Twinkling Bottles

I sat at a bar tonight. Saddled right up and asked for their best Amber. It was strange, I felt as though I was engaging in a sacred act—a right of passage designated for those who handed their ass to the Man all day and whose only request was enough change for a shot and a beer at the end of it all. A drink and a bar-top to let fly the stifled dreams and thoughts which had patiently lain waiting—aching to exert the individuality of the man. There I sat, immersing myself in a tradition set back to the joyous discovery of fermentation and the genius construction of a sturdy barstool. It is here that the low light slows the blood and boosts the confidence of the loyal patrons.

The dark, cherry wood bar was full tonight. Suited men and women chattered and laughed, stopping only long enough to indulge in their beverages and catch the eye of the bartender for another drink. Beside them was a man with long gray hair and a flannel shirt. He was farther along in the drinking process—transfixed by the wall before him. A mosaic of glass bottles and colors glimmering against the dull light of the bar mirrored his still state. The sight mesmerized him. Gone were his thoughts of work and deadlines, arrogant bosses and power hungry coworkers. This bar left no room for those worries.

I sat there drinking in the rosy warmth that swirled around me. The weight of the day slid from my shoulders and I felt light. The weight would return tomorrow, I knew, fresh with new possibilities for compounding problems which would be set to the tune of a morning headache. At that moment though, I was just a girl at a bar staring at the twinkling bottles on the wall. That, my friends, is a place worth revisiting.

The Way I See It

Every morning I am called to journey beyond the confines of my downtown work building and into a world full of cozy warmth, bustling activity, and the smell of coffee. It is a cherished route that I take, one which frees me (if only temporarily) from the office phones that cheerfully pull and tug at my sanity with their persistent jingle jangle. Free also from the cold which has resolutely camped out in my corner of the office and free from the feeling of doom which mounts higher and higher as my begrudged rut becomes ever deeper. I step outside of my working world and I breathe again.

The Coffee Shop.

Despite the calls of multi-syllabled drink orders and the boisterous conversations of suited lawyers and casual city workers, a feeling of peaceful sanctuary washes over me. I relish the thought of a corner table, a steamy Chai, and a good friend. I do not desire work. I desire a lazy afternoon filled with the good conversations that I can never find enough of—set to the tune of big band melody. Slipping into line, I eye the brightly colored mugs which line the wooden shelves—a wink at Mod by the marketing team. I approach the barista, Raney, who is one of my favorites. About a week ago we had been comrades, cutting our hair short with a nose up to anyone who thought less of us for it. A courageous surge of frustration and liberation had recently turned Raney’s hair from short to buzzed. It was a brave move—and she was happy. I was happy for her. I exchange my plastic for her paper and move on to the newspaper rack which stands guarding the happily swinging door. The headlines always prod at my curiosity and I find myself helplessly drawn to the bold black ink. This does nothing but draw a vague picture of Portland the day before, but these days it seems that image is best served blurry. My drink is soon planted before me riding on a string of titles and personal preferences. I take the cup and let its warmth awake my fingers, drinking in the smell of coffee beans one last time before swinging out the busy doors. I have not left my sanctuary—I clutch it tightly in my hand—until the last drop.

