So it turns out...when I have a crazy week of work, coupled with the insane ticket price of crowns these days, my culinary concoctions tend to get pushed to the proverbial, though in no way ironic, back burner.
Cooking with some a new ingredient was, I'll admit, a bit of a wash this week. While I've never actually COOKED with radishes before (Suuuuure I'll have them in salad or as crudites but baking or cooking with them? Naaaah), I have eaten them at least a couple of handful of times in my life, making me feel as though I've only kinda sorta maybe a teeny tiny itty bitty cheated with the whole non-resolution deal.
It was a hell of a week last week -- which I'm so using as an excuse -- so sue me. Although don't really; you won't get much. Really, just hold me accountable enough to push me to make something really awesome with wicked strange and new ingredients this next month. Deal? Deal.
Eh, anyway. Where was I?
Right. Baked radishes. The first attempt turned out...candied, for sure, but not quite as baked as I would have liked. Sliced, cleaned and doused in a hearty coating of cinnamon-sugary goodness, the radish slices ended up caramelizing and hardening on the outside (Duh) but staying soft on the inside. While the flavor of the fresh root and sweet sugar created this heavenly aromatic earthy candy flavor, the texture of the hardened sugar didn't fly too well against the gooey inside. It's like one of those candies that has a great flavor but texture that kind of makes you wonder, by the time you swallowed it, why you let your tongue and mouth suffer that awkward texture metamorphosis.
Round two of radishes just happened (Pictures to be added soon). THIS time around I went without the sugary goodness (I had a weekend of baked good extravaganza-ness), instead baking the radishes THEN sifting them a shake of garlic salt, for a crunchy, tangy, earthy chip that's going to be hard pressed to see its way to Tuesday.
Showing posts with label stress. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stress. Show all posts
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Week One: The Story
Yesterday at work...well, it sucked. A nice little training exercise with my three superiors found me in the mode of scaredy-cat anxiety girl who can't handle the pressure of real time, on-the-fly criticism on how I conduct myself.
In other words, I totally broke down into panic tears three minutes into the training exercise.
Damn it.
There wasn't much to do or much that would really make me feel one hundred percent better except escaping into the kitchen where things, no matter how crazy my world is, always make sense.
Last night, in my kitchen --- okay, in Co's kitchen --- things made sense. Glorious, delicious sense. I'll admit, I love his kitchen; it's hard not to, with steel counter tops, a gas stove, sharp knives that elicit that cool, metallic ting when you release them from their magnetic home, and space...lots of glorious space for me to shimmy and shake as I dice and saute and, on occasion, fall into the boy's arms for an impromptu dance session. And with a kitchen I love that much well, again, it's not hard for things to make sense.
That's one of the aspects of cooking I love the most --- that I can completely erase the stress of a day and fall into a rhythm of consistency where I have total control: peeling, washing, dicing, seasoning, stirring...
The whole works, really (And no, I'm not a control freak, I swear). It's my place, one of a few sanctuaries I have to be my creative, nerdy, awkward self.
Okay, I've digressed.
I was quite pleased with how dinner turned out last night. While I couldn't find many maitake mushrooms, I supplemented with luscious chanterelles, sauteeing them with garlic, white onion, a splash of soy sauce a squeeze of fresh lemon juice before adding in quinoa and chicken broth.
While that finished cooking, I opted for the broiler to cook the halibut -- which was creamy white, flaky and cased in a beautifully silver and blue skin that just begs to be fried (Yes I'm stoked there's still about 1/2 a pound leftover. The man who sold us the fish must be into big portions, considering he suggested a 1/2 a pound per person). After cutting four lovely white pieces of fillet and dousing them with a light coating of vegetable oil, salt and pepper, I broiled those babies on high for four minutes on each side.
I'll admit, here's where my teeny tiny snafu occurred: For a meal that I timed out near perfectly for plating -- spinach finished a minute before the fish was done -- something went amiss: The quinoa, though it had been soaking for over twenty minutes, was still far too al dente to be enjoyable. Five minutes after turning the heat up, nothing.
And that's when I realized....the downfall of the gas stove...the fire was out. Nothing was cooking. So, unfortunately, the spinach may have been a bit cooler than it should have been and the fish, a bit drier than I would have liked.
Nevertheless, the meal paired nicely with the pinot gris Jason picked up for dinner and luckily for me, neither he nor Co had any complaints (Save for the cast-iron-pan-in-the-dishwasher disaster that we just barely avoided).
I'm still debating on next week's ingredient. I'm hoping to find inspiration at the farmer's market on Sunday.
Any suggestions?
In other words, I totally broke down into panic tears three minutes into the training exercise.
Damn it.
There wasn't much to do or much that would really make me feel one hundred percent better except escaping into the kitchen where things, no matter how crazy my world is, always make sense.
Last night, in my kitchen --- okay, in Co's kitchen --- things made sense. Glorious, delicious sense. I'll admit, I love his kitchen; it's hard not to, with steel counter tops, a gas stove, sharp knives that elicit that cool, metallic ting when you release them from their magnetic home, and space...lots of glorious space for me to shimmy and shake as I dice and saute and, on occasion, fall into the boy's arms for an impromptu dance session. And with a kitchen I love that much well, again, it's not hard for things to make sense.
That's one of the aspects of cooking I love the most --- that I can completely erase the stress of a day and fall into a rhythm of consistency where I have total control: peeling, washing, dicing, seasoning, stirring...
The whole works, really (And no, I'm not a control freak, I swear). It's my place, one of a few sanctuaries I have to be my creative, nerdy, awkward self.
Okay, I've digressed.I was quite pleased with how dinner turned out last night. While I couldn't find many maitake mushrooms, I supplemented with luscious chanterelles, sauteeing them with garlic, white onion, a splash of soy sauce a squeeze of fresh lemon juice before adding in quinoa and chicken broth.
While that finished cooking, I opted for the broiler to cook the halibut -- which was creamy white, flaky and cased in a beautifully silver and blue skin that just begs to be fried (Yes I'm stoked there's still about 1/2 a pound leftover. The man who sold us the fish must be into big portions, considering he suggested a 1/2 a pound per person). After cutting four lovely white pieces of fillet and dousing them with a light coating of vegetable oil, salt and pepper, I broiled those babies on high for four minutes on each side.
I'll admit, here's where my teeny tiny snafu occurred: For a meal that I timed out near perfectly for plating -- spinach finished a minute before the fish was done -- something went amiss: The quinoa, though it had been soaking for over twenty minutes, was still far too al dente to be enjoyable. Five minutes after turning the heat up, nothing.
And that's when I realized....the downfall of the gas stove...the fire was out. Nothing was cooking. So, unfortunately, the spinach may have been a bit cooler than it should have been and the fish, a bit drier than I would have liked.Nevertheless, the meal paired nicely with the pinot gris Jason picked up for dinner and luckily for me, neither he nor Co had any complaints (Save for the cast-iron-pan-in-the-dishwasher disaster that we just barely avoided).
I'm still debating on next week's ingredient. I'm hoping to find inspiration at the farmer's market on Sunday.Any suggestions?
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Confession of a One-time Smoker
I've got a really major confession to make. I mean, it's a big one. You could easily call it a doozy.
I smoked a cigarette.
Okay, that's a lie. I smoked a pack of cigarettes.
I know, I know. I deserve more than just a simple, "Shame on you."
Allow me to explain.
It went down like this. I've been dealing with a slew of stressful and emotional issues of late -- break ups, pending surgeries, insanely demanding job to name a few -- when, there I was, cleaning out my car during what became the most inane of torrential downpours -- according to Portland meteorological records, it was the most rain Portland, the city infamous for gloomy rain, had ever gotten in one time -- when I reached deep underneath my passenger's seat and felt a box like I had never felt before.
Pulling it out, I learned that it was a pack of Marlboro's that belonged to my boyfriend's -- ugh, my ex's -- best friend. I was ready to put the box into my trash bag already teeming with coffee cups and empty Jelly Bellies boxes when I noticed there was still one solitary cigarette hiding beneath the gold foil.
I threw the bag away and kept that solitary cigarette.
I dried off, soaked after half-standing in the rain for 30 minutes (What can I say? My car was messy!), and stared at the cigarette, sitting on my table, beckoning me like I was Alice. I could see the words written on its white, half-crumpled body: "Smoke me," like it was my key through the door to Wonderland.
And so, I did. I grabbed a pack of matches from my closet, ran outside to my apartment's fire escape and lit up.
Trust me, as a runner...yes, now a runner who chain-smoked a pack of cigarettes...I know how awful smoking is for the body. I cherish my lungs, my heart and my body -- they've all been with me and have held their own relatively well so, to completely destroy all three with the puff of one cigarette is seemingly nonsensical. I mean, studies show that smoking just one single cigarette increases the stiffness of the arteries in people my age, 18 to 30, by a whopping 25 percent. That's not good for the body.
Yet, despite these stats, an alarmingly large percentage -- 17.9 of adults in Oregon -- of the US population still smokes. It's really no wonder why the CDC named cigarette smoking as the leading preventable cause of death in our nation.
Most scientific research shows that the compulsion to smoke again after that first cigarette can lie dormant for three years. My compulsion lay low for a whopping 48 hours. As disgusting as it felt afterwards -- the smell of nicotine and smoke lingered in my nostrils while the taste of raw, burning chemicals and tobacco pierced my every taste bud -- I got the point of such pitiful and disgraceful agony and depression that I needed to turn to something.
