As I said: Egg. Salad.

By hand, one "copy and paste" at a time, I transferred my old blog entries to this site. I think I'm finally ready to delete my Myspace account; the only thing that has kept me from doing so has been the desire to preserve my bitching, musing, and quirkiness that dates back to 2005. Now, at Blogspot, they are preserved. Hence, goodbye to Myspace.

And now I feel ready to reactivate my blog impulse. I have to keep myself so edited on Facebook now because my mother, aunt, co-workers, and various theatre people I hardly know (some of whom are still in high school) are all included in my network of friends. This is fine because, really, I should be conscious of all that I put out to the world wide universe. But maybe I can start again on this blogging on a completely different site and share the link with only the people I choose. This list, which will be fractionally shorter than my Facebook friends list, will not include any boys I'm dating or interested in dating. Otherwise, how can I talk about them??

The current thing that bothers me about living at home: getting asked what I'm cooking/eating. Today for example, I enjoyed a quiet morning to myself as my mother was at church, my hermana was at a friend's, and dad was at his office. I drank coffee, read the paper, wrote e-mails, and started making some egg salad to take for lunch tomorrow.

At 12:45, I hear the garage door. In they all tumble, and within five minutes I get:
Cinty - "Are you cooking, Mer?"
Mom - "Did you find the eggs? You're not using Gran's recipe? It's a good one."
Dad - "What are you making there, M?"

Me - "Yes. Egg salad."
Me - "Yes. No, not this time. Okay, maybe next time."
Me - "Egg. Salad."

But then I deposit more money into my bank account and I think, "The rent I paid is nothing compared to the rent I'm saving." And I carry on for another pay period.

Old Blog - 8.18.2008

Monday, August 18, 2008 

So we’ll argue and we’ll compromise and realize that nothing’s ever changed... Current mood:  blessed Last night one of my most special friends got married and I sat on the third row next to the aisle and cried my eyes out.  Later I drank wine at Table 8 with ready-made friends she had strategically seated together ("because I wanted you to have fun!!" she exclaimed) and took turns sharing why we each think she is like a sitcom character.  I danced with my dad, I danced with her dad, and I danced with her very cute brother - who is even cuter than I remember but, alas, called me "sweetheart" which unfortunately means he still sees me as his kid sister's little friend.  Nevertheless, I came home with a happy heart. My lips were still stained today from the color-stay lipstick I wore last night.  I noticed halfway through the day when I was packing up boxes and laughed out loud.  The best part about moving once a year is having an excuse to flip through old papers and letters.  Tonight I found all of my old playbills, a letter from Super Nanc asking me whose house I want to go to after prom, the lyric sheet to "No More Nanette", and an enneagram personality profile that a minister gave me when someone and I just couldn't get along.  I'm a six, by the way - The Loyalist.  Sixes are described as committed, security-oriented, engaging, responsible, anxious, and suspicious.  The basic desire of a six is to find security and support.  The basic fear of a six is of having no guidance or being unable to survive on his or her own.  They have trouble trusting themselves. Why do I not trust my instincts enough? I don't know.  I can immediately recognize when I should have trusted my instincts - heated pressure in my chest usually being the first clue.  Often it's too late to change my actions, but sometimes I get lucky and can gracefully remove myself from a situation, a commitment, or, most recently, a lease.  If not, I can at least have a good laugh about the large desk occupying my storage unit that I knew from the very beginning I never should have agreed to keep.  Anyone want a free desk? My mom snapped a picture last night of my friend-the-bride and me on the dance floor as I'm cupping my mouth and leaning forward to say something into her ear.  Ten years ago an identical photo of us was published in the society pages of the Oregonian when we had volunteered for a charity auction together.  I'm going to send her copies of both photos in a card telling her how much I love our friendship - and maybe mention how cute I think her brother is. But, seriously - anyone want a free desk?

Old Blog - 5.07.2008

Wednesday, May 07, 2008 

Shades of gray wherever I go... the more I found out the less that I know. I found my first gray hair the day before my 24th birthday.  Two days before my 25th, I ran into my second.  What a fun recurring birthday gift - small but present reminders that my age is increasing in number and decreasing in charm.  One gray hair per year, actually, is pretty humorous and not nearly as intimidating as the baby spider veins on my legs.  But I'm not too terribly concerned about those either.  Yet.  I think, so far, I'm getting better with age.  I feel considerably improved at 25, particularly on the inside.  Except for my left kidney.  But that's another blog to be entitled, This Too Shall Pass. About six weeks ago I got down on my knees and prayed, "God, if Cintia gets her visa I promise I won't say another hateful word about ____ and ____."  And then, a week later, I got a call from my mom that it had been denied.  I was just on my way into Fred Meyer when I got the call and ended up wandering the baking aisle in a fog, black mascara tears streaming down my face as I compared prices on chocolate chips.  I felt ill on my stomach to again be on the periphery of another injustice  –  to have another one of my kids be denied entrance into our "free country" simply because they are poor.   Lamenting to my father about this the next day, I grumbled that God hadn't followed through on His end of my bargain.  My dad replied, "You know what I think?  Keep up your end of the deal anyway." So I did - and you know what?  It's not as hard as I thought and it's the best I've ever felt.  The hate is draining right out of my heart: words like "douchebag" aren't as tempting and my blood doesn't boil at the sound of someone's name.  And it turns out that God complies a lot more easily with bargains if you agree to make the first move.  So sure enough, last week I got a text from Cintia that read, "Hi friend!! The embassy called us, we are going to get our visaaa!" Okay so it's not water into wine, but it's still pretty cool.  I am elated. I have acquired several other random but useful nuggets of wisdom in my first quarter century.  Here is merely a sampling: Don't put a metal pot in the microwave. Don't leave the new guy I'm dating at my house if I have to leave for work in the morning.  It leaves an awkward situation for my poor roommate. Running into someone I know on the street is never a coincidence.  There is always some kind of serendipity or divine planning behind it and probably means we should go get lunch. It's good to give people a chance, but that doesn't mean I have to pass my phone number out like Halloween candy.  Don't mock my boss in the office.  Whoops. Sure I can do anything I want, but it doesn't mean I should do it all at once.  Down time is a beautiful thing. Age and/or professional status have no correlation to maturity. If I'm afraid to do something, it probably means I should do it. It's good to have money in savings. I am not a jukebox, so no I do not have to sing on command. The Psalms give out some of the best comfort and advice. I have a better day if my bed is made. The person or people who invented pre-existing condition clauses will have to work extra hard not to be sent directly to hell in the hereafter. People can and do change.  Don't hold grudges.  Forgiveness works in everybody's favor. I called my party this weekend my ventiCinco de Mayo.  Lindsay was in town, I raised $68 for SMART, my friends are becoming friends with each other, and Reece asked, "What'll it BE ladies??" 25 was kicked off right.  I'm looking forward to this year and the shiny gray hair it earns

