Portland Thoughts, At the Breakfast Table

(Author's Note: I recently had the opportunity to attend my great-aunt and great-uncle's 60th wedding anniversary with a lot of other family in Denver. It was a real blast, and one of the awesome moments was having my aunt-and-uncle's best friends come in for a surprise, who had been the matron of honor and best man at their wedding. Sunday morning, we were sitting around the breakfast table at the hotel and they started reminiscing about Portland, back in the fifties. It was a wonderful moment that I had to recreate from memory, an hour later--I didn't want to record it and break the moment. The following is the best I can remember.)

Our apartment back then had bunk beds.

That’s right! Bunk beds. Because there was no space for two beds side by side. But it was classy--hey, it had a separate bedroom! That was CLASS.

That’s right, and in the living room we had that double bed, with wheels on the top.

That’s right. If we had overnight guests, we’d lay it flat, you know, but in the daytime we’d push it up against the wall, and it became a couch, you know, because one side of the double bed had wheels on it and it ran up against the wall.

Like a futon, these days.

That’s right.

We shared a bathroom with the couple next to us, and SHE kept the bathroom clean.

That’s right. That was a miracle, such a boon for two bachelors living alone, you know.

Yes. And the walls were so thin that she could easily hear our alarm through the walls, so when our alarm went off, she used to jump up and run into the bathroom first.

That’s right, and one day we got wise to this, so Dave set his alarm for three o’clock in the morning.

(Laughter)

(Dave: I cannot confirm my actions at that time.)

They were such a nice couple, though, that the husband--what was his name?

Hap.

That’s right, Hap. Hap found me (Jimmy) the next day and said, “Hey, you know my wife gets up when she hears your alarm, and I think yesterday you might have set it wrong! I hope you didn’t get up late or miss an important meeting.”

(More laughter)

And he meant it, too--he was concerned about us.

That’s right. And then he was so nice about the girls.

That’s RIGHT! The landlady, would only rent to couples, normally, but she made an exception for Dave and I, but she said: “NO GIRLS.” We weren’t allowed to have any lady guests at all in the apartment.

That’s right. So Hap says to me, (Dave), “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “If you want to have lady friends over, you just tell me, and we’ll run ‘em through my apartment.”

(Laughter)

And when it rained, we had to put a PLANK down to walk over to the university.

That’s right. Thirty bucks a month, we paid for that place, fifteen a piece.

(Joan speaking.) And then there was that big house on Stevens street that we lived in right after we were married. And we threw a New Year’s Eve party.

(Dave speaking) And that was the LAST New Year’s eve party we EVER threw. All my fraternity brothers came, and their wives and girlfriends, and it got pretty wild.

[Name forgotten] got so mad that we ran out of fixings for Tom and Jerry’s, and so he went into the kitchen and scooped that stuff out of the sink!

(Joan) That’s right. We threw a dinner party there and we [she and Matron of Honor] were making spaghetti, because that was all we could afford in those days, and we didn’t have a colander so we were draining it over the sink and the lid came off and there went all the spaghetti, right into the sink.

[Matron of Honor] We looked around, and we didn’t see anyone, so we just scooped it out of the sink and put it back in the pan.

(Laughter)

Well, there wasn’t any more! To serve, I mean, or eat. That was all we had.

That was a wonderful old house, though. On that New Year’s eve party, Margaret’s husband Whitney was supposed to leave for Korea the next day, and in the middle of the festivities, he quietly left the party and went out to his car. No one saw him go.

All of a sudden we hear a gunshot.

All of us, thinking the worst, run out to the car, and there is Whitney with the gun in his hand, very calm. He had just fired it in celebration of the New Year. It was a tradition with him.

That’s right! He fired it into the ground, though, not into the air, because he was smart and careful.

Yes, he was very savvy with guns. Always was.

That was a wonderful old house. It was old and large and falling apart, but I loved it. They knocked it down, you know, because they put the street through there.

