More heavy stuff.

My little sister called me from Phoenix recently; she wanted to pick my brain regarding my move to Oregon. It hadn't occured to me until then, but I had never really discussed with her, at length, my motivations for leaving "home" four years ago. Periodically, something insignificant will remind me of how much I have changed since being here, but it was nice to re-trace my steps with her.

She has been contemplating moving out-of-state, but is understandably nervous. She feels a need to change things up and refocus. I think all she needed was little advice and/or reassurance from her big sister, and I was more than happy to share my thoughts.

This is how I see it: Doing that which we are most scared of generally results in tremendous personal growth.

I left home at 18 years-old, just two months after I had graduated high school. I moved to Portland, a city that I had never so much as visited. I had a small amount of money saved, no job to come to, and no idea where I was going to live. I had never lived outside of Phoenix, and having grown up in a large family, never been "alone" for any length of time. Yet, I was eager to sacrifice what was familar for the sake of neoteric experiences. The unknown certainly scared me, but I was captivated by the idea that I could start anew, see my surroundings with fresh eyes.

My mother was vehemently opposed to my move. She couldn't understand what I wanted with this place and why I felt such a need to leave. I remember sitting next to her one day, participating in what was likely our 267th conversation/argument about said move. After all that time, she was NOT GETTING IT, and all I could think to say was, "Mom, I KNOW that this going to be extremely hard. I'm going to have to scrape by. But I'm actually LOOKING FORWARD to the struggles. It will be good for me." I remember this because my mother was quieted by that remark, something that doesn't happen often.

The last four years have been the most difficult and emotionally trying that I've encountered to this point. Yet, it's also been the greatest, most rewarding time of my life. I have been through more character building experiences than I can count, and I have grown in ways that would not have been possible otherwise.

Sometimes, when we relocate, we essentially transplant our existing lives. This move, for me, was a complete overhaul. Regardless of whether one seeks to maintain or rebuild, putting oneself "out there" in such a way is both refreshing and challenging.

I hope that Danielle makes the move. I can think of few things that will teach her such a multitude of things and force to get creative in the way she approaches the world.

Regardless of what she chooses, I'm grateful that she was able to help remind me of why I am here. Although I try to remain cognizant of where my motivations lie, it's easy to lose perspective in the moments we most need clarity.

Get me off of this conveyor belt...called life.

I would consider myself an extremely emotional being, but I often experience periods of time in which I become strangely detached, devoid of emotion. I can somehow transfer my decision-making capabilities to a less intuitive, more intellectual sphere. Simply put, sometimes I'm all heart, and other times I'm all head. Yet, with the way I've been living lately, I'm beginning to forget what it's like to be driven by my emotions, to live organically.

I've felt as though I've been in a period of "transition" for some time. There are big changes looming on the horizon, some of which I've planning for up to two years. Because of what I know is forthcoming, I have adjusted some of my priorities for the present and chosen a path whose experiences I expect to be most harmonious with those to come in the near future.

That probably makes no sense. Somehow it does in my head, but it's difficult to articulate.

At any rate, for the past 18 months I have lived in a primarily cerebral world. It's not that my heart hasn't struggled for some market share; it just hasn't been able to compete for any length of time. I know I have made some wise decisions, but I have felt (on more than a few occasions) like I've sacrificed happiness or some kind of fulfillment for the sake of being "smart." Sometimes, as ridiculous as it may seem, I just don't WANT to be smart. I'm 22 years old and most of the time I don't feel it. I feel like I should be "out there" having fun, taking risks, and making the most of my youth. Instead, I'm overwhelmingly preoccupied with being responsible.

My head has an interesting way of justifying its reasoning, too. It tells my heart, "I'm just trying to protect you, to make the big changes easier, more flawless." In the mean time, however, I am missing out on some potentially worthwhile experiences. And I can't help but wonder whether I will regret not taking better advantage of these years of my life.

How can I strike a balance? Why do I feel guilty about letting myself be happy in the now? Won't I find some way to work things out if I don't adhere strictly to "the plan?" That's what life's supposed to be about, I thought - taking what comes at you, digesting it, and planning your next move accordingly. Sure, there's a certain level of strategy involved, but how much planning is TOO much?

