tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113623652024-03-13T12:43:40.565-07:00Celebrity Sea SlugsThose bastards never warned me about the quarter-life crisis.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger469125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362365.post-51271154258188153532008-01-10T22:04:00.001-08:002008-01-10T22:04:55.853-08:00Pest controlCB is gone, off visiting different cities to investigate postdoc opportunities. Rather than dwell on it (OH MY GOOOOD IT SUUUCKS), I will entertain you with a story from my latest workplace.<br /><br />I write and edit materials about plant conservation for a Very Important Institution. We have gardeners on-site to manage some of our exhibits, and yes, I'm being vague in the hopes it will take you longer than 30 milliseconds to figure out where I'm employed.<br /><br />Just after Christmas, one of the staff gardeners let out a bloodcurdling screech from the shed where he kept his tools. Moments later, he came into the office looking several shades paler than normal.<br /><br />For background information, <a href="http://www.nutria.com/site.php">this</a> is a nutria. It looks cute, but it's actually slightly more evil than European starlings. Or your worst relative, in case you are a normal person who doesn't understand why starlings are the spawn of Satan over here. Nutria are an invasive species who happen to be champion eaters, so they inflict irreparable damage on our native wetlands as they munch their way across the United States. This is why you can find all sorts of interesting information online from people who hate nutria...like this handy <a href="http://www.nutria.com/site14.php">book of recipes</a>...<br /><br />Anyway, our gardeners hate nutria. Haaaaate. And while we environmentalists are all supposed to be hippy-dippy treehugger types, the truth is that we get downright pissed when invasive species show up and throw one more wrench into our sputtering ecosystems. Apparently, we aren't too good at keeping quiet, because someone figured out that our group is anti-nutria.<br /><br />The gardener, he found a box outside his tool shed. After cautiously toeing it, thinking it might be some kind of misshapen bomb, or maybe even full of puppies, he opened it. And screamed. That's right: Santa brought us a dead nutria for Christmas.<br /><br />Welcome to my world. :)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362365.post-33389304161161971212008-01-07T22:04:00.001-08:002008-01-07T22:04:52.538-08:00True thatFrom Adrian Ryan's <a href="http://slog.thestranger.com/2008/01/the_battle_of_portland">tales of Portland</a>:<br /><br /><blockquote>One moment you would swear before God in a court of law that Portland was just about the darlin’est little place you ever did see: everyone is beautiful and smiles at you, the sweet smell of coffee, books and young Democrats wafts upon the breeze, the roses yawn wide to serenade you as you frolic with the roaming deer and so forth. The next moment—SNAP! Everyone is looking at you like you have crap in your hair, even the squirrels are vaguely antagonistic, the city turns ugly and small and desperate and cold as a frozen hooker’s ice cube tray, and you really just want to die. I’ve lived it. I know.<br /> <br /></blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362365.post-38369976580810145272007-12-12T22:38:00.001-08:002007-12-12T22:43:49.222-08:00Days go byI've started and saved half a dozen posts, but between the packing and the shopping and the moving, they're still sitting on Blogger waiting. Like my new website. So not gonna happen this year.<br /><br />I have stories I want to tell you, like the one involving the massive statewide flood, a malfunctioning fuel pump, and my favorite jeans. (Traumatic, people. Traumatic.) The truth is, though, I've also had a really rough time lately, and part of my way to deal has been to withdraw from the world a little. It isn't easy to explain the roots of the crisis without sounding ridiculous, but I am going to try one of these days.<br /><br />For now, I ask you to be patient with me. I'm trying. Things are getting better, a lot better (apart from my poor jeans), but I'm just not ready to write about it all yet. For everybody I've talked with lately, I love you. Your support means more than I can say. To anyone who's waiting on a comment response or who's wondering why I don't write on your blogs anymore, I'm sorry. I am here. I am reading. I'm just a little quiet; I won't be for long.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362365.post-53505872479316184342007-12-04T21:48:00.000-08:002007-12-04T21:49:56.474-08:00Hanging in thereI'm here and tired, but man -- I barely missed getting stuck on I-5 yesterday when it closed, and now I'm stuck in Seattle while Mom languishes down in Portland. This weather...wtf?? It would be really nice to go home, see the cat, pack my apartment -- but I don't have a clue when that's going to happen. I'll tell you all about my awesome travel day when I'm a little less exhausted.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362365.post-56218073912860522632007-11-30T19:46:00.000-08:002007-11-30T19:50:32.204-08:00Last daysIs: 7:40 pm.<br /><br />Number of drinks have had:<br />1 double gin and tonic<br />1 stoli's and rootbeer<br />1 irish car bomb<br />1 shot whiskey<br />1 irish car bomb<br /><br />Number of co-workers have outdrunk:<br />4. Could be 6 or 7, but double vision makes it hard to tell who might be figment of drunk-ass imagination.<br /><br />Number of times have said "I'll miss you":<br />Oh god, do not ask.<br /><br />Minutes until I will severely regret past 3.5 hours:<br />Five, maybe 10. Depends on how much water I can chug. Considering that ceiling already spins like a record baby, could be very soon. Then again, did manage to order pizza. With vegetables. I think. Maybe called Fred Meyer's instead. Not sure yet.<br /><br />General assessment of evening:<br />Fun. And oh, shit. Do not remind me of existence of Irish Car Bombs, as response is to say: "Shit, yes!" and chug, willingly, repeatedly.<br /><br />Going back to floor now. Fuuuuuuck.