Old Blog - 3.17.2008

Monday, March 17, 2008 

Bestest Place I got five hours of sleep on Saturday night.  Not only was I behaving irresponsibly the night before a race/audition - drinking margaritas and Coronas, shouting in a smoky karaoke bar, batting my eyes at a Complicated Situation - I also had nerves that wouldn’t rest. I awoke at 6:30 with anxious blood pumping through my veins and got up because I knew I wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. I was so stressed out. I wanted to wish the day away so my stomach would stop doing gymnastics.   I ran the Shamrock Run in 48 minutes and 41 seconds.  During that run I told CS the entire Douchebag story (from about ten minutes before the gun went off until Mile 2), did cartwheels up Barbur Blvd (sometime after Mile 3), threw back a mini-cup of green beer (most of which slopped down my chin - Mile 4), and ran like Phoebe across the Finish Line.  My knee didn’t hurt until the last mile, to which CS suggested I hop on one foot. That only was fun for about five hops, so I just sucked it up and powered through.  I placed 93rd out of 199 females ages 20-24.  Clearly I wasn’t competing for any substantial award, but it was nice to know that in my first race ever I was faster than over half the girls my age.   By 10:45 I was back at my apartment and getting ready for my callback.  My runner’s high lasted through my shower and breakfast, but began to crash as I blow-dried my hair.  By the time I left the house I had declared to my roommate at least three times, "I’m not firing on all cylinders." I don’t quite know what that means.  But I wasn’t.    Then from 1:45 to 5:00 I sat among the other Broadway Rose hopefuls.  I looked at all of the young girls called back for Eponine and had my first legitimate age crisis. Am I old? I’m old. I’m too old to be here. Why am I here???   The director seemed to think the same thing. After I sang, he sweetly asked how old I am and then suggested I come back in to sing for Fantine instead.  So after more waiting, I went back in and sang I Dreamed A Dream. Now I realize as a musical theatre girl who grew up in the 90s I should know that song forward and backwards, but I don’t. I also noticed that not only had I been the oldest Eponine, I was then the youngest Fantine to be called back. Whatever. I couldn’t care too much. I needed electrolytes and protein. I needed sleep.   Except that at some point during my time chilling and mingling in the common waiting room, I had agreed to someone else that I would drive even further into upper-class suburbia to sing for his show that night. I hadn’t even planned to audition for that show because of my schedule, but suddenly I couldn’t control my mouth that formed the word: "Yes". The next thing I know, I’m in another studio looking at music I’ve never even heard before.    But the thing is, I wailed. I belted an E.  But I didn’t just belt an E. I sang that note like someone else would belt an E - someone better, someone more trained or committed.  Someone who is not me.  I belted an E as easily as I can type an E on a keyboard - without hardly breathing, without hardly realizing what I’m doing. E.  You know, like that.    Strength and courage are used in varying degrees throughout the course of each day, yes, but then there are the moments that hang proudly in your mind like little ribbons on a bulletin board.  I received several little ribbons in a 24-hour period. I have the "I Ran 8k Without Walking, Getting Hurt, or Finishing Last" ribbon. I have the "I Sang Confidently in an Audition Even Though I Don’t Take Regular Voice Lessons or Diet Obsessively Anymore" ribbon.  I have the "I Said No to a Very Complicated Situation Despite How Much I Enjoyed Cartwheels and Coaster Flipping" ribbon. They look very nice there, dangling in my mind.    I clutched onto these ribbons today when I told the Douchebag’s friend over the phone, "I’ve got a lot going on and, frankly, don’t have any interest in getting together and chatting with you." They were my talismans against douchiness.   Cintia finds out Wednesday if she gets her Visa.  If she does, she’ll be living with my parents for a year and becoming my sister more than she already is. I would offer to send her my ribbons, but I’m pretty sure hers are cooler than mine anyway.

Old Blog - 1.14.2008

Monday, January 14, 2008 

New Acquaintances and a Cocktail Napkin. Current mood:  amused  Category: Parties and Nightlife My Nana Drinks Manhattans       by Greg's Birthday Clan My Nana drinks Manhattans She drinks them all the time Whiskey or bourbon is just fine Thank your lucky stars, it's Man-hatty time, Baby! But each morning she'll eat bananas And take the red-eye to Atlanta She'll drink some more Mylanta And take a nap by Santa 'til the heartburn goes She drinks Manhattans by the bucketful She drinks Manhattans, my Nana drinks Manhattans until her old lady bladder's full.

Old Blog - 12.18.2007

Tuesday, December 18, 2007 

Restless Current mood:  mellow "Who put those yellow stickies on the train?" he demanded. "Where is the train going?" she asked, just to antagonize him. "Macaroni and Cheese." he responded with conviction. She remained flat on her back, screaming as loud as silence would allow. No answer. Now she crouches next to the toilet and notices more yellow stickies adorning the shadows on the wall. She's not one of those girls who hurts herself to get attention. She just needs to escape the nausea. And she wonders if another had found the snoring endearing.