People Watching

I moved my fingers gingerly up and down the stem of my wine glass. I was talking to my sister and somehow the texture of the smooth crystal occupied my hands and focused my mind to listen in on her latest stab at moving up the corporate ladder. I personally never thought of a ladder as something in which I desired approaching. The higher you climb, the thinner the air becomes and the closer you get to the gutters. Which then you must proceed to clean out. No thank you. I raised the glass to my lips and let the grapes linger on my palate. Earthy and subtle. As my sister knelt down to engage my five year old niece I allowed my eyes to graze about the people who had come to my brother’s party.
At the corner of the room, holding his post by the dessert table was a middle aged man who looked as though he had made dessert-table-posting a mainstay in his party routine. He had dark brown hair that was cut in one of those buzzed flat top styles, tempting me to approach him just to see if my wine glass could actually be set upon his head. His eyes looked to be brown, but it was difficult to tell since he seemed to be very involved in the food he was so enjoying. When I caught his eye he gave me a smile and raised his wine glass as if we were old friends that shared some sort of understood camaraderie. I returned the wine salute, deciding to indulge him and his strange social habits since he was all alone in the corner and I felt a measure of pity for him.
My eyes continued to scan the room, stopping at two women, one being my sister in law, Tracy, and the other a short, curly haired woman who was excitedly nodding her head in understanding at whatever gossip Tracy was spilling. I smiled to myself at the visual. Tracy is a towering 6’2’’ and the other lady would probably say she was 5’ but my guess was more in the 4’11 range. I thought to myself that both of these women would quite possibly have sore necks after tonight, however the spice of the gossip seemed to be worth the height inconvenience to both. You can always tell when a conversation is about gossip and not simple drab subjects like the day’s activities or the weather. Tracy and her friend illustrated this perfectly. Both of their eyes had increased in size and were lit up with gleeful astonishment and wonder. Tracy—the teller—had her entire upper body leaning forward toward her listener as if to completely encapsulate the lady in anticipation of the dirt which was about to be revealed, clutching her wine glass so as not to spill anything in the excitement. The other lady—the receiver—was switching off between nodding (mouth ajar), taking a quick swig of her wine (without so much as breaking eye contact…and amazingly still nodding a bit), and spouting the occasional, ‘No!’ at which time her hand went to her mouth as though she was unbelievably appalled and yet thoroughly ecstatic at the news she was receiving. The whole room could have risen up in flames around the pair and they would not have even noticed. The universal picture of gossip. I would be lying if I said I had never engaged in such petty conversations. I am a woman after all—and who among us does not enjoy learning about some sort of scandal that is supposed to remain behind closed doors? You walk away from a conversation like that feeling as though you have obtained something which only a trusted few know about—something which you will then impart to another privileged someone who is trustworthy enough to know.
I looked down at my glass. Empty. The wine was beginning to lay siege against my motor skills, but I retrieved the wine bottle perched on the kitchen counter behind me, deciding that one more glass may yield an even more engaging evening. I amused myself with the thought that I was not unlike the dessert table guy, though my indulgence of the night was of a liquid, tannin-filled variety. Maybe there was substance to our camaraderie after all.

Fall

There is a full moon tonight. The leaves are dancing along the neighborhood curbs, settling only until the next car glides past. The scattered street lights give a glistening brilliance to the wet pavement, taking help from the moon’s dispersed glow. Stillness lingers in the air after an afternoon of whisking winds—people today had been pushed along the streets and carried along their routes—legs and feet were merely commodities, tools to be dictated by the October wind. Stillness now though—a time for man and nature to square the day and breath again. A moment of life so fragile in its perfection that one screech of tires, one dip in temperature, one gust of wind would reveal the cold inevitability of such a moment—its stubborn fate to die. As the moment lingers however, a perfect fall night is realized.

The sun shone today—the clear sky acted like an open window welcoming crystals of light which rode in on the cold autumn winds. The two are never apart this time of year. The sun always shines on white-breathed people, bundled in their scarves and hats, praising the sun and cursing the bracing cold. Rain, curiously, would warm them, though they would curse that too. It is a grasping after summer which only ends in a fistful of wind and rain—a winter victory fought in the battlefield of fall.