And that's when my mouth started to get dry. And when my fingers started to itch. And when my new-found arrhythmia began to explode in my chest.
I knew I wanted -- needed -- a cigarette. So, with unsteady footsteps, I walked to the corner store and nonchalantly bought a pack. And then I went to town; huffing and puffing on one right after another until, much to my surprise, I had none left.
And that's when it hit me: Nicotine is, as every healthcare advocate and worker will tell you, the most addictive drug. It's smarmy, making you feel cool...like those ultra hip yet laid-back 20-somethings who read and write in the park. It's comforting, releasing you from experiencing the stress of real life. It's intoxicatingly indulgent...like allowing yourself to have a thick slice of sinfully rich cake.
Unlike that cake's moment on your lips that stays on your hips, the damage caused by a moment with a cigarette isn't possible to eradicate and it's much harder to say, "No thanks," to another cigarette than it is to another slice of cake. Why? As any smoker will probably tell you -- it's the withdrawal that makes the body scream for a kid like ice cream, "YES, PLEASE! I want ANOTHER!"
And so, it's a mind game: At first I'm dealing with the taste in my mouth and the stench in my nose that doesn't seem nearly as bad when there's a cigarette at reach. And the physical effects -- my shaky hands, awkward heart beat, the feeling that my tongue is growing larger and larger. Then there's the dizziness, unbalanced by that awful sense of vertigo like I'm swaying on a boat that has no exit.
It's enough hell to make me wonder, "Why'd I ever do this in the first place?"
I smoked a cigarette.
Okay, that's a lie. I smoked a pack of cigarettes.
I know, I know. I deserve more than just a simple, "Shame on you."
Allow me to explain.
It went down like this. I've been dealing with a slew of stressful and emotional issues of late -- break ups, pending surgeries, insanely demanding job to name a few -- when, there I was, cleaning out my car during what became the most inane of torrential downpours -- according to Portland meteorological records, it was the most rain Portland, the city infamous for gloomy rain, had ever gotten in one time -- when I reached deep underneath my passenger's seat and felt a box like I had never felt before.
Pulling it out, I learned that it was a pack of Marlboro's that belonged to my boyfriend's -- ugh, my ex's -- best friend. I was ready to put the box into my trash bag already teeming with coffee cups and empty Jelly Bellies boxes when I noticed there was still one solitary cigarette hiding beneath the gold foil.
I threw the bag away and kept that solitary cigarette.
I dried off, soaked after half-standing in the rain for 30 minutes (What can I say? My car was messy!), and stared at the cigarette, sitting on my table, beckoning me like I was Alice. I could see the words written on its white, half-crumpled body: "Smoke me," like it was my key through the door to Wonderland.
And so, I did. I grabbed a pack of matches from my closet, ran outside to my apartment's fire escape and lit up.
Trust me, as a runner...yes, now a runner who chain-smoked a pack of cigarettes...I know how awful smoking is for the body. I cherish my lungs, my heart and my body -- they've all been with me and have held their own relatively well so, to completely destroy all three with the puff of one cigarette is seemingly nonsensical. I mean, studies show that smoking just one single cigarette increases the stiffness of the arteries in people my age, 18 to 30, by a whopping 25 percent. That's not good for the body.
Yet, despite these stats, an alarmingly large percentage -- 17.9 of adults in Oregon -- of the US population still smokes. It's really no wonder why the CDC named cigarette smoking as the leading preventable cause of death in our nation.
Most scientific research shows that the compulsion to smoke again after that first cigarette can lie dormant for three years. My compulsion lay low for a whopping 48 hours. As disgusting as it felt afterwards -- the smell of nicotine and smoke lingered in my nostrils while the taste of raw, burning chemicals and tobacco pierced my every taste bud -- I got the point of such pitiful and disgraceful agony and depression that I needed to turn to something.
And that's when my mouth started to get dry. And when my fingers started to itch. And when my new-found arrhythmia began to explode in my chest.
I knew I wanted -- needed -- a cigarette. So, with unsteady footsteps, I walked to the corner store and nonchalantly bought a pack. And then I went to town; huffing and puffing on one right after another until, much to my surprise, I had none left.
And that's when it hit me: Nicotine is, as every healthcare advocate and worker will tell you, the most addictive drug. It's smarmy, making you feel cool...like those ultra hip yet laid-back 20-somethings who read and write in the park. It's comforting, releasing you from experiencing the stress of real life. It's intoxicatingly indulgent...like allowing yourself to have a thick slice of sinfully rich cake.
Unlike that cake's moment on your lips that stays on your hips, the damage caused by a moment with a cigarette isn't possible to eradicate and it's much harder to say, "No thanks," to another cigarette than it is to another slice of cake. Why? As any smoker will probably tell you -- it's the withdrawal that makes the body scream for a kid like ice cream, "YES, PLEASE! I want ANOTHER!"
And so, it's a mind game: At first I'm dealing with the taste in my mouth and the stench in my nose that doesn't seem nearly as bad when there's a cigarette at reach. And the physical effects -- my shaky hands, awkward heart beat, the feeling that my tongue is growing larger and larger. Then there's the dizziness, unbalanced by that awful sense of vertigo like I'm swaying on a boat that has no exit.
It's enough hell to make me wonder, "Why'd I ever do this in the first place?"
Saturday, September 4, 2010
The Web
No. I'm not talking about the internet.
So...if you're a tech-savvy super nerd (Ahem, Walker), feel free to stop reading now because my story of the web probably isn't going to interest you.
That said...
I'm talking about a different type of web...the spider web.
It's everywhere. Or rather, to be more realistically and grammatically correct, they're everywhere.
August and September mark one of my favorite times of the year to be a Northwest (Okay, fine...they're all over Stumptown) Portland resident because spider webs are in absolute overabundance (Yes mom, I know you're cringing and wondering how I ever came from your loins but, come on, by now you should know that I'm a psuedo-hippie -- to Spokane standards, anyway -- creature-loving nerdy hipster. I mean, half of my hair is shorn for crying out loud). I first fell in love with them -- and noticed them, to be honest -- at the end of last summer when I was taking a lot of early morning, have-to-get-out-of-the-house-or-else-I'm-going-to-go-crazy walks. Still shining with early morning dew, the spider webs, which decorate bushes, trees, building eaves, fire escape stairwells, road signs and everything in between, simply shine in a glorified omnipresent beauty that's just radiant.
And the spiders that dabble in the middle of these five and eight and thirteen inch webs (Yes, I've measured and taken photos) just hang out, asking whoever stops in jaw-dropping awe in proud mockery, "Yeah...what have YOU done today?"
Turns out...usually when I have the chance to really admire these webs, my answer is, "Eh, not much."
That's how it was this morning, anyway. After a night of tacos and tequila with Walker and Jason, I was..admittedly...a bit slow to the start of my morning. Usually, during the work week, I'm up at 4:30, running by 5 when the spiders are rebuilding their webs after a night of human destruction.
How do I know? Because I'm the one breaking the random web strings flailing like silent assassins from the the trees. They attack my face and brush my cheek with such eerie vengeance which, regardless of how much I don't mind spiders, freaks me out. If anyone saw me karate-chopping with my arms while running up Lovejoy and Cornell at five in the morning, I'm almost certain they'd believe I was yet another neighborhood crazy.
But this morning, as mentioned before, was slower, recovering from a celebratory night with Yeyo (QO landed quite a few jobs lately...woot woot), so instead of an early morning run, I went on a regular-morning (i have to believe that 8 a.m. is 'normal' morning time) walk around the neighborhood while talking on the phone. It was nice...taking time to notice the beauty of nature that, despite living in the city, surrounds me.
Big old spiders. Big old webs, glimmering in the big old sun that danced behind big old clouds in that big old sky.
It was pretty and calming and nice to realize that, even though I'm typically a hustle-bustle, go-go-go individual, the power of nature never ceases to amaze me.
So...if you're a tech-savvy super nerd (Ahem, Walker), feel free to stop reading now because my story of the web probably isn't going to interest you.
That said...
I'm talking about a different type of web...the spider web.
It's everywhere. Or rather, to be more realistically and grammatically correct, they're everywhere.
August and September mark one of my favorite times of the year to be a Northwest (Okay, fine...they're all over Stumptown) Portland resident because spider webs are in absolute overabundance (Yes mom, I know you're cringing and wondering how I ever came from your loins but, come on, by now you should know that I'm a psuedo-hippie -- to Spokane standards, anyway -- creature-loving nerdy hipster. I mean, half of my hair is shorn for crying out loud). I first fell in love with them -- and noticed them, to be honest -- at the end of last summer when I was taking a lot of early morning, have-to-get-out-of-the-house-or-else-I'm-going-to-go-crazy walks. Still shining with early morning dew, the spider webs, which decorate bushes, trees, building eaves, fire escape stairwells, road signs and everything in between, simply shine in a glorified omnipresent beauty that's just radiant.
And the spiders that dabble in the middle of these five and eight and thirteen inch webs (Yes, I've measured and taken photos) just hang out, asking whoever stops in jaw-dropping awe in proud mockery, "Yeah...what have YOU done today?"
Turns out...usually when I have the chance to really admire these webs, my answer is, "Eh, not much."
That's how it was this morning, anyway. After a night of tacos and tequila with Walker and Jason, I was..admittedly...a bit slow to the start of my morning. Usually, during the work week, I'm up at 4:30, running by 5 when the spiders are rebuilding their webs after a night of human destruction.