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362365.post-8437346376203626612007-11-28T19:30:00.001-08:002007-11-28T19:37:14.771-08:00Edward Abbey knows my soul<span style="font-style: italic;">One final paragraph of advice: Do not burn yourself out. Be as I am-a reluctant enthusiast... a part time crusader, a half-hearted fanatic. Save the other half of yourselves and your lives for pleasure and adventure. It is not enough to fight for the land; it is even more important to enjoy it. While you can. While it is still there. So get out there and mess around with your friends, ramble out yonder and explore the forests, encounter the grizz, climb the mountains. Run the rivers, breathe deep of that yet sweet and lucid air, sit quietly for a while and contemplate the precious stillness, that lovely, mysterious and awesome space. Enjoy yourselves, keep your brain in your head and your head firmly attached to your body, the body active and alive, and I promise you this much: I promise you this one sweet victory over our enemies, over those deskbound people with their hearts in a safe deposit box and their eyes hypnotized by desk calculators. I promise you this: you will outlive the bastards.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>Many thanks to <a href="http://ntcoolfool.livejournal.com/">Bryce</a> for posting this quote. I've been struggling for the last year with some serious environmental burnout while my fellow Udallers do amazing things without me. I think the tide of apathy is finally turning for me. Tonight, I needed this quote. <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362365.post-79936403574510404652007-11-26T21:59:00.001-08:002007-11-26T22:53:44.375-08:00Oh, hi!Oh my god. It has been 12 days since my last post.<br /><br />TWELVE! I have become one of those awful bloggers whose page you refresh and refresh and refresh until your key seizes up and you delete the whole thing from your RSS feed in disgust.<br /><br />Forgive me, dear readers. It's going to be a long month. Oh, shit. Month is basically over. It's going to be a long...quarter?<br /><br />I was going to blog yesterday, but then I got stuck in holiday traffic south of Olympia. This was particularly irritating because THERE IS NOT ONE GODDAMN THING SOUTH OF OLYMPIA. There is an <a href="http://www.roadsideamerica.com/tips/getAttraction.php?tip_AttractionNo=%3D6002">asinine billboard</a> run by a right-wing conservative. <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seawallrunner/32825160/">There is a perfect example</a> of why people with money should not be allowed to spend it without some form of oversight. There is a small town whose location I can identify only because it is directly south of the two smashed-to-bits freight truck cabs that have been perched atop a 20' pole for as long as I can remember. I think it is an advertisement for a junkyard. Or maybe a memorial to drivers who went insane after navigating this long, unforgivably boring stretch of highway week after week. Last night, I could not reflect upon the meaning of the trucks, because I was sharing the car with a cat who does not understand congestion. He'd behaved very well until traffic slowed -- probably because I sprayed Feliway in his carrier until he hallucinated -- but we were doomed as soon as the tail lights lit up.<br /><br />Want to know what cats think of highway backups and air pollution? It goes like this:<br /><br />"Meow. Meow. MEOW. MEOOOW. Meow. Meow. MEOW. MEOOOW."<br /><br />A little tip? Do not attempt to soothe a road raging cat. It may clamp down on your finger and continue its monologue thusly: "Mrmph...mprhwo...ooooow."<br /><br />After four hours, I wondered whether I should pull over and find somewhere to stay for the night. You see, my cat also has a few gastrointestinal delicacies, fancy talk for: he's prone to farting whenever he's excited. Or pissed, apparently. Just as I reached the point where I was willing to stay in a room next to a giant Veggie Tales outlet (you so wish I was kidding right now -- welcome to the parts of Washington State we don't talk about in polite company), traffic cleared. And then I drove like the proverbial bat from hell except I can see so I didn't have to use the sonar which was good because I think bats would have trouble navigating at 80 mph+.<br /><br />Did I mention this week is the week from hell? No? Well, it is. So this semicoherent post may be all you get from me until Saturday, because in between now and then I must:<br /><br />1. Work until 10 p.m. tomorrow, because nothing says, "I'm a short-timer!" like a 14-hour day<br />2. Take the cat to the vet to have a lump examined Wednesday. This involves putting him in the carrier, which he didn't used to mind until we started going on 3 hour excursions. On Sunday, he almost took down a lampshade in his attempt to escape the plastic jaws of doom, and that was when I had someone else to help me. This should be fun.<br />3. Work a full day Thursday, go to physical therapy (oh, crap, you don't know about that yet) and then drive to Seattle because<br />4. I have an interview at 9:30 Friday morning (and I have lovely pre-interview questions I have to think about and write beforehand because, you know, you really need to go through the wringer for a 15-hour per week job) and then<br />5. I have to drive back to Portland by 1:00 to finish my workday. Because they hate me.<br />6. Did I mention I need to pack all weekend?<br />7. And CB comes into SeaTac on Monday? Which involves (yes) another drive to Seattle (nonononono).<br /><br />It is now past my bedtime and I am going to take a bath because, damnit, at this point sleep deprivation might be a good thing.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362365.post-36886931208486542062007-11-14T22:25:00.000-08:002007-11-14T22:37:52.879-08:00Fact not fictionTwenty-six years ago, my mother sat waiting for a bus near San Francisco's Russian Hill. She was in her third trimester and her body hummed with anticipation and anxiety. This was her first child. What sort of future lay in store for it? She waited and daydreamed.<br /><br />When she looked up, Dianne Feinstein was sitting next to her. Mom wasn't a shy person, and soon she and the young politician were engaged in an animated conversation. Before they parted, Dianne patted my Mom's belly and told her she'd be a great mother. I know how much that moment meant to my mom because every time she tells it, she glows a little, like she's still in her 30s and turning to a fresh chapter, like someone's just reached out again and let her know that everything is going to be new and different and good.