I read a quote recently, from Larry Flynt, in which he likened life to traveling on a conveyor belt, with the end result being death. He said it was our duty to have fun until we fell off at the end. Certainly a less-than-glamourous perspective but effective in its message, nonetheless.

All I know for now is that all this overanalyzation, strategizing, and anticipating for the future has left me feeling quite lonely on this little conveyor belt of mine.

S.W.A.T Training for Paper Girls

For several years when I was a kid, I had a paper route. Most of my siblings did also, but I would usually do the weekly route with my younger sister, Danielle.

On one particular day, Dani rode up onto a police officer's driveway, but instead of depositing the paper at the foot of the garage she handed it directly to a woman who was sitting inside. We knew the man who lived there, and we knew his two children, but we'd not seen this woman before. She was very friendly, made small talk with Danielle, and we were on our way.

It turns out the woman, Eva, was the police officer's new wife. We began to see her each week, and soon we became friends. Although she was much older than my sister and I, we got on well. It wasn't long before we were going jet skiing with them, or spending the night at their house.

One evening, Eva's husband, Larry, was preparing dinner for us and we were out in the cul-de-sac killing time. Larry came outside for a bit, and in keeping with the norm, began badgering Danielle and I.

See, we had always prided ourselves on the fact that we were tough girls. We had grown up with four older brothers essentially kicking our asses on a regular basis, our parents made us toe-the-line when it came to household responsibilites, and so we developed a certain coarseness. We were tomboys. And Larry knew how fiercely we would defend that notion.

Therefore, he cranked up the reverse psychology - full force - by stating that he didn't think we were tough enough to handle the tear gas he had in the garage (apparently, it was left over from his days as a S.W.A.T. officer or something, but in any case, it was industrial-grade product).

Of course we were tough enough.

"Yeah, HUH!" we screamed in unison. "OK, you're probably right" he said, "after all, I had to complete the tear gas section six times at the Police Academy because it never made me cry. I'm sure you guys will be fine."

He enabled the gas bomb in the cul-de-sac, then quickly took his place on the front porch, a safe distance from the mayhem that was seconds from materializing. Gas started billowing towards the sky and within seconds we were enveloped. We began coughing violently, and running for safety. Larry yelled, "Get back in there! Make another pass!" He had instantly morphed into our own personal Drill Sargeant. Tears were cascading from our eyes but for some reason, that to this day escapes me, we obeyed. "Hurry up, or you're not getting ANY dinner!" he bellowed.

We loved his cooking. We were starving. So, we ducked and ran.

We were back in the thick of it, and by this time my lungs felt as though they were going to combust. I could scarcely see my little sister writhing in what I was sure was excruciating pain. I'm going to die, I thought. And she is too.

I was thrust from my panic-stricken thoughts by the sounds of laughter. Could it be? Larry? Laughing? Yes. YES. He. Is. Laughing. We. Are. Dying.

...

I should probably mention the fact that any number of our neighbors could have been watching the entire spectacle, seriously debating whether to call Child Protective Services. After all, watching two girls flail about in a storm of tear gas while a large paternal-looking figure of a man hysterically laughs from the porch is not exactly a comforting image.

Yet, miraculously, we made it out alive. And without the help of our neighbors or law-enforcement officials, thankyouverymuch. Granted, our eyes were swollen like tennis balls, bloodshot and teary, and we had horrendous coughing fits for an hour afterwards that eventually led to vomiting, but...we were alive.

And, being more than a little distracted by our physical state that evening, we never even ate Larry's dinner.

It's interesting how we seek out experiences in the hopes of proving something, but when all is said and done, what we prove or learn is rarely that which we sought.

At the time of our unanticipated S.W.A.T. training, Danielle and I were 8 and 10 years old, respectively. At that age all we desired was prove to the grown-ups that we were as invincible and strong as we felt. Unfortunately, our attempts failed miserably. What we did prove, however, was that we were ballsy as hell and we'd do nearly anything for a taste of Larry's famous cooking.

Do you remember me, or shall I walk by another three times?

