet? Yeah...leaving this area would definitely force me to make a change in my daily routine that I'm not quite sure I'm ready or willing to make.

I can only handle so much change at one time, after all.

AngelVision

Upon admiring the fact that I've written three blogs in the same number of days (and shoot, the same number of months), I realized that:
1) They all mention my new job and
2) I have yet to describe my new job.


Ahem...my new career.


It all started on a bleak Sunday afternoon off from Pottery Barn. Feeling utterly sorry for myself, I hopped onto Craigslist's job postings for the first time in weeks, searching in mistaken vain for anything worthwhile.


Sure, there were more crap receptionist positions and I found myself looking for another part time retail job. I kept looking at jobs that required minimal thinking, minimal heart and minimal passion. I kept selling myself short...but I didn't want to.


So I looked into the writing jobs...which, as any of my fellow freelance writers/English degree bearers will know, are far and few in between. If I wanted to "be a contributer" to a "well paying" website, I could maybe earn an extra $100 a month, writing for 40 hours a month (Trust me, that's crapola pay, even for a freelance writer). Venturing out of my comfort zone, I perused through the marketing tab of the Craigslist classifieds.


And that's when I saw it: A position as a Junior Scriptwriter.


No cover letter necessary. Just a resume, links to worked I've done and is published and the answer to three questions:
1. If you could take any vacation, all expenses paid, where would you go and what would you do?
2. If you could have coffee with anyone in the world, who would it be and why?
3. What's your favorite TV show?


If I wrote something that piqued their interest, I'd get a call back. 


I got a call three days after shooting an e-mail. Five days later, an initial 15 minute interview that turned into an hour-long chit chat fest. Eight days later I was eating lunch with the entire company, critiquing and reviewing Impact Movies.


Three days later I was hired on as a scriptwriter for AngelVision Technologies. Yes, I've sold my soul, temporarily giving up the righteousness of journalism to be a capitalism whore.


Yes, I'm a marketing writer but the perks of the company are well worth it: I'm on salary and, after 2 1/2 more months, I'll start to receive real, live benefits. The company itself is quite astonishing: Last June AngelVision was named the 24th fastest growing company in Oregon, has been listed three times in Inc. Magazine's fastest growing companies and has won more than 165 awards for Internet advertising, email and viral marketing. 


We're pretty much BA at what we do. 


So what's my role? After receiving/hearing the messaging director's initial interview with a new client, I research the client and it's product and/or service then write a script for a 3 1/2 minute movie. It's a pretty fun challenge for me, considering I've never written for a medium that appeals to two senses; usually I just write for people to read. Now, I get to stretch my mind and let my creativity flow through narration AND visual movement. I'm surprised by how liberating the ability to write for visual cues is. 


At any rate, the Impact Movies I've already written in the past two weeks won't be finished products for another 2 1/2 months...but rest assured, I'll flaunt them once they're done.


And in case you were wondering, here are the answers that got this process and my adult life started:

1. Hands down, my dream vacation is a four month tour eating my way through Asia. I would spend my first two months teeing off in the far South, enjoying Indonesia and Singapore for coffee, then bellying into Southeast Asia for Thai, Laotian and Vietnamese cuisines. I would spend my third month solely in China, venturing to as many different regions as possible before relishing my last four weeks soaking up sake and sushi in Japan. It's a trip I've been planning for a solid two years now.

2. I've had the hypothetical "If you could have coffee with any person in the world" conversation multiple times within my adult life and I've always come back to Hunter S. Thompson, the driving force behind Gonzo Journalism. Sure, he was always on some type of mind warping substance (In fact, I'm sure my coffee date with him would most likely be laced with Wild Turkey bourbon) but his genius, creativity and passion for writing is -- and probably will be -- unmet within the realms of American journalism.

3. My favorite TV Show is The Office. Is any explanation really necessary with this answer?

The Best Things In Life Return

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I happily became…wait for it…an adult.

Whoa.

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

He might not enjoy those lemons as much.

Comeback comeback

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

Whatever.

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

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

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

Comeback Specimen Number Two: Britney Spears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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!

Rags or Riches?

Apparently I make too much money money to be considered 'in need.' That's right--I was denied, via snail mail, funds for food stamps today. My cupboards are beyond bare, my fridge is 'stocked' with two three-week-old apples, but my 10-cents-above-minimum-wage job is too beneficial for me to receive help from my state government.

Which I don't really get, especially when I read an article that describes a man "living in a $750,000 Southwest Portland home...owns two BMWs but is now unemployed and receives nearly $400 in food stamps a month after he lost his job." I live in an old school studio with a less-than-reliable heater and still-busted pipe, make $800 a month and have $695 of bills a month yet somehow, somehow don't qualify for food stamps.

Another article released yesterday revealed data that shows 36 percent of Oregonians are on food stamps. That's one in three Oregon residents, or 650,000 people, who use those little plastic Oregon Trail cards that I am now totally officially jealous of. I know I shouldn't think this -- and perhaps it's really only directed toward Mr. Two BMWs -- but man, what lucky bastards.

A Google search showed in 22 million results for "food stamps." Obviously our nation, not just our little West side hippie state, is having some hunger issues. It makes sense, considering that unemployment still hovers over 10 percent nationally and 11 percent in Oregon. Those numbers are depressing although perhaps not as depressing as the fact that those 90 percent who are employed and those 63 percent of Oregonians who don't have to (or can't I suppose in my case) be on food stamps are hesitant to help out those in need.

As a resident of Northwest Portland, I observe -- and yes, participate -- daily in ignoring those who are in greater need than myself. Every time I walk to work I shift my glance away from the man who sits on the corner of Hoyt and 23rd asking for spare change. I deny the homeless men selling copies of Street Roots in front of Fred Meyer's and Trader Joe's because I know that spending that dollar means three less meals for myself (When I'm buying pasta, that is).

And it makes me wonder, while at work, if the customers who bark at me to find every single queen duvet cover in the store knew that their single purchase could cover my rent and groceries for a month, if they'd change their mind and help a girl out instead of yelling at her like I am their personal slave.

Considering I don't drop a dollar to a man who is forced to sleep outside in below freezing temperatures, probably not.

Once you take away that statistical numbers and data, it's easier to see the sad little world we live in.

Maybe if I buy a Beamer, my life will magically become better. Think the state would help me out with that?

I didn't think so either. Perhaps if I buy a volvo or subaru....you know how Portland loves it's hippie vehicles.