Celebrity Sea Slugs

Pest control

2008-01-10T22:04:00.001-08:00

CB 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.

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.

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.

For background information, this 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 book of recipes...

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.

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.

Welcome to my world. :)

True that

2008-01-07T22:04:00.001-08:00

From Adrian Ryan's tales of Portland:

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.

Days go by

2007-12-12T22:38:00.001-08:00

I'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.

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.

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.

Hanging in there

2007-12-04T21:48:00.000-08:00

I'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.

Last days

2007-11-30T19:46:00.000-08:00

Is: 7:40 pm.

Number of drinks have had:
1 double gin and tonic
1 stoli's and rootbeer
1 irish car bomb
1 shot whiskey
1 irish car bomb

Number of co-workers have outdrunk:
4. Could be 6 or 7, but double vision makes it hard to tell who might be figment of drunk-ass imagination.

Number of times have said "I'll miss you":
Oh god, do not ask.

Minutes until I will severely regret past 3.5 hours:
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.

General assessment of evening:
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.

Going back to floor now. Fuuuuuuck.

Edward Abbey knows my soul

2007-11-28T19:30:00.001-08:00

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.

Many thanks to Bryce 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.

Oh, hi!

2007-11-26T21:59:00.001-08:00

Oh my god. It has been 12 days since my last post.

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.

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?

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 asinine billboard run by a right-wing conservative. There is a perfect example 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.

Want to know what cats think of highway backups and air pollution? It goes like this:

"Meow. Meow. MEOW. MEOOOW. Meow. Meow. MEOW. MEOOOW."

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."

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+.

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:

1. Work until 10 p.m. tomorrow, because nothing says, "I'm a short-timer!" like a 14-hour day
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.
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
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
5. I have to drive back to Portland by 1:00 to finish my workday. Because they hate me.
6. Did I mention I need to pack all weekend?
7. And CB comes into SeaTac on Monday? Which involves (yes) another drive to Seattle (nonononono).

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.

Fact not fiction

2007-11-14T22:25:00.000-08:00

Twenty-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.

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.

Maybe growing up with that story explains why I am so sad about this, 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.

Just give me something to hold onto

2007-11-12T10:15:00.000-08:00

Dear readers,

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. :)

That said: OMG WTF HAVEIDONE???

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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.

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.

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:

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.)
2. Purchase vat of favorite ice cream.
3. Purchase six pack of beer. Or whatever. Something that makes you giddy.
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.

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.

Any TypePad lurkers out there?

2007-11-09T22:33:00.000-08:00

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.

The camera makes you thinner

2007-11-08T19:00:00.000-08:00

Well, isn't somebody famous?

That's my boy, mugging for the camera. Head on over to www.petfinder.com 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.

Now he's just going to expect more treats. These 15 minutes of fame will do me no good.

Oh yeah, about the furball

2007-11-06T14:52:00.000-08:00

Kristy of Eats, Shoots & Leaves! 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.

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.

and now it's time for you to go

2007-11-05T13:50:00.000-08:00

This 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.

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.

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:

I am lonely as hell;
The LDR is survivable when I have people nearby to help me forget it;
I work too many hours to go home;
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;
For whatever reasons, professional and personal, I need to go home;
and I am finally okay with admitting it.

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.

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.

What you do to me

2007-11-02T10:25:00.001-07:00

He 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.

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.

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 know it, beyond doubt, beyond everything this world can throw at you.

Wake up call

2007-10-23T21:21:00.001-07:00

Tonight, in a lengthy phone call, I bemoaned my fate to a trusted friend and valued adviser.

"If I could do anything, I'd get a PhD! But I can't!"

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.

"Why can't you?"

"Because everyone knows two-PhD couples can't get jobs in the same city."

"Who said that was a fact?"

A revelatory discussion ensued.

And suddenly, everything changes.

Complicated

2007-10-21T22:10:00.000-07:00

I 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.

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.

They do. I don't know what it means, but I have some thinking to undertake this week.

Getting off my fraking butt

2007-10-15T20:10:00.000-07:00

My 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.

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.

The reason I've never pursued writing is simple -- I'm terrified of failure. Imagine finding out that you can't do 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?

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:

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
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.
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.

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.

A photographic synopsis of my life

2007-10-08T12:25:00.000-07:00

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.

When not tearing down I-5 on the way to work, Fitty is letting me know that he hates 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.

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.

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? :)

Things I am tired of right now

2007-10-02T22:48:00.000-07:00

1. 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
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
3. My employer's crappy health insurance, which does not cover physical therapy
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

Sorry. Bad week. Would very much like to skip ahead to my thirties now.

When the stars go blue

2007-09-24T21:09:00.000-07:00

I 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

Sharing the road

2007-09-17T20:56:00.001-07:00

All 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.

I know there are plenty of bad cyclists out there -- really, really bad 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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

Tumbling after

2007-09-13T21:05:00.000-07:00

Ack. Oh, ack. It has not been two weeks since I blogged. Could not be. Oh, wait. It has been more than two weeks.

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.

Can I bring my ball to work so we can play fetch? Why are you banging your head against the keyboard, Mama?

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.

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.

Oops, gotta go. Kitty has just placed paw in my genmaicha. I will keep posting, even if it's infrequent. Thanks for understanding.

No you did-n't

2007-08-28T14:40:00.000-07:00

OMFG.

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.

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.

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.

Okay, I feel slightly better now.

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.

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.

Bath time

2007-08-24T23:00:00.000-07:00

You 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.

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!"

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.

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.

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 let him stay tangled in the plastic.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Now with more kitteh

2007-08-22T22:59:00.001-07:00

I think I aged five years overnight, thanks to vets with poor phone manners.

Luckily, the same vets are much clearer about Marlowe's prognosis when they come face-to-face with a hollow-eyed, grief-stricken owner.

Details forthcoming, but it looks like it's going to be okay. Expensive, but okay.

After the day he's had, however, Marlowe disagrees.

Only time will tell

2007-08-21T20:53:00.000-07:00

It's like this.

My cat, my new best friend, my only companion here...

A routine vet appointment has now turned into an overnight stay and bill estimates upwards of $800 to $1000. The shelter that had him for the last two years never looked in his ears or his mouth, so once-treatable ear mites and a broken canine have morphed into severe, chronic infections, cysts, possible hearing loss, and severe dental problems. The kind that might involve bone infections.

And after only three and a half weeks, in which time we've already bonded to the point where he leaps into bed as soon as I glance towards the sheets because he knows it's snuggle time...I can't afford to fix these things. Not even close. Plus, they maybe can't be fixed: the ears could be permanently damaged, and his constant scratching and head shaking might never go away. (Hello, shelter? How fucking blind are you?) The teeth? Who knows. The countless other problems I haven't even listed here all add up to a vague sense of dread. What happens when this five year-old turns 10? How much should I put him through trying to heal what can't mend? And, horribly, how much can I afford to spend when I'm already scraping to get by? What corner do I cut?

I love him. I know it seems strange, having known him so briefly, but I love him already like the kind of pet you've known most of your life. Right now, he's huddled in the back of a sterile sea green kennel, wondering why I left him.

I am not leaving. I'm supposed to return him to the shelter if I can't care for him. Fuck that. They cared for him so much they sent him straight into a hospital. A few months ago, a year ago, 40 or 50 bucks would have fixed all this. Didn't anyone notice the scratching? The trouble eating? It took me two days to catch on.

I'm taking the day off work tomorrow to see if I can meet the vet, face-to-face. I need to look in her eyes and ask her about the long-term prognosis. I want to understand what it will do to him if we try. Because he's been through enough, and the last thing I want to do is heap more pain on him.

Even if that means coming home to an empty house far too soon.

Getting out of town

2007-08-17T11:37:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, I worked 13.5 hours straight, culminating in a three-hour meeting where I took notes on a giant flipchart for the duration.

I also found myself ever more ensnared in office politics, cornered by one boss to explain what was going on between me and another boss (the short story is: I don't know, but I think she hates me). I crawled home and managed to fire off an email to the first boss asking her to keep that conversation off the record...which seems fair to me, since I got pushed into saying anything in the first place.

I think we can confirm that I suck at office politics. I am not skilled enough to lie to someone's face, and so when anyone asks a leading question, I have a hard time dodging it.

I'm exhausted and going to the ocean in an hour. My good friend from college is getting married tomorrow, and I'm lucky enough to be in the beach-side ceremony. Hopefully, Marlowe won't kill me for neglecting him when I come back Sunday.

I think the uncomfortable realization I'm reaching is that there is no dream job after college. Still, I also don't think it does you any good to settle for something you really dislike. Considering how much time Americans spend at work, the least I can do is look until I find something that makes me happy more often than it makes me crazy. I'm giving this one a year, assuming it stays about the way it is now, because the personal stress far outweighs everything else.

Talk to you next week.

In motion

2007-08-14T22:23:00.000-07:00

It's ten minutes to noon, and the office is humming. Voices rise and fall beyond my cubicle as project managers race from one task to the next, pausing long enough to dump another request on our desks. Outside, beyond the hermetically sealed windows, the sun beams down from a naked sky. I look down at my feet in their sandals.

"I'm going for a run," I announce.

A quick stop at the gym, then out the front door. I'm in full workout regalia, except I've forgotten my socks. My feet stick to the orthotics I wear, but I don't mind. It is glorious, warm, the air thick with midday humidity. I head towards the river.

There's a long path along the edge, and I run steadily along its perimeter, passing clusters of office workers, their ties flipped over their shoulders, collar buttons open, blazers hanging off their arms. I am one of them, but not now. It's been days since I've crammed a run into my schedule, and my joints are quick to remind me that I'm not really supposed to go without stretching anymore. I shrug them off, ignore the cramp tearing a hole in my stomach, and slog on down the trail.

By the halfway point, I think I could run home to Seattle. With the light foot traffic, I can afford to look around, and I watch a lazy canoe plash over the currrent. Far below me, a cat's tongue of sand stretches from one horizon to the next. I debate sticking to the path I know, then veer right and pick my way down the ravine, dappled light shimmering between cottonwoods and maples. I burst out onto the sand and feel the tightness in my muscles release.

Down here, the air is sharp and cool. No one else is on the shore, and so I run in the company of breakers lapping hardpacked sand. It's rockier than I expected, and I switch into a high, prancing jog, feet flicking over uneven stones. For 15 minutes, I concentrate on the ground immediately before me. One slip, and I'll be limping a few miles back to the office. I'm not sure what I've gotten myself into; I think about turning back, or clambering up the wooded hill to the security of paved road. But there isn't much farther to go, and my steps are growing quicker.

The last 100 yards are loose sand, and before long I have half a pound in each shoe, chasing the skin where foot meets fabric. I'm red-faced, dripping sweat, and out of breath, but I maintain a brisk trot as I work back up the gentle hill towards the office. By the time I'm out of the shower, I feel invigorated, completely alive. I flick the towel over my shoulder, smooth the wrinkles from my skirt, run a finger comb through my hair, and open the door. I'm ready now.

I'm so tired, I'm so tired of tryin'

2007-08-11T21:01:00.000-07:00

We see a lot of regulars in my line of work. Usually, they're middle-aged, lifelong residents of the community, people with a lot to lose if our project lands on their street.

I spend my Saturdays under a blue tent for the job I'll refer to as Mayhem Inc., alternately sharing information with curious residents and being snapped at by people who think what we're doing is a front. This used to be funny, but now I find I'm breaking the cardinal rule of neutrality by nodding along as the critics rant. The thing is, they're right. We do know what we want to do. Most likely, we're going to do it, unless a vote or a major funding glitch derails the project. I want to tell you more, but I can't. Just like I can't divulge anything to the public beyond what I'm instructed to say. People come to me with hopeful expressions, asking if I can tell them what will happen to their street, their house. I tell them the half-truth: no, I can't, because we don't know. Often, we really do not: big projects take years to gel, and the block-by-block effects change over time...but I do know that their neighborhood is going to be impacted, and I usually know whether it's going to be serious.

And I cannot say a thing.

This afternoon, a man I know from one of our advisory groups said he felt sorry for us, because he wouldn't want to be in a position where he had to lie to poor people. He wanted to know how we slept at night when we did such dirty work for our supervisors.

"Put yourself in my shoes," he said.

"You don't know anything about me," I told him.

"No, but I doubt you've been as hard-up as the people I know."

By conventional definitions, he's right. Still, I wanted to take him by the hand and walk him to my car, where we could drive to the apartment I'm renting. I wanted to show him the empty spot next to me in my bed. To haul out the bank statements, the expired visa, the month-to-month lease and the health insurance I'm fighting to keep. I wanted to tell him that I spent Thursday being lectured, like a dog, behind a closed door in a conference room, because I'd been audacious enough to ask for more work than I was assigned. I'm not fitting in. I'm not willing to pay my dues -- I've never complained, never left a job incomplete, but apparently suggesting I could be challenged with new tasks makes me a problematic employee in their eyes. I need to stop thinking I have anything of merit to offer, because I'm supposed to be grateful that they even decided to give me a job. I thought about sharing how my boss quit two weeks ago, how our other boss is going to have a baby during the worst possible time for our team, how I've worked six days per week since June for a job that's nothing like I was told it would be when I started. I haven't seen my family since I moved, and they're three hours away but I won't be going home until at least October. I wanted to tell him I've lost close to 10 pounds in the last two months, to sit beside him on the floor and tell him that some days everything is fine, but other days, it's all I can do to get home and collapse on the sofa.

Instead, I just smiled a half-smile. As he filled out a comment form, he teased me, saying he was going to write down how I agreed with him about the project being a farce. I laughed nervously and asked him not to.

"I wouldn't do that," he said. "I just like seeing you smile. You have a nice smile."

I clung to those words the rest of the day, trying to believe that people still see the good girl behind the morally questionable job. Hoping they went through something similar when they were young. There has to be more to life. I can't believe work is always going to be this draining and time-consuming, or that I'll feel so little contentment from what I do. What it comes down to is that I need to believe this, too, is going to pass, and that I'll still have a smile that makes people happy when I'm finally done here.

Happy together

2007-08-06T20:50:00.000-07:00

Because I can't bring myself to write about work or life, let's go for more distractions: kitty pictures! You know you want 'em.

I'd entertain you with tortoise pictures, too, but my poor boy can't be with me right now. There's just no room for a giant pool in any place I can afford...sigh. Soon, soon I'll have both our babies under the same roof.