How do I know? Because I'm the one breaking the random web strings flailing like silent assassins from the the trees. They attack my face and brush my cheek with such eerie vengeance which, regardless of how much I don't mind spiders, freaks me out. If anyone saw me karate-chopping with my arms while running up Lovejoy and Cornell at five in the morning, I'm almost certain they'd believe I was yet another neighborhood crazy.
But this morning, as mentioned before, was slower, recovering from a celebratory night with Yeyo (QO landed quite a few jobs lately...woot woot), so instead of an early morning run, I went on a regular-morning (i have to believe that 8 a.m. is 'normal' morning time) walk around the neighborhood while talking on the phone. It was nice...taking time to notice the beauty of nature that, despite living in the city, surrounds me.
Big old spiders. Big old webs, glimmering in the big old sun that danced behind big old clouds in that big old sky.
It was pretty and calming and nice to realize that, even though I'm typically a hustle-bustle, go-go-go individual, the power of nature never ceases to amaze me.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Mommy Wow! I'm a big kid now?
Yep. I'm a big kid. An official adult and stuff.
Why?
Because today is the day my insurance benefits really officially kick in.
That's right...I can break a leg, break my teeth, break my spirit and have it all fixed...and paid for.
While I don't have any plans on breaking any of the aforementioned, I guess today just gives me peace-of-mind (There's AngelVision speak for you) knowing that, in case something really crappy and painful does come my way -- say the lady who almost hit me during my run this morning hadn't finished applying her lipstick and actually turned into me instead of nearly into me -- I'm covered; good to go.
It's hard at this juncture to not want to go down the highway of political ranting but, considering I have a plethora of friends and loved ones who are my age, working their asses off without a safety net of health insurance, it's inevitable that my typically non-political posting is taking the on ramp at full speed.
A couple of weeks ago the New York Times T-Magazine ran an article about kids my age. The headline pretty much sums up the subject of the eleven page issue: "What Is It About 20-Somethings?" "Why," the subhead asks, "Are so many people in their 20s taking so long to grow up?" One of the reasons...healthcare. The other reason? The economy. It's awesome, really, that our president has allowed those of us no longer in college but without a job like mine to stay on our parents' health insurance plans until we're 26 but, at the same time, allowing us to keep suckling away on that parental teat just pushes us further and further away from real, live independence. It's a way of keeping us half-grown up as psuedo-adults who are almost...but not quite...there.
What pushes most of us down even further is the still-tanked and ever-tanking economy that's ripe only with un-and-underemployment. There are too many degree-bearing 20-somethings with stocks of creativity, passion, drive and talent who are working part-time, unfulfilling jobs (By the way, unfulfilling isn't actually a word. Good thing I've got an English degree and license to make up my own). And here in Portland (Okay, and Oregon in general where the unemployment level is still over 10 percent), the economy is nearly impossible.
It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair!
Wait...this post was about me being a grown up, right?
Anyway...
While I typically don't agree with Nancy Pelosi, I found a quotation from her on Friday while looking up quotations for a client.
(Sidebar for all of those in marketing...don't EVER promise a client you'll find a quotation for them. It takes for fucking ever. And yes...the F-word was indeed necessary. End Sidebar)
Pelosi said: "Think of an economy where people could be an artist or photographer or writer without worrying about keeping their day job in order to have health insurance."
Indeed...where is that economy? And where is the universal healthcare? Where? Where? Where?
Maybe we 20-somethings don't want to grow up just quite yet because there's not a whole lot of awesome to grow up to.
Hmm. I think I broke my spirit somewhere during that joyride.
And here I thought the start of September never looked so good.
Why?
Because today is the day my insurance benefits really officially kick in.
That's right...I can break a leg, break my teeth, break my spirit and have it all fixed...and paid for.
While I don't have any plans on breaking any of the aforementioned, I guess today just gives me peace-of-mind (There's AngelVision speak for you) knowing that, in case something really crappy and painful does come my way -- say the lady who almost hit me during my run this morning hadn't finished applying her lipstick and actually turned into me instead of nearly into me -- I'm covered; good to go.
It's hard at this juncture to not want to go down the highway of political ranting but, considering I have a plethora of friends and loved ones who are my age, working their asses off without a safety net of health insurance, it's inevitable that my typically non-political posting is taking the on ramp at full speed.
A couple of weeks ago the New York Times T-Magazine ran an article about kids my age. The headline pretty much sums up the subject of the eleven page issue: "What Is It About 20-Somethings?" "Why," the subhead asks, "Are so many people in their 20s taking so long to grow up?" One of the reasons...healthcare. The other reason? The economy. It's awesome, really, that our president has allowed those of us no longer in college but without a job like mine to stay on our parents' health insurance plans until we're 26 but, at the same time, allowing us to keep suckling away on that parental teat just pushes us further and further away from real, live independence. It's a way of keeping us half-grown up as psuedo-adults who are almost...but not quite...there.
What pushes most of us down even further is the still-tanked and ever-tanking economy that's ripe only with un-and-underemployment. There are too many degree-bearing 20-somethings with stocks of creativity, passion, drive and talent who are working part-time, unfulfilling jobs (By the way, unfulfilling isn't actually a word. Good thing I've got an English degree and license to make up my own). And here in Portland (Okay, and Oregon in general where the unemployment level is still over 10 percent), the economy is nearly impossible.
It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair!
Wait...this post was about me being a grown up, right?
Anyway...
While I typically don't agree with Nancy Pelosi, I found a quotation from her on Friday while looking up quotations for a client.
(Sidebar for all of those in marketing...don't EVER promise a client you'll find a quotation for them. It takes for fucking ever. And yes...the F-word was indeed necessary. End Sidebar)
Pelosi said: "Think of an economy where people could be an artist or photographer or writer without worrying about keeping their day job in order to have health insurance."
Indeed...where is that economy? And where is the universal healthcare? Where? Where? Where?
Maybe we 20-somethings don't want to grow up just quite yet because there's not a whole lot of awesome to grow up to.
Hmm. I think I broke my spirit somewhere during that joyride.
And here I thought the start of September never looked so good.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
The Nymph
I think it's time I finally write about The Nymph.
I mean, I've lived in The Plato for almost nine months now and have just casually mentioned her from time to time.
Okay, I've ranted about her more than once but I figure, since I haven't actually made "The Nymph" a tag in my blog feed that I've been fairly successful in keeping the stories to a minimum. There's part of me that just feels bad about gabbing about an innocent person without his or her knowledge.
But that part of me is gone, rubbed away by the lack of sleep I've gotten over the past four days thanks to The Nymph.
She's not keeping me up with sex (Uh, okay...that's a sentence I never imagined I would write except maybe if I were creating conversational dialogue in a book about a guy whose nymphomaniac girlfriend or wife doesn't let him sleep because she's constantly needing to feed the beast); no -- The Nymph's latest loud escapades involve moving furniture, every day, for the past four days, at four in the fucking morning.
Yes...(unlike Dane Cook), I did say fucking.
For the life of me, and for all the creative juices I have flowing through my head on any given day, I cannot think of a solitary reason -- good or bad -- whyyyyy anyone would be moving furniture for the first, let alone the second, third and fourth, time at four in the morning.
I mean, maybe she has an incredible eye for decoration and spacial arrangement and only gets bursts of inspiration right before the sun comes up. If that's the case, maybe I should get her a job at Pottery Barn doing Visuals.
Okay, maybe not....especially if I'm returning to PB to be part of the Visual Five (No....that's not a team of super heroes, sadly).
Or maybe Walker's theory of The Nymph owning a sex swing is right...and she just has to move it...constantly. But I actually haven't heard her having sex in the morning; just moving furniture.
In all honesty, I don't know what loud noise I prefer to have myself unwillingly subjected to: Her loud sex, her loud sobbing or her loud furniture banging.
No, not that kind of banging.
I mean, when she's having loud sex, I have to hear her moaning and screaming and her squeaking bed and sometimes, when it's really bad -- or I guess really good, depending on what receiving end you're on -- feel the shaking of her floor reverberate down my walls and through my own squeaky hardwood floor. It makes me feel voyeuristic and icky, like I need to take a long, long shower (Which I usually do in the hopes that, by the time I'm finished, she is too).
When she's crying, I sort of just feel bad for her and that makes me want to bring her cookies and hot chocolate and see if she's okay because her sobbing is just so intense. I've sobbed like that before...when my grandmother died and when I tore my hip flexor...that uncontrollable sobbing where you can't even breathe. Her sobbing eradicates all the frustration and anger and grossed outness I have while I hear her having sex; and that just irks me even more.
And now she's got this new fad of early morning furniture rearrangement. It's just plain awful. Sure, she's not making any verbal noise but the constant dropping and dragging of, what I can only imagine is very heavy, furniture (or maybe dead bodies?) is just nerve wracking...
...especially at four in the morning. On the first morning, Saturday, I awoke with such a startle that I clenched Walker's arm (He slept through it) in fear that the sky was falling down (Uhm helloooo! Have you seen Donnie Darko?). Sunday's rude awakening elicited an, "Are you kidding me?!" accompanied with throwing my arms up to the ceiling in disbelief. Monday's rearrangement brought death threats. Today's warranted this blog.
It's a good thing -- for her safety and my unincarcerated freedom -- that we're moving soon. Who knows what might happen otherwise.