<br /><br />Maybe growing up with that story explains why I am so sad about <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2007/11/12/feinstein-faces-dem-censu_n_72342.html">this</a>, why I won't even ask my Mom if she's heard the news -- in case she hasn't -- even though I've never met Senator Feinstein myself. I don't understand her decisions lately, especially to back the cowardly Mukasey, but I don't have the same level of distaste for Feinstein that I might feel for anyone else in her position. I just keep thinking of those two young women, both in the midst of extraordinary lives, sharing a moment of joy and hope together in a world where the two can be hard to find.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362365.post-18416642533411372922007-11-12T10:15:00.000-08:002007-11-12T20:12:15.500-08:00Just give me something to hold ontoDear readers,<br /><br />It feels a little contrived to write the letter that every other blogger's written, but I don't care. Your thoughtful notes and encouragement have helped me realize something: I am brave, and it's okay to feel good about this decision. I love you all. :)<br /><br />That said: OMG WTF HAVEIDONE???<br /><br />I've killed two hours tonight sitting in front of the computer trying not to think about the awesomeness ahead of me. Damn, I know that having a quarter life crisis is about as original as writing blog love letters, but it doesn't make it any easier.<br /><br />I'll write a lot about this in the months ahead, because it seems like it's the unspoken truth we all face after college, or high school, or whenever your time arrives. Whatever we thought we would be doing after we finished school? So not even close to reality. Whatever we thought we'd want to do? Probably doesn't exist, or if it exists, it's not what we expect.<br /><br />I'm not sure what I should do now. Career counseling seems expensive and possibly unhelpful. Banging my head against a wall, while therapeutic, isn't doing much, either. There are only so many times I can email my mentors with a "Hey there, guess who's confused again!"<br /><br />Sometimes, I just want to curl up and cry. I'm afraid I'll disappoint my brilliant husband, frustrate my friends, let myself down. I'm terrified of becoming That Girl Who Had Such Potential. And it's stupid. It's all painfully, obviously stupid...but I still feel that way.<br /><br />Yet, I know this was the right thing to do. This morning, I sat in my cubicle listening to a co-worker talk about how she won't go home for Thanksgiving this fall, because it's too far away and there's too much work to do. She's right: we have a four hour evening meeting for the community and our project advisers immediately after the holiday weekend, a meeting so arduous that everyone has been talking about it for months. The other person in the conversation sighed and said that he guessed that was how it had to be these days, the challenge of having a successful career outweighing the desire to keep your loved ones close.<br /><br />I don't believe that's how it has to be -- but, if I'm wrong, I think it's time for me to start letting the career mean less than the life it supports. It's hard, you know? When you want fulfilling work, challenging work, a job that makes you think. When you wind up instead with a stack of 45 telescoping easels and a large bag that has to hold them all. (No, really, that's how I spent the better part of my day at one point.) I don't want to complain because I know there are many people who would kill for the crappy job I'm leaving, and I'd actually stay with my company if it weren't for the LDR-related stress getting to the point where it's a productive night if I remember to eat and do the laundry. I hate feeling like an entitled whiner; I hope that's not what I am. Still, I can't believe it isn't worth searching for a job that makes the time I put in worthwhile. I don't have to love it, but I'd be so happy to like it.<br /><br />I'm rambling. I'm sorry. There's much on my mind, and it came to a head recently, when I spent the better part of an evening on the phone to my mother, anxiety beating against my ribs like a trapped bird on a windowpane, walking block after frigid block of my neighborhood because I had to keep moving before it all caught up with me. (Have I mentioned how much I love my mom?) Anyway, things are better now. I can recommend treating mounting career woes and personal crises with the following four-step program:<br /><br />1. Get thee to a video store. Rent the crappiest, stupidest romcom you can find on the shelves, paired with a legitimately funny film like Office Space. (Which hits so much closer to home now -- I don't know if I would have found it so funny the first time, had I known how accurate it would prove to be.)<br />2. Purchase vat of favorite ice cream.<br />3. Purchase six pack of beer. Or whatever. Something that makes you giddy.<br />4. Watch films, eat ice cream with teaspoon because it seems like you're consuming less that way, and drink until you establish a good beer buzz. Ideally, you should perform this step wrapped in a comforter and sporting really ugly, super-comfortable pajamas. It helps to have a bewildered cat on hand who just wants to know why the hell you aren't in bed yet.<br /><br />I'm going to be pretty up and down on this blog for a bit. Well, until I move to the new blog (meet the new blog, same as the old...oh, god, I need to maybe get more beer before I actually think I'm funny). You're welcome along for the ride -- at least I can promise interesting commentary.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362365.post-24839242661262166412007-11-09T22:33:00.000-08:002007-11-09T22:35:10.120-08:00Any TypePad lurkers out there?For I am an idiot who cannot figure out how to map my newly purchased domain to my new TypePad account. It appears to be mapping in reverse, thereby pointing users to an annoying domain host site full of frightening cartoon people with bad haircuts.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362365.post-32992507277476021152007-11-08T19:00:00.000-08:002007-11-08T19:04:41.143-08:00The camera makes you thinnerWell, isn't somebody famous?