Don't mind the crazy green eyes. His pupils don't contract, thanks to a congenital defect that leaves him partially blind. Poor guy went to the vet and failed the vision test completely -- we tossed cotton balls at him, and they bounced off his face. He's also fallen off the couch a few times, thinking he had more room to walk. Is it wrong to laugh at your embarrassed cat because their shame is so cute?

Round and round

2007-08-02T18:23:00.000-07:00

How's your week been? Mine's been interesting. Here's a random snapshot.

Bosses quitting on a Tuesday totally suck! Especially when they take you out to lunch under the guise of "Let's all celebrate," only to begin the meal by preluding the announcement of your group's impending doom with, "Now, there's no such thing as a free lunch..." And they wondered why we spent the rest of the day in a shell-shocked trance.

Weird old-men clubs with funny animal and/or telephone-related names? Interesting places to give a presentation. Or, in my case, click through the PowerPoint while someone else gives the presentation. 'Cause that's why I went to Cambridge: to hone my slide show skills. That, and improving my ability to butter up large-nosed, 80-year-old white guys who want to wow me with their tales of anti-Communist activities in 1970s Siberia. Hell's yes, that's what they pay me for! Ladies and gents: your tax dollars at work.

Kitties freaking rock. Especially nice kitties that still let you touch them after vet visits involving blood draws, matted hair removals, and ear mite treatments. I don't think I'll tell the nice kitty that he has to go back to the vet for a full day soon...yeah, we're ignoring that part because the possibility of his being diabetic or in kidney failure is too depressing to contemplate right now.

Oregon drivers?? SUCK. Turn signals, people. They actually didn't install them in your car just for show. Speedometers are also important, because they tell you when you're going 25 miles over the speed limit so you know that maybe you should use those little blinky turn things before you swerve in front of my car without notice. I swear, if you hit me, I will break your arms with your own turn signal lever.

The public process? Dear god. Nope, sir, no, you can't build a tunnel through them there acreage. Little thing called liquefaction. Liquefaction. You know, "smash, crash, bang," instant catastrophe? You don't see why it has to be that way. Well. I know your brother-in-law's second cousin's daughter draws bridges for her industrial art class. That does not make you an engineer. Please go away. Please? Oh, you want to fill out a public comment record. About a tunnel. Sure, just step right here while I get a form and a big stick. It's to hold the paper down while you write. Yes, it is. Now, just look that way...

It's a bit disheartening, really. We have a public process in place so people don't wake up one morning and discover major infrastructure projects running through their neighborhoods. But when a handful of nutty people dominate the entire process, and you have to treat them like they're sane? I wish we could have a cut-off point at six months or a year, where you're just SOL if you didn't get your comment in on time. We waste so much money trying to reach everyone, when half them don't have anything to contribute (but do anyway) and the other half don't care. I'll write seriously about this at some point, but for now...I'm wondering if the process is broken, or if this is just how it has to be when you want to create a collaborative process.

Clearly, he's having trouble adjusting

2007-07-30T20:27:00.001-07:00

So...how's it going?

2007-07-29T21:30:00.000-07:00

This is a strange time in my life. Married, but living alone. Three hours away from family, but struggling to find visiting time. Happy to have my own place, but a little lonely.

I'm working hard to be mellow about it all, because otherwise it just terrifies me. The health insurance questions -- the joys of having a preexisting condition in America. The brink-of-broke budget. Everything from career to where we'll live next, in question. When I let it get to me, like I did today, I wind up on the couch, crippled with psychosomatic nausea that's dogged me since childhood. Today's trigger? The new addition to my family.

I've talked about getting a cat for awhile, and for the last few months I have carefully planned it out. Found an ideal kitty, acquired the necessary supplies, made sure I found an apartment I could be in for awhile. Marlowe came home today. If ever a cat deserves to be cranky, he does -- and he's not. A little vocal? Sure. Anxious? Definitely. But sweet, terribly sweet, and already looking like he might be able to call this place home.

He lived in the shelter for two years. A family adopted him six months ago, then dumped him the following week. He wasn't outgoing enough. Have I mentioned how long he lived in that shelter? Or the fact that he is partially blind? Or that he appears to have spent the first four years of his vision-impaired existence fighting it out on the streets?

So, why the nausea now? Because suddenly, it's not just my life I'm gambling with. I'm terrified I'll do something wrong: miscalculate the budget, screw up my job, hell - anything I can imagine - and it will be both of us out in the cold. I'm afraid that maybe I'm not going to be good enough for Marlowe. I work a lot. I'm not always around. I couldn't get a second cat, both for financial and logistical reasons (no more than one cat per apartment). We will be moving at least once, maybe two or three times, in the next five years. There are old cat smells on the carpet from a previous tenant. What if he starts marking in response, or if he cries all night, or if he's never happy because he can't go outside? What if I can't do it, and I become another person who dumps him again? What if I fail him?

See what I do to myself?

I can't shut it off. It's like some women-only sickness that afflicts everyone I know: you contemplate every possible outcome, every worst case scenario, just so you know how to react if it happens. You lie awake at three a.m. wondering what the hell you'd do if you had to move somewhere that the cat, or the tortoise, would have a hard time following. If you're like me, you get so frustrated by your own what-ifs that the mounting anxiety escalates the whole thing. All the little fears you harbor rise and swell like high tide: the loneliness you feel on a Friday night, the weariness after working 13 days straight, the financial and health-related worries, the constant reevaluation of your own decisions. Until you're on the couch, wishing you could just get sick and get it over with -- but you can't.

So, I'm doing the only other thing I know how to do. I'm coping. Accepting. The novel has to wait. The big career dreams need to pause, just for a little while; this imperfect but decent job is fine for the time. Right now, I miss my husband, and I don't really understand what this period in my life is supposed to accomplish. So, I don't think about it. I just live day-to-day, finding pleasure in little things: walks, cooking, Marlowe's fascination with the front window (and his already noticeable tendency to walk across my keyboard, rather than around it). Sometimes, I think that means I'm settling. Most of the time, I think it means I'm surviving. And you know? That's good enough for me, right now. Frankly, it feels like a big accomplishment.

Preparation

2007-07-23T22:29:00.000-07:00

Being grown up isn't half as fun

2007-07-18T22:30:00.001-07:00

Dang blurry camera. Sorry. I have clear pictures on CB's camera, which I'll upload as soon as he sends them. (Hi honey! I know you need to sleep and eat and work and all, but could you just stop worrying about feeding yourself and send me a bunch of photos for my all-important blog? Thanks!)

Things I like about the new* car:
1. Paddle shifters
2. Awesome mileage
3. High safety ratings
4. Ridiculous carrying capacity
5. Air conditioning
6. Functioning speakers
7. No more "Hey, you're going 60 -- I think I'll sputter and die!" moments
*Yes, it's new. No, generally brand new cars make no economic sense. We had two days to find a new car after the old one imploded, so our options were limited because I do not buy used cars without doing thesis-level homework. We should pay it off early, and we plan to drive it until the damn thing dies; hence, it should actually be worth the cost.

Things I dislike about the new car:
1. Payments
2. Did I mention payments?
3. Caring about scratches
4. Caring about muddy shoes
5. Having to remind myself that I no longer need to hope someone steals my vehicle to get it off my hands
6. Driving it to work

Oh my god, I feel like a caricature of an American right now. Get a new job? Buy a new car! *shudder* My British friends will mock me forever if they find out about this.

Seriously, after years of biking, walking, and bussing everywhere, the fact that I have to drive is painful -- but there's no way around it. My commute is 11 miles one-way. It takes 20 minutes by car; 45 to 55 by bus. I live alone, so all that laundry, cooking, running, and writing requires every last minute of my time. Adding an extra hour a day to my commute? Not really optimal for quality of life. I could bike that distance, but there's the matter of the bridge between where I work and where I live, a bridge so frightening to cyclists and pedestrians that even my bike club-crazy coworkers refuse to use it unless the weather is f'ing perfect. If you don't get blown off into the Columbia by high winds, you slip and slide to your death on bird doo, or some errant gravel flies off the back of a semi and rearranges your face. So yeah. I drive...and even though this car embarrasses me because I love it so, I still feel very, very wrong. I'm the kind of person people on bike boards hate. Hell, I'm the kind of person *I* disdain. I'm thinking about offsetting my emissions with TerraPass, despite harboring mixed feelings about carbon offset programs. Still, it's something, right?

It also beats my current method of alleviating guilt, which is to ferry as many co-workers around as I possibly can. See, if I'm carpooling, then I'm helping the environment. It does make work a little awkward, since I've basically started acting like a drug dealer:

Me: Need a ride home?
Jack: Um, actually, I was going to take the bus--
Me: It's really no problem.
Jack: You don't even live near me. Aren't you on the other side of the city?
Me: Aw, c'mon, it's brand new! You know you want to.
Jack: Really, I don't think I do.
Me: That new car smell? Smell that? Like a goddamn baby.
Jack: It's nothing like a baby.
Me: Just get in the car, Jack!

Feeling strangely fine

2007-07-16T22:03:00.001-07:00

If I'd had any idea how content an unpacked apartment would make me, I would have finished sooner.

I'm trying hard to be more Spartan. No more piles of useless papers, or random junk purchased on a whim. I might not be able to control it all, but I can at least try thinking about how much I really want to carry around another set of mugs on our next move. This way, I have a living room I actually want to spend time in, which is key to helping me save money in an activity-oriented neighborhood that just screams "Spend It!" Despite the crazy schedule, I'm determined to be better about keeping things clean. I wonder how long it will last...

I love funky buildings, quirks and all. The cabinets in the dining nook here make me happy, even if none of the doors close on a hot day.

I'd include pictures of the deck -- my primary reason for renting this place -- but a certain husband hasn't had time to send them from his camera. The guy's trying to move across Oxford without a car, so I can't really give him a hard time. Yet.

Bound to make you crazy if you let it

2007-07-12T19:17:00.000-07:00

Man, I just have a knack for positioning myself in...interesting...jobs. Current job (aka "Paying My Dues") goes something like this:

8:30 Get to work after terrifying drive through Portland traffic. Contemplate biking, then think about the 17 near-misses one has had since 8:15. Decide to continue driving and to increase auto insurance.
8:45 Check email. Feel frightened by size of inbox.
8:47 Email interrupted by request from co-worker for some aspect of the project you've never heard of until now.
8:51 Continue reading email until other entry-level person comes in, since she's the only one who can tell you what the heck the first person meant.
9:01 Rapidly assemble packet of materials for an afternoon outreach presentation that no one remembered to tell you about until now.
9:17 Rapidly dissemble packet after being told this one wouldn't look quite like the others.
9:24 Rapidly hurl packet through vacuum-sealed office windows after finding out about yet another change.
9:32 Hold head in hands.
10:14 Chase all three levels of people needed to approve changing "freeway" to "highway" in a document which approximately four people will read.
10:51 Discover you are scheduled to work every weekend from July 21 to September 4. Give up on finishing novel until sometime in the spring of 2011. Also give up cooking, long workouts, and personal hygiene.
11:05 Realize you never followed up on that first co-worker's request. She has now had to do it herself. And she hates you.

It's actually not that bad -- although my schedule is about that crazy, the fantastic, supportive coworkers help quite a bit. Nevertheless, it is definitely making me think that a career in government/private industry is not what I want to pursue. For months, I've had the idea of returning to school to become a librarian, and now I'm leaning even more in that direction for a multitude of personal and professional reasons. Still, I don't want to give up on environmental policy just yet, even if what I'm doing isn't as related as I'd hoped. Fortunately, until CB returns, I'm here doing this. So, by my estimation, I have at least 7.21 minutes to contemplate my life's work between now and when he graduates next winter. That should be plenty.

Be good and don't you miss me

2007-07-11T22:06:00.000-07:00

We stood in the far corner of the departures terminal at SeaTac, rooted fast into the tiles while a sea of people parted to either side. I might have seen their faces if I'd been looking. I crushed my cheek against his chest, the side where the ridge from a bad collarbone break nestles against my jaw like they were part of the same bone. I thought about holding on, screaming, begging, doing anything that might make people suspicious enough to kick us out together. Instead, we slowly peeled apart, my arms relinquishing their grip like sand slipping between toes at ebb tide. I watched him turn and join the flow, while I remained, waiting, a lonely piece of driftwood cast ashore.

The drive back to Portland felt twice as long, with that empty seat beside me.

Soon, there will be blogging and new adventures. A fully unpacked apartment. Stories about a job I don't love but need to keep. Dreams. Maybe even that novel, waiting quietly at the sidelines until I can clear my head. Tonight, though, it's just me and this city and three weeks of memories I'll turn over and over until they're worn smooth.

so tonight that I might see

2007-07-03T00:14:00.000-07:00

We are in the car, the new car, the one with the clean interior and the shiny paint, the one we purchased last weekend after the Jetta decided to die at 60 mph on I-5. It's midnight in Portland, and we're waiting at an intersection while the light changes for phantom autos. The stereo is cranked to eleven, and we are rolling, rocking the whole damn car with our self-parodies as a bad hip-hop song makes the seats shake. At the corner, three slouching hipsters in carefully torn denim cast kohl-rimmed gazes in our direction. They look at us with pity, we two painfully adult, painfully un-hip people on the late side of twentysomething. And we look back and laugh, because we are so in love, and we only just remembered how beautiful the moonlit streets can be.

Homebird, sing

2007-06-24T22:35:00.000-07:00

It is Friday afternoon, just past rush hour, and I am loitering by the bus stop with an elderly woman who's taken refuge beside me to avoid the herds of disaffected youth roving between transit centers. She is talking to me about her husband, who passed four years ago: how she cared for him every day until he died, how she's doing the same for a friend now. She is waiting for that friend's daughter to arrive from Bend so they can go back to her friend's apartment and pack a lifetime into cardboard boxes.

I am waiting for him, and I'm a tumbling mess of emotions. Excited to see him, anxious we won't feel the same, frustrated it's had to come to three weeks of sanctuary between six-month storms. Afraid that things changed, that somehow what we had slipped through our fingers before we tightened our grip. Over these months, I've felt my heart stiffen to ward off the pain. It's easier to pretend he isn't there at all than to acknowledge how far apart we are.