I mean, I've lived in The Plato for almost nine months now and have just casually mentioned her from time to time.
Okay, I've ranted about her more than once but I figure, since I haven't actually made "The Nymph" a tag in my blog feed that I've been fairly successful in keeping the stories to a minimum. There's part of me that just feels bad about gabbing about an innocent person without his or her knowledge.
But that part of me is gone, rubbed away by the lack of sleep I've gotten over the past four days thanks to The Nymph.
She's not keeping me up with sex (Uh, okay...that's a sentence I never imagined I would write except maybe if I were creating conversational dialogue in a book about a guy whose nymphomaniac girlfriend or wife doesn't let him sleep because she's constantly needing to feed the beast); no -- The Nymph's latest loud escapades involve moving furniture, every day, for the past four days, at four in the fucking morning.
Yes...(unlike Dane Cook), I did say fucking.
For the life of me, and for all the creative juices I have flowing through my head on any given day, I cannot think of a solitary reason -- good or bad -- whyyyyy anyone would be moving furniture for the first, let alone the second, third and fourth, time at four in the morning.
I mean, maybe she has an incredible eye for decoration and spacial arrangement and only gets bursts of inspiration right before the sun comes up. If that's the case, maybe I should get her a job at Pottery Barn doing Visuals.
Okay, maybe not....especially if I'm returning to PB to be part of the Visual Five (No....that's not a team of super heroes, sadly).
Or maybe Walker's theory of The Nymph owning a sex swing is right...and she just has to move it...constantly. But I actually haven't heard her having sex in the morning; just moving furniture.
In all honesty, I don't know what loud noise I prefer to have myself unwillingly subjected to: Her loud sex, her loud sobbing or her loud furniture banging.
No, not that kind of banging.
I mean, when she's having loud sex, I have to hear her moaning and screaming and her squeaking bed and sometimes, when it's really bad -- or I guess really good, depending on what receiving end you're on -- feel the shaking of her floor reverberate down my walls and through my own squeaky hardwood floor. It makes me feel voyeuristic and icky, like I need to take a long, long shower (Which I usually do in the hopes that, by the time I'm finished, she is too).
When she's crying, I sort of just feel bad for her and that makes me want to bring her cookies and hot chocolate and see if she's okay because her sobbing is just so intense. I've sobbed like that before...when my grandmother died and when I tore my hip flexor...that uncontrollable sobbing where you can't even breathe. Her sobbing eradicates all the frustration and anger and grossed outness I have while I hear her having sex; and that just irks me even more.
And now she's got this new fad of early morning furniture rearrangement. It's just plain awful. Sure, she's not making any verbal noise but the constant dropping and dragging of, what I can only imagine is very heavy, furniture (or maybe dead bodies?) is just nerve wracking...
...especially at four in the morning. On the first morning, Saturday, I awoke with such a startle that I clenched Walker's arm (He slept through it) in fear that the sky was falling down (Uhm helloooo! Have you seen Donnie Darko?). Sunday's rude awakening elicited an, "Are you kidding me?!" accompanied with throwing my arms up to the ceiling in disbelief. Monday's rearrangement brought death threats. Today's warranted this blog.
It's a good thing -- for her safety and my unincarcerated freedom -- that we're moving soon. Who knows what might happen otherwise.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Culinary Adventures
After a near solid week of cooking dinner, I've decided to push my cooking to a new level. But, before I continue with the why and how, let me detail the what that led me to this decision. My menu for the previous week:
Sunday: Chicken tomato curry with bell peppers, mushrooms, onions and shrimp.
Tuesday: Fresh fettuccine with with garlic, shrimp, chicken, pancetta (Yeah, three meats). Side salad of mixed greens and the BEST Roma tomatoes and the ripest avocado I've had to date, dressed with my go-to, homemade balsamic vinaigrette (balsamic vinegar, honey, salt, pepper, shallots, dijon mustard and olive oil).
Wednesday: BLOAT sandwiches on ciabatta rolls (BLOAT, I'll admit, is a Walker/Amie co-creation: Bacon, lettuce, sauteed onion, avocado, tomato and pan-fried turkey cutlets).
Thursday: Carna asada burritos with sauteed bell peppers and onions, white rice, refried beans and homemade guacamole and salsa.
Friday: Lemon garlic pappardelle with pancetta croutons (Yes, you read that right) and broccoli. Salad of mixed greens, avocado and Roma tomatoes, served with the usual balsamic vinaigrette suspect.
Saturday: Egg scramble with onions, bell peppers and pancetta served with multigrain toast and blackberry jam (Okay so Saturday was a Walker meal; I don't do breakfast all that often).
All in all, a solid week of eating in (Which we celebrated last night with happy hour pints at Laurelwood and a tipsy sushi -- I was tipsy, not the sushi -- dinner). Even though last week was slightly stressful, between work, not sleeping and gaining more angst over our pending move, I thoroughly enjoyed coming home at night, taking off my bra, slipping on some sweat pants and hospital socks (The epitome of sex appeal, I know) and cracking open a beer to sip on while I embark on a barrage of onion mincing (Which always, always makes me cry), garlic crushing, meat tenderizing and pasta boiling. It's soothing and calming. Even when I'm worked up and irritable, an hour in the kitchen always makes the frustrations of the day melt away (Though I'm sure the beer doesn't hurt).
But I'm ready to take my cooking further. I've realized, now that I buy food for another person other than myself, that I'm constantly purchasing the same goods. My freezer is always stocked with peas, spinach and broccoli. I've always got onions, bell peppers, mushrooms and avocado in my fridge. My love for Oregon fruit aside, I'm always armed with bananas and apples, regardless of the season. While having the usuals to fall back upon isn't necessarily bad, it's a rut I'm definitely ready to break out from.
So, with my Joy of Cooking cookbook that Santa brought me from the North Pole three Christmases ago, a bit more expendable of a food budget and a boyfriend who's willing to try anything I bring home and/or make (The boy tried a fingerful of Tofutti the other morning), I've decided to make one new thing a week.
And by new I mean something I've never EVER made or eaten before. So whether that means cooking with a new ingredient or whipping up a dish that I randomly flip and point to in my cookbook, I'm going to be stretching my culinary skills and taste buds to new heights.
This week I'm working with beets. Clara and I paid homage to my old stomping grounds on Sunday by going to the Farmer's Market up in Hillsdale. We both purchased the biggest beets I've ever seen. They're Chioggia beets (Pronounced kee-OH-gee-yuh)! Although Chioggia beets are sweeter than typical beets, I'm planning a more savory meal that uses both the beets and the beet greens (I've never cooked nor eaten beet greens so it's a double whammy culinary expedition that meets both prerequisites of my weekly culinary adventure).
Here's the plan:
Shredded beets and coarsely chopped beet greens sauteed in garlic and thyme butter with mushrooms and seared steak. I'm pretty excited because it's a play off of a recipe I found on Epicurious.com (I'm doing steak instead of chicken and garlic and thyme instead of orange zest). The entire dish is cooked in one pan so it should all taste pretty freaking delicious and, if I execute it well enough, the earthiness of the mushrooms and the savory, pungent flavor profile of the thyme should combat harmoniously against the sweetness of the beets. And the garlic? Well, garlic goes with everything!
I'll try to take photos...though doing so will dramatically increase the chances of me setting off the smoke alarm here (I have a crazy affinity for making the entire studio smoky when I pan fry meat).
Although, come to think of it, this apartment doesn't actually have a smoke alarm.
So yes, pictures to come, indeed.
Sunday: Chicken tomato curry with bell peppers, mushrooms, onions and shrimp.
Tuesday: Fresh fettuccine with with garlic, shrimp, chicken, pancetta (Yeah, three meats). Side salad of mixed greens and the BEST Roma tomatoes and the ripest avocado I've had to date, dressed with my go-to, homemade balsamic vinaigrette (balsamic vinegar, honey, salt, pepper, shallots, dijon mustard and olive oil).
Wednesday: BLOAT sandwiches on ciabatta rolls (BLOAT, I'll admit, is a Walker/Amie co-creation: Bacon, lettuce, sauteed onion, avocado, tomato and pan-fried turkey cutlets).
Thursday: Carna asada burritos with sauteed bell peppers and onions, white rice, refried beans and homemade guacamole and salsa.
Friday: Lemon garlic pappardelle with pancetta croutons (Yes, you read that right) and broccoli. Salad of mixed greens, avocado and Roma tomatoes, served with the usual balsamic vinaigrette suspect.
Saturday: Egg scramble with onions, bell peppers and pancetta served with multigrain toast and blackberry jam (Okay so Saturday was a Walker meal; I don't do breakfast all that often).
All in all, a solid week of eating in (Which we celebrated last night with happy hour pints at Laurelwood and a tipsy sushi -- I was tipsy, not the sushi -- dinner). Even though last week was slightly stressful, between work, not sleeping and gaining more angst over our pending move, I thoroughly enjoyed coming home at night, taking off my bra, slipping on some sweat pants and hospital socks (The epitome of sex appeal, I know) and cracking open a beer to sip on while I embark on a barrage of onion mincing (Which always, always makes me cry), garlic crushing, meat tenderizing and pasta boiling. It's soothing and calming. Even when I'm worked up and irritable, an hour in the kitchen always makes the frustrations of the day melt away (Though I'm sure the beer doesn't hurt).