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZRuwrhOuw1c/RzPN1j56fbI/AAAAAAAAAGY/F3XD84UE-8w/s1600-h/Marlowe.bmp"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZRuwrhOuw1c/RzPN1j56fbI/AAAAAAAAAGY/F3XD84UE-8w/s400/Marlowe.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5130670720560037298" border="0" /></a><br />That's my boy, mugging for the camera. Head on over to <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.petfinder.com">www.petfinder.com</a> and say hi. Seriously, it's a great site -- although, if you're like me, it's hard to resist adopting every damned animal they feature.<br /><br />Now he's just going to expect more treats. These 15 minutes of fame will do me no good.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362365.post-89385857271736672802007-11-06T14:52:00.000-08:002007-11-06T14:57:40.857-08:00Oh yeah, about the furballKristy of <a href="http://dangerpanda.com/">Eats, Shoots & Leaves!</a> rightly noted that I forgot the most important part of the move. Marlowe is coming, and he will arrive in style at my parents' sometime in early December. No, seriously. They've filled the entire house with cat toys and scratching posts. There are litter boxes in the pristine hallways where show-wearing deviants cannot tread, and my mom bought freaking catnip bubbles. Honestly, I think he's the reason why they're letting me move home.<br /><br />He made his first trip to Seattle last week and did quite well, then celebrated his excellent car manners by throwing up on my rug once we returned to Portland.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362365.post-38087892489321869802007-11-05T13:50:00.000-08:002007-11-05T14:00:31.420-08:00and now it's time for you to goThis is it. I'm sitting here in my office (yes, blogging in my office, but on my own laptop), and there is a three-paragraph resignation letter face down beside my potted fern.<br /><br />I've talked to so many advisers, mentors and friends this month that I can barely think for myself anymore. The fact that this isn't going to work makes me incredibly sad, because it really could if I just had something or someone to balance the crazy hours, the miserable supervisors, and the soul-sucking tasks. No, really: life beyond job would make the job tolerable. But 3 hours north, there are friends and family and all of the reasons I came home from England. As frightened as I am right now (and if you've talked to me lately, you know I'm terrified -- my confidence and trust in my own abilities are as low I can remember them being)...as much as my stomach feels like it's taking an acid bath, I also think this is something I need to do. I want to believe that my life is more than the job I do. Here, it's literally all I have besides a cat who barely sees me and an apartment I love but really can't afford.<br /><br />If I had time for friends? To make friends? I would stay. But I am tired of feeling like I need more excuses, so here are the bare, dry bones bleaching in the sun:<br /><br />I am lonely as hell;<br />The LDR is survivable when I have people nearby to help me forget it;<br />I work too many hours to go home;<br />I can barely stand my job, and I think I'd be fine with that for the short-term if it weren't for the rest of the ribcage above this;<br />For whatever reasons, professional and personal, I need to go home;<br />and I am finally okay with admitting it.<br /><br />I have a reference here, and I'm leaving in the best circumstances I can. They're getting almost six weeks' notice. Really, I think it's a better deal for them than me. But I can't hold onto something just because it's safe. I can't ignore all of the signs -- and there are many -- that I'm not doing so well right now.<br /><br />It doesn't make sense to some of you, I know. I wish I could explain it, but all I can say is that I've learned a lot, and maybe that's enough for me to take away from it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362365.post-48729572462182795232007-11-02T10:25:00.001-07:002007-11-02T10:44:43.580-07:00What you do to meHe arrived late Saturday night, and I spotted him first, separated by a pane of glass, his back to me, short hair ruffled from hours on the plane. Within those first minutes, after I burst through the revolving door and caught him by surprise, we'd returned to a life together as if we'd never left off, conversations flowing together like tides, unimpeded by time or distance.<br /><br />He left on a frost-tinged Thursday evening, and this time I actually thought I wouldn't cry. I watched him wave from the security line, and then I turned and walked back through the empty airport to my car. After a few of these long, silent passages, I've learned never to make eye contact with anyone until I'm out of the airport, because I will cry at the sight of a stranger with a suitcase. I made it out to the car, cursed my battery-drained Ipod, and started back to Seattle, for I am spending the weekend here while I decide what comes next.<br /><br />Halfway across the Viaduct, as I passed the ferry terminal and caught a glimpse of the Yakima floating across blackwater, a song came on the radio, a song I've adopted as one of "ours". And I fucking sobbed, as hard as I ever have, for everything we've been through and for everything yet to come. It doesn't get any easier, and yet, I am so proud of us. We are at the halfway point, and we've made it through moments that I thought could be the beginning of the end. Our relationship is stronger now than I'd ever believed possible, and when I look at him these days, when we happen to be in the same room on the same continent, the conviction that we are right for each other sits like a lighthouse in the middle of uncharted waters. It is the only thing I believe right now, and the strength with which I believe it is almost inconceivable. I never knew I could feel this particular way about anyone, even though I would not have married him if I hadn't thought we were meant for each other...but it's one thing to think it, and another to go through enough that you <span style="font-style: italic;">know</span> it, beyond doubt, beyond everything this world can throw at you.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362365.post-37938707096637076422007-10-23T21:21:00.001-07:002007-10-23T21:24:01.964-07:00Wake up callTonight, in a lengthy phone call, I bemoaned my fate to a trusted friend and valued adviser.<br /><br />"If I could do anything, I'd get a PhD! But I can't!"