Oh, I didn’t know!

Yes, it’s gone.

Well, it wouldn’t have lasted long anyway. It was falling apart. Needed a lot of work.

(Dave) Like that cabin that my father’s friend, Jay Gould, (Author's note: ?) had. It was out by the lake. We used to go out there, and fish during the day and play cards at night, and he (Jay) had to have the biggest and best of everything, so one year he buys this gigantic, high-powered, portable radio. This thing was HUGE, I remember, although of course most of the size was due to the batteries. And it was my job, back when Portland had a ball team, to listen to the radio and call out the score. And I could barely hear it, because the reception was so bad, but still it was my job to sit with my ear pressed against that goddamned thing.

What was that announcer’s name?

Randy Truitt. (Author's note: I got this wrong.)

(Wow, there’s a name I haven’t heard in fifty years.)

Yes, Randy Truitt. And when they hit the ball, he’d announce it, and he had a matchbox in the press box and he’d flick the matchbox--thwock--so that it sounded like you could really hear it.

That’s right.

Right before we got married, Joan’s mother knew that she was going to move out, so we moved her into a much smaller apartment downtown, so she could get to work easily.

That’s right--right around the corner from the big Unitarian church. I slept on a cot in the living room, because we knew it wouldn’t be for long.

Right.

(Author's Note: It sounds so...simple. I'm not one to be nostalgic, but...awww.)

Beautiful Fall Day Conversation

Me: (begins to steer our walking back to work)

Kentucky: "Oh, yeah, guess we should turn."

Me: "Well, if we want to go back to work, we should."

Kentucky: "Let's just keep walking!"

Me: "And arrive in beautiful downtown Kent!"

Kentucky: "Hey, if we kept walking, we'd eventually get to California."

Me: "After a week."

Kentucky: "More like three weeks. How far do you think it is?"

Me: "From here to California? At least five hundred...I'd say, eight hundred miles."

Kentucky: "No! It is not THAT far. Well...where in California?"

Me: "Just to the border would be shorter."

Kentucky: "No, I want to go deep in California. San Francisco or L.A."

Me: "At least 800 miles. Maybe 1000."

Kentucky: "No!"

Me: "Yes! There's a LOT of California to cross!"

Kentucky: "I'm going to look that up."

(Much later.)

Me: "It's 808 miles from Seattle to San Fran."

Kentucky: "Hahaha."

Me: "And it's 1,135 miles to LA. AM I GOOD OR WHAT?"

Kentucky: "Yes. Quite!"

Me: "Thanks."

Kentucky: "If we walked at a 15 min mile pace, it would take us 20 days at 10 hours a day to get to San Fran." (Author's Note: She was right on when she estimated three weeks, earlier.)

Me: "4 miles an hour for 10 hours? We'd have to train."

Kentucky: "Yeah, I'm not saying it's going to happen anytime soon."

Me: "But what great training for Nepal!"

The Best Scene Of The Movie

Foy: ...He certainly did give himself a billing, this George M. Cohan.

George: You don't have to memorize that one, kid. There's plenty more all over town.

Foy: I'd like to forget it. Say, mister, you connected with this turkey?

George: What makes you think it's a turkey? I hear it's pretty good.

Foy: It's a malicious rumor to gyp the public. Who is this guy Cohan? Where's he from? What is he, an upstart?

George: Oh, he's been through the mill. Played everything. Small time, big time, vaudeville, rep shows. Even followed dog acts.

Foy: Must've looked like an encore. Say, uh, is he as good as Foy?

George: Who?

Foy: Foy, Foy. (Foy sprays George's face) Eddie Foy. Oh, pardon me.

George: Pardon me. I didn't quite catch the name. Would you mind spraying it again?

Foy: Eddie Foy! The star that's got the big show down the street with a chorus of seventy.

George: Why, I thought they looked a little younger than that. I hear now that Cohan's in town, Foy is gonna retire.

