Bartlet for President '08

It rained today. No, it poured, and I loved it. Okay, so I was inside all day, but work was frighteningly busy and crazy, so the drumming on the roof was soothing. And then I got high off of some tape. I had no idea that 3M made something that revolting. Isaac, one of the new teachers, was telling me that he thinks masking tape smells like salmon and blue tape like blueberries. Whatever this rubbery white tape was, it totally made me simultaneously queasy and giddy.

Now I am home. It's quiet.

Laundry?
Dishes?
Crafts?

Oh, who am I kidding. I am going to make a tuna sammy and a cocktail, put on some pants that don't squeeze the life out of me, and watch season 3 of the West Wing. I'm entitled dammit! I am currently coming down from a severe tape high and I think I deserve a little White House baloney. I still can't fast forward to the second chapter until I see the face of Rob Lowe. I am so warped from my training. The theme song is like Pavlov's bell and I immediately begin drooling for Cheetos. Only the drool doesn't pour through a spigot in my cheek.

The good thing about rainy, chilly weather and not doing my laundry is that all I have left in my closet are things that one would wear when it's a wee bit nippy. Yay, I get to put off the laundry thing for a couple of days.

Previously on the West Wing...

Hot pussy action.

Jessica Zodrow, the shit in my humble opinion, will be starring in the world premiere of "Dreampuffs of Lorna" at Stark Raving Theatre here in the delicious land of port. The play is a very dark and strange comedy about war, cats, and love.

September 9 - October 8. Yay! (Really, I'm posting this because I like the promo photo and I think everyone should go.)

When I see you smile...

Sometimes the bums make my day. Maybe they aren't all bums, but junkies, former junkies, the downtrodden, or just plain tattered. Perhaps the bums that I encounter are just particularly nice. Oh dear, maybe they feel some kinship with me when they mistake the Britney song that I was singing under my breath for the inchoate ramblings of a pre-schizoid mind. Maybe they're not wrong. I do talk to myself all the time despite many warnings that it makes you look "crazy."

There's a blond man who sits near the diner on Broadway who said "Hey sister, smile!"
I smiled and he replied "You have a lovely smile."
"Thanks!" I shouted and marched on to work.

Yesterday a limping and bedraggled man saved me from a three-way collision with speed-walkers, a businessman, and a bus when he stopped in the street, made space for me, and said "go ahead kid." I smiled, 'cause sometimes it's nice to be called "kid" in a non-creepy manner. "Have a nice day," the man said and I waved at him as I avoided the businessman. Mr. Businessman wouldn't have yielded any sidewalk to me unless I elbowed him in the ribs. Stupid blazer-with-shorts-and[ewww]-flipflops wearing, bullshit spewing, "I was speaking to Jones and his annual poopedycrap isn't blahdideblah. I said that it just isn't alllllllluring to me." Ew. Maybe I do sound a bit like your run-of-the-mill down-and-outer. [Shit, I love using hyphenated words and phrases. I bet I use them erroneously but have a look at my I-don't-care face.]

A bum, reeking of booze, with crazy hair was sitting on the corner curb next to PNCA. Both times that I walked by he said "hey honey" in a way that made me think that he knew me. I think that he mistook my stinky armpits for mating musk and wanted to start a little bum family.

Okay, so not all les miserables are as nice as the few that brighten my walk to work. there was the guy who projectile puked from a park bench at 10 a.m.; the guy in the flasher outfit that stared at me with crazy-eyes and then said in a gravelly voice, "alright, let's get this started" as he walked headlong toward me; or the toothless woman that cooed "hey honey, how're you doing tonight?" as I was saying happy birthday to my grandma. On my first visit to New York I yelled at a bum because he asked for money, I denied him, he whined "but it's cold," and I yelled back "I know it's fucking cold!" I am an asshole. But it was very very cold. I was by myself in Manhattan, in December, with no where to go but Starbucks[ick], there was a potential MTA strike and I only had a couple of bucks.

Anyway, in other news:
I got a promotion (it's weak, but it'll do for now)
I am buying a sweet wee lappy from my dear friend Nik
I only have one market left (saturday)
It's my day off
My hair falls out all over the place and it's really pissing me off
Ben and I are going to make a music video
My kittens are cute
Jess has the day off too
I need to do laundry
There is french-press coffee in my mouth. Yes!
I now have instant messaging again [yay], so hit me up for my info if you wanna chat.
As long as you promise not to send me any of those terrifying smiley faces.

Three Scenes: Part One

Three scenes in and around Ashland involving:

Me--28, narrator
Caitlin--24, my sister
Pete--23, my brother

Aurelia--27, my other sister, somehow does not figure into any of these scenes probably because a) she was in Colorado, b) she was staying home with Katherine, my niece, or c) she's ornery in general.


Note: These scenes are not quite verbatim because many times they involved alcohol, disbelief, and my siblings who are a bit crazy. I'm also not certain about chronological order...

SCENE 1
Ashland, Oregon. Possibly early fall, but I'm not sure. Peter, Caitlin and I were walking toward the Beau Club, Ashland's diviest dive. If your night ends with the Dirty Beau, you could 1. vomit, 2. forget things, 3. get in a fight, 4. see people you might not want to see. It was the afternoon and I remember giggling, so we must've come from a bar.

Peter: Caitlin, I don't think it's very cool that you cheated on Gunther.

Me: Pete, wait a minute, didn't you, like, cheat on all of your girlfriends?

Peter: (Indignant) No, I've never cheated on anyone.

Caitlin: (Very annoyed) Um, Pete, I'm pretty sure I was there when you cheated on one of them and I know for a fact about a few others.

Peter: Well, maybe just a couple of times, but look how many people I've been with.

Me--start laughing, can't stop, eyes watering, almost peeing.