<br /><br />He paused on the other end of the line. I listened to the three year old toddle across the floor into a pile of blocks, watched my cat traipse across bookshelves.<br /><br />"Why can't you?"<br /><br />"Because everyone knows two-PhD couples can't get jobs in the same city."<br /><br />"Who said that was a fact?"<br /><br />A revelatory discussion ensued.<br /><br />And suddenly, everything changes.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362365.post-54361496862443942952007-10-21T22:10:00.000-07:002007-10-21T22:13:25.938-07:00ComplicatedI worked another six-day week and woke up four times last night to the sound of my neighbor clumping across the floor on Clydesdale feet.<br /><br />I go through so much back-and-forth here. I want to make this work: Portland, life alone, the new job. But the job, painful as it is, isn't really the kicker here. It's the fact that I have no time to go home -- I realized this morning that I'd spent the last seven days talking to no one but office mates. I miss my friends. I miss my family. I'm tired of making excuses to people who don't understand why those two parts of my life matter so much to me.<br /><br />They do. I don't know what it means, but I have some thinking to undertake this week.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362365.post-8297510668458925802007-10-15T20:10:00.000-07:002007-10-15T20:22:31.098-07:00Getting off my fraking buttMy working hours are insane. Physical therapy exercises take up lunch. By the time I get home, I can barely cook a meal, clean the apartment (goddamn, how is it that there's always more dirt??) and play with the cat before I succumb to an hour on the couch staring at the wall, then crawl into bed.<br /><br />However, after my team's manager decided to trash not one but all of the public information documents I'd spent eight days writing, I've had it.<br /><br />The reason I've never pursued writing is simple -- I'm terrified of failure. Imagine finding out that you can't <span style="font-style: italic;">do </span>the one thing you love, either because you're bloody incompetent or you're just incapable of turning a dream into reality. I don't know what I'd do if I tried to write and discovered it wasn't going to happen...but not-writing guarantees the outcome, doesn't it?<br /><br />This isn't the best time to begin. I really do work at least five to 10 hours more per week than I'm supposed to (thank you, American work ethic) -- which may not sound like much, but it drains me just enough to dull my appetite for voluntary evening labor. Nonetheless, I'm doing three things, starting yesterday:<br /><br />1. Editing my novel page-by-page so I can reach where I left off with a renewed understanding of my characters and a reinvigorated desire to finish it<br />2. Thinking long and hard about where to go from here, be it journalism school or unpaid internships. The prospects seem daunting now, what with CB's looming postdoc, our desire to buy a home sometime before we turn 80, and the fact that I know nothing about freelancing...but I have one year to educate myself as much as I can so I'm positioned to get started when CB returns. Given my daily schedule, one year will be cutting it close.<br />3. Pitch when I can, where I can. I may not have time to build a flourishing freelance career now, but I can lay the groundwork. I started tonight by contacting a struggling local monthly looking for an editor -- I figure if they need an editor, they might need a writer or two, as well. The worst that happens is they ignore me, right? If they say no, I'll just try harder.<br /><br />I don't know how I'm going to do it, but I need to give writing my all before I throw in the towel and settle for a soul-sucking career in public outreach. I'd like nothing more than to find a part-time job in the next three years that lets me spend the other 20+ hours per week pitching, writing, editing, whatever. How do I get there? Not sure. I'm sure I won't be nearly so motivated by the end of this week, as I'm scheduled to work 50+ hours between tomorrow and Saturday (no, I'm really not exaggerating). Still, if I can't push through to the other side, I'll look back years from now and wonder what might have been. This isn't going to happen overnight, but it has to start sometime. It might as well be now, even if all I can do is take the seed out of its envelope and look for a suitable planting site.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362365.post-59569088269073920652007-10-08T12:25:00.000-07:002007-10-08T21:18:43.998-07:00A photographic synopsis of my life<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZRuwrhOuw1c/RwsAuKdt7HI/AAAAAAAAAGI/gExP_z6QDIo/s1600-h/DSCN1452.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZRuwrhOuw1c/RwsAuKdt7HI/AAAAAAAAAGI/gExP_z6QDIo/s320/DSCN1452.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119186194519682162" border="0" /></a>When he's not toppling my laundry hamper in search of warmth, Marlowe is busy being sick. I've managed to adopt the world's only partially blind, hard-of-hearing (we think), broken-toothed, colitis-stricken cat. Well, we think it's colitis. Really, all I know is that it's kind of gross and probably uncomfortable for him -- although he does get to eat rice now. Want to know if your cat's been on the streets? Offer him bland, lukewarm white rice. If he gobbles it up like it's a slab of fresh mouse rump, he's probably done his share of garbage can dining in the past. Marlowe and I have many a vet appointment and food experimentation ahead of us, but at least he gets to snuggle up on a warm, fuzzy blanket at the end of the day.<br /><br />When not tearing down I-5 on the way to work, Fitty is letting me know that he hates <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZRuwrhOuw1c/RwsBAKdt7II/AAAAAAAAAGQ/JQZYi6k_vr4/s1600-h/DSCN1456.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZRuwrhOuw1c/RwsBAKdt7II/AAAAAAAAAGQ/JQZYi6k_vr4/s320/DSCN1456.