Foy: Foy won't retire till he's ninety!

George: Is it gonna take him that long to discover he has no talent? Why, they tell me when he tries to sing, the orchestra puts up umbrellas.

Foy: Tries to sing! Foy is a genius! He keeps his audience glued to the seats.

George: That's one way o' keeping them in the theater. Cohan does it with talent. Look (he points out the poster) - produces his own plays, writes his own books, lyrics and music, plays the leads, and he's a great dancer.

Foy: He dances, eh? When does he get time to practice?

George: When you write your own plays you don't have to practice. Cohan's done all right. He's given the world 'Yankee Doodle Dandy.' What's Foy done for his country?

Foy: He gave 'em seven kids.

George: Does he dance?

Foy: One o' the best.

George: When does he get time to practice?

Foy: Say, listen, young fella. My name's Eddie Foy.

George: I know it. I'm George M. Cohan.

Foy: Oh, so you're Cohan? (They shake hands) Well, if I said anything accidental to make you mad, I want you to know I'm darn glad I did.

George: I don't blame ya. I'd feel the same way if I were up against Cohan. What do you like to drink?

Foy: Oh, moxie-

George: I can supply it! The attraction inside is a whole lot bigger than I am. Come and see it when your show closes.

--From Yankee Doodle Dandy, 1942

Sittin' In Some Place Weird

The boy was sitting outside the restaurant, on the ground, I mean fully on the ground, his butt on the dirty concrete and his back pressed hard up against the railing that separated the restaurant's territory from the territory of the sidewalk, with all its casual passers-by, of which Bobby and I were two.

At first I thought the boy was a homeless kid high out of his gourd, with his legs hanging out slackly in front of him, cuffs and shoes resting fully in the filthy alley, his arms hanging limply by his sides, but his shirt and jeans were pristine and not cheap. His face was clean, he was young, and he wasn't mumbling or grinning, but his eyes stared blankly at nothing.

Bobby put a finger on it first: "THAT'S a breakup."

I turned to him. "You're right! I was trying to figure out what the hell was going on."

Bobby nodded. "We're all been there. You have to leave the restaurant, and your feet won't carry you any farther than you to absolutely have to go. So you end up sittin' in some place weird, and you know you're being awkward, and you know you're attracting attention and you're just like, "Fuck ALL of you. I'm gonna sit here and be weird, and fuck you and the horse you rode in on."

Taxi Driver Interviews: Part I In An Occassional Series

(After the taxi driver caught my eye a few times, as I was hesitating between grabbing a cab and taking the bus.)

"Ah, I THOUGHT you wanted a taxi! I thought to myself, 'She needs a taxi, she just doesn't know it yet.'"

Yes, I was thinking about taking the bus, but if I did, I would have been late, and I can't be late. It's important.

"Oh? You have an important meeting? Is it with a VIP? Is it work, are you on your way to a work meeting?"

Actually, it's with my boyfriend, so...yes, he's a VIP.

"OH!" (Laughing) "He IS a VIP! He's a super VIP!"

Yes, I think so.

"That is good, you're a good girl. But you know, men, we are used to waiting for women. Women are ALWAYS late."

Yes, we take a long time. We have to get pretty.

"Yes, but they are always worth it!"

Oh really?

"Yes! Women are always worth it. We men, we always wait, but if she is a good girl, she is worth it. If she is nice and sweet, and doesn't cheat around, and a pretty girl...she's worth it."

I see.

"You can tell your boyfriend I said so."

I will do that.

"Now, my older daughter, she is not a good girl. Not worth it."

...I'm sorry, what? Your daughter is not a good girl?

"No! She is not a good girl. She's not in school, she doesn't work around the house, all she does is sleep all day and go out all night, she's loud, always playing the loud music, keeping her door closed. Lazy. Worthless girl."

Oh?