The Great American Job Search

The Great American Job Search. What a depressing venture. I have just spent the last two hours immersed in the ocean of monster.com (appropriately named, I have now concluded) and have come up to the surface completely robbed of any excitement that may have been buzzing previously. I am the opposite of excited. The word doom comes to mind. Doom and an intense feeling of lethargy. What I really feel like doing right now is sitting down with a plate of cookies, and zoning out on syndicate laugh tracts while stuffing my face.
The issue is not so much that there aren’t jobs out there for a college grad. Hell, if you have experience in the field you want to work in—you’re good to go! Grab a job and start stomping up that gold-plated ladder. Oh yeah, and by the way—if you didn’t acquire any experience while you were getting your degree—you’re screwed. Oh unless you want to walk door to door and sell Blazer tickets. Yes, of course we call that marketing—what else would it be?
There’s that reliable rub for you. There’s always a rub, isn’t there?
My only hope in this whole mess is networking. I’ve become sick of everyone constantly talking about how ‘it’s all about networking’. I'm sick of myself saying it! The term is right up there with ‘the early bird gets the worm’ and ‘the grass is always greener on the other side.’ Networking. Let’s just call it what it is—using people. Not that I have a problem with using people—I wish I had a cool enough job to where people would be inclined to use me! The thing is I’ve tried using my contacts to get hooked up with better jobs and it never really pans out. They always end up doing things like somehow finding me the ‘top secret’ website address in which to apply. Good thing, that would have been a tough Google search. Or they excitedly tell me that their HR recruiter welcomes me to apply and if there are any openings down the road, they’ll call me. Well, maybe I have a streak of pessimism in me, but somehow I just don’t see that call being made.
I realize that I am sounding really negative here. My current mood is being smeared all over this blog and I apologize. If I someday land a great job, I vow to write another blog that evokes only joyous feelings of daisy petals and puppy dogs. Or furry blue-eyed kittens, for all the cat people out there. In the meantime, if you happen to know how to get me a job in marketing, PR, advertising, communications, or media buying (see, I’m not that picky)—give me a call. I would like to network.

360 or 180?

Writing a book may not seem all that hard to do, but I am certain that in order to write a truly fascinating book, there is much work to be done. I am certain of this because every author says so—and they probably know what they are talking about. Plus, many writers have committed suicide, which is sad, but more importantly supports my belief that writing is difficult. If they were making bank with their books and also had this great secret that their profession was really easy, do you think they would be depressed?! Well, maybe Hemmingway was a goner no matter what, but the others might have needed that stress of writing a good book and fulfilling everyone’s expectations to push them over the edge.
And now I seem amazingly insensitive.
All I am trying to say is that it won’t be easy. There are a couple of reasons for this. First off, I am not an ‘idea person.’ This is annoying because many times I find myself truly motivated to write, sitting in Ikea comfort with laptop on lap and no ideas. An additional negative to this is that I end up feeling really lame and shallow that I have nothing to write about. I just lived a whole day with countless human interactions and I can’t think of one interesting, observant thing to write about. What am I doing all day, oiling all my moving parts ‘cause I’m a freaking robot?! Okay, just so I’m not completely tramping on my self esteem, I do have ideas…I just don’t remember them when its time to write. It’s like stage fright only with writing. Except for I’m not scared, I’m just uninspired. And I don’t have a bunch of people watching me expectantly. Okay it’s not really like stage fright.
My second self impeding obstacle is that I get lost in the details when I am writing. I will write about a section of the sky for about a half a page if I’m on a role--especially if I happen to be writing poetically—I’m a sucker for that. Sometimes I randomly start writing ‘pretty’ with flowery words and much angst—which honestly, is not really me at all. Occasionally that’s a fun land to visit though. The point is I would really bore someone if let myself go on and on about some cracks in the sidewalk and how there is moss growing in them. We’ve all seen what it looks like—no one wants to read a page about it. The funny thing is I don’t like reading a ton of details when I pick up a book. Sometimes I’ll browse ahead just to see if there is sufficient dialogue to keep my interest—and to make sure there’s some fun sexual tension going on. Shallow, I know—don’t judge me.
The third trap that I could see myself plunging into is what I like to call “Six Steps to 360,” because after six steps you are right back where you started. Okay, I just came up with that—but I like it. This is probably common for many people—allow me to articulate. Step 1: Come up with a Great Plan and become super pumped about it. Step 2: Do a little research, maybe buy some tools necessary for plan. Step 3: Give it a shot. Step 4: Realize that this is not going to be as easy and inspiring as you thought. There is no motivating theme music like in the movies. Step 5: Fizzle out and rationalize why the Great Plan did not work. Step 6: Come up with another Great Plan.
360 degrees—beautiful
I am hoping my current Great Plan will not follow the same said steps.