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119186503757327490" border="0" /></a>weddings. During the first summer wedding, he backed into a picnic table (I would do no such thing because I am a competent driver who knows the difference between gas and brake). This weekend, he bottomed out on the pothole-strewn excuse for a road that lead to my friend's ceremony. I think this is a sign that I should stop attending weddings, which is fine, as they only cause me to spend the rest of the weekend in a bubble bath wondering why I ever left England. I'll be taking Fitty to the repair shop, although I'm tempted to leave it alone unless my bumper is in danger of tumbling across the road during the morning commute.<br /><br />When not spasming in the middle of an evening get-together, my back is...well, it's spasming at every opportunity it finds. We won't dwell on that.<br /><br />Finally, when not working through the night, CB is preparing for a week home! There's really nothing more to say about that, is there? :)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362365.post-36658332832612001672007-10-02T22:48:00.000-07:002007-10-02T22:52:04.450-07:00Things I am tired of right now1. LDRs and the accompanying time zone differences that mean we miss scheduled conversations whenever one of us accidentally sleeps late, which means talking only twice each week instead of three times<br />2. The US health "care" system, which has decided that my thyroid problem is my fault and therefore I deserve no insurance unless my employer makes them cover me<br />3. My employer's crappy health insurance, which does not cover physical therapy<br />4. My apparently-defective-since-birth spine, which desperately needs physical therapy so I don't have another Saturday like the last one, in which I spent four hours on a friend of a friend's floor trying not to cry<br /><br />Sorry. Bad week. Would very much like to skip ahead to my thirties now.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362365.post-66225536572380062392007-09-24T21:09:00.000-07:002007-09-24T21:10:41.156-07:00When the stars go blueI spent this evening cooking a sweet potato gratin and listening to a This American Life episode from September 21, 2001, the episode where Ira Glass offers David Rakoff and David Sedaris's takes on 9/11. It brought to mind a lot of things I've been contemplating lately.<br /><br />You see, in about 15 months, life is going to take another turn. CB and I will be on the way to somewhere. Our location might be Chicago or even London. It won't be Seattle; not yet, because our return home comes about 24 months after that.<br /><br />I've experienced several mood swings since I returned to the U.S. Once I figured out that my dysfunctional thyroid contributed heavily to my poor experiences in the UK, I started wishing I could have a do-over, another chance to see whether England and I were at loggerheads for no reason. There are things I missed about the States that I cherish now: my family, my friends, good food, and even the American people -- at least when we live up to our better stereotypes, moving through the world with good intentions and offering whatever we have to each other. But there are things I'm finding I never wanted to come home to: our ignorance, not only about world affairs, but also about our own government; our conservatism; our crappy health care. I've been turning it over in my head to understand whether the things I love outweigh the things I loathe, or whether my values are diverging so far from where our country's headed that I no longer belong here.<br /><br />I still don't know, at least when it comes to the short term. In the long term, I can't see myself anywhere but Seattle. Thankfully, CB feels the same and understands my fierce devotion to friends and family enough to move back, even when we're both realizing that his potential could take him anywhere he wanted to go. The fact that he wants to go where I need to stay tells me more about our future as a couple than anything else could.<br /><br />But for the short-term, I want to go where he chooses. I realize that's a rather un-feminist thing to say, but here's the situation. I don't have a clue what I want yet, at least not when it comes to my career. Correction: I have several conflicting clues. I want to be a writer and an environmental lawyer, a planner and a journalist, a librarian and maybe a professor. I can't be any of these now, and I don't really want to jump into any one before I have a better understanding of myself. In a way, then, the next two years are experimentation time. While CB conquers the statistical genetics world, I can work part-time and try it all out: freelance until my fingers go numb, think long and hard about law school, find out whether planners ever do anything besides sit in rooms approving permits or bickering over growth management guidelines.<br /><br />It's important to note that I don't always feel this way. Deep down, I'm also very afraid of losing sight of myself and my goals. In some ways, this year feels like the first step down that path: I take a job out of sheer panic, make it work, and promise myself to do better next time. I can't promise then that this post is going to be the definitive exposee on how I feel about our future...but it's the definitive post today, and part of me thinks it could stick around even longer.<br /><br />Back to the original thread. As I look ahead to careers and (maybe) children and mortgage payments, I find myself wondering: why not now? Why not live abroad two more years, why not pack up the cat, park the car in storage, sell the furniture and head back to jolly old England? What's two years in the grand scheme of things, anyway?<br /><br />I don't know how I feel about this country sometimes. I think it's home, but that doesn't mean I won't capitalize on the opportunity to live in a place where politics are more nuanced, where health care matters (even if it's still flawed), and where people actually believe that the community matters more than the individual. I miss the latter the most. I almost cried the other day listening to people on Oregon Public Broadcasting complain that they shouldn't have to fund health care for anyone's children but their own. What the fuck is wrong with this place? For a few days after 9/11, I thought we might come together in more ways than one. Now, look at us. Our civil liberties are frayed, our social values are racing backwards, and liberals like me are a bigger threat than the terrorists in some Americans' minds.