The bus arrives, and I break off the conversation I've only half-followed. Shadowy figures rise behind the tinted windows, all remarkably similar except for the fourth one. Suddenly, I'm sure I'll cry in the street.

And then, he is off the bus and in my arms, and I don't know if the elderly woman found her friend's sister, or whether the teenage hordes scoffed at our awkward embrace, encompassing backpack and purse and six months of separation. We pause and hold each other at arm's length, like we can't quite believe this is happening. And though soon there will be difficult conversations and (too brief) awkward resumptions of life together, for now, we just stand and stare, as the dam I've been building swells and bursts.

I find myself still doing that now, watching him when he sleeps or when he's at the computer. Like everything in life is new again.

Meet me at the crossroads

2007-06-21T18:39:00.000-07:00

There are, as you might expect, good and bad things about what I'm doing.

The good: my co-workers are nice, my apartment and neighborhood in the Southeast are pedestrian-friendly and beautiful.

The tough: my job isn't quite what was presented to me, my commute is long-ish and requires a car most days, the absence of any and all family and friends is getting to me.

See, here's what you need to understand about me. There's no reason you should know this, since it's something I've only really figured out this past year or so. Relationships are the central part of my life. When I'm around people I love, I thrive. Life may have been pretty dismal these last six months, but the presence of a few key friends and my parents did wonders for my mental state on most days. Which, of course, coincided with many of the days I didn't blog. I need to fix that. Anyway, now? The one thing I didn't factor into this move -- because how could I know? -- was how empty it would feel without anyone here. Sure, you're right: I can still talk to them on the phone...but while that works for some people, I need to see you, to touch you, to be able to pop over to a meeting spot on a moment's notice so we can vent about our days or laugh over a pint.

So right now? Right now, I'm a little scared. A co-worker confided in me today that this job -- environmental consulting around a major transportation project -- isn't like she thought it would be. You don't get to do the environmental work. You don't have time. Your hours are sucked away by menial tasks and public meetings, and because we are at a satellite office, there's really no one around to talk to about the problem, as our own supervisor is so swamped that I've seen her all of three times this week (for five minutes, maybe). I think I can spin this work in a positive direction after a year or two, pitching it on my resume as a skill-builder in a related field, but transportation is terribly boring work for most of us (and, as I'm learning, I fall under the "most" category there). The thought of being trapped in it makes me a little queasy. I have to work to find the positives here, and I'm sure there are many. It's just a tad disappointing, especially when I find out this morning that they are hiring new people for my position in Seattle. And everyone here seems so amazed I relocated for this. The timing, it's a bitch.

And the commute? By the time I get home, I'm beyond exhausted. I can cook, unpack a box or two, and then it's 9:00 and I have to get ready for bed. No real time to explore my cool neighborhood. No time to write. Definitely no time to meet new people, which really sucks. I know it won't always be like this, but I'm starting to wonder if I need to take advantage of my month-to-month lease and move closer into where my office is located. I'm so tired right now that I want to curl up in bed and cry, but that won't help. Still, it's tempting.

The absence of friends? It's confirmed things I was starting to realize, like how I never want to leave my town again. I went back yesterday for a training at the main office, and the very sight of it made my heart hurt. Spent an hour after the training with a friend at Seward Park, and everything clicked. I know this sounds stupid. It's three hours away, right? Even working as many weekends as I do, I should still be able to get home once in awhile. Why can't that be enough? But I know a few people who feel the same, and all I can say is that right now, it's the absence of people I love which comes the closest to making this all unbearable. I can't articulate it, but trust this much: it is everything to me.

So, herein I also realize something crucial about the major relationship in my life, even if it is sort of on hiatus most of the year because of the 8000 miles between us. I don't want us to live somewhere else after he finishes his degree. I'm tired of feeling like our life has to wait. After 10 moves in four years, I'm sick of being nomadic. I want us home. Starting a life together. Buying that first, scary house together. Spending our evenings lingering on friends' front lawns, talking and laughing. Doing all the things that we can do now: let the moving boxes gather dust, find a place we can call our own, have two incomes in one household again. Back to school? It will happen for me, but I've already decided to do it close to home, and I'm content to wait awhile. That dream job? You know, if I can fulfill the personal side of life, I think I'd even be okay with transportation. Well, maybe not quite, but I don't think so much would hinge on finding the "perfect" job. Right now, that's all I have. I don't want to feel that way for long. Am I doing this without him? Yes. Does that mean I want to? God, no. We could each spend our lives working to reach the tops of our fields, and that would be all we had. Instead, I want to reach somewhere good enough career-wise, and end up with so much more in the process.

I'm done being transient. I want to put down what remains of my roots and stay there until there are too many rings on my trunk to count. With all this looming, my other half comes home to visit tomorrow for two brief weeks. Seventeen days to balance the fun with the seriousness. Things I don't feel right posting yet. We have so much to discuss. And it terrifies me.

I'll sing it one last time for you, then we really have to go

2007-06-11T17:43:00.000-07:00

Recently, I operated under the delusion that I could be one of those people who travels light. The kind who can move entire lives in an oversized van. The ones who don't accumulate much and don't feel like they're missing anything.

This evening, I'm collapsed on the couch wondering how I managed to fill a 12' moving truck with our stuff. Granted, I'm essentially moving an apartment that used to have two occupants, but still. Books and clothing, furniture and kitchenware...it's enough to embarrass me, and I'm still leaving all of the childhood memories (the schoolwork and yearbooks and well-worn stuffed animals) in my parents' garage.

I am exhausted and bone-weary. I do not want to leave my city, or my friends, or this life I've finally been cobbling back together. A thousand stupid worries stampede over my bed at night, keeping me awake: What if the neighbors are noisy, and I have to move? What if the commute is too long, and I have to move? What if this job doesn't work out, and I have to move BACK? I'm learning lately that I'm not a person who can turn off concerns like you'd extinguish a candle. My worries smolder in the fireplace. The biggest one, as always, involves leaving my friends and family behind. I'm tremendously insecure about losing friends, thanks I think to childhood traumas and adolescent ostracization. Every move scares me: maybe this will be the one. It's stupid, I know, but there it is.

I know I'll be back soon. You can't feel this strongly about a place and stay away for long, but I still leave another piece of my heart behind every damned time I go. I think it's just all happening too fast for me to feel comfortable yet. Hopefully, in a few weeks, it will be fine. For now, I just have to keep moving -- heh heh, like I have a choice.

How to find an apartment on short notice

2007-06-03T23:32:00.000-07:00

Scene: Chilltown, Portland, coveted neighborhood of my dreams. Memorial Day weekend. Saturday afternoon. Jay and I traipse for miles, seeking "For Rent" signs, having arrived in Portland with nothing but a dyslexic, outdated road map and a faint clue about neighborhoods I might like.

"Ooh! That girl just came out of those cute brick one-stories. Look at her dog! Do you think she's a renter?" I notice I am speaking unusually fast, perhaps because I've had three cups of coffee since we arrived.

"I don't know." At this point, after a madcap drive to P-town and several hours navigating a confusing street grid with my poor directions ("Go north! No, hold on, I didn't mean north. East! Maybe? Wait, where did that river come from, and why is it on our right instead of our left?"), I'm pretty sure Jay wishes I'd just affix my name to the nearest dumpster, squat in it for a few years, and let him move on with his life.

"Excuse me!" I dart up the walk to the woman, whose dog is relieving itself on the curb. She looks frightened, probably because I am sweating in the 85 degree heat. Or maybe it is because I am brandishing a pen. "Do you live in there?"

She looks down at her dog, which unfortunately is more interested in smelling my shoes than ripping me to pieces. "Erm...well, yes," she admits.

"Is it an apartment, or a condo? Do you know if there are any coming up this month?" I sound like a high school reporter on my first assignment.

"Well, it's an apartment," she says. "I'm not sure if there are any for rent, but the manager runs a few other buildings --"

"Do you have his number?"

She blinks. I'm pretty sure Jay's hiding behind a tree by now.

"I, um, yes, actually." She gives me the number, and I thank her before jogging off towards another interesting-looking building. Later that night, I will respond to our waitress's "How are you folks doing?" by saying, "I need to find an apartment by tomorrow afternoon. Do you live in a cool building?" She, too, will give me her landlord's number, which I mistakenly assume is a property management answering service and call at 10:00 pm, only to wake up a very confused manager. He actually agrees to show the place the next morning, proving that Portland people are one heck of a lot nicer than we native Seattleites, who are more likely to tell you that we don't want you in our city, ruining the atmosphere, so please go away before we subject you to baleful, intellectually superior stares.

The next day, on our way out of town, I remember the woman with the dog and call the number on a whim. Another very confused manager answers, wondering how exactly a random stranger found his unlisted number. I explain and ask if he has any rooms for rent. He mistakenly responds by saying, "Well, I'm on Xth street and Chilltown, but only until I empty out the laundry coins..." As luck would have it, we've just passed the street. Half an hour later, I've rented my new apartment.

Half a day later, I learn it is two blocks away from an all-ages club. Suddenly, I am grateful for the month-to-month lease.

Eh. There's only so much you can accomplish in 24 hours. Also, I love the place and am planning to wear earplugs for the next two years if that's what it takes to stay. Besides, I'm pretty sure my finely honed Northwestern glare can burn bass-bumping buildings to the ground.

P-town

2007-05-31T22:37:00.000-07:00

WARNING: profanity ensues

We are on the MAX yellow line in Portland, after leaving our cheap, two-star hotel in the Rose Quarter -- where, I noted, we are the only two occupants who aren't entertaining guests by the half hour. While it would be quicker to drive, or even swim across the Willamette, we are riding the MAX because my best guy friend, Jay, decides that the entire reason he's accompanying me to Portland is so he can ride both the MAX and the streetcar in the same trip. As a result, the fifteen minute ride to dinner takes forty-five, exacerbated when we take the streetcar just because, and then have to walk back to where we started. But all that comes later.

After the MAX crosses the river, we stop in the Pearl District, where rows of trendy shops and high-priced lofts crowd the area's less successful residents. The train's doors whisper on their sliding tracks, and I gaze idly at an eight-foot high Banana Republic advertisement until a massive, inebriated woman obstructs my view. She slings a hank of greasy, dishwater blond hair over her shoulder like a sack full of dead fish, shouting loud enough to rouse the train's dozing passengers. Three or four men, all of whom appear loosely associated with her, follow, coming to roost along the opposite rail.

"I wanna fuck," she announces to no one in particular. "Do you wanna fuck? No -- not you," she says, catching the shocked expression of an elderly woman. "Not you, sweetie."

Behind her, one of her cohort makes a snide remark. Unfortunately, he is too drunk to be intelligible, but she gets the gist. "Hey!" she yells, and gets up with her fists balled.

Jay and I exchange sidelong glances. "Toldya we should've grabbed a seat up front," I muttered.

"Whatever," Jay says. "Maybe I *wanna* f--" but he's cut off by the woman's outraged caw. "Hey, you owe me money!"

All eyes on the train rotate towards the front of the train, where a scrawny man with a rat's nest of white boy dreads is slinking towards the door.

"Oh boy," her friends jibe, "Go get 'im." They laugh, but we're watching as she storms towards the front of the train. Naturally, the doors close as she reaches him, and he proceeds to turn on his heel and walk the length of the train with extraordinary poise, never saying a word. She follows him, a torrent of curses filling the space between them. "My money! 'Scuse me," she adds, knocking past a pair of necking teenagers.

We decide that perhaps we will exit at the next station...which we do, followed promptly by the skinny guy, the raging drunk, and all of her oafish friends, who lollop behind her like junkyard dogs. Only, not so bright.

I turn to say something to Jay, but the next thing I know, she's shouting for her guys to "get him!"

"What's in it for us?" one asks.

"Bitch owes me $80!"

We swap skeptical glances with strangers. Eighty bucks split five ways is, well, apparently enough, because their quarry comes skidding by like a fox going to ground, followed in hot pursuit by a pair of hounds. One of them appears to be carrying a white tube sock filled with quarters. He raises it over his head and begins swinging in irregular ovals.

"This can't be," I say.

"Oh, but it can," Jay replies.

"It's broad daylight! It's seven in the evening! Are we seriously watching two grown men chase some guy with socks full of quarters?"

A dull, metallic thwock removes any doubt, as the prey suffers a glancing blow to his shoulder in front of a Crate & Barrell. Fortunately, the man swinging the sock is too drunk to aim. Moreover, the sock itself is not designed for full-scale deployment, as the heel seam splits upon impact. A shower of quarters cascades onto the sidewalk, and the scrawny man turns tail and vanishes down another street.

I look at Jay, who's sniggering. I can't say that I blame him. Along with a crowd of people dressed for the opera, we still can't quite decide if what we've seen is funny, disturbing, or a bit of both. We look up the street, where a bored cop leans against a low wall, oblivious to the entire scene. Behind me, a new person who's just entered the scene tells his friend, "They better not bring that back here. I will own their sorry asses."

"Welcome to Portland," I mutter.

Jay turns to me, and now he's laughing uncontrollably. "When they ran past me, I really wanted to say, 'Naw, homie, don't play that'...but I kinda figured they'd turn their sock weapons on my sarcasm."

"A wise decision."

"The odds just weren't in my favor. Besides, I doubt you could take on the loudmouth."

"Come on, you know I fight dirty."

"But quarters-in-tube-sock dirty?"

"You're probably right." We turn and walk up the street, past the officer, who's turned his attention to a troublemaking trio of eighty year-olds.

Spin, spin, spin

2007-05-29T23:22:00.000-07:00

So, you are going to have to forgive me for the next few weeks. Between the move, the job starting, me going into mourning as I leave Seattle AGAIN, and CB coming home for a visit, I apparently don't have time to do anything besides catch up on approximately 1/3 of the things which need doing. I will try to get a decent post or two per week, and I feel terrible about it -- but the blog shall survive! I'll write as often as I can. Thanks for understanding!

I am still here

2007-05-28T23:36:00.000-07:00

It's just that I had 26 hours to find a place to live in Portland, which is neither as cheap as people claim nor as renter-friendly as you think. So now, I am back. I have a few blessedly non-Portland related things to do tomorrow, and then I will regale you with my trip in Portland, which included:

1. The first time I've actually seen socks full of quarters deployed as weapons
2. Finding my potential pads by bothering the waitress at the pasta restaurant and the woman walking a dog down the street I liked

Thanks for your patience.

Oh boy...

