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.