<br /><br />I'm rambling badly, and I don't think I've written one tenth of what's on my mind, but if I'm not posting often it's because most of my thoughts take shape this way: in fragments and long threads I'm still pulling from buttonholes. Blame it on the age or on post-college disenchantment; attribute it to my LDR. Really, they're all complicit...and so am I.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362365.post-87693528145404282582007-09-17T20:56:00.001-07:002007-09-17T21:19:28.401-07:00Sharing the roadAll car drivers should have to bike commute to their office, school, or grocery store at least once each year. Trust me on this one: I am a much better driver now because I cycle. When you're in a car, you don't realize how dangerous your mode of transportation can be. Try sharing the road from the security of a small carbon frame, open-air, you-powered vehicle, and all the bad habits we develop as lifelong drivers become abundantly clear: the California stop, the cell phone while speeding, the fiddling-with-the-radio while turning, the blind turn with only a glance at oncoming traffic...Don't get me started about the speeding semi trucks, the cars full of teenagers who think it's hilarious to see how close they can get to your elbow, or the idiots trying to discipline their dogs/kids/friends while passing you.<br /><br />I know there are plenty of bad cyclists out there -- really, really <span style="font-style: italic;">bad</span> cyclists who make your commute and mine hell. I'm all in favor of bike licensing; I think fixies don't belong on roads; and I would like to see us all pass a basic cycling skills test before we get to take our bikes off designated multimodal paths. But to me the difference will always come down to this: if I'm a bad cyclist, I might die. If I'm a bad driver, someone else might die. If I'm a good cyclist who meets a bad driver, it doesn't matter how many laws I obey, because I'm going to be the one who pays the price.<br /><br />Lately, I've noticed an uptick in crazy drivers all over the Northwest: I nearly lost the back half of my car in Seattle when I stopped for a red light that the guy behind me assumed I'd run. I've been halfway through a crosswalk when someone decides they don't need to slow down for me. I had a sedan miss me by about four feet today as I cycled home because he didn't yield to the right of way. It was easier to run the stop sign than to see if anyone might be entering the intersection.<br /><br />I know we're all busy, stressed out, and sick of the region's growing traffic, but what happened to being kind to each other? Or to recognizing that slowing for a yellow light -- or stopping for a freaking red one -- is not going to take hours off our day? If you're in that much of a hurry...maybe you should try leaving earlier?<br /><br />What really bothers me is that you aren't going to get a lot of jail time if you kill a cyclist down here, even if you're speeding, running a light, or performing other acts of negligence which distract you enough to run down a human being. Last month, a guy road raged on two cyclists because he didn't like sharing the road: he intentionally hit one, sped off, struck the other, and then tried to flee. One cyclist went to the hospital; the perp is free on reduced bail.<br /><br />I know we aren't always easy to see, and I know sometimes the laws for cyclists and drivers get confusing...but please, try it from our perspective once. Think of it as drivers ed redux. I guarantee you'll be a kinder, gentler, safer driver afterwards. I know I am.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362365.post-32090707784837828822007-09-13T21:05:00.000-07:002007-09-13T21:13:54.628-07:00Tumbling afterAck. Oh, ack. It has not been two weeks since I blogged. Could not be. Oh, wait. It has been more than two weeks.<br /><br />So, hi! Here's the thing: I am coming down with the office plague, and it's 9:00 in the evening, and while I'm becoming less frightened of all of the office reorganizing (which you of course don't know about because I haven't blogged in two weeks), it did occur to me today that I am now doing the jobs of...well...at least two people, which means I am either going to have to move Marlowe to the office or I'll just have to clone myself.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZRuwrhOuw1c/RuoJRDnmT7I/AAAAAAAAAFY/9JEQBkcNMRE/s1600-h/RSCN1422.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZRuwrhOuw1c/RuoJRDnmT7I/AAAAAAAAAFY/9JEQBkcNMRE/s400/RSCN1422.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5109906915839070130" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Can I bring my ball to work so we can play fetch? Why are you banging your head against the keyboard, Mama?<br /></span></div><br />Naturally, I actually started rounding up some potential freelance leads these past two weeks, all of which I have to turn down because I can't really fit them in unless I stop doing laundry. Something tells me that would get me fired. Of course, there are advantages to being sacked. Like having time to sleep.<br /><br />Oh! Someone keyed my car while I was in Seattle for a home office training this Tuesday. Thank you so much, you filth-encrusted gum on the bottom of my shoe. I'd just been thinking that my car looked far too new for being 2 months old. You sure took care of that little problem.<br /><br />Oops, gotta go. Kitty has just placed paw in my genmaicha. I will keep posting, even if it's infrequent. Thanks for understanding.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362365.post-46341626591245739392007-08-28T14:40:00.000-07:002007-08-28T14:48:47.653-07:00No you did-n'tOMFG.<br /><br />If I get one more lecture about how to write a #*!@ email ("Just a line or two, explaining what you need and what you've done already") in a voice that oozes condescension like a sappy tree, I may fucking snap.<br /><br />I'm sorry -- I don't mean to be so angry, but I write the exact crappity-ass emails Passive Aggressive Boss tells me to write. I just want to scream that I am not actually that stupid (which PAB knows), then throw something and walk out.<br /><deep><br />AUGH!!! AUGH!!! I was having a reasonable day, I was going to write a nice contemplative post tonight asking you all advice about what to do in my situation, and now I just want to fire up my Blazing Glare of Disdain and skip away towards home.<br /><br />Okay, I feel slightly better now.