One thing I love about living in a large city is the feeling of anonymity that it imparts. The simple fact that very few people know me is comforting, not unlike a warm blanket. My business is mine. I like to be able to go about my daily routine without having to worry about running into a childhood best friend that now hates me because I snagged female lead in the school play 11 years ago, or my ex-boyfriends' parents that are glad we broke up because they didn't like my style of dress. Frankly, I don't care to make small talk with those people, yet somehow we feel an obligation to acknowledge familiar faces whether we're in the mood or not. We feel like we're "bad people" if we don't at least say hello. That's one social norm I could do without.

Last weekend, I flew to Sun Valley, Idaho with two friends. One of them grew up there and we went to visit her mother and enjoy a relaxing weekend. Mom showed us around town and we went out to eat a few times; it seems every time we left the house someone would approach her and a short chat would ensue. I remember thinking repeatedly how I couldn't imagine living in such a small town and that I was glad I knew only those few in my weekend posse.

On the whole, I am comfortable with being anonymous. I'm not as keen on the thought that I make little to no impression on those whom I encounter, however. Part of this "impressionlessness" can be blamed on the lifestyle I've cultivated, but it would be nice to know that I leave something of a mark where I've been. Some people have an air about them - a quality - something that ensures you'll remember them after they've gone. I'm guessing I do not possess that...

See, I'm not the type of woman that turns heads, which is more of a blessing than a curse. I would however, like to make enough impact on people standing right in front of me that they remember me five seconds later. Is that too much to ask? Take for example, my food service experiences in Sun Valley. I ate out a total of four times in two days. In three out of four instances, my order was either wrong, or items were omitted completely. However, in each instance I was with one to three other people, and not one of them had any problems the entire weekend.

The first time, I shrugged it off. These things happen, right? Second time, I laughed. The third time I started to develop a complex.

Was I that dispensable? They can't even remember to bring my order because I'm so insignificant a presence that I might just be invisible? I know I have a terrible habit of avoiding eye contact and seeing one's eyes are what give them identity...but come on!?! I just wanted to say to one waitress in particular, "Hey, I know I'm a relatively plain, unanimated personality sitting here in seat two, but I still need to eat and if it's not too much trouble I would like the friggin' salad I ordered. And before you ask for the fourth time, I want RANCH DRESSING."

Maybe the increase in elevation was messing with my emotions and I was a bordering on hypersensitive, but all this seemed a bit more than coincidence to me.

Now Serving: Burgers and Birth Defects

Yesterday, I stood outside a small-town burger joint. As I waited, I took stock of my surroundings and my eyes gradually settled upon the large wooden barrel that sat next to me. It had become a sort of makeshift ashtray and I found myself pondering the pasts of the hundreds of cigarette butts that canvased its surface. A woman's hand came into view, taking hold of my attention, and I watched as she extinguished her cigarette. As she nestled it in the sand among the others, my eyes naturally crept up her arm, to her torso, and then down to her very pregnant belly.

I was on my way home from a weekend trip and we had stopped to fill up both our gas tank and our stomachs. Thankfully, I had not eaten yet because the sight of this woman and the obvious disregard she had for the well being of her unborn child was enough to make my stomach turn.

Habits of any kind can be a hard thing to break. But if the vast responsibility that accompanies pregnancy is not enough to deter one from a bit of short-lived pleasure, I don't know what is.

In that brief moment, in the most unspectacular of experiences, I lost a bit of the already dwindling faith I have in humanity.

Playstation and Handicap Bathrooms

I recently moved into a new apartment, a smallish studio in a trendy, bustling part of town. It is the first space that I've inhabited alone, and although I don't care much for the apartment itself, two things are fantastic: the location, and the fact that it is all MINE. I've spent the last four years with roommates and I felt it was time to have some space to myself.

Within the first couple days I noticed some rather quirky things about the place, the most noteworthy being that there is no elevator in the building. This is peculiar because the bathroom in my apartment happens to be handicap ready. I'm talking slightly-higher-than-normal toilet seat, a plethora of metal handrails in both the shower and toilet area, and a mirror that angles dramatically downward for the wheelchair bound.