Old Blog - 11.23.2007

Friday, November 23, 2007 

Powers Marianna and I were talking recently about how journaling and blogging seem to be inspired more often during adversity, or at least through solitude. I journal fairly regularly, but it definitely develop more organically when I have something I'm working through.  And while interesting thoughts are constantly spinning in my head, they haven't been able to find their way to verbalization lately when I have sat down to a computer. Granted, I've been busy. I've also found that an easier way to decompress from my day is to burst uninvited into Marianna's room when she's trying to concentrate on Chinese calligraphy or biochemistry or something qi. Tonight I'm at my parents' house, licking sweet potato remnants off a plate at 1:30 in the morning and finally allowing reflection to find articulation.  I can't believe what time of the year it is. Wasn't summer last week? I am beginning to understand why people suffer from age crises year after year. When your life is no longer dictated by a school year, the weeks and the months mesh together until a holiday or birthday arrives and you pause to wonder: 'Am I doing enough?' A boy told me tonight that I'm a "girl with a plan" - that I seem to have focus and future-intent on everything I am doing. He hasn't known me that long. Should I tell him it's all a facade? I think I do a good job making people believe that I'm focused or that I've got my shit together. The truth is, I don't know what the hell I'm doing. One day I want to pack up and move to South America, the next day I fantasize about how I can move up and make SMART better, and the next day I toy with thoughts of grad school. I have days that I relish being single; I have days when I worry I'll never meet someone who makes sense with me. I strive to live in the present, but I spend far too much time future-tripping. And yet without much sense of direction, I seem to find where I want to go. I am continually encountering new relationships or rekindling old ones that affect me positively. I cry out for purpose and it is revealed. And while I have remained geographically in the same spot for over a year, I am nowhere near where I was a year ago. It's so beautiful and awesome to turn around and see how the dominoes have fallen.  I sometimes get overcome with guilt for all of the good in my life. I don't know what has allowed me to have all of the lovely people in my life who love me in return. I haven't done shit to reap all of the good fortune I continue to reap. The cynical side of me wants to believe that I must have suffered in a past life - or that I will suffer in a future life. The optimistic side of me, which I hope wins out, believes that we have as much happiness in our life as we want to have. And me? I want happiness. I seek it out. I claw at it aggressively and demand nothing less but to be trembling, beating, exuding, and exhaling joy. And I find it everywhere. I worry when I write reflections that people will read them and roll their eyes, thinking they are cheesy or dumb. But what I figure is that nobody has to read them if they don't want to. I love to know that people read what I write but, really, I'm doing it for me. But maybe, just maybe, somebody (or everybody) is going through a similar process and can take something away with them that's familiar. If so, I'm glad you stopped by. It's nice to know I'm in good company.

Old Blog - 9.06.2007

Thursday, September 06, 2007 

..from my head, to my feet yeah... Current mood:  pleased "Super Gwen, perched from her balcony of power, fights the evil forces of the Equine Nation with her... SUPER BROWNIES!!" I chucked a brownie off my balcony in the direction of Super Nanc and Matt from Australia as they crossed over NW 20th to my building. "Wait, let me get closer!! Okay, I'm ready. Throw another one down - I'm hungry!" shouted Super Nanc - known to some in less civilized parts of the world as 'Super Nank'. Matt from Australia refused my offer, saying he didn't want a brownie. I pelted him in the head with one.  He was still cussing and wiping cream cheese out of his hair when I ran downstairs to say hello. Two nights earlier, Rebekah and I followed Scott down the sidewalk of Hawthorne for fifteen blocks with a giant yellow bowl (known to some in less civilized parts of the world as a bedpan) of guacamole.  We offered guacamole to everyone in the 7-11, most of whom eagerly accepted.  The sweet boy behind the counter even asked for seconds.  A tip jar rested on the counter with a note explaining his intent to ride his bike down to Southern California to see his family - that he would appreciate any help anyone could give.  I gave him the twenty cents in change from my Diet Coke purchase; Rebekah stuffed three ones into the jar. Because I wasn't paying close enough attention when baking my banana bread on Friday night, I accidently put in twice as much buttermilk as my recipe called for. I decided to remedy this predicament by simply doubling the recipe - except I was one banana and one egg short. The result? Four less-than-stellar loaves of banana-ish bread. Super Nanc noticed the difference, but Matt the Australian liked it and told me so even after I had assaulted him with a cream cheese brownie.  I'm hoping the panhandler down by Pioneer Courthouse Square enjoyed his loaf as well. I refuse to hand out money, but I'm not above being a little sweet.

Old Blog - 8.12.2007

Sunday, August 12, 2007 

Me and J.E. Category: Friends He and I met when I was fifteen: I was standing in line with my parents at Papa Haydn's and he was waiting in front of us in full clown make-up. A few months later we performed together on my splintering Catholic high school stage. I was the silly sophomore who thought I sang and danced a lot better than I actually did; he was an 8th grader in a conservative homeschool who prayed for the gay people who were going to hell. Tonight he treated me to cosmos at the Vault. He told me his coming-out story - about the e-mail train that spread like wildfire through his church and his parents who still pretend it's a non-issue. He told me about Victoria and Paris and trapeze school. I told him about SMART, Argentina, and the Douchebag. I actually saw the Douchebag this morning, with his shirt untucked and his jaw moving rapidly as he chewed gum through the entire service.  I thought about where I was emotionally just barely a year ago.  I relayed only a slight bit of this tragedy to my "date", my special friend who has danced in and out of my life serendipitously for the last decade. Over the past few years he has shown up unexpectedly at get-togethers and outings because he happened to be at the right place at the right time. Then this fall after a long tedious day of my soul-draining temping, he found me charging up NW Everett and swept me into a gigantic hug. He's good like that. I told him tonight that he drinks too much. He told me that he's had a hard year. And he has - I certainly can't argue with that - but I still wish he would slow down with the martinis. I guess I shouldn't have encouraged the cosmos tonight - I just hadn't been ready to go home after our successful cocktail party/cabaret for Staged! (An evening in which my mother shouted to Steven Nash - "I do what I want!") I felt pretty tonight - the opposite of what I felt last night -and welcomed the positive cap to my weekend.  I drove him to his building, kissed him goodnight, and then came home for some eggs.