"Yes! I kicked her out. I told her, 'You have to go, get out.' Because you have to be firm, you know. I asked her to do just a little bit of work around the house--help your sister, clean your room, help clean the kitchen, you know, just...HELP! It wasn't a lot--just help out the family, everyone has to pitch in!"

Yes, that doesn't seem like a lot.

"But she wouldn't, so I kicked her out. After two months she came back, she said that she was sorry and she didn't like living without the family, that she would change and it would all be different. And after three weeks...she was back to her old ways. Going out all night, never helping. I kicked her out again. Three weeks, she lasted, but without the family, she is still crying."

That's sad.

"Yes! She is loco en cabesa, as the Spanish say."

(Laughing) Crazy in the head! Yes. Are you Spanish?

"No, I am Egyptian. But I love languages. And you speak Spanish?"

Un poquito.

"Un poquito, well, that is still good. I speak Spanish and some Italian, and I am trying to learn Japanese."

Wow!

"I love languages. I love people!"

Me too.

"Oh, here we are! Tell your boyfriend that you are worth waiting for. You are a good girl."

Words of Love

Boyfriend: "I remembered that tonight is the start of the NFL season but am going to the symphony to be with you anyway."

Standby Dish

That I eat at LEAST twice a week, sometimes more, for reasons that you will soon discover.

The Savoy Supper Version, which I had for dinner last and caused me to moan at every bite, is:

Kale, sauteed with two serious knobs of butter and a lot of garlic, and deglazed with several splashes of dry vermouth and then some lemon juice.

Very gently scrambled fresh chicken egg from co-workers chickens, scrambled for barely three minutes in more butter.

Sprinkle of Pecorino if you have it.

Kale, egg, sea salt, ground pepper, and pecorino: pretty magical. Nutritious, fast, super delicious. (Remember that eggs are much more common at dinner in most of the world. It's just North America that insists on eating them for breakfast.)

And then...there is the Trailer Park Version:

About 3/4 of a cup frozen spinach, warmed in the microwave for about a minute, or until hot. Sprinkle several squirts of lemon juice and shakes of sea salt. (Don't overdo! Sea salt is SALTY.)

One egg, poached in the microwave. (Seeing the theme?)

Dump egg over salted, lemony spinach. Break yolk, mix. Grate pepper, add salt to taste. Possibly add a nice grated cheese, if you feel like it. Parmesan is the classic, but Pecorino is my favorite. Also good with just the lightest sprinkling of truffle salt, which seems ridiculous to sprinkle over frozen spinach, but whatever.

Easy, fast, semi-nutritious. Both go well with red wine, the Trailer Park version slightly better. The Savoy Supper version doesn't need red wine.

Puns Make Things Better

Boyfriend: "Here's how my morning has gone: just plunged my toilet, and now there is standing water and poop in my bathtub."

Me: "OH MY GOD."

Me: "Well, I hope the rest of your day is less shitty. ;)"

Two Steps Forward...

"It's ironic," I said, on the phone with Chalie.

"I have this boyfriend who has spent the last several years without credit cards. He doesn't even have a debit card on him. He only buys things through cash."

"Okay..."

"So thanks to his excellent example, I've started leaving my American Express at home."

"Oh yeah? Any particular reason?"

"Well, to help pay off my debt," I said, rather shamefacedly. "It's going down slowly but surely, and I thought going on a cash system would help."

"That's great!" she said, politely ignoring the fact that I ought not to have any debt at all, and that my debt roughly totals--or used to total--how much she actually makes in a year. "How's it going?"

"Well, I have one credit card on me--it has a $500 limit, so I can't go crazy with it."

"Okay..."

"...and I'm at a gas station, and...my credit card is maxed out. I've paid the dang thing online, but it hasn't gone through yet."

"Oh."

"And the Tank is seriously on fumes. I can't get another ten miles."

"Uh...didn't this happen to you once before? You got stranded at a gas station with an empty bank account and an empty tank?"