Why would a bathroom be converted in this manner if handicapped tenants have no way of actually getting to and from the apartment? The building itself is rather old; it was built sometime in the early 1900s but was remodeled in the 80s(according to my leasing agent). I trust that this bathroom update was done at that time, possibly in anticipation of installing an elevator? However, its been nearly twenty years and still NO ELEVATOR. For the love of God, at least remove all the bloody handrails! I'm 5'3" so I don't have the wingspan of an American Bald Eagle or anything, yet every time I take a shower I am violently whacking my elbows on the handrail that runs diagonally along the wall.

Oh, and the mirror over the sink? As mentioned, it angles downward. It also appears to be on somewhat of a magnification-type program (VERY bad). Being a woman, I have spent many an hour in front of mirrors, all the varying types found in department stores and boutiques. I have learned a thing or two about what types of mirrors are most flattering and I can say without hesitation that the bathroom mirror I have been blessed with is the absolute WORST kind. Even Kate Moss would appear a bit chunky whilst posing in front of my mirror. And since I'm about 8 inches shorter and a good ten pounds heavier than she, I quite detest having to see myself in it each day.

All of this nonsense could be avoided if some forethought were taken on the part of the property management company. Hell, even the contractors could have asked the question, "Why are we installing a handicap bathroom in a building with no elevators?"

I believe it's important to consider the details.

Now, onto the other lovely discovery I've made. This is of the less quirky, more infuriating variety. It seems my neighbor, with whom I share a wall, has placed his television against the same very wall that I've placed my bed against. It should be noted that I have not met my neighbor so I don't know whether he's a he or she's a she, but for the sake of simplicity we'll call him Edward. At any rate, it seems as though Edward enjoys playing Playstation at 4:30 a.m. In the middle of the week, mind you. Yet another fun detail is that this neighbor is either going deaf or feels it necessary to enable surround sound at full volume to play a fucking video game in the wee hours of the morning.

Obviously, I know all of these things because I have heard them. Since I wake at 5.30 a.m. each day, I can assure you I'm not in the habit of staying up 'til such an hour, so that means my kind neighbor has woken me from my peaceful slumber. Three nights in a row and counting...if it happens again, I plan to confront said neighbor and kindly ask that he and his kung fu fighting friends tone it down a bit.

I really don't want to be the bitchy neighbor. I don't like drama. But I have limits. Don't f*&k with my sleeping habits, Edward, or my wrath will descend upon you faster than you can say "Street Fighter II."

I Want to Be Socially Handicapped When I Grow Up

Have you ever been at a social gathering and caught yourself watching a man who's desperately trying to pick up a fellow partygoer? I'm referring to the individuals that are visibly uncomfortable, and although you're out of earshot you're all but certain they're stumbling over their words, the conversation peppered with uncomfortable silences and nervous, one-sided laughter.

You're in your cozy corner of the room, beverage of choice in hand, surrounded by friends, and yet the fumbling idiot and his prey of choice have completely captured your attention. It's actually hurting you to watch their exchange because you can tell from the look on her face that any chance he had of winning her favor went out the window a good six minutes earlier...

This has become the verbal equivalent of kicking a dead horse. "Please, just..STOP!" you're aching to say. But you don't. You can't. You can only look on in agony because you've likely been there before and know that navigating such situations must be done alone.

Yeah. That's usually me. The Fumbling Idiot, that is. But a female version of that. And not when trying to pick up men, (because I pretty much never attempt that) but at ANY function where social skills are called for.

Aside from a few rare occasions where I have exercised social prowess, I'm socially inept. Put me around more than two other people and the minute amount of charm and wit I possess miraculously departs. I'm the Fumbling Idiot that, despite valiant effort, never graduates to the cool, collected conversationalist.

The other day I was lounging poolside with two of my female comrades. We were bikini-clad, lying face down (see also: vulnerable) when a man approached my friend and started talking to her. Actually, he was really talking to himself and she was politely nodding her head, but for the sake of the story they were "chatting." Apparently, he works for the same company we do; he knew her name but none of us had seen him before. Although he started the conversation on a casual note, it became painfully obvious that he was interested in her. Maybe she didn't see it, but I and our other friend certainly did as we confirmed through the unspoken female language of eye rolls and arched eyebrows.