Old Blog - 7.31.2007

Tuesday, July 31, 2007 

Today I... Current mood:  exhausted ...drove across town over near OMSI in 8 AM traffic to pick up 500 magnets. ...hauled ass to the Pearl Bakery to buy cookies before 9 AM, only to find out that the Pearl Bakery doesn't put out their full cookie selection until 9:30 ...screwed up one of the simplest Outlook functions not once, not twice, but four times. This means about a dozen of my co-workers around the state received four conflicting, confusing e-mails about a meeting that may or may not happen on the 14th or 15th of August. ...paid 4.99 for "Just Mango" from Whole Foods and decided after two bites that it tastes like crap astronaut food. But proceeded to eat the entire thing because it was there. ...hurt my boss's feelings. ...had my boss tell me I hurt said feelings when another co-worker was standing right there. ...cried to my boss when I apologized for hurting her feelings. ...had my CFO tell me that I used to be sweet, but now I was a smart-aleck. ...got a myspace friend request from a person I have no interest in being friends with in myspace or real life. It still sits in my inbox as I ponder the possible dramatic consequences of accepting or rejecting this request. ...drove to Oregon City in 5:00 traffic. ...met a 13 year-old kid who is the little brother of a girl I went to school with when I was 13. You do the math. I'm old. ...found out that I'm not the only one bothered by someone with an adolescent vendetta ...found an apartment I think I want to live in. ...was pulled over and given a sobriety test because apparently I swerved into the middle line four times on Hawthorne. ...passed said sobriety test and chatted with the nice officer about the many tragedies caused by drunk driving every day. ...noted that once again I got home after the laundry room has closed; I therefore will be sleeping on the couch for a third night in a row because I have no clean sheets. The end.

Old Blog - 7.10.2007

Tuesday, July 10, 2007 

WTF? G2G. Current mood:  apathetic So I have had a crush on the Wine Boy for about six months now. Every Friday around 2:00 I conveniently run into him in the lobby of Wieden and Kennedy as I go to get the mail and he puts together the wine lists for Blue Hour. Week after week we have quick, overly friendly exchanges and I have walked away nervous, elated, and disappointed all at once. A week and a half ago he finally asked for my number. Four days later he called. The next day we hung out. It was the first time I could actually honestly say I have enjoyed a first "date" (not-so-distant memories of Streetcar Boy and Blind Date Boy still make me twitch). He walked me home like a gentleman and said "I'll call you tomorrow." But he didn't. He still hasn't. It's been almost a week. He has, however, text messaged back and forth with me until my inbox fills up and blinks at me in red. We message like two adolescents on IM - asking asinine questions just to generate a response from the other person. But they never go anywhere. Though he always initiates these text sessions, not in a single one has he asked me out again. To put it mildly, I am perplexed.  My Friend-Formerly-Known-as-Nartan gets on my case all the time for being too traditional. While he has stopped trying to convince me to have casual sex with random people, he did speak up about this situation: "Maybe he's shy, Meredith. Maybe he wants you to do the asking." "But I don't WANT to do the asking, Nartan." "Why not? Why do you have to be the one who is asked out?" "Because I deserve to be asked out!!" "Of course you do. But if you're looking for a guy who is going to take control, he is CLEARLY not the one. You keep getting attracted to these shy guys and then you get mad when they don't take the intiative." Touche. Okay. So yesterday I sat on a bench outside of Whole Foods on my lunch break and called the Wine Boy. It took me three tries before I recorded a message that sounded casual and nonchalant, but I did it. I invited him to go running with me after work. He responded a few hours later. By text message. He sent me another one later that night, around 10:15, that said, "Whatcha doin?" I told him I was getting ready to go to bed. He said, "Ok, I'll call you tomorrow." Then he didn't. What the fuck. I can handle rejection: it's cut and dry, black and white.(Other trite phrases can be inserted here. You get it.) So what is this text-message-tango horse shit? I quit. Or, as Lindsay commented tonight about the situation - ironically, by text message - "WTF? No more games. You are dead to me now. Too good for a wine guy." I guess he and I are just not MFEO. I'll survive, I suppose. The good news is I always have at least two or three crushes juggling at once. My poor girlfriends and mother have to hear all about them ad nauseum. Today's heat broke records in Portland. I like the heat. Even now, in my toasty apartment, as I will be forced to sleep on my couch to catch some of the breeze generated by my ceiling fan, I like it. I like summer.

Old Blog - 6.19.2007

Tuesday, June 19, 2007 

Yes I am. Current mood:  mellow I'm in love with haiku - purposely quirky and esoteric. I'm in love with cheesy impromptu limericks that are not unsentimental despite their contrived rhyming. I'm in love with aliases and nicknames. I'm in love with hammocks swinging ever so slightly in the late summer. With brief spontaneity that changes us forever. I'm in love with avocados, cut in half and extended by a large and warm hand. With that same hand holding mine gently as we bow our heads in prayer. I'm in love with homemade cards. With collages of words and photos. I'm in love with music that can elaborate the workings of my heart more than I myself can. With songs that instantly bring me back to past emotional states: Ben E. King. Counting Crows. Narcotango. I'm in love with speaking in unison. I'm in love with the delight in discovering two minds having one thought. I'm in love with unusual common interests. I'm in love with made-up words. I'm in love with a story about a weasel. A bowl of bleesings. A drunken super hero. I'm in love with friendships that make people gossip. With the nicest song anyone has ever played for me. I'm in love with written words that made my eyes wet years after I had stopped crying. Is there a rule that says we must be in love with one person and one person only? That that which we love must be manifested in a being? I don't like these rules right now. I'm in love with a compilation of memories. Details might get fictionalized slightly, but the emotional warmth never loses clarity. They inspire me. They keep me from getting consumed by anger or mourning or, most recently, doubt.  I refuse to participate in an "insert girlfriend here" equation. I prefer to hold out, intoxicated by my memories of beauty, until I find something that fits again. But better.