"Yes. But that was a long time ago and I think Mom would not be as inclined to bail me out, this time."

"Uh...don't you have a debit card?"

"...It's in the mail. I lost my original one and they're replacing it."

"Oh for GOD'S sake," she said, exasperated. "What are you going to do?"

"Oh, I have a cash card. I can't buy things with it, but I can get cash."

"Oh. So you're okay."

"Oh, yeah. I have just have to walk into the store and hit the ATM before I try to buy gas."

"Okay. So WHAT, exactly, is ironic?"

"Suddenly I have money--paying down my debt and everything--and suddenly I can't get to it."

"Uh huh," she said, her voice dripping with ice crystals. "You. Poor. Thing."

Modern Conveniences

"So there I was, cruising down East Marginal on the phone," I said, "and of course it was boiling hot yesterday and I had to close the windows because I was on the phone."

"Uh huh," said Helpful Friend.

"And because I'm on AT&T (nice choice, B) the connection kept dropping."

"Uh huh."

"So I'd lose the connection, shout, 'HELLO!' for several minutes, then give up, hang up with my chin, roll down the window, let the phone drop off my shoulder, and crack open the side triangle, which is the only way I ever get any cross breeze in that car."

"Uh huh."

"And THEN the person would call back, so I'd pick up, say, 'Hang on,' glue my chin to the phone to my ear, roll up the window, close the side triangle, and pick up again, shifting with my glued-in-place-elbow, saying, 'Okay.'"

"How were you steering? With your imaginary third elbow?"

"Steering?"

"Oh Lord," said the Helpful Friend. "Uh, couldn't you just wait until you were somewhere, you know, stationary, before calling people back?"

"No. Everyone calling me was at least three levels above me in org charts. [President of my Company] is only six levels above me total."

"How many times did your phone ring yesterday?"

"About 25."

"TWENTY FIVE!"

"Yes."

Silence.

"Okay, I have two things to say," said Helpful Friend. "One, I am never, ever, riding with you again, at least until you get a goddammed EAR PIECE for that phone. Seriously. You now have a job in which Boeing executives call you on a regular basis. Get. An. Earpiece."

"Okay..."

"...and two, did you know that modern cars have power windows?"

"What?"

"And...air conditioning?"

Me: "GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE."

Helpful Friend: "True story."

Deserving

Not too long ago--a matter of months, maybe--a bartender and I had an intelligent conversation about absinthe as I waited for Calsee to open her apartment door. The crowd at the bar was extremely mixed, as it always is, at the Zig-Zag; on my left sat a blond, large-framed drunk woman in business clothes, I think drinking a martini; on my right sat small-boned skater kid drinking whiskey and beer, his over-sized t-shirt showing off his closely-shaved dark hair and arm tattoos. I pulled up a stool and asked the bartender what kind of absinthe he served. He offered me tastes of two kinds, and I shared them with the drunk woman in business clothes and the skater kid, knowing that one serving of absinthe is about all I can carry, and even a sip or two over that limit can be too much. They tasted. The drunk woman, very talkative, had barely a sip of each and exclaimed much over them; the skater kid appreciated it more and accepted my gift of the rest of the tastes. (A man after my own heart--never turn down free booze.) I drank my chosen absinthe--I forget what it was, now--and made a little more small talk to my left and to my right, until I asked for the bill. The skater kid made a move for my number, and I turned him down, gently. Calsee called. I strolled out of the Zig Zag, carefully, feeling the affects of the absinthe. Ahead of me on the Pike Hill Climb, walking up to street level, was the drunk woman in business clothes, who had left the bar with a late-arriving date. "This girl sits down," she says to him, loudly, and I realize she's talking about me, "says she builds planes for a living, and orders ABSINTHE!"

I brushed a little imaginary dirt off my shoulder.