But I'm ready to take my cooking further. I've realized, now that I buy food for another person other than myself, that I'm constantly purchasing the same goods. My freezer is always stocked with peas, spinach and broccoli. I've always got onions, bell peppers, mushrooms and avocado in my fridge. My love for Oregon fruit aside, I'm always armed with bananas and apples, regardless of the season. While having the usuals to fall back upon isn't necessarily bad, it's a rut I'm definitely ready to break out from.
So, with my Joy of Cooking cookbook that Santa brought me from the North Pole three Christmases ago, a bit more expendable of a food budget and a boyfriend who's willing to try anything I bring home and/or make (The boy tried a fingerful of Tofutti the other morning), I've decided to make one new thing a week.
And by new I mean something I've never EVER made or eaten before. So whether that means cooking with a new ingredient or whipping up a dish that I randomly flip and point to in my cookbook, I'm going to be stretching my culinary skills and taste buds to new heights.
This week I'm working with beets. Clara and I paid homage to my old stomping grounds on Sunday by going to the Farmer's Market up in Hillsdale. We both purchased the biggest beets I've ever seen. They're Chioggia beets (Pronounced kee-OH-gee-yuh)! Although Chioggia beets are sweeter than typical beets, I'm planning a more savory meal that uses both the beets and the beet greens (I've never cooked nor eaten beet greens so it's a double whammy culinary expedition that meets both prerequisites of my weekly culinary adventure).
Here's the plan:
Shredded beets and coarsely chopped beet greens sauteed in garlic and thyme butter with mushrooms and seared steak. I'm pretty excited because it's a play off of a recipe I found on Epicurious.com (I'm doing steak instead of chicken and garlic and thyme instead of orange zest). The entire dish is cooked in one pan so it should all taste pretty freaking delicious and, if I execute it well enough, the earthiness of the mushrooms and the savory, pungent flavor profile of the thyme should combat harmoniously against the sweetness of the beets. And the garlic? Well, garlic goes with everything!
I'll try to take photos...though doing so will dramatically increase the chances of me setting off the smoke alarm here (I have a crazy affinity for making the entire studio smoky when I pan fry meat).
Although, come to think of it, this apartment doesn't actually have a smoke alarm.
So yes, pictures to come, indeed.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Walking
This is why I love walking; it's slow, comfortable, open for conversation and observation with a loved one and I can take pictures of the things I like the most, like daffodils which remind me of cartoon lions.
Lost: Attention Span
If I were able to focus for long enough I'd like to make a poster:
LOST!
Have you seen my attention span? I can't seem to find it anywhere and am fairly certain that it was either stolen or, sadly, it ran away from me.
Last seen: Oh, weeks ago, probably prior to my first day off from work either in Northwest or Southwest Portland.
Reward: My sanity.
But making a poster takes so much work; I'd have to pull out markers and paper and scissors and be all creative and stuff.
Yeah, stuff.
Then I'd have to walk around, in the rain, carrying dozens of copies of my poster and a staple gun (Which I'd have to get from somewhere; a girl just doesn't own one of these) without simultaneously getting distracted by the blooming daffodils or friendly construction workers or lurking transients and avoiding eye contact with babies and old men who think I'm 'cute and artsy' with my short hair and big, billowy scarves.
Which reminds me, I think I need a haircut again.
But if I get a haircut I'll want to get it dyed. Like red or, if I'm feeling really ballsy (yeah, I went there), platinum blonde.
I don't know if I could go blonde though.
I used to want to go super red, like cherry red.
I was once magenta which was pretty great, though not as great as when I dyed my high school track coach's gray mullet purple.
Hey--he said I could.
Wait, where was I? Yes; my attention span.
It's weird; I've always been someone who can sit down and focus and for some reason, over the past month, I've been unable to really just
sit. down. and. focus.
I surf websites like a Vegas dealer hands out cards; shuffling back and forth between news sites, shopping sites and that damned Facebook. I flip amongst the eight tv channels I have like I'm an aging salt-and-pepper haired and moustached man (Yes Dad I am alluding to you here). I can't make up my mind, mainly because my mind is running on all eight cylinders even though it's really not going anywhere.
Maybe I'm just in a funk. Maybe I'm burnt out.
Maybe my brain is just so full of ideas and thoughts that my mind constantly bounces from one to the next by sheer involuntary accident, being unable to move without tilting in between stored memories. It's time that I expunge my brain of these ideas, onto virtual paper (ahem, my much neglected blog) so that I can, perhaps, find my lost attention span.
LOST!
Have you seen my attention span? I can't seem to find it anywhere and am fairly certain that it was either stolen or, sadly, it ran away from me.
Last seen: Oh, weeks ago, probably prior to my first day off from work either in Northwest or Southwest Portland.
Reward: My sanity.
But making a poster takes so much work; I'd have to pull out markers and paper and scissors and be all creative and stuff.
Yeah, stuff.
Then I'd have to walk around, in the rain, carrying dozens of copies of my poster and a staple gun (Which I'd have to get from somewhere; a girl just doesn't own one of these) without simultaneously getting distracted by the blooming daffodils or friendly construction workers or lurking transients and avoiding eye contact with babies and old men who think I'm 'cute and artsy' with my short hair and big, billowy scarves.
Which reminds me, I think I need a haircut again.
But if I get a haircut I'll want to get it dyed. Like red or, if I'm feeling really ballsy (yeah, I went there), platinum blonde.
I don't know if I could go blonde though.
I used to want to go super red, like cherry red.
I was once magenta which was pretty great, though not as great as when I dyed my high school track coach's gray mullet purple.
Hey--he said I could.
Wait, where was I? Yes; my attention span.
It's weird; I've always been someone who can sit down and focus and for some reason, over the past month, I've been unable to really just
sit. down. and. focus.
I surf websites like a Vegas dealer hands out cards; shuffling back and forth between news sites, shopping sites and that damned Facebook. I flip amongst the eight tv channels I have like I'm an aging salt-and-pepper haired and moustached man (Yes Dad I am alluding to you here). I can't make up my mind, mainly because my mind is running on all eight cylinders even though it's really not going anywhere.
Maybe I'm just in a funk. Maybe I'm burnt out.
Maybe my brain is just so full of ideas and thoughts that my mind constantly bounces from one to the next by sheer involuntary accident, being unable to move without tilting in between stored memories. It's time that I expunge my brain of these ideas, onto virtual paper (ahem, my much neglected blog) so that I can, perhaps, find my lost attention span.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Shingles
Disclaimer: This blog was written while under the influence of vicodin and benadryl. That is all.
It's been far too long since my last post and for that, I apologize (To who am I apologizing, I'm not entirely sure, perhaps the two followers I have). However, this little blog of mine, which I began less than two months ago as a way to rant and, perhaps reduce, stress in my life, had to take a back seat because I have been dealing with stuff much larger than online writing.
That stuff would be Shingles. Yes, on Christmas Eve I noticed, after taking my bra off and changing into pajama pants to watch Knowing (The latest Nicolas Cage movie that, big surprise, lacks acting talent and a plausible plot line), a few small red bumps on the right side of my back. I showed my mom who insisted, for the sake of my sanity, that I need not worry.
She also said she thought it was Shingles.
Like any good American who thinks he or she is a doctor, I looked up shingles on the Internet to confirm my mother's diagnosis. Shingles are (or should I use 'is?' After reading through pages upon pages of online Shingles literature, I have yet to come to a consensus on whether I should use 'is' or 'are' but, considering that Shingles ends with 's,' thus making it plural, my grammatical instincts tell me to use 'are.') caused by the same virus as the chicken pox. Little red blisters pop up in clusters on one side of the body, usually the back, trunk, chest and stomach, and last for weeks, morphing from red hot bands of hellatiously painful blisters to oozing pustuals of pain and disgustingness to flaking and scabbing sheets of grossness. Shingles are further accompanied by sharp lightning-bolt like nerve pain.
In my case, the actual shingles aren't that bad. Sure, I've got no fewer than six major bands of shingles, all in varying stages of pain and ooziness. The worst part of my case of Shingles is the nerve pain. Blinding pain shoots across my right rib cage, crushing me and making me unable to breathe. I'm pretty certain that J.K. Rowling had Shingles pain in mind when she wrote of the searing scar pain that Harry Potter experiences whenever he is near Lord Voldemort.
Shingles are my Lord Voldemort, that's for sure. They're ugly, they're useless and stare at me with such blatant irony that I can't stand it (Lord Voldemort, much like Hitler, was ironic and hypocritical in the fact that neither were 'pure bloods.' Yes, I've just likened my Shingles to Hitler. Again, I've got a cocktail of medicines floating around my blood stream). The irony in my Shingles is the fact that 20-somethings don't often get Shingles...
...unless they're stressed out. So my stress -- over finances, family, work, boys, you name it -- has not only caused me emotional pain; it's now causing me actual physical pain. Of course (Which is actually the exact reaction my friend Jacob had when I told him about my Shingles). And now I'm in so much pain (Okay, currently I'm floating on cloud nine with just a few itchies) that I can't work. If I can't work, I can't bring in money and if I don't bring in money...well, then the entire vicious circle of stress begins all over again.
Sigh. I'm just glad I have vicodin so I can stay relaxed, even if it is artificial.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Passion Pit
I am in love, love, love. It's been a while, actually, since I've fallen hard core for a band or solitary musician but here I am, swooning like a brace-faced junior high school girl after just two days of exposure.Go ahead, call me easy.