Me: (After catching my breath) So... the more people you date, the less the cheating matters? This is how it works?

Caitlin: (Seething, stops Peter in the middle of the sidewalk and points her finger in his face.) Peter, don't even presume to be smarter than me.

Me--(resume laughing) That was beautiful.

(My brother is sometimes a very large asshole.)

The Disappointment: an Update

Update on The Disappointment [See post from Thursday, 21 July for back story]:
A few days ago my boss says
"I don't want to make you feel worse, but I have something to tell you..."
Shit, I thought she was about to tell me that my position had been cut or something.
(NOTE: my boss doesn't like the term "boss" but prefers "colleague," so sometimes I call her "comrade" or "la capitaine" as a compromise. But I'll stick with "boss" here.)

Weeeell, it turns out that the Librarian from Dream-Job wrote my boss an e-mail saying that she had received 130 applications, and that three of the people had used my boss as a reference. One of the 3 people turned in his application on wednesday; I know this to be true from inside information. Now, what kind of person tells me on Monday that they will not accept any more applications because they already had 95? Further, what kind of person would I have been to submit an application after learning this information directly from the person in charge of hiring? "Here's my application, Librarian Lady, even though you told me not to apply." How the hell was I supposed to know that she would accept 35 more and then contact my boss! I am so mad. My boss wrote some vague comments about the applicants but told the Librarian that it's a shame she didn't accept my application because I would have been great. ha!

Anyway, my conclusion is this: fuck Portland. I am applying for graduate school in New York and if I don't get in will probably move anyway. If I sell my car [which I won't need in NY anyway] I should have enough to move cross-country and live for a couple of months.

[Difficulties selling car will be touched upon in a post to come.]

It's been a couple of weeks since I found out about the 130, but I am still seething. My dad wants to write a scathing letter, and while I would love to read such a missive, I don't think it's a good idea.

Now, back to shelving books in my pitifully-paying job where I will dream of Brooklyn, new shoes, and a library of my own.

Family stuff

Ah Thursday. The day of sleeping in. Tonight there's the market and my wee, sweet brother is coming into town. Okay, that's a lie. He is coming, but he is neither wee or sweet. Heh. No, he is sweet sometimes. We shall see if he deigns to hang out with his fogey of a sister. Apparently, on saturday, his friend's birthday party will have a keg and strippers. Woo! Alright, sarcasm will get me nowhere. I want the boy to spend some time at my house where he can hop on the MAX and be downtown in minutes, or take a short walk and be in a fun neighborhood. I think he's just sad from his most recent breakup and wants to get drunk and make out with some stupid chicks. Understandable.

He still expects me to drive home on sunday (approximately a 5 hour jaunt down I-5), so I will fulfill one of my summer dreams. My parents live in Rogue River. I mean to find a swimmin' hole and glory in the freezing water during a 105 degree day. Oh yes. Plus my dad says that they have a plastic kiddy pool, so if I don't find a swimmin' hole, I can sit in that. Yeah. Whatever happens, I aim to romp with my favorite dogs, Pip and Buddy, immerse my bikini-clad body in water, and basically revel in the warm glow that is the parental environment. I will probably get shit from my mom about The Disappointment (which has new information), but still, they will feed me, dad will detail my car, and I will talk to the chickens and eat tomatoes from the vine. Yay!

Excellent! I just talked to my sister, Caitlin, and Pete and I are going to pick her up in Eugene on the way south on sunday. It will be fun.

Reach for the Stars

I was eating my Gardenburger when I realized that my paper towel has inspirational sayings on it. Gone are the days of cute pink teddy bears, American flags, or sprigs of spring flowers. Who needs a self-help book when millions of quilted rectangles of paper say "Live Life to its Fullest" or "Follow Your Heart and Your Dreams Will Come True." Am I so spiritually bankrupt that I need pithy adages on something that wipes the mayo from my face and fingers? Am I weird for being slightly offended by my paper towels?

As of 7:35 p.m. today, I had only smoked one cigarette. That was at 8:45 a.m. on my way to work and it made me feel nasty. Granted, I was smoking a most unsatisfying, au naturel American Spirit, but I thought that perhaps I needed a break. I did not buy any during the day, so my periodic smoke-breaks were out. I didn't even really want one on the way home from work, but I decided to buy a pack just in case. After my delicious dinner, I thought, "hey, an after dinner ciggy might be nice." So I pull the pack from my bag and proceeded to eagerly tear off the cellophane pull-tab. In my moment of addiction I considered tossing the wrapper onto the table and heading directly outside. What kind of thing is this that I would be willing to callously sully my home-environment with careless piles of wrappings? It was a nice experiment, this not smoking thing, but after only eleven hours, the craziness had already set in. "They" say that the first few days are the worst. That's probably true. If I follow my paper towel, I should "Live, Love, Laugh." Doesn't smoking severely inhibit these things in the long run? Eh, poo. Who listens to napkins anyway?

I found a dime in the washing machine today. It's always a dime; never a Susan B. or a shiny quarter. I wonder if dimes are the over-looked coin. So small and thin. Maybe people miss them when they are cleaning out their pockets on laundry day. Maybe it's the same dime every time. I find it, put it in my pocket, toss my pants on the floor, do laundry, and the cycle begins again.

On my way up the stairs from the basement I encountered Mr. Gub'ment Man. He lives on the first floor and drives a nondescript white car. His white, collared shirt and black slacks are always so neatly pressed. Sometimes a raucous and smoky-voiced woman is in his apartment. We call that "Bud-lite Night." I can never understand what she's saying, but she always sounds raspy and wasted. Last day-before-garbage day, I saw Mr. Gub'ment Man carting approximately 60 cans of Bud-lite to his Gub'ment car. I wish I new what Ms. Bud-lite looks like.