ANYWAY, this is not about me, and I can't collect a speck of dirt compared to that bartender. Because that bartender with the intelligent absinthe conversation was just crowned "best bartender in America". Congratulations, Mr. Stenson. Wonder how this compares to being featured in Playboy's A-List?

Never a Dull Moment

I've been putting off renting a truck for Sunday's move--yes! I am moving! On top of getting a new job!--and it turns out it's a good thing I did, because the new apartment building had a power outage and all the outlets in my new places BLEW OUT.

Yes, they did.

Now it turns out that I can't move in until the DAY that I have to MOVE OUT of my other place.

Even for someone as used to living on the edge as I am--and let me reassure you that I have made a damn career out of it--this is cutting it...a little close.

I'm not even sure what I'm going to do next.

And so I'll post a funny exchange from Facebook about LAST weekend:

Me, to T-Town: "After locking us out of your house--in the cold rain, in our pjs, without phones or wallets, getting into a fender-bender, driving like a maniac, and blowing out a tire--not to mention ziplining--Lilith Fair seemed pretty uneventful."

T-Town: "Two questions: 1. How is this different than a normal weekend for you? 2. Were you somehow under the impression the Lilith Fair would be interesting? But seriously, it was great to have you here and you still owe me 20 bucks."

Me: "Well, I don't normally go ziplining."

T-Town: "Good point."

Where My Head's At Today

Here:



And here:



And here:

http://www.omniglot.com/blog/?p=2888

I got there because my boss and I are having a discussion about how to identify a language she overheard, not long ago, at the airport, that she couldn't identify on the spot. And since my boss is Irish, has an aunt who is Welsh, has traveled all over the world and spent a lot of time in Turkey and Saudi Arabia and Brazil, AND is a language nerd...let's just say that there's not many languages that she CAN'T identify on the spot. Lots of soft round sounds, and clicks, she said, spoken by three slender dark-haired girls with faintly olive skin. In this case, I think the gender identity of the girls is a red herring, so to speak. We've already ruled out everything on most continents, including Welsh, Basque, Catalan, and Icelandic. Nothing Cyrillic or Germanic, for sure. My boss' description makes it sound African. It's POSSIBLY Romanian or Finnish. Thoughts? (Celia? Rob?)

In any case, Omniglot looks fascinating. I may spend a lot of time there in the future.

And here:

Take me there, please.

Survived My First Week

At the new job. I'm not going to lie, it was a little touch-and-go. But I made it. Still alive, still hired, people seem to like me. Now I just have the rest of my career to go.

Anyone know a good eye cream?

My old friend "Bobby" rolled in last night at a bright and early 1:25 am, and to kill time before I picked him up, I went salsa dancing. And then he and I stayed up until 4 am talking, laughing, and gossiping, over wine. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

This morning I'm blearily staring at my computer screen and this pops up:

Tri-Tip: "You went to salsa and then picked up "Bobby" at 1 AM? You, ma'am, are truly hardcore."

Me: "More like two am, because his plane was delayed."

Tri-Tip: "I salute you."

(Note: Those of you reading along at home may wonder why Tri-Tip knows I went salsa-dancing last night, when this IM conversation is obviously the first time we've communicated today. Is he my boyfriend? Do we talk in the evenings? The answer to both questions is no. He knows because he follows me on Foursquare and Twitter, and has access to the places I check in. If this entire tangent confuses you, welcome to the 21st century. Moving on.)

About 9 am I IMed Kentucky. (Who is new on this blog! Welcome, Kentucky!) The New Job moved me to her work site, which is great because a) I don't see her enough, b) it gives me someone to bug at times like 9 AM when I've gotten two hours of sleep. "Today would be a GREAT day for our first Tully's run," I write to her. "Just saying."

Fifteen minutes later she hits me back. "YES. See you in five."

Turns out she was ALSO at the airport at 1:30 am. We could have gotten a damn drink in the airport while we were waiting for our respective arrivals. We laugh about this, back in her office, comparing how little sleep we got.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure my eye-bags are purple," I said, mainly joking.