Waiting for the Caffeine to Die

I really should stop having caffeine so late. I should be in bed right now, sleeping away, seizing all the shut eye that I possible can. Instead however, I am keyboard babbling while watching SNL digital shorts on YouTube. Not that it’s a bad alternative, I am being entertained (which is my favorite way to be) however come Thursday morning this caffeine that is surging through my bloodstream will have dissipated into nothing more than little sleepies in my eye. Gone when I need it the most. Oh the joy of making bad decisions…

How I Rage

Computers problems are my kryptonite. I can be going along, leaping tall buildings in a single bound and flying stiff armed through the sky, when BAM—some inexplicable computer malfunction blasts me out of the proverbial arms of Lois Lane. The mature, calm me retreats to the inner chamber of my psyche—you know, the unreachable, subconscious spot where most likely the wisdom of levitation and solution to world hunger lie. This is where the mature me goes in moments of computer trauma. Who emerges in my stead? Well, that’s me too…only I’m about three years old. I try to contain this version of myself at first, breathing deeply and saying “okay, okay” a lot. But even as I try to quell the anger brewing in me, I can feel my temperature rising—a biological time bomb that can detonate at any time. And suddenly its percolation time. Three year old me starts heaping obscenities at the computer, throwing whatever pen or pencil may be in my hand, pounding whatever key on the keyboard seems to be playing the most important role in my torment at the time, and of course, always ending my tantrum with a pleading “What the #@*?” (I really don’t think I knew all those words when I was three. Perhaps quasi-three year old is the more accurate description). It’s really quite embarrassing when someone is in the room, watching my entire tirade. I always feel like an idiot when they calmly come over and try to solve my problem like a real grownup adult. And then I have to of course apologize for my irrational behavior… ‘yes I know yelling at it won’t help, of course I’ll buy you a new pen, no I don’t kiss my mother with this mouth—actually I don’t normally kiss my mom on the mouth, we’re more cheek people…”
Okay, well now I’m going to try to post this blog which may be a task since the internet for some unexplainable reason has chosen to be spotty. I guess that’s okay since that particular computer challenge gave birth to this blog. The birthing process is over, however and its time for these words to fly into the void so—this better work. If doesn’t I’m think I’m just going to go down for a nap.

Venting.

Okay, I have to get something off my chest….and I don’t mean that as a pun—although its not a bad one as far as puns go (I’ve never been all that impressed with puns as a joke genre…especially since most of them seem to pop out in the middle of a conversation, stop the whole flow of intelligent thought and tickle the funny bone of whatever fifty year old is in the room. Seriously though, why do all of our parents love puns?). Boobs. Men love them, which comes in handy for me since I have an imposing pair of Ds. That’s right, D for Delicious and D for Dumb. I have found that they can be both. They are delicious for Ty…for reasons which will remain confidential, but which are also quite obvious—and yes they can be delicious for me in that I can feel pretty spicy sometimes, strutting around in a tight t-shirt, ready to take on the world. Lara Croft watch out. The other side of all this, however, lies with the other D (no, I’m not talking about Boob 1 and Boob 2). Dumb. Dumb because if I ever want to run, I feel like I have to cradle each one in a ‘hand hammock’ so that they won’t suddenly sink to the ground and cause me to trip. Dumb because creepy men think that my genetic makeup was designed for their viewing pleasure. Dumb because I should be able to wear a small (a word every woman likes wearing) but instead I have to wear a medium. Dumb because they aren’t even the same size (if you boobs are going to be big, at least agree on how big)!
I dream of a B cup.

This post was brought to you by my Period. A lovely time of month which robs me of sex with Ty, thongs, and any thought of feeling sexy.
Oh yeah, did I mention it make my boobs bigger. See above for why this maddens me.

Rain Remnants

I’ve always found the sound of rain a comforting constant around here. Here would be Portland, Oregon, by the way. I’m not sure exactly why, but the grey, wet sky serves almost as a blanket that brings everything which it absolves a little closer, making me feel tucked in to whatever dry room I happen to find myself. Right now, however, the rain has stopped and in its stead is a steady drip that has penetrated my psyche. Its like that Chinese water torture stuff only diluted a bit. Can you dilute a water torture? Maybe I mean that I feel as though I want to go outside and rip the gutter off our house.
Hmmm. An unlikely development. The steady drip has now decided to play a little game—mess with me even more by becoming irregular in its ‘drip rhythm.’ Great. Now I can’t think of anything other than when the next drop of water will fall. Drip. Drip. Nooottthing. Drip-drip-drip. Drip. This damn water is making me anxious.