2007-05-24T09:03:00.000-07:00

I have a job.

It is in Portland.

Eeeeeeek.

So I am a bad person

2007-05-21T22:53:00.000-07:00

Dear reader, please forgive these time lapses as of late. I had an interview today and one which requires a three-hour drive tomorrow, and I just can't put it together to write a post tonight. My multitasking skills apparently took a vacation and have no interest in returning. What about the rest of last week? you ask. I had terribly important things to do last week. Like, unwittingly wander into Flowers with some friends, where they were serving three dollar margaritas. All I know is that, six hours later, the conversation devolved into philosophical treatises on the existential behavior of ghost shrimp, and a little while after that we thought it would be brilliant to play DDR. On Expert level. I think I might have broken someone's foot. The aftereffects of that night essentially negated my week.

So, thanks to my interview, I won't be back until late tomorrow night, which means I have no excuse if I don't post Wednesday. Hence, I will. Because I am not...that...lame...yet.

Interesting tidbit to tide you over: it took me as long to fly home from Kansas as it took my best friend to fly to Italy that same day. Why is it that any respectable hotel would be drummed out of business if it double-booked its rooms, yet airlines can double-book seats and act like it's our problem when we complain?

Stupid internet

2007-05-20T21:08:00.000-07:00

Internet = down every five minutes
Kansas = pretty cool
Update = coming tomorrow, when I'll be crashing a friend's house since a certain evil internet company can't come fix this until Wednesday

Taking a breather

2007-05-10T22:32:00.000-07:00

In light of my current situation, my best friend is flying me to Kansas to visit her this weekend. Have I mentioned how much I love my friends? Shut up, going to Kansas is *not* punishment. I'm sure there's something fun to do in her tiny little town. Like seeing how far the car can drive in a straight line without touching the steering wheel. Now, if I can just get over this random fear of flying thing. Perhaps I shall drink my way across the flyover states. On second thought, that would probably be a bad idea. Guess I'll just have to annoy the person sitting next to me instead. Be back Tuesday.

From bad to worse

2007-05-09T21:28:00.000-07:00

Twenty minutes ago: I'd just finished emailing my specialist about the thyroid, when my dad came upstairs with a thin envelope from the clinic in his hand. I knew before I opened it. Funny, I'd been dreading it for weeks without having any real reason. I read the letter and burst into tears. Yep, that's right: in the last four hours, I've allowed the full reality of my disease to hit me, my fake thyroid is out of whack, and I've learned that the one person who's helped me cope with all of the hell, both here and in England, is leaving the clinic in four weeks. I don't know if I can handle this.

Also, not having insurance? Doesn't help.

Something needs to go right soon, because for the first time I don't feel strong enough to take any more.

Feeling low, here I go

2007-05-09T20:12:00.000-07:00

So I'm not really sure what to do here, and I'm kind of freaking out.

Ever since they removed my thyroid, my whole metabolism depends on a pill. A handful of pills, actually: little white and pink pills, smaller than a string of beads. T3, TSH, T4...these letters and numbers are meaningless to most people, but not to me. Every night, I line them up along the crease in my palm and gulp them down, like clockwork. They control my life. I wouldn't mind, actually, but the thing is that they aren't very good at their job. Everyone's metabolism is different; every thyroid patient responds to an individualized dose of synthetic hormones. In my case, regular doses don't work. We have to bump mine up, again and again, just to keep me functional. Bump too low, like we did in England, and things crash. Depression, lethargy, weight gain...Low thyroid levels pull me down a dark, cavernous hole until I can't see the surface. So I came home, and we bumped back up.

Now, six months later, it appears that the dose I've been on is a bit too high. I found out the hard way when I was speaking to a group of undergraduates today. Suddenly, an ancient symptom I'd forgotten completely came rushing back, and in the middle of my impromptu remarks, my tempo accelerated. Then, my heart started pounding. And then, best of all, I started shaking. Like, scared shitless of crowds shaking. It's not something I can control, because it isn't psychological. It's like a shot of adrenalin straight to the heart, or a quad-shot espresso slammed back, chased with sugar. It is an absolute nightmare. Four years ago, I'd reasoned away every indication that I was sick, and then I stood in front of my favorite class and quivered like the last leaf in fall. It was humiliating, and I finally had to admit that something was deeply awry.

I love public speaking, which is what makes this symptom the worst -- when I'm up there, and it happens, people look sorry for me. Some avert their eyes, and others smile reassuringly as if they think they can soothe the wild creature flying around the front of the room. This, of course, actually makes me nervous, and then my voice starts galloping like a horse unbridled.

I am about to interview in the final round of a job opening which involves a lot of public presentations, as do all of the other positions which I have a chance in hell of securing. I can try to knock the dose back down, but it will likely take months again (all after I see my doctor, which itself takes weeks). Worse, for the rest of my life I have to operate without knowing when this is going to hit. Hormone levels fluctuate, even when they're strictly prescribed, so I get to attend every presentation for each of my jobs knowing that at any moment I could blow the talk. I had no real indication that things were askew again until today! What's to stop that from happening years from now, when I'm giving a talk that really matters? Heck, I could get hired by this current place, only to be fired within weeks for acting like a frightened child in front of a major board meeting.

I'm suddenly so sick over this that I'm wondering if I should maybe stop thinking about careers that involve talking to groups of people. What can I do? Get hired by some company and say, "Oh, by the way, I have this autoimmune disorder that's been treated, but the side effects of the treatment can include adrenaline-fueled craziness in front of an audience."

I feel really, really sick. Most of the time, I manage to live with this disease without thinking about its implications on any meaningful level. Last year, I battled through some of the worst depression of my life in a new country, and I was so relieved to get home because at last, I thought, I'll get to be normal again. What the hell am I supposed to do now?

Working on a post...

2007-05-06T23:07:00.000-07:00

about women and horror films. For now, a random photo of the SAM, which re-opened yesterday in all its glory. (Bad lighting, bad!)

Favorite room? The Aboriginal Australia section, which houses a strong collection of contemporary work, video diaries from the artists, and a selection of funerary art with big, bold disclaimers stating that the exhibits were not taken without permission. Yay, SAM. Compared to the lovely British Museum ("Yes, we have your Marbles, and no, you can't have them back!"), it's refreshing. Haven't checked out other rooms to see if the claim holds true elsewhere. Also, the Jacob Lawrence exhibit is spectacular -- and I had no idea how talented his wife, Gwen Knight, was. Her portraits were superior to many other portrait painers who receive more attention, and she worked with several media throughout her career. Also loved (*loved*) the transitional Pollack piece, which sorta kinda made me want to live in that section.

Go see SAM. It is completely worth it now. Awww, our little city is growing up so fast!

Maybe should have head examined soon

2007-05-03T23:47:00.000-07:00

Hmph. Is suspicion that long arm of Cambridge extends here to taint existence, as crickets not even bothering to chirp in response to re-re-created resume. Is fine. Do not need crickets. Self worth can be restored solely by presence of cats with bad grammar.

Shut judgemental mouth. Does not indicate serious decline in cultural taste. Rather, clearly demonstrates ability to appreciate not only bourgeoise art (e.g., Fellini), but also proletariat (e.g., Aqua Teen Hunger Force). Possibly is harder to understand talking meatballs than shrewd Italian men with mother issues anyway. Do not begrudge me, snobby artsy people.

No, have not been maybe cat-sitting too long. Ringo and Elvis understand needs.

Those three words are said too much, they're not enough

2007-05-02T00:28:00.000-07:00

The hardest part about an LDR isn't the eight hour difference, or the absence of face time. Well, it is both of those things, but only because they're components of a greater challenge: divergent expectations.

Because I know I'm not the only one out here going through this, I feel like it's important to remain honest about the good and the bad. So, the good: most days, I do remarkably well. Even though I don't have a lot going on, which means my time management skills have gone to seed, I'm still able to keep my mind preoccupied with other issues. Politics, job hunts, online reading -- anything to stave off the reality that I'm in an 8000-mile relationship. For a majority of the time, it works. The other good, which I want to emphasize before I continue, is that I've never wondered whether our relationship is worth this. It is.

Nevertheless, as you'd expect, there's also the bad: communication is everything now, and it hasn't been great lately. Between the ridiculous hours at which we make our calls (06hrs England = 20hrs Seattle), and the workaholic tendencies we both share, things have gotten a bit rough. I've said before that I knew our biggest challenge would always be the work-life balance; neither of us wants to put our relationship second, but both of us worry about asking the other person to compromise our personal goals to keep us first. I've been given a lot of grief by people for daring to leave my spouse behind in England (my internal response: shut up, shut up, because if you haven't been there, you have no clue what you're talking about)...but it was a mutual decision: because our commitment to upholding each other's goals and dreams represents a cornerstone of our relationship, I couldn't ask him to go, and he couldn't ask me to stay.

But things get busy. We miss calls, although it's getting better. The torrent of transatlantic letters is more like a trickle. We try desperately to make our infrequent conversations normal, but how can they be? Imagine you only get to talk to your favorite person on earth two or three times per week. Do you really thing you'd remember to be as trivial and inconsequential as most of your daily conversations are? Or would you save up all of the really important things (and therefore difficult or stressful) and unload them in one conversation, not knowing when you'll next have the chance?

I'm only really beginning to understand what a bitch this is. Best intentions only take you so far. One of the hardest things for me to accept is that love isn't enough, not if it's something you just believe will always be there. You have to work, every single day, to keep that love alive, because even though it looks healthy, make one too many mistakes and suddenly it's hovering in intensive care. Simply believing in love? Not gonna get you there. Sweat and determination make up the difference, because surviving a long-term LDR means making a lot of sacrifices. Tuesday and Thursday nights are home nights, except on the rare occasion when one of us really can't make it. Friends seeing a movie? Tough. Every week, I have to remind myself to make time to write a real letter, or send a card that says more than just "I love you!" And you know something? These letters, sometimes, aren't fun. They remind you that your relationship now hinges on the few ties that can stretch across eight time zones. Those letters, those phone calls, they take on monumental significance. Say something nasty or harsh in a call -- as I do, too often, worn down by the job hunt and the frustration of feeling like I came home for nothing -- and you might not get a chance to temper it before you have to go. Words and phrases you toss out like scrap paper in the normal pattern of a relationship suddenly develop sharp edges. Slice someone too hard, and the wound sits for days until you talk next. Then again, hold back too much to spare them, and you risk reducing communication to meaningless exchanges about (in our case) international politics.

Every single action I take (or don't) holds greater significance. It's exhausting. If it weren't for my incredibly supportive friends, I don't know if I'd be okay.

On a night like tonight, when it's late and my mattress is calling, I want to shut this laptop and crawl under the sheets without undressing. I won't. I've missed too many nights already with similar excuses. I need to send an email, a photo, something to say hello. Because otherwise, all we ever get to do -- at the end of phone calls and IM conversations, in the closing notes of letters and cards -- is say goodbye.

Sometimes you have to roll the hard six

2007-04-26T22:20:00.000-07:00

You know, there's nothing like driving all the way to the 'Couv (and I'm not talking the nice northern neighbor) for a third round job "interview" that's been presented as a mere formality on the way to hiring...only to slog through three hours of traffic to find that it's very much a real interview because "We're interviewing at least 10 candidates!"

Fuck. This.

It's just the kind of morale booster I need, really. I burn through gas money and a hotel stay -- because of course the interview couldn't be at a time that would allow me to avoid rush hour traffic or crazy early driving -- and then learn that not only am I still very much needing to fight for this job, but I also may have to come back for a FOURTH round. Four interviews? People, you are not that important. Please consider creating an inter-office hiring panel, because unemployed people like me are really having trouble making ends meet as it is, without the gas and the food and the overnight.

The worst part is that I really want this job, and I actually felt cautiously optimistic until I showed up today and encountered an intense interview I wasn't expecting. Maybe this is what I get for telling my family not to get their hopes up, since anything can happen. Well, it did happen. I am seriously depressed right now. While I'm told by former college advisors that this extended period of unemployment is "perfectly normal" for recent grads, it doesn't make me feel better. I never thought I'd have to live at home for more than a month, and while I know I should be grateful for being able to (and I am, at least in brighter moments), it's killing me. I take care of myself. That's always been something I've been very proud of, and it's been taken away from me. Maybe some of those temp agencies will call me back. Sigh. I was so down when I returned this afternoon that I resorted to watching Leaving Las Vegas just to feel better about my own life. It almost worked, until I realized I was watching Leaving Las Vegas just to feel better about my own life. Damn the man.

_______ has died

2007-04-22T22:40:00.000-07:00

God, I hope this makes sense to at least one of you, because revealing the full extent of my geekdom isn't worth it unless I can drag others down with me.

When I look back on middle school, very little stands out -- apart from the constant bullying, the clumsy colt's body, and the electric green braces. Somehow, I thought that last one would be awesome because the X-Files season finale was coming up, and these were sort of an alien green, thereby broadcasting my undeniable hipness to the world at large. It's shocking, really, that the first day I showed up with my new bands, the girl in the front row asked if I was cultivating a new fungus for our science class.

What does stand out? Hunching over my computer playing the Coolest Game Ever. C'mon: if you didn't die of dysentery, you might be able to pick a crapload of berries before fording the Columbia on your way to pixellated utopia. It pleases me to no end that there are several dozen Facebook groups devoted to Oregon Trail, because obviously all of us geek kids have become cool, fully functional people in the current day.

And it's not like I named my characters Fox or Mulder or anything stupid like that. Sheesh. I had a little more sense, please. My wagondriver's name was Duchovny. Today, having reached the stage in my life where I'm actually purchasing adult-looking clothing, I would christen my OT characters with names that acknowledge the difficult road they faced as they trudged through their two-dimensional landscape, a place where oxen perished in three feet of water. The names would be completely unrelated to television fantasies and would instead invoke images of bravery and all-American courage, like...erm...Jamie. Or Apollo. Who is a Greek god, after all, and was long before a far more attractive character adopted the moniker.

'Scuse me. My sister just died of snakebite.

Conversations with Rachel Corrie

2007-04-21T22:59:00.000-07:00

So, I saw My Name is Rachel Corrie tonight. I didn't expect it to be as profound as everyone reported; after all, this girl was my age, right? What could she say that I hadn't heard before? I'm an idiot for missing the point: it's how she said it.

