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?

Bubble Gum Rap

One of my absolute most favorite occurrences in average, daily life is a freakishly sunny day. Anyone who lives in Portland knows exactly what type of day I'm talking about: After weeks of dreary gray rain and days of what my ex and I used to call skyless days -- skyless because the dreary clouds blend into the gray world around us, eliminating the horizon that cuts the realm between heaven and earth -- we Portlanders will wake up to a bright burning orb shining rudely without invitation into our early morning eyes (Which, as we all know, are the windows to our yet-to-be-caffeinated souls) that forces us out from under the layers of covers we hibernate beneath in a confused state of being:

"Is the sky...blue?" One might ask upon rising out of bed looking out the window at a crisp, cerulean sky.

"What, what is that?" One might respond, pointing out at that strange glowing orb smiling in the sky.

"It's...it's the sun!" The two realize simultaneously in such loud wonderment and awe that an observer might believe the pair were pointing at something they'd never seen before, like a zombie or a non-scary clown or that age-old flying pig.

But no, they're looking at the sun. But I digress. Today's post isn't about waking up to the sun, even though I did indeed, wake up to the morning glory of the sun. Today's post, as foretold by it's title, is about enjoying the first sun of the month in my most favorite way: Rocking out and bumping to rap music while wearing Lady Gaga sunglasses during the drive to work in my 2006 white (and dented and dirty) Hyundai Elantra.

Like any awkward white person, you can imagine I look like Michael Bolton from Office Space except cuter, more caffeinated and hopefully, a little less dorky.

Sidebar: If you haven't seen Office Space just stop reading right now and watch this. Then proceed. End sidebar.

Of course, as I was told today by Clara at work, the 'hardcore rap' I listen to on the radio is in fact, bubble gum rap.

"Oh sweety," Clara, who is the most mom-like figure of all of my friends; she's the sweetest, most caring, most understanding and helpful person who always has your best interests at heart and, as I've mentioned before, doesn't get grossed out when you're a pitting-out, stressed-out, shingles-covered disaster, said. "I'll have to show you hard-core rap."

(I should also mention that Clara has admitted to having days of Christmas music on her family's iTunes)

But until she schools me on what hard-core rap really is, I'm going to keep bumping to my bubble gum rap -- the four or five same songs that play on the radio during the one o'clock and six o'clock hours while I commute to and from the alternative medicine clinic. I'll be a gangsta-g-gangsta with Snoop Dogg while I'm in an Empire State of Mind with Jay Z and, as of recently, being Mr. Flinstone like Lil Wayne (cause I can make your bedrock).

Yes, I know I'm a white girl -- and an awkward and skinny one with short, pixie hair at that. I guess it's the middle-class suburban upbringing in me that feels like a total badass whenever MIA Paper Planes comes on.

I just toss my hands like I'm busting a cap while I'm stopped at a red light until a car pulls up next to me carrying a 20-something-year-old guy who looks at me, smiles and then busts up into unforgivable laughter.

Bubble gum rap indeed.