Moving

For the few of you who randomly check in here, I've started a new blog: http://baggageclaimed.tumblr.com/

It's not much different from this one, just less about my day-to-day goings on.

See for yourself.

(You may even recognize these fools in my first post.)

(And please, please keep reading. It's very much appreciated.)

Revamp

It's been a while since I updated, but it's not entirely due to the winter slog or general slack. I'm actually working on a new blog, not much different from this one, just slightly more focused. Or as focused as I can be. As you can see, I'm having a hard enough time trying to be concise with this explanation, which can probably best be summarized by saying: Stay tuned.

Love

To me, love never feels familiar. It feels brand new every time. I'm not sure if it's because as we get older, our meaning of love changes. Or if our our awareness of ourselves and our chemistries are heightened, or if we are able to appreciate another generous, beautiful human being more wholly and truly. Like not taking for granted the kindness you see in his eyes, or shying away from the vulnerability projected in your own--the wide, open promise that you would, if you could, give this person the world. Or how whether lying on the couch or standing over the stove, the curve of your body falls magnetically into his. And how, at least for now, he finds most of your quirks not only laughable, but charming. And in the times when you find yourselves apart, you think of ways to express this gratefulness and the joy that you'll see him very soon, but not soon enough.

Fade

My iPhone forecast for the last week I was in Hawaii: 82, 81, 80, 80, 81, 80.

My iPhone forecast for my first week in New York: 21, 26, 29, 20, 27, 19.

By the time my monthlong stay ended in Hawaii, my friends and family were applauding my tan, saying that my current state was the tannest they'd ever seen me. (Note: I went through a goth phase in college.)

Let's see how long it takes for my tan lines to fade:

Week One in NY

(Thought I'd spare you the more obvious tan line options.)

Merrymaking

Christmas at the Machados' has always been anything but traditional. (For years, our most honored ritual was drinking pina coladas on the beach on Xmas morning. The simple reason being: "cuz we can.")

This year our family decided to forego buying presents for each other (with the exception of my 18-month-old nephew), as well as sitting down for some cliched turkey meal. (This was after conceding that no other food could possibly interest us as much as the shortbread cookies sitting on our kitchen counter, and therefore, we'd be wasting our time pretending to care about protein.)

All in all, it was a wonderfully self-indulgent Christmas. See highlights below.

- My Christmas Eve dinner: A few slices of processed ham and a handful of Doritos. And of course, shortbread cookies.

- My favorite present that wasn't mine: My nephew's rocking horse. It has the mechanics of a mechanical bull (i.e. it's bouncy and creates a rubberband-like, circular, back-and-forth motion), and is therefore, ahem, very pleasurable.

- My Christmas day entertainment: Two hours of "Teen Mom" on MTV. My stepmom, brother and I gathered around the television to critique the disfunction of the reality show's characters, relishing in the fact that they put our own disfunction to shame.

- My Christmas evening: In lieu of a crackling fireplace, my family and I sat in front of a 70-foot screen at the Ward Center Megaplex for the new George Clooney movie, followed by wine, maitais and a discussion about cougars (the women, not the cats).

In conclusion, it was a very blessed holiday indeed.

Synchronicity

Why life is cool: Put out there what you want, put a little effort into making it happen, and you you'll end up where you're supposed to be.

Case in point: A month ago I was broke, missing Hawaii, looking for temporary mindless work and vulnerable with PMS. What I got was a job at the Denny's of Hawaiian food (i.e. the Portland version of Zippy's).

Second case in point: Two days ago, after being laid off from scooping rice, I got on Craigslist, vowing never to wear another orange tee shirt for 10 percent tips, vowing to have some pride in my work (even if it is only temporary). I came across a posting that my former tutoring job was hiring. I put in an email and voila! A day later I was teaching sophomores how to write personal narratives and discussing with fifth graders why birds make stupid pets ("You can't even tell if it's a boy or girl," 10-year-old Akshat told me.) And most importantly, I make a lot more than minimum wage and I get to wear a blouse.