Old Blog - 5.16.2007

Wednesday, May 16, 2007 

The Key of Me Current mood:  tired  Category: Music My dad told me this afternoon as he was hanging a picture on my wall that I have gotten him hooked on Kink. He said in an enthusiastic voice that should really be used for an ad, "I listen to it ALL the TIME!"   Well duh. It really is the best radio station ever. And I proceeded to tell their morning host Les Sarnoff just that in February when he hosted our SMART fundraising breakfast at Nike. Immediately after the event, I made my way to the front of the room to gush to him like a starstruck teenager.   "Really? You like our music?" Les asked somewhat incredulously. "Oh-my-gosh, it's all I listen to!" I exclaimed. Yes I really did say 'oh-my-gosh'. Les shook his head. "How old are you?" "I'm 23!" "Wow," he said, "I didn't think anyone your age listened to our music."   I think Les must be out of touch with my age group. We don't really have a music genre. I mean, I lied a little when I said that Kink is allll I listen to. I still need my pop music fix just as much as the next person. Sometimes you just need a sweet escape so you can smack that to-the-left-to-the-left. And most people I know around my age are the same; we like a bunch of stuff.   Much to my delight (relief), I received an iPod for my birthday. Go Mom and Dad. I'm back to having the "iPod walk" that I used to have in New York where I'm practically dancing as I head to and from work. Of course, my walking chi has been thrown off this week with a curious injury to my right foot (apparently walking two miles a day in heels isn't good for you) but that doesn't stop me from indulging in a soundtrack to my life. Amy Winehouse served as the highlight of my soundtrack this afternoon. I'm kind of obsessed with her song "You Know That I'm No Good" and when it came on as I waved to a fire truck full of cute firemen boys, I was in heaven.   I feel compelled to put out there that I am totally over Norah Jones. I can't stand her new song and it has created in me a disdain for her old songs too. John Mayer is almost there as well. No more message songs, John. I too am waiting on the world to change: I'm waiting on the world to stop taking legitimate musicians and watering down their talent so they can use it as background music for morning talk show montages. What would Miles Davis say about this crap you've been turning out? The artist I've been listening to the most recently is Shakira. Who would've thought. Her unplugged album kicks the ass of every unplugged album ever. Except maybe Eric Clapton.  But seriously. It kicks ass.   I'm listening to Kink as I blog.  It's on a commercial right now and I f-ing hate radio commercials, but I'm too cozy to get up and change the station. My parents had invited me to dinner tonight; I rarely turn down free food, but once I got home this afternoon I knew there was no way I could drag myself out of my apartment again. I haven't had alone time in a while and I wanted to take it. I remember in college not being able to comprehend the appeal of alone time.

Old Blog - 4.28.2007

Saturday, April 28, 2007 

SMART ass. Current mood:  good It's Saturday afternoon. It's quiet. I just ate a Pria bar. I feel the urge to blog. So. All month, Northwest Natural Gas has included SMART info and a remittance envelope with every utility bill sent out to every client. That's a lot of visibility to a lot of potential donors; needless to say, we have had high hopes for this appeal. So far the response has been okay. Not overwhelming, but steady. The most common dollar number I have been seeing on checks is $30.00 -- the amount, our literature explains, that is required to buy books for one SMART child for a year.  People seem to like that. Thirty dollars is do-able for practically any income – even mine - and the donor feels satisfaction as he/she imagines Dr. Seuss and Clifford and (gag) Pal the Pony books lining the bookshelves in some second grader's bedroom. I come across two to three people each day who have gotten confused and, instead of sending a donation, they have sent us their NW Natural bill payment. I don't know how in the process of writing the check, stamping and sealing the envelope, and handwriting a return address, one doesn't notice that the remit envelope is clearly marked and addressed to SMART, but I don't want to judge. Much. So I stuff the bill payments in a large envelope and send them off to NW Natural and smirk just slightly. The other day we received someone's phone bill payment in the mail. That just doesn't make sense. These people are harmless, though. Confused but harmless. But then about a week ago I opened a remit envelope with no money inside of it.  Instead, a message on the inside read "Zero Dollars. Go to the library." Blink. Blink. Blink. That asshole actually went to the trouble of putting a 39-cent stamp on the envelope, sealing it, and putting it in the mailbox just to be, well, an asshole? If only he had written his return address on the envelope... I really would have been tempted to risk losing my job by contacting and informing him just how big of an asshole he is. (I sure do love to call out the assholes when I see them. Like for example the old ho at Andrea's Cha Cha Club who berated me for moving her coat one stool over so I could sit down with Rodrigo. What a ho. But that's another story.) I like working for a cause. I have noticed that in the last year I have consistently used the word "purpose" in describing what I want in my life. While the search for my own personal purpose is not going to be instantly gratified, I think working for an organization with a strong purpose is a great start. Every Monday I start my week at Chief Joseph Elementary in North Portland sipping my coffee and reading with two little girls for a half hour each. Tana is reserved, quiet, cold; Daylene comes bounding out the door before I even reach her classroom. Tana is very behind the average second grade reading level but chugs along and reads every book to me all by herself, even if she does so at a snail's pace.  Daylene is a little more advanced, but gets lazy; she always wants me to read to her instead. Then she'll interrupt me to ask hypothetical questions about the characters in the story. Or to tell me what she ate for breakfast. They both are fantastic personalities for me to grow with. I wish the asshole could meet Daylene and Tana and feel sheepish about his snotty comment about our worthwhile cause. Maybe he would shut his mouth and open his wallet. Last week I joined the campaign at SMART called "Help Me Help 2". It's for employees, volunteers, and supporters of SMART to raise enough money to support two students for an entire year in the program. I initially did it to support the organization that has taken a chance on me, but then I got to thinking how my campaign could affect Tana and Daylene, my two little readers who give me such a great start to my week. I need to raise six hundred dollars. Blogging is usually done for vanity's sake and so this time I'd like to use it as an appeal to my friends for my little campaign.  My birthday is coming up; I don't really need anything (except for an i-Pod and digital camera) so I thought I'd ask my friends to make contributions. http://hmh2.getsmartoregon.org/volunteer/search  Just enter my name and it'll take you to my "campaign page." Any amount given will be generous and significant. Really. I think I'm going to have some cranberry lemonade now