<br /><br />And yes: I am blogging at work. On a non-work computer connected to a non-work wireless network. Really, it's snark from my own laptop or start making tiny voodoo dolls and skewering them with blunt implements.<br /><br />If I weren't interested in self-preservation, I'd get blind blitzed at the farewell party tonight and send Passive Aggressive Boss short, "ideal" emails that sum up why it is a terrible manager in 10 words or less. Perhaps its departure will help me endure this a bit longer. Although, it gets to choose its own replacement. Maybe getting blitzed isn't such a bad idea after all.</deep>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362365.post-32806273334186637282007-08-24T23:00:00.000-07:002007-08-24T23:24:02.461-07:00Bath timeYou know, there is nothing like returning home from the vet's office with your terrified kitty to make a Wednesday morning interesting -- especially when you open the carrier to discover that your kitty has peed all over himself, his blanket, and the inside of the crate.<br /><br />I was on the phone at the time, explaining Marlowe's dire health to my mother, when she suddenly heard me saying, "Shit. Oh, shit! Oh my god, oh shit!"<br /><br />This is because Marlowe had just streaked across the apartment, trailing a whole lot of unpleasantness. Naturally, my reaction was to sit in front of the puddle swearing while my mom implored me to go find a towel. Five minutes later, the carrier hastily tossed through the front window to my deck, and the blanket double-bagged in garbage liners, I went in search of the cat. I found him huddled miserably in the closet. On top of my shoes. Thus began another round of violent cursing, causing the cat to shoot straight over my legs and under my bed as my ever-patient mom suggested perhaps her dim-witted daughter might consider putting the cat in the linoleum-covered bathroom until I found a store that sold pet shampoo.<br /><br />I coaxed him into the bathroom with food and water, then pulled the door shut and bolted down the street to the nearest pet store. Ten minutes later, armed with heavy gloves, towels, and cat shampoo, I returned to find Marlowe perched atop the toilet seat, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. Murmuring false assurances, I filled the tub an inch or two, pulled on enough clothing to avoid any major scratches, picked up the cat, and dropped him into the water.<br /><br />As I may have mentioned, Marlowe is partially blind. Consequently, he saw just enough to notice that I wasn't guarding the open space behind my left shoulder. He leaped -- headfirst into the heavy ceramic sink. Undeterred, he repeated this procedure two or three times until I managed to grab his scruff with one glove-encased hand and pry him off the side of the tub. He then went for the shower curtain, and we began a long tug-of-war that ended when I decided it might be wise to <span style="font-style: italic;">let him </span>stay tangled in the plastic.<br /><br />Working frantically, I didn't notice the low rumbling emanating from the sodden mass of fur beneath my fingers. Marlowe chirps and churls, so I assumed I must have been hearing the pipes rattle in our archaic plumbing system. My happy illusion shattered when Marlowe turned and issued the loudest, shrillest shriek ever recorded during human-cat interaction. The shriek ended in a chainsaw growl, and suddenly I went from scrubbing a paralyzed cat to detaching a crazed monster from my sweatshirt.<br /><br />During the fray, he kicked the drain plug out of place and wedged two of his hind toes in the drain. For a few moments, I thought I'd have to call 911 and have them come out with a sledgehammer and some kind of tranquilizer gun. Think bathing a cat is challenging? Try bathing a half-blind, raging ball of fury who has a foot jammed in the train of your tub. I finally gave up, dropped a towel on his head, and bolted into the kitchen to retrieve my olive oil. After dumping it all over his head while the towel shook ominously, I managed to pry his foot out of the drain. We then had to repeat the entire bath to remove the oil from his fur.<br /><br />After 20 minutes, the bathroom looked like several furry gerbils had exploded in it. A layer of wet fur coated the tub. My back ached, and my sweatshirt looked like I'd hugged a cactus. I picked up the remaining towel, wrapped the cat in a neat package, opened the door, and deposited my bundle in the kitchen before shutting myself back in the bathroom. From outside, the sounds of a monumental struggle filtered through the door. Eventually, the tearing cloth gave way to silence.<br /><br />I checked my watch. It was only 9:30. I probably needed to stay in the bathroom until at least noon, and I didn't have a book. I nervously peered outside: no cat.<br /><br />I waited a few minutes, then went into the bedroom and snatched a random book off the shelves. It occurred to me that I was being ridiculous: cats don't actually wait for vengeance. It was all some anthropomorphic projection, probably guilt brought about by authorizing his overnight vet stay. Indeed, as I entered the main room, I found Marlowe sitting stiffly on the floor, looking puzzled but congenial. I slipped onto the couch, feeling my worries slip away.<br /><br />Last night, at about three in the morning, the cat who avoids laps galloped headlong into my room, took a flying leap, and landed on top of me as I slept before bounding straight back off the bed to hide in another room. I'm pretty sure my scream woke both neighbors.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362365.post-45963505938282651892007-08-22T22:59:00.001-07:002007-08-22T23:06:15.378-07:00Now with more kittehI think I aged five years overnight, thanks to vets with poor phone manners.<br /><br />Luckily, the same vets are much clearer about Marlowe's prognosis when they come face-to-face with a hollow-eyed, grief-stricken owner.<br /><br />Details forthcoming, but it looks like it's going to be okay. Expensive, but okay.<br /><br />After the day he's had, however, Marlowe disagrees.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZRuwrhOuw1c/Rs0iYzLf8gI/AAAAAAAAAE4/t7hcMuLBdvY/s1600-h/DSCN1427.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZRuwrhOuw1c/Rs0iYzLf8gI/AAAAAAAAAE4/t7hcMuLBdvY/s400/DSCN1427.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5101771762331283970" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2