I'm sitting here now in front of the fire with a cat on my feet, and I feel completely frustrated. Two or three years ago, I think I could have been like Rachel -- not her, by any means, but out in the world fighting the good fight. I'm not sure what happened between then and now. Partially, I'm less comfortable with adopting the self-assigned role of a world-saver. It's a position you take only when you're priveleged enough to be able to choose to do so. Being a white, middle class American lets me think I'm special enough to make a difference -- but now, I'm a little bit older and a lot more aware of that privelege in all its problematic glory...and I just don't feel quite right storming off into Gaza or Chiapas or wherever, because I'm not sure if my presence there is helpful or hurtful. These are issues Rachel clearly considered every day, as evidenced by her journals (the source of the play). I wish she'd lived longer to enlighten us about where she went with those thoughts.

It's one thing if you-as-outsider can actually find a way to support a local movement, as it seems Rachel did, but more often a group of outsiders winds up creating a separate movement instead. Or, you come in thinking you know what it's like and projecting your sense of right and wrong into the situation, when in reality (*cough* Cuba) you don't have the slightest clue what's happening because you haven't been there; moreover, as someone who's present voluntarily, you can't ever be a part of it in the same way as someone who's "in it" without a choice. I spent most of my time in Mexicali sweating over how my identities -- as academic researcher, as higher-educated person, as white woman, as American, as young and Spanish-speaking gringa -- affected the information I gathered. I probably spent as much time analyzing and questioning my own actions as I did conducting the research itself, and I don't know if that's such a good thing. I think it's a common trap to encounter: as you become more self-aware, the awareness creates more questions about identity politics. So, what if you go abroad to "change things" and wind up doing as much harm as you do good? Is there any way to avoid that?

And then, there's the selfish side, too. The part of me that thinks nothing I do can have a big enough effect to matter. The part that gets burnt out and frustrated because I can only tutor one inmate at a time, and most aren't going to be released, or won't have any job opportunities when they are released, so what the hell good am I doing? If I can barely make an impact in my own community, why go somewhere else to try the same thing? Plus, if I did go somewhere, like Palestine or the DRC, and get killed for it, I bet the news media here would focus on me, the American. Instead of on the people living there who die every damn day. What good does that do?

It's stupid, I know. Deep down, I think I'm largely feeling inadequate because I can't do what she did. Correction: I won't. There is no way I'm going to go stand before tanks in Gaza. Knowing it makes me uneasy. At the core, it's part of my larger, growing uncertainty over what role I can play in this world -- and what role I should. Why do I feel like nothing I do will be enough?

Requiem for a Jetta

2007-04-19T22:40:00.000-07:00

My car, Nikita, I think she died.

She's been in the shop for three days. I took her in on Tuesday and was told, "Oh, yeah, we'll totally have it back to you by tomorrow." I patted her on the trunk (hey, we've been through a lot together) and wandered back down the road towards home. That was Tuesday. This morning, I got a call from the same mechanic, who said he totally hadn't expected her to be, you know, so fraked UP!

Like, her transmission is probably coming to pieces, but the only way to tell for sure is to dismantle it. This comforts me slightly less than the original diagnosis, which was that the engine was about to drop out of my car. Oh, and also, the idle? The periodic burbling idle I noticed because it started resembling the last gulps of a person with congestive heart failure? Yeah, that's bad, too. And the broken sunroof? Still broken, he said. Completely screwed, if I wanted him to be honest. (Hint: I didn't.)

-----------------------------------------------
For Sale: 1994 Jetta. Excellent mileage (94K)! Charming exterior: that pesky antenna will never get in your line of sight because IT'S NOT THERE because some drunk-ass frat boy snapped it off when I was overnighting at my future husband's house four years ago. You see, I stupidly never imagined that parking on Greek Row might mean I'd pick the one block where every single car on the street lost its antenna on a Saturday night.

Oh, wait, this is a want ad. Anyway. Sunroof. Well, more like a moon roof, as you can't open it. You can try, if it would make you feel better, but don't worry: see, it started leaking when I was in England, but my awesome family didn't notice until I came home over Christmas and backed down the driveway, at which point the angle caused about four cups of water to spurt forth from the ceiling all over me, the dashboard, and my radio which is useless because I have no antenna. You get FM, though. But there is a sunroof. It's sealed shut with some kind of magical glue my Dad thought would be a good idea, and I think the last dealer I took it to actually ripped the wiring right out of the control box, but hey: it's there. This is more than I had in high school, so you'll still be the envy of your friends if you live in, say, Forks. Or maybe the outer Hebrides.

Did I mention the 94,000 miles? On a 14 year-old car? Now, how many cars can you find that have less than 100K on them and still manage to have mysterious idling problems and "could-be-on-the-verge-of-disastrous-but-maybe-not" transmission issues? Also, the trim above the driver's side door has come loose. Watch that -- it always seems to smack you in the head right when you're making a dangerous turn onto a major interstate. Oh, and the speakers? The right side doesn't work. Hasn't since I purchased the car. This generally isn't a problem, except when you have songs on your MP3 player that require full speakers to function properly. Or when you have a guest in the car who can't hear what's playing. Sometimes, they think you're singing along to nothing. Or arguing with a talk show host who isn't there. Could be a good thing, really, if you need cover for occasional bouts of insanity. But: 94K!

$1500 OBO. Hell, make an offer. Please. Would consider swapping for an office chair. Or a fancy teakettle.
--------------------------------------------------

Never mind, of course, that I have no idea what we're going to do if this car actually turns up dead tomorrow. I'm still waiting on the idle, since the last I heard was that the mechanics had "no damn clue" why it was running about 250 rpms below where it should. It's not like I have anything major coming up, like a possible job relocation or other pressing financial matters. A new car is just what I need! When I have no paychecks!

If I could just figure out a way to bike everywhere, forever, I swear I would. Some other day, I'll write a sentimental post about this car and all the memories I have in it (my first kiss with CB, driving to the wedding, surviving a hellish trip over the passes this winter)...Tonight, I just need to polish up my for sale ad.

And now, a little lighthearted rebellion

2007-04-18T01:33:00.000-07:00

C'mon, peeps, how can you not vote for that guy on American Idol (the one with the hair and the not-so-much singing) when the site advocating for him gets great fan mail like this?

I was so mad Wednesday night when they announced that Sanjaya was not in the bottom three and therefore NOT GOING HOME THIS WEEK that I was shaking and in a flood of emotional rage caused by this STUPID website and the people that keep voting for Sanjaya I threw my glass of coke at my FREAKING BRAND NEW 65" HD TV and NOW IT DOESN'T WORK. So now not only is Sanjaya still on American Idol for another week, thanks to you jerks, I can't even watch the show and the TV warranty won't cover the damage from what I did. THIS SITE CAUSED THIS PROBLEM SO YOU SHOULD PAY FOR A NEW TELEVISION, which should not be a problem since you are making so much money by trying to ruin American Idol. Please email back and tell me how you want to pay for the TV. I have not been able to sleep since Wednesday and I don't think I will be able to until you pay for what you did and Sanjaya is kicked off the show. Please do the right thing and help me.

*AND*

Listen we were talking about vote for the worst at my Bible class (my teacher is a huge american idol fan) and you people are the spawn of satan. you all are stopping melinda dolitle from a million dolars. she is a wonderfull person who cares about everything like God and Jesus and u people are stopping her from winning. sanjaya is a evil satan worshipper who doesnt beleive in God and he will go to hell JUST LIKE YOU PEOPLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SO GO AWAY AND DONT EVER COME BACK.

C'mon, fellow spawns of Satan. Please do the right thing and help me take this show to new heights by letting those judges know what we really want: an end to this fraking nightmare that's inhabited my television for far too long. Now, if I only had the slightest understanding of how to vote for anyone; I just tried and failed, so I guess I'll have to use my satan-worshipping skills to fix the voting machines this time.

Momentary respite

2007-04-18T01:00:00.000-07:00

I need to take a quick breather from this fuck of a week:

Ah yes, that will do it. Since I can't exploit the jaw-droppingly seductive, "Why the HELL aren't you home RIGHT NOW?!" photo of CB for viewing pleasure (damn morals), the least I can do is come up with a suitable substitute. Like the Speedo scene from X-Files, but about 1000 times better. Once again, the placebo effect lives: I feel better already. Don't you? (Courtesy of many places, but particularly this one.)

Out of words

2007-04-16T23:45:00.000-07:00

I'd love to write something funny or witty today, but the fact is that I'm sick about the Tech shootings and tired of how people are already turning it into a debate over gun rights or a forum to argue over whether or not this was god's will.

It's a tragedy. Can we just leave it at that for now? There will be plenty left for vultures to pick over, but just shut the hell up until people have had time to process what happened.

Hitting the trails

2007-04-10T16:59:00.000-07:00

It's mid-morning, and I am running the dirt path that loops around the city zoo's outer fence. The trail is shaded by many cedars, doug firs, and red alders; I flit from sun to shade and back again, while a herd of elk stares from the slopes of their enclosure.

The last quarter of the trail is a jagged uphill stretch, riven by exposed roots. By the time I get halfway up, I'm shattered. Suddenly, I recall the last time I ran the trail -- another jogger ahead of me ran this part backwards, and he seemed less worse for the wear when we both reached the top. Besides, isn't backwards running supposed to be en vogue, better for the shins, and all that?

I glance up the hill. No hazards in sight, no major roots coming. On rubbery legs, I spin and propel myself up the hill, keeping within a few inches of the fence. Suddenly, my legs are pumping faster and easier than ever. This is great! This is fantastic! Effortless, even! I don't know why I don't do this more--

SMACK!

Everything, from my head to my calves, hurts. I fall forward, but catch myself before I bite it in front of some sort of weird deer with a foot-long, fuzzy tail. Confused, I spin back around. The open trail I saw is not so open: I have run into a tree. A tall, very round tree with fissured bark. The deerthing looks amused. Perhaps I need new contacts.

I am back at my neighbor's house now, cat-sitting. By cat-sitting, I mean toasting my legs in front of the fire while two throw-pillows sprawl bellies-up beside me. That's the beauty of watching cats. You don't have to do a single thing, except occasionally poke your charges to make sure they're still alive. But the head, it sort of hurts, and sadly I couldn't remember why until I poked the sore spot hard and contemplated how I could have smacked the back of my head with such accuracy. Maybe the collision gave me temporary amnesia. I hope so.

Sitting, waiting, wishing

2007-04-06T22:14:00.000-07:00

Some days, all you need is a warm spot in the sun and a book for company.

Although the presence of a certain spouse of mine wouldn't hurt, either.

Not much to report. I'm still searching for environmental work, and am applying for entry-level jobs in my new field, as well. I just received an email from a new job gatekeeper (e.g., HR Department personnel) informing me that they'd received my application; I should receive word on a job within two to three months. I was feeling pretty good about this job until I talked to a friend who'd applied for it last time -- he said they received over 200 applications, and he didn't even get an interview.

Fortunately for me, the sun is supposed to linger for another day or two, which provides me with enough time to completely forget what my friend said.

Thinking

2007-04-03T23:05:00.000-07:00

I don't think anything - moving to England, getting diagnosed with Graves', moving back without CB - has been as stressful and existentially challenging as this job hunt (four months and counting, since I'm not about to count that one interlude as a success).

Right now, I'm looking at my options. They include working part-time without benefits (with a serious commute involved); temping full-time and edging that much closer to career Admin Assistant; and accepting the apparent norm in environmental nonprofit land, which means working without pay until the group I'm with decides to hire me. Then, there's the whole challenge of making a two-career couple work. Where are we going to go after CB finishes school? How can we each pursue our dreams while being mindful of the other's, and how on earth do we find a compromise that won't leave either of us feeling like we sacrificed too much? It's a frightening balancing act, but hey: it's only the most important relationship of your life, right? Sometimes, I wish I could be someone who would be happy staying home with the kids, or working wherever I found a job, regardless of what it entails. But then I remember that I wouldn't be who I am if that were the case. And he wouldn't have married me.

CB and I made the decision to marry each other knowing full well that our biggest challenge would be managing to balance work and home in a household headed by two ridiculously driven people with very different career goals. So we work on it, every day, even when we're 8000 miles apart.

But now, on my end, things need to change. When do you decide that your plans need tweaking?

There's a new career I'm considering, but it involves a major shift, a lot of dues-paying, and more grad school. The latter doesn't bother me, but I'm hesitant. I feel like I need to investigate every possible avenue that this new path might lead me down; I thought I'd covered my bases last time, and yet here I am with no real job prospects in sight. Plus, I do need to think about what's best not only for me but also for us. No problem -- what's one more ulcer, right?

So for now, let's just say that I'm planning to either: a) find that elusive environmental job; b) temp full or part-time and research/start on my new career after hours; c) curl up in bed until it all goes away.

I like c) best.

Random thoughts from an overworked mind

2007-04-03T00:00:00.000-07:00

Dear God, Jamie Bamber is hot.

The fact that King County makes you fill out 9 .pdf pages for an entry-level job is a good indication of just how sadistic government can become unchecked. Seriously, don't you people have better things to do than make me sweat over my computer for three hours, swearing as I reformat text boxes that somebody put in the wrong place?

Both husband and I went running in our respective countries today. Both of us made sure to run until we were feeling slightly ill, which in our minds indicates a good workout. Clearly, both of us are insane. Distance does not appear to be fixing this shared affliction.

Any ideas on how to convince well-meaning family that maybe it's not such a good idea to have a dog with my name, even if it did come that way?

Career guides make it all sound so easy. They are liars.

No, I mean Jamie Bamber is REALLY hot. I cannot deny reality.

This whole two-year drought thing is going to be a problem.

The husband, although he cannot conceive of it now, is maybe possibly going to be sorry by the second day home. The neighbors might be sorrier.

I cannot believe I just wrote that.

Let alone that I am going to post it. The blogosphere really is a bad influence on us all.

I am definitely getting rid of all references to my real name tonight. And hoping all family members stopped reading months ago.

(But Jamie? Still hot.)

Hitting home

2007-04-01T12:27:00.000-07:00

This article really hit home with me. Not because I come from a highly privileged town (I don't) or attended an elite public school (I didn't), but because I think that every girl I know can relate to the pressure these kids are feeling today. We were on the cusp of it eight years ago, when four AP classes were becoming "the norm," when I felt like I not only could take, but also needed to take those courses, plus serve as the yearbook editor, plus volunteer at two different agencies, plus hold down a job.