She gives me a critical look. "I wouldn't go so far as to call them purple," she says. "More like lavender."

"Hmph. Well, I haven't slept much in four days," I said, pulling out my concealer, which I happened to put in my pocket this morning, even while sleep-walking, because I knew this was going to happen.

"I'm not judging you, doll! I feel you! But they ARE there," she says, pulling out her mirror. I futzed--gently--with the skin under my eyes, and the concealer, and looked at her for approval. "Much better," she says, encouragingly. "No longer purple. They're still puffy, but you can't fix that without cream."

See Title.

Cheese and Coffee and Lipstick

This describes most of my breakfasts. And the following describes the past five of my mornings:

I bit into a chunk of Manchego and sipped my barely-warm VIA as my boss held a hand mirror for me, sneaking around the corner of my cubicle wall, so I could apply eyeliner before the foreign nationals came in. She talked at me a mile a minute as I kicked off my ballet flats and stepped into my brand-new black slingbacks, breaking off only to say, "Cute shoes!"

My slingbacks are the tallest work shoes I've ever owned, and my boss is so well-dressed that I'm currently overhauling my wardrobe so I can keep up. So when she says, "Cute shoes!" I say, "Thank you!"

She turned the mirror around and applied her own lipstick. "It probably wouldn't kill you to be here earlier," says the petite powerhouse, who is going to school full time while managing my department for two continents and half of Europe and Asia, as she wielded her lip pencil.

I make a mental note to overhaul my wardrobe AND go shopping AND drink more water AND eat healthier. Whatever this woman is doing, I would like to also do.

Contentment

It's 78 degrees. I'm wearing a white t-shirt dress. I'm drinking a strawberry daiquiri which, miraculously, I have not yet spilled on the white T-shirt dress.

I have a strawberry daiquiri because I had extra strawberry filling from making 12 strawberry tarts a week ago, which I'll talk more about in a later post. Also being made as I sip my strawberry daiquiri: a strawberry pie, with the extra strawberry filling, and a loaf of gougere, with extra dough from making cheese puffs, also a week ago. The extra ham and cucumber has been made into sandwiches with the extra white bread, the chicken from TWO weeks ago has been picked clean and tossed--with the leftover meat waiting to be a part of another meal--and I am listening to this song:

Into the Fire

I have a new job here at the Lazy B, and so far it most reminds me of a mix of the West Wing and the Devil Wears Prada, except that my boss is totally awesome. It's fast-paced, tons of things happen all at once, things change minute by minute, so I'm behind already, and really I just want to take my boss out for coffee and listen to her talk because she's that cool.

My meals here at work have consisted of peanuts, granola bars, and slices of cheese, because I'm too busy to eat or cook, and last night I came home at 4:30 pm and went to bed an hour later.

Whew.

P.S. Hi, mom. I have eaten some quinoa and yogurt as well. And YES, I am drinking enough water.

Staying Enaged

It's hard.

It's hard to stay focused. It's hard to take the long way around. It's hard to come home after work and devote four hours to your side projects. It's hard to remember how to spell "devote".

It's hard to wake up early in order to bike or take the bus, when it's easier just jump in your car. It's hard to pack a lunch the night before, when it's so easy just to buy pre-made food. It's hard to pre-set your coffeemaker, when you can just buy a latte. It's hard to eat simply, when it's so much easier to buy fancy restaurant food. It's hard to read Shakespeare, when it's so easy to read Agatha Christie. (Or worse, blogs.) It's hard to just walk to J.Crew when you need new clothes, instead of scouring thrift stores.

And now that you've taken the easy and more expensive way out of all your obligations, you find yourself with a lot of free time on your hands, so it's even harder to pare your life down to its basic necessities instead of filling it with things that fill your extra gobs of free time.

It's even harder to bitch about these very, very small concerns in the face of so many REAL problems in the world. That is all.