You see, he had it ALL WRONG. I had to admire his assertiveness, however, it wasn't long before pity crept into my being and a burning sensation was emanating in my ears, one that suggested they might soon catch fire. Thankfully, our friend got the subconscious "Abort! Abort!" vibes we were sending and proceeded to excuse herself.

As he walked away, I first felt the urge to laugh at his communication missteps but then I reflected on the countless times I've unwisely traversed conversations, the resulting feelings of embarassment, and so I refrained.

But only for a few moments.

And then I laughed. Because somehow, it just seemed fitting.

"Sexy Redhead Seeks Mate, No Muggles Need Apply!"

I never cease to be completely baffled by people. I'm a people-watcher, an observer. I am constantly trying to understand why individuals behave the way they do, say the things they say, and more importantly, imbibe on the things they don't do and say. What are the internal motivating forces in each of us that somehow manifest themselves externally?

Being a cynic, it's impossible for me to accept anything or anyone at face value. Not only do I see blind acceptance as (generally) foolish, it's just not as fun or fulfilling as seeking out that which lies beyond the surface.

And so today, when a friend told me about some interesting online personal ads he came across on Craig's List, I was instantly intrigued. I went to said site, and to the "women seeking men" section where I was able to read about a "sexy redhead who is open to love!" I recommend checking out the below link, it is (in my estimation) a truly unbelievable piece of prose. Hopefully, it will still be available for your viewing pleasure.

http://portland.craigslist.org/w4m/35117345.html

Above all, I am utterly blown away by thought of actually meeting this ad's author. Can she be for real, I wonder? What place is she coming from that these words seem most pertinent to her finding a mate? What type of man would it take to read this and feel compelled to respond, rather than strangely self-conscious and inadequate? How can one's "energy" (as she refers to it) be accurately captured in a single email message or personal photograph?

Perhaps I am not as highly evolved as this mystery author, or perhaps I just have a knack for overanalyzation of the seemingly trivial. Possibly both. All is know is that at this moment I wish I were a single man somewhere around the age of 29 who could effortlessly convey the "energy" necessary to pique the interest of the Sexy Redhead. To converse with her over dinner or drinks in an attempt to understand the mental and emotional positions from which she operates would surely have the potential to make my week. Hell, my month even.

But until that happens or I can somehow talk one of my single male friends into wearing a "wire" and standing in for me, I am left to ponder...

Ahem...

I'm complete shit when it comes to maintaining diaries. Starting them I can do, it's the keeping up part I struggle with. It's interesting because I enjoy writing for the sake of expression, but I have this idea that I ought to have something worthwhile to say if I'm going to take the time and energy to write. I am doing my best to revisit that notion regularly and reshape my perspective on the whole "diary" thing.

Because if I am diligent maybe the person-I-become will thank the me-I-am later. Or something.

But for the record, I prefer the word "journal." The word "diary" conjures up images of brightly-colored plastic notebooks whereby one can document their deepest, darkest secrets, plans for covert operations, relay information about what one's "crush" had to eat for lunch that day, and all the other classified information contained in the minds of adolescents the world over. Diaries, at least in my experience, came equipped with cheap locking devices to keep unwanted eyes out but which nearly anyone could circumvent with little effort (as I'm sure my older brothers can attest).

"Journals" don't need to be locked because they're nothing spectacular. Just musings about everyday life, a kind of running commentary. For me, its a process of mental purging and it's beneficial for at least two reasons: 1) despite my youth, I have increasingly poor memory, both short- and long-term, so this is a way to bring about some permanence and 2) I can write of the things I'm usually too petrified to verbally express to others for fear of inarticulate delivery, confused or disinterested looks on the part of my listener, and other complex-inducing reactions.

But I'm going to make it easy. No locks. Some censoring is to be expected but I hope to create a nice, little online world of vulnerability for myself and those deranged enough to relate. A world with an I'm-not-ok-you're-not-ok-but-that's-ok mentality. Because that's what these things seek to bring about, right?

So, yeah. It'll be fun. Just wait. And I'll get right to the whole business of recording my mental drippings...tomorrow.