Nevertheless, here I am, on my day off, glued to my computer, listening to and looking up information about Passion Pit. I first heard them as I was driving home from my friends' house late Monday night. Passion Pit had just started playing at the Crystal Ballroom, kicking off 94.7's December to Remember concert line up (which, man alive, I hate that I'm too broke to go see any of the shows. Tonight is The Bravery followed by Vampire Weekend tomorrow. Sniff sniff) as I was hitting the I-84 on ramp back west to my freezing studio.
The band opened with The Reeling, one of their more popular songs, followed by an even more popular song (which is now the ringtone of my new phone...trust me when I say that this is a huge feat because I am not an impulsive ringtone purchaser...a person's ringtone says a lot about who they are, unless you're my friend Jacob whose ringtone is from Aladdin. ), Sleepyhead. Sure the songs are poppy and danceable, even for me with my awkward skinny white girl moves, but they hit me quite a bit deeper than most pop songs do (which, let's be honest, barely graze my passionate musical soul). Perhaps it was the fact that the warped techno soundscapes took my mind off of the fact that my car's typically-on-the-ball heater had yet to kick in or perhaps it was the fact that my hangover, which was still full throttle by 10:30 Monday night had mysteriously kicked itself out of my body; but after just two songs, I was in lust.
I went onto the band's website today and found this little morsel that morphed that lust into pure, maniacal love:
"Redemption. Paranoia. Guilt. And brief glimpses of a better tomorrow, all cloaked in pop hooks that truly help the medicine go down."
I need redemption. I'm paranoid at least 18 percent of the time worrying about, well, everything. And guilt...I think my recent batch of hangovers provide ample evidence for my shame and guilt. That's why I'm all about brief glimpses of a better tomorrow. Enter Passion Pit and it's ability to make the lessons of everyday life (ahem, that medicine I take daily when I suffer an empty bank account, broken heater and broken spirit) a little easier to swallow. What more could a girl want from a band at a time when she's struggling with finding the brief glimpses of a better tomorrow?
I think one listener on lala reviewed Passion Pit as "if music were food, Passion Pit would be chocolate cake." Chocolate cake is too flavor of the month for me which is why, for me, Passion Pit is more carrot cake -- constantly good, a little nutty and chock full of surprises.
Bon appetite.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
The Best Things in Life Return
Yesterday, sweet sweet yesterday, was another day of freebies. Nothing free fell haphazardly onto my lap or smacked me in the face like some free things do but instead, had simply piled up like a stack of rainy day coupons. After the week from beyond the depths of hell that I had, I figured I was more than due for a little rainy day loving. The arrival of my new cell phone, the Samsung Intensity (in Flamingo Red, might I add) marked the first freebie of the day. As I was telling a friend today, having a new phone makes me feel somewhat richer, less ghetto (which, according to a coworker is synonymous for 'missing a part' or 'lacks the ability.' Indeed?) and all around happier. So much for trying to not be a materialistic person (Cue Madonna here...).
Riding on my new phone high, I decided, after a mere 90 minute shift at work during which I donned the most atrocious hair style (Beyond JBF hair that can almost be branded as scandalously cute, my hair was simply tweaking out as bad as the meth heads who roam Chinatown), I was going to cash in a free hair cut card at a new salon in Northwest Portland.
The salon is called Cupcake salon, located at 2328 NW Westover, just behind NW Everett and NW 23rd, in that weird little area across from Ben & Jerry's (Another key freebie location during the early summer), Phil's Meat Market (Hooray for $5 bento), Pharmaca (Hooray for vegetarian iron supplements) and the liquor store (Hooray for nearby booze!). The salon shares a building with a pet store called Hip Hound on the second floor. Walking in, I was instantly greeted with heat (It might not have been rainy yesterday but it was damn cold!) and Christmas music. My stylist was Kai (There are at least two other stylists), a newbie to Portland from San Diego. I thoroughly enjoyed talking with her about Portland --- the food culture, club culture, drink culture and of course, the life of NW Portlanders. Talking with her was a nice change from the "fuck the man" attitude that I usually come across at Bishop's where I usually get my hair done.
The cut is super cute, albeit really hella short...which is fine, considering that I am totally fine with letting a stylist have some creativity with my hair. I liked the fact that she suggested multiple ideas and options for my hair, such as keeping part of it in the back longer (No, NOT like a mullet) so I could don a better faux mohawk. She also styled in three different ways so I could know my options and how to pull them off.
I felt bad that she gave such great service for free so I tipped her and thanked her for the hour she spent on my hair. It was such a great experience that I'll probably go back -- when I have money of course -- for my next cut.
A free phone, free hair cut and life yesterday was very, very good.
PS -- Cupcake Salon doesn't have a website yet but the salon's number is 503.295.7700. I highly, highly recommend it!
Riding on my new phone high, I decided, after a mere 90 minute shift at work during which I donned the most atrocious hair style (Beyond JBF hair that can almost be branded as scandalously cute, my hair was simply tweaking out as bad as the meth heads who roam Chinatown), I was going to cash in a free hair cut card at a new salon in Northwest Portland.
The salon is called Cupcake salon, located at 2328 NW Westover, just behind NW Everett and NW 23rd, in that weird little area across from Ben & Jerry's (Another key freebie location during the early summer), Phil's Meat Market (Hooray for $5 bento), Pharmaca (Hooray for vegetarian iron supplements) and the liquor store (Hooray for nearby booze!). The salon shares a building with a pet store called Hip Hound on the second floor. Walking in, I was instantly greeted with heat (It might not have been rainy yesterday but it was damn cold!) and Christmas music. My stylist was Kai (There are at least two other stylists), a newbie to Portland from San Diego. I thoroughly enjoyed talking with her about Portland --- the food culture, club culture, drink culture and of course, the life of NW Portlanders. Talking with her was a nice change from the "fuck the man" attitude that I usually come across at Bishop's where I usually get my hair done.
The cut is super cute, albeit really hella short...which is fine, considering that I am totally fine with letting a stylist have some creativity with my hair. I liked the fact that she suggested multiple ideas and options for my hair, such as keeping part of it in the back longer (No, NOT like a mullet) so I could don a better faux mohawk. She also styled in three different ways so I could know my options and how to pull them off.
I felt bad that she gave such great service for free so I tipped her and thanked her for the hour she spent on my hair. It was such a great experience that I'll probably go back -- when I have money of course -- for my next cut.
A free phone, free hair cut and life yesterday was very, very good.
PS -- Cupcake Salon doesn't have a website yet but the salon's number is 503.295.7700. I highly, highly recommend it!
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Sobriety
I'm pretty sure that my Irish roots took hold of me over the past weekend (And by weekend I mean the entire last week) because I wasn't just living in an Irish drama, complete with the bread-winning sop (who of course wastes all hard-earned funds on a pint), female drama and cold, lonely nights; I was starring in one. My role? The bread-winning sop. My English professors must be so proud (I didn't learn nothing from college after all).
Whenever I read Irish dramas or novels or watched films about Irish life, I could never really sympathize with the male household figure because, in most films and novels, the Man of the House was the bad guy. He was the guy who had a dead-end job and starved his kids and cheated on his wife and sang sad war songs because he spent all of his money on what was promised to be just one (but often turned into four and five) pint.
But now, in light of recent events of me being nearly broke and on a three week countdown until I possible move back home to Spokane with my parents, I'm starting to sympathize with the Irish novel's antagonist. True, I don't have kids to feed (Thank goodness!) but I do have myself to feed and, as of late, I've been choosing wine and beer over fruit and vegetables. My reasoning, which I like to assume is the same rationalizion process that my Irish male ancestors engaged in, is that I am still getting enough calories to be alive (Beer isn't calorie-friendly, people...my butt and hips can tell you so) and kicking and that the buzz of enough booze makes me oblivious to the fact that I'm broke, frustrated and struggling.
Drinking is a weird form of escapism. It's cheap and makes me feel cheap the next morning when I wake up and recall the empty bottles (usually three at most...I'm still a lightweight) with my groggy eyes and groggier head. The shame is more evident when I wake up alone since that infers that I was drinking alone and can't even recall good times from the night before.
I'd almost prefer my angry Irish wife and empty-bellied Irish lot to wake me up and ask me where breakfast is. But I don't have that. Instead, I have myself and I'm far scarier than even the scariest, shrillest and angriest Irish wife (Fictional or real, it doesn't matter).
Whenever I read Irish dramas or novels or watched films about Irish life, I could never really sympathize with the male household figure because, in most films and novels, the Man of the House was the bad guy. He was the guy who had a dead-end job and starved his kids and cheated on his wife and sang sad war songs because he spent all of his money on what was promised to be just one (but often turned into four and five) pint.
But now, in light of recent events of me being nearly broke and on a three week countdown until I possible move back home to Spokane with my parents, I'm starting to sympathize with the Irish novel's antagonist. True, I don't have kids to feed (Thank goodness!) but I do have myself to feed and, as of late, I've been choosing wine and beer over fruit and vegetables. My reasoning, which I like to assume is the same rationalizion process that my Irish male ancestors engaged in, is that I am still getting enough calories to be alive (Beer isn't calorie-friendly, people...my butt and hips can tell you so) and kicking and that the buzz of enough booze makes me oblivious to the fact that I'm broke, frustrated and struggling.