Old Blog - 3.26.2007

Monday, March 26, 2007 

Entonces que? I woke up one morning recently flat on my back with my left hand clenched into a fist on my heart. I had been in the middle of an intense dream (the details of which are now evading me) and apparently this is how the stress had manifested itself. I've never been a normal sleeper. When I was a baby my parents took me to the doctor because they thought something was abnormal with a child who screamed bloody hell all night every night. According to my dad's story, he told the doctor, "Either you give drugs to her or to me. SOMEbody is going to sleep." The night terrors stopped happening on a nightly basis when I was about 3 or 4 years-old, but they have never completely gone away. I rarely have "good" dreams; it's not atypical for me to wake up in tears or with every muscle in my body clenched - only to come to the realization that it was a dream, that I'm safe, that none of that actually happened. It really doesn't bother me so much that this is the way I sleep. I'm used to it and don't know anything different. Besides, I would much rather dream of bad and wake up to good than dream of good and wake up to bad. About two weeks ago I came home from work to find a little brown box sitting at my door. My name was addressed in old-person handwriting but no return address was listed. The postmark read "Clemmons, N.C." It took me a second but then it occurred to me: Uncle Leon. Uncle Leon is actually my great-uncle - the younger brother of my grandma on my mom's side - and I have only a small handful of memories of him. We reconnected, however, during the Thanksgiving holiday weekend this past year. He and my great-aunt Louise walked through the door of my Gran's 80th birthday party and from the moment he entered I was his shadow. Hanging on his every word, cackling at his every joke, enthralled with his every story, I wondered how I am 23 years-old and have never really put Uncle Leon in my life. He was just this old southern guy living with his old southern wife in a very small portable home in this town nobody has ever heard of in North Carolina. No kids. If I lived a few states closer it would be a lot easier to put him into my life, but living three thousand miles away makes it hard to suddenly begin a relationship with an extended relative. Still though, something is better than nothing and so shortly after Christmas I sent him a belated holiday card with some pictures of the two of us from Thanksgiving. So I get this unexpected box about two months later and wonder what my precious uncle with hardly a dime to spare could have possibly put inside. Well... a white baseball cap with pink cursive embroidered writing that said, "To Meredith. From Uncle Leon." And a black and white glossy of him in 1952, sitting on his Harley Davidson (or, as he wrote on the back of the photo, "Harley Daverson") with sunglasses on and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. It's beautiful. I need to get a frame and figure out where I want to display it in my apartment. As for the hat... well, the hat will definitely be something I wear the next time I see him. Other than that, I need to find a respectful but discreet place to put it. (It will probably go alongside the glass clown of my late great-Aunt Cleta's collection that I also recently acquired.) But the photo is really something. It's perfect. We called Cintia at La Lecheria for her birthday last week; Jonathan was there as well and I got to speak with both of them in halted Spanglish. I didn't even recognize Yoni when he got on the phone. The words he said were his, but the voice he used wasn't. He didn't sound like my little brother that used to rock out to Hollaback Girl with me in the car ("ees my sheet! ees my sheet!") or meow at girls on the street he thought looked like tramps. No, he sounds like a man now. He has just begun a two-year program at a chef school, and Cintia is studying to be a primary school teacher. They both apologized for their poor English. They both sounded happy. I thought speaking with them would be the bright moment in my week but instead I got off the phone and burst into tears. Ruth and Maria leave in five days and my stomach ache from the separation anxiety has finally begun to subside. They are ready to go back and I am ready for an emotional break. I have realized that my life - particularly my social life - gets put on hold as I become more and more emotionally attached to these kids. My "mama bear" mechanism gets ignited everytime Cintia's shitty host situation or Jonathan's shitty visa situation get brought up; I panic at the thought of Ruth possibly giving up an opportunity because of an insecure, threatened boyfriend. I can't keep taking this on. I'm going to have to take a step back the next time Conduit of Hope brings new students in. I just don't know how many more times I can put myself through the emotional ringer.  Walking with the girls along the Waterfront on St. Patrick's Day is probably my favorite memory I have with them. The weather was warm and serene, the company comfortable and familiar. And as we sipped on Starbucks that Ruth likes to lovingly call "the contamination" and took about a thousand pictures, I saw my hometown through the eyes of a fascinated tourist. At some point while we were walking I noticed that my left hand was unconsciously resting flat on my heart. Every now and then I have not-so-bad dreams. Last night I dreamed I was really hungry and then found a bag of goldfish crackers. That was kinda cool.