Catharsis

Yesterday was my mother's birthday. She would have been 65. Yesterday was also the day that I turned in my thesis, much of which is about my mother's death. The day I will defend this thesis is Nov. 3, the day before my mother died seven years ago.

I don't write much about my mom except for the pages upon pages that I write about her nearly every day. That sounds like I'm being smug, but the truth is the more I write about her, the more I feel disconnected to her. My mother has been a character, or more so, an anomaly, for so long, and I, the narrator trying to figure herself out in relation to her mother, that I forget that the real Jessica and the real Sarah weren't some dramedy being played out on the page. I have to write from such a distance that days like yesterday come and go, and for a split second I stop to think "Do I miss her?" and then I shut off. My memory is full of scenes I've written, descriptions that make up my mother's profile--words which serve the greater good of the story I'm trying to tell--that I'm no longer sure what other memories I have of her.

So on this day after her birth, this afterthought of an afterthought, here's something my mother told me over and over again at age 9, age 15 and age 22, something that I didn't include in my thesis. She told me, "All I want for you is to be happy."

I've written lofty statements like "my mother made loneliness seem inevitable" or "to live with her reclusive side, I quickly realized I had to do my own thing," all attempts to explain away my own feelings at a given time. But it's my mother's valued "happiness," the way she cured things with laughter, that has been the real motivator is my life--whether it has taken the form of instant gratification or years of struggle to reach a single moment of pride. I've made mistakes, been slow to learn, acted selfishly, but I've never dwelled in misery. My mother's simple cliche is the greatest influence she's had on me.

Thank you, Mom.

I am.

Blob

Once a month I feel like I'm sinking. Heavy. Weighted by what I expect from myself. I'm unable to get out of bed or make it to the store, let alone create anything of worth. My paralysis causes me to feel guilty, which then causes me to moan and grumble further. Gravity pulls the corners of my mouth toward the floor and smiling seems like punishment. My only consolation is that I know I'm useless, so trying to accomplish anything is a bad idea and will only lead to more disappointment. This is what I tell myself. I instead choose to lay on the couch and watch hours of bad television. But since I don't have cable, I have to get off the couch and go to the video store to get neatly packed discs of zone-worthy material. Digging for my car keys and driving for six blocks takes thirty minutes, not five.

When I finally get to collapse in front of the screen, draped in my flannel PJs, under the throw blanket, the churning in my gut is still there. I crave milk, like a little girl desperate to believe the old wives' tale that something borne from a mother figure will sooth what's upsetting me. Sometimes I stick my hand down the front of my drawstring pants and rub my rumbling tummy, hoping to melt into the cushions until that nonsense inside of me goes away.

Lord, I fucking hate PMS.

Smoked

July 4, 2009: The Day The Thesis Died

What followed this somber Fourth of July were a few weeks of hope (some may call it denial) that my 100 pages of well-revised work could be recovered. No such luck. Instead of falling into a self pity stooper, a month later, I had a 134 pages of a very, very rough thesis recreated mostly from memory. Remarkable, you might say, but that initial recreation was nothing compared to the next 16 days of polishing. 

At one point last week, I realized the only words I uttered within a 48-hour period were "coffee refill, please." I became a hermit. I couldn't see straight. My only breaks were to go on runs or to play on the swings at the top of Washington Park. (For anyone who wants their brain to shut off momentarily, I recommend swinging high above a forest of pine trees to Yeah Yeah Yeah's "Maps" blasting in your ears.)

For intermittent mini-releases, I'd go to the bathroom, wash my water glass or walk to the fridge for a slice of cheese. I started to go through a pack and half of gum a day. 

Then I realized the best relief was a no-brainer: cigarettes. Now, I'm not a smoker (although I did dabble in college - I was goth; I smoked cloves at 80s nights). And I didn't walk into the gas station and buy a pack of Marlboro Lights (I told you I wasn't a smoker; I wasn't even cool enough to get American Spirits or Parliaments) thinking it'd be a stress reliever. Honestly. I'm the gal who waits in the bar by herself while everyone goes outside to light up. My theory was that a cigarette provided the perfect 5 to 7 minute break, or "little joy" that I needed to step outside and grab some air, or some polluted air I suppose. Hell, it worked. And it did kinda "feel" good too. Okay, it felt pretty damn good. 