Drinking is a weird form of escapism. It's cheap and makes me feel cheap the next morning when I wake up and recall the empty bottles (usually three at most...I'm still a lightweight) with my groggy eyes and groggier head. The shame is more evident when I wake up alone since that infers that I was drinking alone and can't even recall good times from the night before.
I'd almost prefer my angry Irish wife and empty-bellied Irish lot to wake me up and ask me where breakfast is. But I don't have that. Instead, I have myself and I'm far scarier than even the scariest, shrillest and angriest Irish wife (Fictional or real, it doesn't matter).
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Pessimism
Apparently it doesn't take me very long to have a complete upheaval in my emotional state of well being. I woke up this morning with the intent of going out to breakfast with a friend and her parents only to find out that I am, yet again, broke, thanks to the weekend's onslaught of bill paying and grocery buying.
Every ounce of the previous day's optimism vanquished from my body in such a raging fashion that I wasn't sure if my windows were fogging up from my 1920's steam heater or from me. Laying in bed, I cringed as I had to text my friend to let her know that I will indeed, not be making breakfast, because my bank account isn't going to let me.
And so, like I always do whenever I realize how poor I am, I go into a downward cycle of shame, guilt and frustration (Much like my friends did two nights ago). Pulling my covers over my head, I curled up in a ball and tried to figure out how the hell I got here. I graduated from a great school but don't have a real job. Heck, I held better jobs during the summers while I was in school. Now, I find myself applying for crap jobs like being a pet sitter or customer service representative because those are the only jobs I feel qualified to do, regardless of my degree from said great school. My fridge, much like my recent stores of hope and optimism, are empty and I simply do not have the funds to refill either of them.
How am I going to eat? How am I supposed to pay rent? These questions filter through the melee going on between my emotions and my logic while I try to figure out just how much longer I can hold out living here on my own in Portland with a 20-hour a week part time job.
The answer (sigh) is January, if I spend no more than $12 a day. It seems doable; it really does. But what if it isn't? What if I fail and have to move back home?
Every ounce of the previous day's optimism vanquished from my body in such a raging fashion that I wasn't sure if my windows were fogging up from my 1920's steam heater or from me. Laying in bed, I cringed as I had to text my friend to let her know that I will indeed, not be making breakfast, because my bank account isn't going to let me.
And so, like I always do whenever I realize how poor I am, I go into a downward cycle of shame, guilt and frustration (Much like my friends did two nights ago). Pulling my covers over my head, I curled up in a ball and tried to figure out how the hell I got here. I graduated from a great school but don't have a real job. Heck, I held better jobs during the summers while I was in school. Now, I find myself applying for crap jobs like being a pet sitter or customer service representative because those are the only jobs I feel qualified to do, regardless of my degree from said great school. My fridge, much like my recent stores of hope and optimism, are empty and I simply do not have the funds to refill either of them.
How am I going to eat? How am I supposed to pay rent? These questions filter through the melee going on between my emotions and my logic while I try to figure out just how much longer I can hold out living here on my own in Portland with a 20-hour a week part time job.
The answer (sigh) is January, if I spend no more than $12 a day. It seems doable; it really does. But what if it isn't? What if I fail and have to move back home?
My mom says this doubt and uncertainty is part of growing up and I am certain she is right. I just wish it didn't kick my ass so much.
And so, feeling completely defeated, I'm just going to curl up and watch more Grey's Anatomy. I guess there's some sort of relief in watching people save other people's lives, even if it is just on TV.
And so, feeling completely defeated, I'm just going to curl up and watch more Grey's Anatomy. I guess there's some sort of relief in watching people save other people's lives, even if it is just on TV.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Optimism
It's not often that I am the optimistic or overly-happy individual in a crowd. That's not to say that I am dark and twisty (I've been watching a lot of Grey's Anatomy as of late, so excuse the Meredith Grey descriptors) or that I'm some kind of sad, cup-half-empty vampiric fiend who sucks the happy and joy out of my golden-sunshiney comrades, because I'm not like that. I just tend to be a bit....more cynical.
But then last night happened. I was simply sitting in a car, driving around Northeast Portland with three of my friends who were, rightfully so, heavily complaining, ruing and cursing the recession. Plagued by money problems (Mo' Money, Mo' Problems is so beyond false that it, yet again, makes me question the integrity and value of rap and its lyrical contributions to society), it seemed that my friends had sort of admitted defeat.
"Do you think that this is as bad, right now, as the Great Depression was?"
"Totally."
"Probably."
I piped up; "No way." I could tell, by the silent response that my pseudo-optimistic comment received, that they weren't buying it.
"The Great Depression was far worse," I continued. And it was; unemployment was nearly doubled what it is today, food lines were blocks long and our stock market crash wasn't nearly as cliff-leaping as it was 70 years ago. Our economy, according to the President and his economic gurus, is picking up and eventually, (also according to our country's higher ups) we'll start picking up too.
And, despite my cynicism and typical disbelief in politicalese (That's my made-up word for political speak), I do believe that my life is starting to pick up. Sure, I'm not making any more money than I was a year ago or even three months ago (I'm sadly making much less) but my life is picking up because I am optimistic; even happy, if you will.
For so much of the last seven years of my life I have fought against being happy. Somehow I had managed to do the one thing that my father, a man of sometimes sage, sometimes not-so-sage wisdom, has told me not to do: I let someone or something else control my happy. Whether it was a loser boyfriend, a caustic friendship, an unhealthy relationship with food or an over obsession with running and fitness, I have always let other forces control how I felt. More often than not, I let those outside factors make me live saddled with negative emotions : sadness, guilt, shame, frustration, anger.
But now…now I am in control of my happy. I’m not entirely certain what has changed; there aren’t words to describe the sudden click in my brain that magically switched like binary code from a zero to a one (or vice versa) to make me in control of my happy. Yet something did. Perhaps, in retrospect, my decisions over the last few months – breaking up with my boyfriend of three years, moving out on my own, staying in Portland but not going to graduate school – have helped transform me into this less chaotic, neurotic, psychotic hermit I used to be into someone nearly normal.
I laugh (I’ve been told it’s infectious) more often and I cry less frequently. I go on dates to dive bars and coffee houses, relishing in the quirky joints nestled in the tired parts of the city. I have make-up and baking dates with real, live girls who are quickly becoming my best friends. I run less and am finally in love with my body. I think I’m in love with myself which, in a totally non-narcissistic fashion, makes me the happiest.
We returned to my friend's house to make dinner and relax. While my friends continued their much-needed and therapeutic venting, I started chopping up an aromatic storm in the kitchen, thinking of the words to one of my favorite songs by Regina Spektor (Whose lyrical contribution to society could sometimes be questioned -- the line "Do you remember the time when I only ate boxes of tangerines?" is a good example -- but the following possess solid contributory power), "On the Radio," because they just seemed so damned fitting:
"No this is how it works
You peer inside yourself
And take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take the love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else's heart
Pumping someone else's blood."
Indeed.
But then last night happened. I was simply sitting in a car, driving around Northeast Portland with three of my friends who were, rightfully so, heavily complaining, ruing and cursing the recession. Plagued by money problems (Mo' Money, Mo' Problems is so beyond false that it, yet again, makes me question the integrity and value of rap and its lyrical contributions to society), it seemed that my friends had sort of admitted defeat.
"Do you think that this is as bad, right now, as the Great Depression was?"
"Totally."
"Probably."
I piped up; "No way." I could tell, by the silent response that my pseudo-optimistic comment received, that they weren't buying it.
"The Great Depression was far worse," I continued. And it was; unemployment was nearly doubled what it is today, food lines were blocks long and our stock market crash wasn't nearly as cliff-leaping as it was 70 years ago. Our economy, according to the President and his economic gurus, is picking up and eventually, (also according to our country's higher ups) we'll start picking up too.
And, despite my cynicism and typical disbelief in politicalese (That's my made-up word for political speak), I do believe that my life is starting to pick up. Sure, I'm not making any more money than I was a year ago or even three months ago (I'm sadly making much less) but my life is picking up because I am optimistic; even happy, if you will.
For so much of the last seven years of my life I have fought against being happy. Somehow I had managed to do the one thing that my father, a man of sometimes sage, sometimes not-so-sage wisdom, has told me not to do: I let someone or something else control my happy. Whether it was a loser boyfriend, a caustic friendship, an unhealthy relationship with food or an over obsession with running and fitness, I have always let other forces control how I felt. More often than not, I let those outside factors make me live saddled with negative emotions : sadness, guilt, shame, frustration, anger.
But now…now I am in control of my happy. I’m not entirely certain what has changed; there aren’t words to describe the sudden click in my brain that magically switched like binary code from a zero to a one (or vice versa) to make me in control of my happy. Yet something did. Perhaps, in retrospect, my decisions over the last few months – breaking up with my boyfriend of three years, moving out on my own, staying in Portland but not going to graduate school – have helped transform me into this less chaotic, neurotic, psychotic hermit I used to be into someone nearly normal.
I laugh (I’ve been told it’s infectious) more often and I cry less frequently. I go on dates to dive bars and coffee houses, relishing in the quirky joints nestled in the tired parts of the city. I have make-up and baking dates with real, live girls who are quickly becoming my best friends. I run less and am finally in love with my body. I think I’m in love with myself which, in a totally non-narcissistic fashion, makes me the happiest.