Old Blog - 1.27.2007

Saturday, January 27, 2007 

... you're gonna find, yes you will... Current mood:  peaceful "You have this tendency to want to look up," Mathew said. "You can't do that."   I apologized and promised to keep my eyes closed so I wouldn't even be tempted again.  A couple minutes passed without either of us speaking; I just concentrated on the music circling the room - kind of like a Celtic Tori Amos - which struck me as appropriately soothing. I allowed myself to take it in.   I really wasn't nervous.  Oddly enough, I had been much more nervous the day before at SMART's staff meeting in which our CEO spontaneously declared we would go around the table and each give our thoughts about the importance of "future focus".  It wasn't a big deal - just an ice breaker to get everyone talking - but I panicked. This was only my second staff meeting in my full-time position at SMART and I, still feeling like the little kid at the grown-up table at Thanksgiving, felt the need to prove myself in my allotted twenty seconds.  Many random somewhat-coherent ideas collided in my head as I fiddled with the koosh ball that had been tossed in my lap. The koosh kept my trembling hands from being noticeable to the others. Ohhh my trembling hands.  My f-ing tremor. It's the biggest tell-sign when I have nerves. I used to ball them up in fists when I would sing in front of my class at UNC and then consequently get a note from one of my eager classmates that I needed to release the tension in my hands. Ohhh bite me.   The next day, however, sitting in the chair in a situation that in theory was much more frightening than either a SMART staff meeting or a performance in Vance's class, my breath and my hands remained steady.    Moments of vanity kept pricking me as I received uncertain looks from people I told ahead of time. Their words said, "Oh how nice!" but their faces said "..um, really?" They thought it wouldn't look good. Everytime my mind entertained doubt, however, I felt all the more convicted to do it.  If I were to bail because I was too afraid of not being pretty, my looks are clearly the least of my problems.    Frankly, I'm tired of allowing myself to be ruled by superficiality.  I spent four years in a university where students and faculty unabashedly monitored and scrutinized each other's bodies inch by inch, pound for pound.  I then spent nine months working in a restaurant where sexual harrassment by the clientele was accepted and even encouraged as our skirts rose and our necklines plunged.  At the same time I hung onto a threadbare (if not a complete sham) relationship with someone who consistently commented "That's not your best look" anytime I wore sweats, had a bandanna in my hair, or wasn't wearing make-up. Someone who one day pinched my stomach and told me he wanted to see what I looked like when I wasn't sucking in.   Okay so the bitterness about him is really getting better, I swear. One of these days I really will stop referencing him but hey - blogging is cheaper than therapy. Anyway, his voice rang in my ear Tuesday as I sat in the chair. The longer the hair the better. Short hair isn't hot.   Another echo, much more recent, and from someone new, danced in my head as well. She's beautiful. I asked her out. You're cute. I just want to be friends.   The only other customer in the salon that day was a woman with gray hair, probably early fifties, who had been successfully feigning interest in her stylist's babbling about an upcoming trip to Orlando. I stood up as Mathew set my ponytail on the counter next to my purse and met eyes with her.   "You're doing a really great thing," she said. I smiled as my hand went to my naked neck and mumbled something about needing a change anyway.   "No, I know what a good thing you are doing," she said. "My little six year-old had cancer."   I couldn't think of what to say to respond to that information, so I made some vague and slightly awkward comment about the Locks of Love organization. I wanted to ask her about her child but couldn't bring myself to do it in case her response was anything other than "Oh she's great! She's all grown-up now and has a successful career and beautiful family." My little six year-old had cancer. I keep thinking about it.   The very next day I spoke with Kieley, my parents' neighbor, to firm up babysitting plans.  Kieley told me their bedtimes would have to be fairly early because they were all getting up early the next morning to drive to Salem: her niece had lost her fight with leukemia last Sunday. Her eight year-old niece.   It took about two and a half years for my hair to get that long and now, bearing a frightening resemblance to a dead rodent, it sits in a Ziploc bag on my dresser. From end to end it measures almost a foot. I'm still worried people won't like the way it looks, that no one will think I'm pretty, but it's done now and the stars are definitely aligning to tell me that it's the right thing. My New Year started a few weeks later than everyone else's this year, but that doesn't mean I'm not taking my resolutions seriously.    I've had enough introspection in the last six months or so and it's time to finally start acting on my words. I'm not scared; my hands aren't even shaking. At this very moment I sit in a little place in Sisters listening to Argentine reggae and taking blog breaks to chat with two more special chicas, Ruth and Maria. I feel warmth and beauty in me and around me, and I wonder where I can go next to discover more.

Old Blog - 12.15.2006

Friday, December 15, 2006 

This really has very little to do with elevators. Current mood:  restless I did a backbend in the elevator on Tuesday. As soon as the doors closed and I was left all alone to ride four floors down to pick up the mail for SMART, I arched back and put my hands to the floor. Immediately I heard a *ding!* The elevator was stopping at the second floor!! I quickly flung myself up and scampered to the wall; seconds later I was poised in the typical "i have better things to do" stance that all people have on elevators - bored, minimal personality, little to no acknowledgement of other human beings. I even leaned my head against the wall for an added effect of apathy. But it was a facade, I tell you - a FACADE!! Ten seconds earlier I had been doing amateur gymnastics in a moving elevator! That's right Mister Financial Services Man!! And you walked right in with me and never knew!! Ok so anyway. I really dislike being alone in an elevator with a man. I know it sounds silly because we are really only in there for seconds before one leaves or someone else joins the group.. but I still feel uncomfortable. At the very least, awkward. I mean, in what other part of life does a young female walk into a small dimly-lit space with a strange man and allow enormous metal doors to lock them inside? Well, I mean, that doesn't include alcohol of course. The only time I didn't mind was about three weeks ago when I rode the elevator with the same nice boy two days in a row. The building is a high-rise and has six elevators; what's more, the two consecutive days we rode together were at completely different times of day. (I'm sure there is some kind of math equation that could calculate these impressive odds.) I assumed this astounding coincidence meant that he and I should go on a date. Granted, he really wasn't my type and it's not like we had much time in our fifteen-second ride to have a soul-connecting conversation. But the fortuity of it all seemed like the makings of the perfect "How We Met" or "Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan Forgettable Romantic Comedy" story. Unfortunately, I have not seen Elevator Boy since. Maybe some things truly are just coincidences and nothing more. Elevators make Super Nanc nervous; in layman's terms, they are roughly the Equine version of Kryptonite. Last Sunday when she took an elevator from the underground parking structure to attend a traditional Presbyterian church service and support her dos amigas, I was touched. That probably hadn't been on her top list of things to do that week. To put it simply, that would be like me riding a purple horse named after a dumb bitch. But for Nanc and a few other special individuals, I would do it. Sometimes the universe asks you to do things that go against your instincts. So you take one for the team because a friend needs it. Or you do some therapy socializing to recoup some confidence. Or you are kind to an enemy so your heart can stop pumping venom. Or you do stupid human tricks in an elevator to keep a sense of humor during a less-than-ideal life phase. I think next week I'm going to do the splits.