I worry about these kids. A lot. What happens when they turn 25, like I have, and realize that they never paused long enough to figure out where they were going? All my life, I've been on a self-selected track that I just assumed would lead to somewhere that made sense. Instead, I'm here, wondering what the hell I'm supposed to do now when all of that work (which I loved) isn't leading to jobs, or bliss, or a real sense of what exactly I crave to do more than anything in this world. So what do I do now? What happens when you realize that all of your work to prepare yourself isn't going to help, because you never quite figured out what you were preparing yourself for? You just thought you'd be on the right track because you thought (with the limited ability of any young kid) that you had done everything you could to get on it. Now, I'm not sure if there is a track, let alone if I know how to find it -- or if, in this speed-crazed, income-disparate, "do it all asap" world, anyone my age is really going to have a chance to figure things out before their options pass them by.

To be blunt, it's fucking terrifying. Paralyzing. I know what would make sense: pull back, take a breath, do something random until the picture comes together. But I can't. There's something in me that drives me to understand right now, to pick a direction and get moving before it's too late to choose. It's like most of the people I know are frantic, throwing things up in all directions to see what sticks, or going with the one track they're on even if it doesn't feel right anymore. None of us know what to do now. And I worry for these girls. The mounting pressure to know what you want before you even understand who you are, the sense that nothing you do is good enough to get where you might want to go...sooner or later, people are going to crumble under the weight of their own expectations. And I don't know if anyone knows how to slow us down before we come undone.

Gotta love your mid-20s crisis, right? Gaaah.

You can take the girl out of hicksville...

2007-03-31T23:51:00.000-07:00

Actual lyrics from a country song:

I'd like to see you out in the moonlight
I'd like to kiss you way back in the sticks
I'd like to walk you through a field of wildflowers
And I'd like to check you for ticks

Do I get any credit for living through four years of this (high school) and still winding up as the Death Cab-loving, Sufjan Stevens-addicted, Simon and Garfunkel devotee that I am?

Pish off

2007-03-29T18:32:00.000-07:00

So, I haven't been around this week. Where have I been?

Oh yeah. That's right. Pursuing my new hobby, one guaranteed to make me the coolest kid on the block and the biggest Babe Magnet of all time. You guessed it: Birding.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Damn, why didn't I decide to spend all of the last two sunny afternoons sneaking through brush at the city parks, ruining my eyesight while trying to identify diving ducks from at least 1000 feet away?

I know, I know. But we can't all be the cool kid. Only a few of us get to see Greater White-fronted Geese (SIX OF THE MO-FOS!!) at the Montlake Fill; only a few of us get to feel good about ourselves, crouched in between the goose poop, alarming passers-by as we squawk "Did you see that?? Do you see that, right there?!" Only a few of us know what a Rhinoceros Auklet is. Or care. But you can still aspire to greatness. Maybe start with your robins, move onto your black-capped chickadees and bush tits. Someday, you, too, might be emailing a birding list to report what you've found.

You might even find yourself with an Audubon form in hand, trying to choose between a class on birding by ear and a two-night series on bird anatomy. Who do you think you are, making that kind of decision? Just take them both. Don't worry. I'll be the one in the desk next to you, jabbering about how I'm pretty sure I need to buy a spotting scope because I almost had the ID on a Yellow-Billed Loon the other day, except I couldn't confirm it with my binoculars.

Sure, some of you might recall how long CB's been overseas and posit that all of my newfound birding zeal is driven by some pent-up energy I've been harboring. But you are wrong. WRONG. My pileated woodpeckers are way cooler than whatever I used to do with spare time.

I need help.

Or a Master Birder. Yeah, definitely the latter.

Silence, you and your dirty minds! I can hear you thinking from over the internet. I kid you not.

I'll be leaving soon

2007-03-26T23:51:00.000-07:00

Thursday afternoon.

I hear a noise from the office doorway and look up from where I'm crouching over sets of figures, tabling the numbers we're going to lose on the event being canceled. Outside, the rain has been sliding down from the sky all afternoon in thick, sinewy sheets that splatter along the sidewalks. My boss, or ex-boss, is leaning against the door frame, red-faced, just staring. I set my pencil on the edge of my desk and fold my hands, looking at him expectantly. He's only just learned that the other co-worker is leaving, too, and now he's on his way out for the weekend. When he comes back, I will be gone.

He doesn't say much. Just stops and starts, fixed rigidly in the doorway. I don't reply.

"I just, I'm not good at...the thing is. I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I'm very sorry."

He half approaches, maybe seeking a handshake, but I don't move. I can't. My feet are glued to the floor and I just want him to leave because I don't want to feel bad now, not after I've learned what he told the board, how this is all my fault, how everything that's happened comes down to me and my inability to handle the job's burdens.

But he looks so sad and confused and even small that I want to say something. Anything to at least let him know that I haven't enjoyed one moment of the past two weeks, either. Instead, I drop my gaze and pick up the pencil and mutter, "I'm sorry, too."

He waits a moment longer, then leaves. I listen as his footsteps recede down the hallway. When I know he's gone, I drop my head to my desk and remain there while a trickle of rain seeps through the window like an open wound.

Frack you, Battlestar. Frack you hard.

2007-03-21T23:41:00.000-07:00

I'm catching up on BSG's first season, since I'm a new initiate this year. Can I just say that one might do better than to watch the first half of the miniseries before bed? Not that it isn't a brilliant show (and I *love* learning all the little things I hadn't known), but it's not a great bedtime story. I'm right in the middle of the nuclear holocaust now, at the point where the survivors have to leave people behind in order to save themselves.

Now I find myself sitting at a dimly lit desk while the city sleeps, thinking about planes. About how a plane isn't just a silver streak in the sky anymore. Does anyone still watch planes in the city for the sake of watching them? Are we all tracking them warily out the corner of the eye, telling ourselves we just like watching planes when we're really wondering Where's it going? What's it doing? Did it dip a little? Should I hold my breath again?

Remember when a plane was just a cumbersome bird lumbering across the lazy sky?

Now, I hate flying. HATE it, despite knowing how irrational it is to cringe every time the plane shifts. I look around, and I know who else feels that way. You can mark us by the stiffness in our shoulders, the way we fix our stares on magazines without reading the lines. I hate what happened for making me feel this way. I hate myself for not being able to stop it.

I wonder what it's like for people born after 9-11. How do they watch planes? What do they see when they look up as an engine drones overhead? Does what happened even seem real to them? It barely seems plausible to me, and I saw everything they won't air on anniversary repeats these days. I struggle to incorporate it into what I know, and yet it's touching every part of our lives, from the war we're in to the way we think about little things. Planes and border crossings. Subways and double-decker buses.

Don't ask why a sci-fi show brought this all home again. That's why it's so good. It makes you think about the things you take for granted, and about how "normal" life feels now when it's really askew forever. It isn't normal for me to think about how I'd reach CB if it all went down while we were still a continent away from each other. Nor is it normal for me and everyone I know to view a plane as a possibility. None of this is alright. We still aren't okay -- as evidenced, I'd hazard, by the fact that two hours of a well written sci-fi debut leave me here, in my room, thinking about all the facts you push aside in order to continue with everyday life.

What a way to make a living

2007-03-20T23:40:00.000-07:00

You know, there's nothing like getting the silent treatment from your boss to make your workday even better than it already was.

Seriously, I spent the day with an elbow propped on the desk, reading the New York Times Magazine online. My boss emailed me periodically from the next room. Sample correspondence:

"Are you around?"
"Yes."

Useful stuff, I tell you. I came in two hours late -- not my fault, the place I was applying to opens late on Tuesdays and doesn't say so online, dang it! -- and for a moment he looked like he was going to ask me where I'd been. I adopted my best Crawl Back To The Rock From Under Whence You Came stare, and he dropped his gaze and shambled down the hall.

This all was precipitated by a volley of hostile emails and online sparring yesterday. Over the weekend, I decided that I was no longer interested in reconsidering my resignation, as I'd been instructed to do. For the record, my boss's original response to my first resignation attempt was to say:

"No. I'm not accepting this. You need to reconsider. You need to spend the weekend thinking about this from a broader perspective."

He also refused to take my resignation letter, and so I stood there stupidly, letting it dangle from my hand until I finally dropped it on his desk. Later, he said he could respect -- well, no, actually, he couldn't respect my decision. Not really. Just so I knew.

Let me tell you: giving an employee grief when she's only been there for six weeks? Telling her that she's the only one who can help you re-energize and rebuild your organization? Thinking she's really thirsting after the responsibility of cobbling together a functional institution out of fragments? Knowing this is her first "real" job, which means she's already second-guessing everything about her decision and is too overwhelmed by your attacks to call you out when you cross the line? Not exactly the best way to convince her to stay, particularly when you follow it up with a second day filled with snide remarks like, "My wife says you aren't giving this enough of a chance," and veiled threats like, "I can fire you anytime I want to." Really? Can you? Then would you hurry up so I can leave your sorry butt behind?

Oh, I'm sorry. I'm supposed to care what your wife, who doesn't work here, thinks? I should feel bad because *TWO MONTHS* notice "isn't enough"??

So, over the weekend, I emailed again and said I indeed had reconsidered, per his request; now, my original offer to leave in two months had changed, and I intended to leave in three weeks. He ignored me for two days, but he was sick on Monday and I chose to wrap up the matter before he could get to me at the office. Let the email battle begin. Alas, the man tried to out-manipulate me, by arguing (incorrectly) that I'd promised to stay that long. He can definitely back you into a corner in-person, as evidenced by the two-hour attack I sustained on Friday...but he's a lousy e-manipulator. I won. He lost. And now, I'm getting the silent treatment.

Tomorrow, I think I'll follow SueBob's idea. Novels and/or DVDs at the workplace, coming up! Heck, I need to catch up on the first two seasons of BSG anyway.

For god's sake, it's like breaking up with a boyfrind. A needy, passive-aggressive, high-school boyfriend who winds up halfheartedly stalking you in the school parking lot until you finally have to employ vivid castration descriptions to make him leave you alone. I thought I'd finished with these creeps when I turned 18.

What really makes me angry is that I'm unemployed. AGAIN. No apartment, no cat, no freedom. Taxes to pay, car to repair, thyroid to medicate, and limited assets to do so. Stuck with the parents even longer, after 7 years of independence. No apartment, no cat, no freedom. But hell, anything is better than working where I am now. Even living with two people who harbor secret fantasies that you'll turn back into a precocious twelve year-old at any moment.

Visual DNA

2007-03-18T01:16:00.000-07:00

An interesting take...what's yours?

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

Don't you mess with me

2007-03-16T22:50:00.000-07:00

Something tells me I'm not the only one in the building who despises our workplace.

Stupid, cheerful-ass Peeps. They probably deserved it. Nothing like skewering a shiny happy yellow marshmellow bunny, let alone spearing a pair, to really make your day better. Sadly, this did indeed make my morning.

The morning, that is, of the day after I quit my job.

Or tried to quit.

And was told I wasn't allowed.

It's been a very long week. I was tempted to add my own adornments to the dart board, starting with my business cards and finishing with something of value, like the only company phone that works more than half-time, but instead I snapped this shot and skipped back upstairs. There's really not much else to write tonight. I quit. Or tried to. It's hard to quit when your fortysomething boss reverts to juvenile behavior. When I told him that this wasn't working out, I received a one-word response: "No."

Is it any wonder I've been fantasizing about Jaeger shots since noon yesterday? I'm going to go find some of those and then run over Peeps with my bike. Maybe back up and do it again for good measure. Are you ever going to receive the full story? Perhaps. It's just that every time I tell it, I get a little.bit.ANGRIER. And you know, I don't actually want to be known as "That girl who went postal on Peeps in the basement of our building and had to be escorted out by security." I always wanted to go postal on something far more deserving. Like the Wiggles.

Ayudame

2007-03-08T22:10:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer One: if you're family, by blood or marriage, I'd appreciate it if you skip this one. It's definitely for friends and blog buddies only. Thanks.

Things aren't so good right now. I feel like a broken record sometimes, but I'm not sure what else I can do. I could definitely use some advice from friends here: say you have a job, and it's a foot in the door to a rather small, fairly exclusive field. But it's in a three-person office with a less-than-shoestring budget, and your job could really be filled by two full-time people, and you never even got trained officially, and at the end of the day you come home and realize just how upset you are because the slightest thing kinda makes you flip out.

But it's a job, a job with responsibilities, a job that might actually get you somewhere else someday. It's a job where leaving right now would be a terrible thing to do to them, because you're in the middle of a massive project that no one else is going to be able to pick up easily. And yet, you are tired. You are so very, very tired, and a little voice in the back of your mind is realizing that you've been tired for a couple of years now. Every time, you fight through it, telling yourself that you just have to grit the teeth for one last push, and then you'll finally get a break. That break? It still hasn't come -- and as stupid and weak as you feel, you just don't know if you can actually push through again because the exhaustion, it's maybe bigger than you. It saps your energy, drains your writing, makes you want to curl up and sleep until everything just resolves itself. You hate feeling that way. You can't fix it. But you're afraid to leave the job anyway.

So what the hell do you do? I'm too tired to think straight, and I keep traveling the same circles without finding a side channel out of here.

In the waiting line

2007-03-01T21:56:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow marks three months since I first tried to close my bank account in the UK -- when I was still living in the UK. Since then, I've made at least five to eight phone calls -- always at midnight or later, thanks to the time zones. I've sent letter upon letter, completing increasingly ridiculous requests from the bank, including one which asked me to send a certified copy of my passport signature page because apparently I forged my own signature on the previous account closure letter. It's fantastic. Now, I'm being told I sent that to the wrong place, even though the last letter I received *and* the last person with whom I spoke told me to send it there. Oh, and apparently? I also have to cut my debit card into four pieces, shred my checks and return them to yet another part of the bank's nebula. And apparently? The fact that no one told me that once in the past three months, during which period I destroyed and threw out my checks because I didn't like having them lying around to tempt airport security checkers and passersby? That, apparently, is my own damn fault and means I need to write yet another letter explaning myself.