We returned to my friend's house to make dinner and relax. While my friends continued their much-needed and therapeutic venting, I started chopping up an aromatic storm in the kitchen, thinking of the words to one of my favorite songs by Regina Spektor (Whose lyrical contribution to society could sometimes be questioned -- the line "Do you remember the time when I only ate boxes of tangerines?" is a good example -- but the following possess solid contributory power), "On the Radio," because they just seemed so damned fitting:
"No this is how it works
You peer inside yourself
And take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take the love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else's heart
Pumping someone else's blood."
Indeed.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Dealing with Stress
Nobody likes to be stressed out. My general manager at Pottery Barn is stressed out -- so much to the fact that she actually was physically ill all last week and is walking around (rightfully so!) with a teeny tiny bottle of aromatherapy lotion to help calm her down (It's amazing what the holiday seasons will do to a person, especially one in charge of a major retail store in Portland. It has to be tough and the fact that she can do it with such grace and charm and slightly erratic neuroticism is respectable in my book. I know I would have totally gone off the deep end by now, trying to deal with all the glittery ornaments, intricate floor visuals and pending visits from Pottery Barn head honchos.). I am beyond stressed out. In addition to losing my extremely well-paying personal assistant job last week, I found out today that my mother is pretty darn sick and that my brother and his wife lost their baby.
I don't know how to deal with such loss. I mean, I've dealt with death before: my grandfather when I was a junior in high school, my grandmother right after I finished my junior year of college and then my other grandfather the end of my fifth year of college, as well as a friend from school in the same month as my grandfather's death. By no means do my losses make me a professional griever -- what a terrible job that would be. Rather, they make me even sadder with each additional mourning I must go through.
Whether we're rich or we are poor or struggling to even make ends meet, dealing with the stresses of every day life is going to eventually get to us. Today, the stresses of dealing with every day life -- loss of a job, loss of a future family member, loss of my ability to be a stoic, independent individual got to me. I totally broke down at work today, crying at the end of my lunch break in front of far too many of my work associates. You see, I'm not a person who typically offers my emotions to another person. Although I am a highly emotional person (which I see as an attractive, positive attribute to my personality), I usually fear letting other people see that side of me. Rather, I am someone who, as aforementioned, is stoic and independent. Yet today, stress got the best of me and made me a weeping, vulnerable person.
Stress made me human today. Which is new for me...not that I feel superhuman or better than others; on the contrary, I usually feel distanced from those around me because of my fear of letting others in. Furthermore I've realized that this transition period of "I don't know what the hell I'm doing working at a part time retail job and not being in school" is all part of being human. For the first time in my life I'm experiencing a down turn in my life. Like our current 'economic crisis' I am experiencing a negative shift in resources. Of course I have fewer funds but more importantly (maybe?), I have less in my emotional strength bag to draw from. However, I have learned through my experiences today that where I am richer is in my relationships. Not only do I have coworkers who care for me (Nobody made fun of me for having a mascara streaked face at the lunch table), I also have friends who are willing to endure tears, snot, beer and the movie Airplane (my all-time shadoobie hits the fan flick)...as well as my crazy crying emotions.
And that makes me pretty lucky.
I still think I'll invest in some aromatherapy lotion. I think my GM is on the right track with that.
I don't know how to deal with such loss. I mean, I've dealt with death before: my grandfather when I was a junior in high school, my grandmother right after I finished my junior year of college and then my other grandfather the end of my fifth year of college, as well as a friend from school in the same month as my grandfather's death. By no means do my losses make me a professional griever -- what a terrible job that would be. Rather, they make me even sadder with each additional mourning I must go through.
Whether we're rich or we are poor or struggling to even make ends meet, dealing with the stresses of every day life is going to eventually get to us. Today, the stresses of dealing with every day life -- loss of a job, loss of a future family member, loss of my ability to be a stoic, independent individual got to me. I totally broke down at work today, crying at the end of my lunch break in front of far too many of my work associates. You see, I'm not a person who typically offers my emotions to another person. Although I am a highly emotional person (which I see as an attractive, positive attribute to my personality), I usually fear letting other people see that side of me. Rather, I am someone who, as aforementioned, is stoic and independent. Yet today, stress got the best of me and made me a weeping, vulnerable person.
Stress made me human today. Which is new for me...not that I feel superhuman or better than others; on the contrary, I usually feel distanced from those around me because of my fear of letting others in. Furthermore I've realized that this transition period of "I don't know what the hell I'm doing working at a part time retail job and not being in school" is all part of being human. For the first time in my life I'm experiencing a down turn in my life. Like our current 'economic crisis' I am experiencing a negative shift in resources. Of course I have fewer funds but more importantly (maybe?), I have less in my emotional strength bag to draw from. However, I have learned through my experiences today that where I am richer is in my relationships. Not only do I have coworkers who care for me (Nobody made fun of me for having a mascara streaked face at the lunch table), I also have friends who are willing to endure tears, snot, beer and the movie Airplane (my all-time shadoobie hits the fan flick)...as well as my crazy crying emotions.
And that makes me pretty lucky.
I still think I'll invest in some aromatherapy lotion. I think my GM is on the right track with that.
Monday, November 9, 2009
The Next David Sedaris?
I did a really, really, really bad thing yesterday.
Well, perhaps bad isn't the correct word. Shameful or pitiful might be more accurate describers of the act that I pulled off after walking home after a seven hour shift at Pottery Barn last night. You see, during my lunch break, I checked my email at my favorite local coffee shop, Fat Straw, only to find out that the great personal assistant job that I landed just three weeks ago had been taken away from me, thanks to an MBA-wielding smarty pants who can apparently do his and my job with ease. Needless to say, I wasn't feeling all that great about myself after my break and spent the final three hours of my shift indulging in major self-loathing and moping (Not even my manager's attempts at playing cupid were helping lift my spirits). The self-loathing continued as I passed by the Plaid Pantry, picked up a six pack of Full Sail IPA ($5.98 for a six pack = the city's cheapest prices), a box of Mike and Ikes and headed home to peruse Craigslist, yet again.
And this is when the really, really, really bad/shameful thing happened. Even though I have a degree and have a lot to offer the world outside of retail, I still found myself scrolling down the pages of open retail positions. One caught my eye in an almost ironically sardonic fashion:
Macy's Santaland in Downtown Portland is hiring!
Macy's Santaland in Downtown Portland is hiring!
Full and Part Time Seasonal positions available immediately!
Greeter, Photographer, Cashier and PC Computer Operator positions for seasonal Christmas employment. Santaland work hours begin during the week of Nov 16 thru Dec 24. Must have a neat appearance, pleasant personality and enjoy working with the public. No prior experience necessary...we will train all staff. However, being handy on a PC computer is extremely handy!
We offer flexible scheduling, full and part time hours and a wage/bonus of $9.50 DOE. Must be able to pass a background test and drug test prior to employment.
Please reply with the email above or at MacysSantaland.com Please list the position of interest, resume/prior experience, and availability during the season.
We have lots of fun!
While downing the last ounces of my IPA, the nasally voice of David Sedaris, one of my favorite authors, entered my head. The author became famous after writing and reading on This American Life, Santaland Diaries, essays about his experience as a Macy's Christmas elf. Maybe I could do the same?
Cracking open my second beer and washing away almost all self-respect, I totally applied. For nearly 500 words I gushed about how much I adore little kids, how much I love the holiday season and how I am more than capable -- excellent, actually -- at keeping my cool during crazy and hectic situations (Can you figure out the one truth in that list?). I've been promised to be contacted in two business days. Expect an update soon.
First Entry
So here it is. A blog; a real, live, virtual record of my life after I graduated college some six months ago in an economy that houses, as the newspapers report, an unemployment rate higher than the recession of the 1980s. Born in 1986, I obviously was oblivious to the stress and gloomy world in which my parents were raising three kids. Twenty-three years later, here I am, living in a somewhat spacious studio in Northwest Portland where my certificate of graduation with an English degree hangs proudly on the wall, fully aware of the consequences of decisions made and promises lost by higher ups who, for the sake of my knowledge, know me only as a statistic.
Fortunately, I am not one of the city's 11.5 percent unemployed inhabitants. A month after graduating from the University of Portland, I was lucky enough to land a part time retail job at Pottery Barn in my neighborhood while keeping three freelance writing gigs that I held through college. While my hours at Pottery Barn have indeed increased, my writing gigs have come and gone: Two companies have folded and my short stint at two of Portland metro area's local community newspapers have passed as well. Thus, with a part-time, barely-above-minimum-wage paying job coupled with the ever pending cycle of bills and rent (as well as an attempt to have a social life...a single girl living in the city has to get herself out there every now and then), I am forced to put my creative skills into profitable endeavors.
This blog, which I will use as record for the ups and downs that are sure to continue to crop up, is just for fun.
Fortunately, I am not one of the city's 11.5 percent unemployed inhabitants. A month after graduating from the University of Portland, I was lucky enough to land a part time retail job at Pottery Barn in my neighborhood while keeping three freelance writing gigs that I held through college. While my hours at Pottery Barn have indeed increased, my writing gigs have come and gone: Two companies have folded and my short stint at two of Portland metro area's local community newspapers have passed as well. Thus, with a part-time, barely-above-minimum-wage paying job coupled with the ever pending cycle of bills and rent (as well as an attempt to have a social life...a single girl living in the city has to get herself out there every now and then), I am forced to put my creative skills into profitable endeavors.
This blog, which I will use as record for the ups and downs that are sure to continue to crop up, is just for fun.
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