Old Blog - 11.16.2006

Thursday, November 16, 2006 

Word of the Day... Current mood:  crushed I recently got my mom to subscribe to Dictionary.com's Word of the Day. I have been subscribed since July and have a little Yahoo! folder that grows everyday with fun new vocabulary to experiment with. Mom has been doing it for about a week and is totally into it now too. The other night when I spent the night at their house, I joked to my mom somewhat bitterly that I keep receiving Words of the Day that seem to describe the Doctor: turgid, braggadocio, bloviate, etc. (I will now allow a brief intermission for you to go look those words up.) Anyway, Mom and I laughed that a new folder should be started just for those new words to be thrown into my vernacular everytime the Doctor is mentioned.   Tuesday, the day of the Conduit of Hope Silent Auction, this is what I received in my inbox:   gauche ..GOHSH.., adjective: Lacking social polish; tactless; awkward; clumsy.   "HA!!" I thought in my head and immediately texted my mom. Later that night at the auction as we were sitting down to dinner my mom made a casual reference to "Doctor Gauche" and we shared smug little smirks. Slightly catty, yes, but very harmless. I was not there to cause any trouble; I was at the auction to support his program, to support my friend Cintia, and to get others to support the program as well.   Cintia and I arrived in style at ten minutes until 5. We had been instructed very condescendingly at church on Sunday not to even consider being late (His exact words were, "And when I say 5:00 I don't mean 5:30 or 5:45.") so I erred on the side of being early. Cinti and I proceeded to sit for over half an hour with nothing to do except take silly pictures in the lobby. Finally they got the microphone set up and I was able to help her rehearse her speech, but other than that there was absolutely no reason for us to have been there so damn early. Whatever. I let it roll right off.   I then spent the next hour at the front doors of the Hotel Deluxe at my posted duty: greeting guests, asking if they were there for the auction, and pointing them in the direction of the registration table. Doing so subjected me to several awkward interchanges with some of Erik's friends who apparently forgot how to be friendly the day we broke up. My favorite was Liz who cocked her head to the side and said, "Oh Meredith. I didn't expect YOU to be here." Slight implosion at that moment, but whatever. I was cool.   Kari and Miss Ashlee informed me early in the evening that they were being ignored. Erik clearly knew Ashlee and wasn't even acknowleding her, which is pretty shitty, and he clearly didn't know Kari and was avoiding introducing himself - which is arguably even shittier. I agreed with them that it was, well to reiterate, shitty, but I also excused him because he was overwhelmed and nervous and trying to shake a lot of hands in a small amount of time. I was working so hard to be on my best behavior and was afraid that much bitching about him would ruin my night.   Dinner came and the Doctor was introduced by Julie Emery, a B-List Portland local celebrity who used to anchor the KATU news with Jeff Gianola - apparently she is a member of our church. Her introduction of the Doctor was uncomfortably ego-stroking: explaining his PhD, his desire to teach in Argentina, how he changed apparently the lives of everyone in the country while he was down there, blah blah blah. Finally she gives the mic to him and he begins his opening remarks with thank-yous. There were sooooooo many people that helped make this event possible and he wanted to make sure they were recognized. First he had his fraternity-like group of guy friends stand up as he named them individually. Then he listed off the names of several girls (pretty much all of his friends' wives or girlfriends) who also made major contributions. My name was left out. Another silent implosion.   The Doctor continued. "I'd also like to recognize some people who have been a major part of this program from the very beginning; whose support has been invaluable through this entire process." He named Cintia's host family. He named Barbara, Cintia's tutor. He named the ministers at our church.   Then he gestured toward my table to conclude with, "And Eric and Patti Weber." Then he moved on.   My insides crumbled. I met eyes from across the room with Miss Ashlee before I bowed my head to let the tears roll quietly down my face. At that moment our pastor Dudley led the group in prayer to bless the meal - but I said my own prayer: "Please God. Let me pull it together. Please don't let me make a scene."   Prayer ended. I wiped under my eyes, blew my nose into the handkerchief my dad had discreetly passed to me as he whispered "What an asshole", and announced I was going to the bar for another glass of wine. My dad responded, "Good idea. Make it a double." and my mom declared she would join me.  I held her hand as we crossed the room. As the bartender was pouring our wine I felt a familiar hand on my back. At this point my head was spinning so much that I can't remember exactly what he said, but it was something along the lines of "Hey I'm sorry I left your name out, it completely slipped..."   Without even turning to look at him, I threw my hand up and said "ican'ttalkaboutthisnow." My mom pursed her lips together and shook her head at him.  He left. I didn't make eye contact with him again the rest of the night.   Later, as we were eating dinner, Dr. Gauche got up to make his big speech. He nonchalantly declared that a few people hadn't been in the room while he was giving his thank-yous so he wanted to mention them at the moment: Random Girl #1, Random Girl #2, "... and Meredith Weber's over there." He gestured to my table but didn't even look in our direction. If he had he would have seen six Weber eyebrows raised with no amusement.    I didn't expect Erik to give me any lengthy recognition at the auction on Tuesday. He didn't have to tell everyone I spent a third of my life savings to travel to Argentina with him and witness for myself the poverty and danger in Barrio San Pablo as I was welcomed into the homes of Jonathan, Maria, and the entire group at the Lecheria. He didn't have to tell them I walked for hours with him in Buenos Aires as we scoured street fairs for art to take back and sell at the auction. He didn't have to tell them that I spent an afternoon at Urban Wineworks helping blend wine to sell at their wine tasting fundraiser - wine that, I will also mention, I bought a bottle of for myself and never received? No, he didn't have to tell them that. He didn't have to tell them that he had no idea how shitty Cintia's host family has been treating her until I called him up on the phone to tell him. That I took her shopping for something to wear to the auction. That I took her for her first sushi experience. That she spends the night at my house every weekend.   I didn't need much. But I did need something - something more than his best friend pulling me aside at the end of the night and saying, "You know, he doesn't know how to communicate it to you but he really does appreciate all that you do for the program."   I ended up drinking five glasses of wine. My parents knew that I was drunk and I didn't even care. THEY didn't even care. How's that for surreal.   I don't even know how to end this blog. I can't think of anything cutesy.   How about this: Dr. Gauche is a douche.