So, what do you do when your international bank refuses to close your account? Or when they try to send you to collections for mounting fees because your account no longer has money in it? (Hey, maybe because I was told to take it all out the first time I went to close it!) Anybody know a good lawyer out there? Hell, I'd settle for a consolation prize: a nice big bottle of whiskey to keep me company while I sit cradling the phone yet again tonight, trying not to think about how this might affect my credit, praying that just this once the person on the other end of the line actually has something useful to impart. If they don't, I guess I have to wait until next summer, when I fly back to visit CB and march into the nearest branch with my forty-fifth letter in hand and eighteen months of pent-up rage waiting to be unleashed on the nearest bank representative.

Seriously, this is ridiculous, isn't it? Or is it all happening because they can tell I'm American and want to make my life miserable? See, I know that's not true, but try waiting three months for an account to close and see how paranoid it makes you.

Digging my ditch

2007-02-22T23:09:00.001-08:00

Last Friday, we went south of the city to visit a few old project sites, only to discover that one of our ever-rising creeks (thanks, development!) finally exhausted a client's already short fuse. He was tired of it eroding his property line and threatening the hundred year-old stack of sticks shed at the water's edge. So, he did what any rational person would do.

He made a pond.

And by "made a pond," I mean borrowed a neighbor's backhoe and dug a 10-foot hole in the middle of his yard, near enough to the creek that the crumbling bank is likely to collapse at any time. Surprisingly, officials noticed the sudden emergence of a pond where no such thing had existed previously, and they told him to fill the damn thing up again before they fined him.

But the pond, having been made, is apparently staying. The officials are probably too afraid of his massive pond-digging tools to mess with him.

His next door neighbor? That guy looked at the creek, looked at his sloping property, and decided, "Hey, I know where to build a great house! Right in the depression next to the creek!" Just to be sure he really enjoyed the full benefits of annual flooding, he made sure that nobody put any pesky stilts under his house. No sir, just wet, wet floors for that man.

Naturally, of course, both the pond and the soggy house are our faults. Stupid third parties, trying to mediate. Should've just dredged the damn creek and buried the channel in concrete.

Meanwhile, a third party is busy sabatoging our tree plantings by using deer antlers to scrape away all the bark. In February.

I really want to be there when the person's in action, just to wander up and innocently ask where all the antler-wearing deer come from in the middle of winter.

Gotta love my job. Beaver management and landowner pacification. At least I'm never bored, right?

Constantly unfolding

2007-02-19T15:20:00.000-08:00

Keeping busy is the name of the game these days, so I'm taking photography classes next month and starting a shoreline naturalist training program a little later. Not a lot else going on, but these did show up at work a few days ago:

He's a very smart boy. Not only are these flowers beautiful (and fragrant), but they're also sustainably harvested:

We aren't usually big on Valentine's Day, but this year I couldn't wait for a little bit of romance. Flowers and gifts do make a difference sometimes, especially when you know they put some thought into the why of the gift.

I've also discovered that we're a source of inspiration, which anyone who knows us should find unsettling. The maniacs wreaking havoc at Crate and Barrel? Inspiring? But I've had several friends tell me recently that whenever they're despairing over their LDRs, all they have to do is think of us. Presto! Instant mood elevator. Sure, this sucks, but at least we're not Eco and CB! These friends have spurred me to set a new goal: find a friend whose partner is even further away, ideally in a country where U.S. citizens can't enter legally.

Hmmm. Anybody know any couples separated by an ocean or two for at least three years?

It's just a little crush

2007-02-17T12:20:00.000-08:00

Poor CB. He has competition.

Some of those pictures do not do Kate Walsh (aka Addison Shepherd of Grey's fame) justice, but seriously, she is the most smoldering on-screen presence since, well, I don't know what. Sure, it might have been better for my self-esteem to never realize how uniquely attractive some women can be without trying -- but I gotta admit, after marathoning my way through the second season, I sure do enjoy looking at her anyway. ;)

Sorry, love. We can now update my lust list to include Zach Braff, Jake Gyllenhaal, Natalie Portman and Kate Walsh. Hey, a girl can dream...

Just another day at the office

2007-02-15T22:38:00.000-08:00

You know, going from zero bike miles per week to 14 bike miles per day probably isn't the best decision one could make. Although, I'm not the only slightly crazed outdoorsy person in my office. Here's how my first conversation went this morning:

Me: "Hey."

Alex*: "Hey."

"How are you?"

"Not so good." Grimacing, Alex tries to stand. "I kinda busted my ankle on a run yesterday. Check it out."

I admire his battle scar, which, judging by the large purple contusion around his entire calf, is likely more than a sprained ankle.

"How're you?"

I wince. "Not great, either. Did you know that sore glutes can actually make migraines feel pleasant by comparison, when you force those glutes to propel you up one of our city's finest hills?"

Alex looks sympathetic. "How're they doing?"

"Tight as rocks."

I look at him. He looks at me. I realize it is my tenth day on the job, and I am talking to a co-worker about my butt. In an entirely nonsexual, frankly off-putting manner.

"This isn't really a normal office, is it?"

"No. Not at all."

*not his real name

With love, from me

2007-02-12T21:12:00.000-08:00

Dear Internet friends,

You are all lovely people. I can't tell you how much better I'm feeling after your calls, posts and emails. Just having you in my life makes it much, much easier to bear things of late.

Well, that, and getting to meet with landowners in a place I will never dare mention by name. It's always enlightening to see firsthand what happens when government agencies don't handle rural landowners with sensitivity. Namely, Operation Sneaky (no, I am not kidding), in which you drive the county off your property with some help from neighbors, then declare war on the resident beaver population while the county gnashes its teeth at your front gate. Damn beavers, damming everything.

We also encountered a recently exploded meth lab while investigating a giant beaver dam on a different site. Clearly, the mammoth proportions of the dam indicate a positive correlation between beaver production and exposure to methamphetamines. Drugged-out rodents with giant teeth are fearsome creatures.

And then, there was the guy who didn't have a phone, or electricity, and who's fondly referred to by his neighbors as "that guy who's always spending time in one of our finest correctional facilities." To quote one acquaintance, "He's a real nice guy. I'm just surprised you found him. I thought he was still in jail." He was sitting in the driveway when we showed up after trying fruitlessly to reach him on his imaginary phone. He didn't seem overly surprised to see us, just a little taken aback that we hadn't called.

So, here's to friends, meth labs, and beavers. And an extra toast to whoever finds me Googling for porn and drugs after I post this. Sorry about that, buddy.

Be calm, be brave, it'll be okay

2007-02-09T22:53:00.000-08:00

Fuck. What was I thinking when I thought I could do this?

We haven't even been apart for two months, and there are fissures running the length and breadth of me. I can't touch him, hold him, kiss him, see him. The curse of multiple time zones means we're lucky to talk more than a few hours per week, and we usually can't help but catch each other right before bed or just before dawn.

It's quiet and rainy here tonight, and suddenly I don't know if I can fight hard enough to get through this. Two years? Twenty-four months of this? I feel like my whole world is coming to pieces. I'm just scared that without meaning to, we'll drift apart. We're busy people, busy by nature, most satisifed when we're flying between half a dozen tasks and events, brains chattering at dizzying speeds. When we live together, it's hard enough to "be" together for any amount of time. When we're apart? Like any couple in an LDR, we fill the hours to avoid thinking about the hurt and the loneliness -- but in cramming the waking life full, we don't let ourselves have time to miss each other. It's a double-edged sword: it doesn't hurt as much, and it's probably the only thing that lets us slog through every day without collapsing -- but it almost means we have to detach to survive. And what if we can't stop detaching? What happens when we get to see each other for a whopping two weeks this summer, and then go apart again? And again? And again? What if we grow apart without meaning to? Without realizing the space between us until it's too late?

There aren't any easy answers. It's happening to more and more people we know: if you aren't fortunate enough to share the same career interests (and, sometimes, even if you are), you may be bound for a time apart should you marry young. We knew it, and we knew it, and we knew it...but then it comes down to the wire and you realize that what we knew doesn't compare to what it feels like when it happens. But what are we supposed to do? Is one of us supposed to give it all up, which doesn't do anything but sow seeds of resentment that spring up overnight like dandelions? Is it even possible to find a middle ground where we can both do what we like without going apart for what we love?

Fuck. Sometimes I wish I could just be happy doing anything, and it kills me that I can't. And yet, I get frustrated when people suggest that this is the problem. No one ever asks why he can't give up his path. It's like it all comes down to me, the onus is on me, the problem is me. And the only one who doesn't see it that way -- even when I'm questioning whether they're right -- is him.

In the end, maybe that's why this has to work, even if it hurts in ways I didn't think were possible. Because the only one who understands me is eight thousand miles away. And I'd be a damned fool to let that keep us apart without a fight.

Warning: temporary depression ahead

2007-02-06T23:24:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, I miss my husband more than I ever thought possible. Like now, when I work an 11-hour day, completely alone in the office, trying to organize and run an entire auction on a budget that might not even allow for real letterhead.

In the future, I'd better be able to look back on the last two years and say, "Oh yeah. Now I see the reason for all of that," because if I can't? If I can't, then I don't really know why I'm perpetrating self-inflicted torture now by moving back overseas and trying to establish a career in a field that's alternatingly invigorating and insomnia-inducing. For real. I don't know if I'm going to sleep tonight because I'm so worried that we can't even afford the postage for the freaking bulk mail solicitations I need to send.

I miss him so fucking much.

Let's go exploring

2007-02-04T20:50:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry for leaving you in suspense for so long (and the fact that anyone cares is really sweet).

But yes, I have a job. An Official Title job which entails real responsibilities, as there are fewer people in my office than fingers on one hand. The position includes orchestrating our annual fundraiser auction (scheduled for spring, and no work done yet! Eeep!), co-organizing the volunteer projects; doing public outreach, presentations, etc; digging into restoration policy; and a few other things. Hence, the slight panic: this is a serious, serious job. I insisted I never wanted to be an admin assistant again, and it remains true -- but I'm realizing that the perk to admin was that I never really had to be held accountable for anything. The worst I could do was transfer a few phone calls to the wrong desk or missplace something of moderate importance, like our housing bills. Now? Now, I could singlehandedly throw an organization into chaos by double-booking the auction venue or wrecking the company truck. (Have I mentioned that both trucks are stick shifts, which I can't drive? Do you SEE why I'm working on my first ulcer?)

As strange as this may sound to anyone who's been in the workforce for awhile, it also feels very, very odd to have a "real" real job. This isn't something I can leave in a year to finish grad school (that comes later), or something I can just do on a whim to keep me occupied in between classes. More than anything else I've done, this feels like serious adulthood, and I'm feeling a little ambivalent about it. While I'm thrilled to actually be in the field I wanted and to have a job which will challenge me by making me stretch in a dozen directions at once, I also feel a little wistful. So much for doing the over-romanticized coffeehouse job while writing my novel between shifts. No spontaneous "pack it up and travel" moments coming soon. I'm really envious of people who can do those things, but I think I learned this year that I can't. I need more structure, as well as a role that feels like it's really "doing something"...and I'm a little disappointed in myself as a result. I'm afraid I won't finish that novel, or do that traveling, and even though I know those fears are exaggerated right now, they still nibble at me when I'm lying in bed. Here comes the nontraditional student in grad school, the mortgage (if we can ever afford one), the itemized taxes and IRAs and scheduled vacation time. Part of me's relieved, and the rest wants to run screaming to the nearest bar...which probably explains why I spent Friday night in the tub with a giant Bloody Mary.

At the same time, I'm totally stoked about this job and think that it will be a perfect way to launch the environmental policy career I'm hoping to have. This is going to let me get involved with every aspect of an organization, and it's a group which straddles the nonprofit-government border while also working with the private sector. I wish I could tell you all about it, but I don't feel like getting dooced anytime soon...and with such a small office, you know I'll have stories to tell.

Tomorrow is my second day, and I'm already going to be alone in the office all week. In that time, I have to select two or three venues for the event while remaining mindful of our microscopic budget, and I also need to prep all of our PR materials and start identifying potential donors. So much for easing into things! But life is good, and I just hope I can perform well enough to convince them to keep me. On the bright side, I do get to keep the eyebrow, the jeans, and the bike-to-work habit. I may be getting dragged into full-blown adulthood, but I have a healthy clump of my less-responsible side clutched between my fingers. Aren't you thrilled you get to come along for the ride? ;)

Shout it out

2007-02-02T00:32:00.000-08:00

One guess what finally happened today, based on these two back-to-back reactions.

Let's see...utter elation (note to self: do not be elated often, as it looks like I could frighten children and small dogs with that expression), followed by actual situation setting in...well, I'll let you stew on it. ;) Full meditation on the event coming tomorrow.

New reasons to keep vomiting

2007-01-30T00:46:00.000-08:00

Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!!!

I'd heard they were doing this, but I really didn't believe it...And I just love our smug president and his, "Golly gee, I don't pronounce words so good anyway" garbage. The leaders of the free world, ladies and gentlemen!

Ugh

2007-01-28T17:53:00.000-08:00

Stomach flu today (or food poisoning, but who cares enough to be decisive?). It's almost 6pm, and this is the first time I've been able to sit up for more than 10 minues in a row...so I'll get back to blogging when I'm not semi-delerious.

Life lists

2007-01-25T00:37:00.000-08:00

Most normal people are in bed at 12:40 am. Me? I make a life list for your reading pleasure. Or mine. I've just realized there are a lot of things I keep saying I should do, but then I forget about them until the next time a bright idea flashes through my head. Now, I have to actually think about doing them. Not necessarily a bad thing.

Getting my fix

2007-01-24T13:52:00.000-08:00

I don't do sci-fi.

That said, holy crap, how can a girl become so addicted to Battlestar Galactica? Two multi-hour marathons after my first episode (#1 of Season Three), and I'm hopelessly ensnared by the drawn-out plots, the juicy ethical questions, and the inexplicably *hawt* Lee Adama. The best part is that every time I mention it, I out another friend who's also hooked. It's like some sort of virus running rampant over the airwaves.

Stupid DVD series. I get rid of my tv, but I still have my DVD-RW. I really ought to throw it out...but then I'd never find out who the last five Cylons are.

SOTU

2007-01-23T23:12:00.000-08:00

You know, listening to the SOTU became easier this year for two reasons:

1. Fewer smart-ass smirks from Dubya
2. The SOTU Drinking Game

After his third or fourth reference to "the American people," I was too entranced by the spinning Senate floor to care. Gotta love the dramatic atmospheric shift this year. No more wild applause or u-rah cheers, and a lot of painful silence when he clearly expected praise. So, what was my favorite part? The long, drawn out praise of Nancy Pelosi, clearly intended to forstall actually embarking on a lame duck speech, or the standard cream filling (in which we praise various random people for random noble acts) which came at the end this time -- because he had not a damned thing to say and didn't want to wrap up with, "Please don't hurt me." Personally, I think it was the Cheney-Pelosi glare wars. Good stuff, people.

But what was up with the near-groping of our new Speaker of the House? Between her and Angela Merkel, I think we have a problem.

Where do I draw the line?

2007-01-21T22:44:00.000-08:00

I have two job interviews this week. One seems promising; the other less so. I should be excited -- and I was, but there's a catch. A silver one.

I reluctantly drove to my tattoo and piercing parlour today to have a clear glass eyebrow barbell fitted. That way, I can keep the hole open without jeopardizing the interview, on the offhand chance that anyone in nonprofit land still balks at the sight of metal in skin. Sounds perfect, right?

Except:

I fucking hate it.

In addition to being mind-numbingly ugly, like I'm some kind of land fish dragging around a small memento of my last encounter with a fisherman, it also draws lots of attention to the slight irritation around the piercing itself. Skin, understandably, isn't keen on being rubbed, and it's in constant contact with my barbell. So it's red. Usually, this isn't a problem. Now? Now it looks like I have MRSA.

The aesthetic ugliness aside, my real problem is something I didn't anticipate feeling: a severe sense of loathing and resentment that my potential for a job might be gauged not upon my qualifications, enthusiasm, potential or experience, but upon a millimeter thick piece of metal that spends half its time lurking behind my fringe. You know something? I can do these jobs. I am talented enough, hard-working enough -- I'll be the last one at the office if that's what it takes. But this little piercing here? It's part of me. You may not get that, but it is. It means a lot to me. I wore it through hell and back this past year, and I've transitioned from viewing it as an interesting accoutrement to a vital portion of who I am and what I stand for every damn day.

Tattoos, piercings, hair color, unusual clothes....news for ya, people: they don't affect job performance. My brain won't implode because I have a piercing; in fact, my academic performance has increased since its arrival. But cramming us all into the same neutral spaces and stifling any hint of personal expression does hurt the workplace. We are who we are. You may not have a single piercing, or you may be tattooed from elbows to knees. It doesn't matter to me, as long as you can file my taxes/tinker with my car/fix my aching back. I will wear a suit, even though I dislike them. I'll put on makeup, file my nails, maybe even consider heels. This? This is too far.

I know there are people out there who don't understand why it matters, and that's fine -- but it does. Lord knows I wish it didn't, but I've been sitting in front of the bathroom mirror for much of the last couple days trying to work up the nerve to take it out...and I Can't Do It.

So. It would appear that we are at an impasse, my little glass imposter and I. And here we sit, in a long detente with no resolution in sight. It's just a stupid hunk of metal, but it matters.

I'll be right beside you, dear

2007-01-20T23:38:00.000-08:00

So, how did that last night go?

That was the view from our hotel window, with lighting assistance from Picasa (thanks to Joanium for turning me onto the program). When I opened the door, CB went straight to the view; for two hours, we sat in front of the window as gulls swept past, their wingtips nearly caressing the glass. You live here long enough and almost fail to notice how beautiful it is. I remember now.

Dinner was amazing. We found a quiet Italian bistro tucked into a corner of Pike Place. On a snowy weeknight, the half-empty restaurant became a perfect place for lingering glances and easy conversation.

The next morning, as we sat at the window of a cafe across from the Market, I realized I hadn't let it hit me yet. It was just what I hoped I'd be able to say.

I never got cold wearing nothing in the snow

2007-01-16T23:16:00.000-08:00

Can you believe this? In Seattle. In January.

At 9am, the streets were silent. Actually, silent is not the right word. They were devoid of everyday workweek sounds: rushing traffic, pulsing energy. Instead, side streets like this one became community centers, as if this modest snowstorm was our own little blackout, impelling our impersonal city to bundle up and come out to play, dressed in its brightest scarf and hat.

Everywhere I walked, throngs of children skidded past on anything slick enough to move: plastic sleds, snowboards, dinner trays. Parents formed casual phalanxes on the hilltops, using group strength to deter the occasional ambitious 4x4 driver who approached. Today, all of the streets in our neighborhood were for people. And even though you weren't here, I felt surrounded by friends.

We don't have snow like this in Seattle. Ideal snowball-snow. The satisfying, dull thock of compact powder as it strikes the alluring telephone pole, the electric stop sign. Perfect targets in a monochrome world.

Tonight, the rain returns, and great clumps of snow are plummeting from the roof as I write. The day itself was rather crap: job applications unanswered, evil British banks determined to dog me from abroad, creeping anxiety I didn't quite manage to ignore. But this morning? This morning was a gift to savor for every moment of my long, lingering walk up and down the slopes of our hill. Because for that deceptively brief stretch, I forgot that anything mattered at all.

Sinking in

2007-01-13T23:37:00.000-08:00

Half the time, I convince myself that nothing's changed. When I'm driving across town to visit a mutual friend, and there's no one in the car to share my ire at the latest bulletin on NPR, I tell myself it's because you're at work, or staying home, or maybe biking out on the Burke. When I'm not sure where you are or what you're doing, I pretend it's because we want to surprise each other, talk about our days over dinner that night.

The other half, it's 2:30 in the morning and I wake up. Your pillow: it's cold. Your side of the bed: empty. Your warm chest rising and falling against my skin is a whisper in my dream.

I think, this can't be right. It's only been three days. I have approximately 60 more sets of three days to go. A few weeks later, they'll start again. And again. And again.

Sometimes, I wish I could start a blog just for us, one that let me tell you everything ; right now, I feel like I'm opening our windows to let the world see through the panes.

My writing is shit right now. My brain on automatic. The incredibly kind parking attendant at the airport took one look at my mascara-streaked face (what was I thinking, wearing that?) and waived me past the line, even though I'd validated my car much earlier, when I hadn't guessed I'd spend 20 minutes behind the steering wheel without starting the ignition.

I know it's going to pass. It is already: I reorganized our room today and visited a few friends. I'm crashed on their couch right now, trying to convince myself that this post won't be as embarrassing to read in the morning. Please forgive me if I dabble in melancholy the next few weeks. I promise to regale you with equally as many good stories, even if they take awhile to come.

Things I never envisioned explaining

2007-01-12T23:23:00.000-08:00

Parental Unit (Male), riffling through this week's edition of the Stranger, which I mistakenly left on the coffee table:

"Look, they have their summarized takes on all of the 2008 presidential candidates."

Proceeds to read a few out loud to Parental Unit (Female), who is pointedly ignoring him. Reads anyway.

Dad: "Barak Obama: junior senator from Illinois; bestselling author; totally fuckable former coke and pot user."

Mom: "What? Former what?"

"Coke and pot user."

"Oh, yeah, that. It was all over the news a few months ago. We heard it already."

Dad, perplexed: "Yes, but what does 'totally fuckable' mean?"

Me: contemplate lengthy, detailed explanation which would include summaries of Dan Savage and Savage Love, as well as the 'Barak Obama Does Your Mama' satirical piece. Think about the latest letters to Savage Love, which included graphic descriptions of wives-of-cuckolds being 'bred' in front of their mates.

"Daughter? Honey? Do you --"

"What? No, Dad, I don't read that kind of stuff -- jeez, I mean, the thing is, there's this gay columnist, hey, has anyone seen my front door key? I think I dropped it somewhere last night. Better go look because you never know who might...um...pick it up...off our...um, floor."

Storm front coming

2007-01-10T09:29:00.000-08:00

Seattle is experiencing a cold snap right now, the kind that leaves pedestrians huddled on corners with hands pulling their collar flaps tight. Last night, just before the latest front's arrival, my dad came inside and said, "We may want to reconsider our plans. There's a sea of black rolling this way. I'd hate to have you caught out in it."

The tide is in this morning. It marks the arrival of an unexpected part of our lives, a physical separation we anticipated but still thought we could stave off for awhile longer. I'm still not sure exactly how I'll manage to put CB on "our" flight tomorrow, especially knowing that there will be an empty seat with my name on it next to his. But despite my discomfort (and, okay, denial), quiet confidence sits deep at the base of my chest. If we didn't do this, we might not make it. By doing it, by allowing ourselves to follow the paths we feel compelled to take, we're doing exactly what we think is right, precisely what we need to be together for the long haul. If it doesn't work, I'll go back to England. But it is going to work. We believe in our decision; we will be there for each other every single day, even if it's not in the traditional way; and we will change our plans if either of us senses even the slightest warning sign. We are going to be fine.

So the next time an acquaintance asks how we're doing, wearing an expression that tells me the person has already decided our outcome, I'm going to ram the heartache and tears down my throat. I'll turn to the person with a "Why should you ask?" smile and say, "Good. We're good."

We are good.

Talk to you in a few days.

Spinning my wheels

2007-01-08T22:00:00.000-08:00

*huff* *huff*

I'd write more, but I'm still catching my breath after biking all the way up freaking Fremont today. That hill was a lot shorter when I got to turn on 41st. Those last nine blocks? The deceptively gradual grade? My knee wants its cartilage back. My lungs are apparently capable of having seizures.

*gasp*

The sick part is that I really enjoyed it. I even chased after someone who passed me on a road bike. Probably won't be doing that for another week (by which time I hope to regain feeling in my quads), but at least I know I still can.

*collapse*

Are you getting somewhere

2007-01-07T19:00:00.000-08:00

Sorry, sorry! I'm relieved and surprised that anyone's expecting me to post, but I also feel bad for failing to meet my self-imposed deadline. Things are just a little hectic around here. I'm not coping well with the husband's impending absence, and so everything else (phone calls, emails, holiday cards and blog posts) has fallen by the wayside. It should pick up once he's away, as I'll be trying to find things to do that fill the lonely hours. For now, I've been trying to brainstorm some New Year's resolutions...

Resolution One: Prove to the world that my career title is *not* Permanent Admin Assistant. I have more job applications floating around my field now. Getting into that world matters to me: I need to discover what my options are within it before I determine whether I should be going back to school for a policy degree, a resource management degree, or something else altogether. I also can't imagine doing anything else at this point in my life, which I thought I'd never say. I'm a little depressed because I'm running into the "You are over/underqualified" trap, and no one seems to care that overqualified can also be interpreted as will be the *most* qualified and yet still willing to work for crap to gain a little experience. C'mon, people!!

Resolution Two: Do everything I can to keep this LDR functional. This includes lots of handwritten letters, spontaneous gifts, daily phone calls (stupid time zones), and the occasional racy e-photo. ;)

Resolution Three: Finish my damn book. I got stuck in December when we decided I was moving back, but CB insists that it's worth finishing and I just need to think up an approach to a sticky conflict/catharsis chapter. I want a finished draft by mid-year and a "real" draft by December so I can inflict pain upon friends and potential agents just in time for the holidays.

Resolution Four: Bike more. Headwinds, psychotic Seattle rain and crazed drivers be damned.

Resolution Five: Find ways to be less stressed. This should be easy, what with the career uncertainty, LDR, current housing situation and fear of writer's block looming in the background.

Resolution Six: Change the current housing situation. We all love our families, which is why we don't live with them.

Resolution Seven: Bird more (new hobby), improve the ever-inadequate Spanish, actually send my thesis to people who were promised it last summer.

Resolution Eight: Stop feeling like I need a laundry list of resolutions.

Posts over the next few weeks will either be embarrassingly emotional, sporradic, or schizophrenic. With four days to go before CB flies back to England, I'm holding it together -- but every time I think of that impending drive to the airport, I feel more despair than I ever imagined I could bear without breaking. We will be fine, but that doesn't mean I have to be right now.

So this is the New Year

2007-01-01T21:23:00.000-08:00

Death Cab running through my head...

On the first day of the new year, my brother's futon snapped in half, the rain returned, and I spent most of the day curled in a ball on the bedspread trying not to think about how quickly Coalescent Boy's departure is approaching.

We decided that our most monstrous 2006 hadn't quite left. We realized we had failed to burn the traditional New Year's candle.

It just flickered out. Goodbye and good riddance, 2006! While it had its moments, I can't say I'll miss it. Here's hoping for brighter days to come. Regular posting to resume on January 4th.

My life list

2007-01-01T00:33:00.000-08:00

Birders have "life lists," or lists recording the first sighting of any bird that's "new" to them. Since I am barely a birder, I thought I'd start my own life list of of 26 things I hope to do in this lifetime (since I turn 26 this year and all). I'll add an item a year, or more, or less. Who knows? Maybe you'll even see a few checked off before you get bored.

Life list, in no particular order

Shave my head
Parachute out of a plane
Complete RAMROD
Do STP
Ride the Kettle Valley Trail
Backpack through the Hoh Rainforest. None of this dayhike crap like I always do.
Do at least 50 cumulative miles of the Pacific Crest Trail
Start three day eventing
Write and publish four novels. Good ones. And by “good,” I mean, the NYT doesn’t hate them “good,” not sells like Daniel Steele “good.”
Become a Master Birder (yeah, I know. Bad title.)
Spend 4-6 months traveling through South America
Buy a house in the city. By city, I mean Seattle. Yes, I know this might mean saying goodbye to one of my kidneys. And a lung.
Be able to look back on my career and feel that I made a tangible difference in Northwest conservation.
Never forget to fight for the forgotten parts of society.
Keep tutoring inmates. Try hard to field questions from skeptics without becoming frustrated or complaining that nobody “gets it.”
See (and howl with) honest-to-god wild wolves.
Write at least one essay that would make Barbara Kingsolver or Annie Dillard proud.
Become as close to fluent in Spanish as a gabacha can be.
Take better pictures and someday purchase the equipment I need to be a legitimate photographer. Print the ones that are good enough already and try selling them. Or at least framing them for the house.
Keep up the tango lessons until I can walk backwards with the best of them.
Love CB openly, honestly, and unfailingly for the rest of my days.
Stay vegetarian.
Begin investing in real estate before 30 to build a secure future.
Find a reason to laugh every day.
Commit to practicing yoga well enough and long enough to actually maintain a healthy back.
Understand that I’ll never feel like I’m doing enough, accomplishing enough, or living up to my own expectations. Find a way to be okay with that.