So good I didn't even step outside for this one.

But in the end, I had 150 pages of thesis to turn into my advisor. Tada! 

One draft down, another revision due (and another thesis binge to occur) in the next month. Hooray. 

Brunch

A friend once explained to me that brunch was her favorite meal because it was a legitimate (and somewhat dignified) excuse to drink before noon. To take her theory one step further, I believe brunch is also perfect time-wise because it provides a smooth segue into happy hour, which is my favorite meal of the day. (Yes, several cocktails plus some sort of greasy, cheesy starch for under $20 is a very good meal indeed.) 

This weekend, this particular friend came to town, and the two of us brunched all day long. For two days straight. I wouldn't even bother trying to name any of these other meals we had "dinner," "lunch" or "cocktails." When you're two girls in New York City, wandering around in a semi-drunk, semi-hungover state, stopping to intermittently chat, imbibe and nibble on whatever tickles your fancy, I call that brunching. Or European mimicry.

Saturday's Menu: 

2 ice coffees

2 bloody marys

1 mimosa

granola, berries, yogurt

drunken baked beans, poached egg, bacon

side of bacon

side of hash browns

2 iced green teas

20-ounce passion fruit margarita

20-ounce pomegranate margarita

2 baskets of tortilla chips

bowl of homemade guacamole

1 fresh watermelon martini

1 glass of rose

platter of fruit, cheese and honey

skillet of mussels in white wine and garlic

4 glasses of sauvignon blanc

2 glasses of pinot grigio

Sunday's Menu (Note: We did scale back. At least on alcohol.)

1 ice coffee

2 cups of coffee

1 bloody mary

smoked salmon, creme fresh, capers, pumpernickel bread

rainbow trout, fried egg, dried mushrooms

1 cappuccino

1 americano

3 mini ice cream cones

desert platter (mini lemon cake, mini raspberry mousse and lemon ice cream)

1 scoop of vanilla ice cream

side of hot fudge

side of fries

(We went our separate ways at 5 p.m. I later had a chicken salad, two chocolate chip cookies and another scoop of vanilla ice cream.)

Although the sugar intake increased on Sunday (absence of booze = sugar cravings), look what we did pass up (but were still hypnotized by to take pictures of) between pit stops and hangover hazes: 

Yes, this a Barbie cake. Fabulous. 

Look at all that self discipline.

Perspective

Perspective is what I'm trying to get after the crashing of my physical, emotional, and dare I say, spiritual world (and after writing that highly dramatic statement).

Three days ago, my hard drive went kaput. It took with it 100 pages of thesis and whatever other pages upon pages of writing I've never thought to back up or email to anyone. (The wound is too fresh to get past this first thing to start doing a head count.)

I could bitch about this for an entire post, like I have to friends and family, but the truth is, I can't do anything about it. (Plus I'm numb and still in shock. I'm sure I'll eventually hit some uglier stage of grief.)

But what I did notice while sulking around the city the other day was a bevy of good deeds going on all around me, things I never see (not just never notice) on regular basis here in New York. For instance,

* A woman who offered to, not was asked to, help another woman carry her baby stroller up the crowded subway stairs. The mother couldn't speak English, so the woman just picked up one end of the stroller and began walking.

* Passengers digging in their purses and their pockets as a bone-thin blind woman pushed her walker and held out a knitted hat as she sang a gospel song. I have never seen more than one person per train car give a handout before. Five did that day.

I can't say witnessing others worse off than me or seeing humans take care of each other has abolished all remnants of self pity, but it has made me rethink how I could wrap up my entire identity and sense of usefulness in one compact machine.

Devour

This is a photo I snapped over the weekend.

I like food. I admire food. I'll even go as far as to say I think food is art just to justify why I felt the need to document something I've eaten, oh, I don't know, about 4,000 times! (Really, when did I become this weird, or this obessessed with bacon, half-cooked bacon at that? Sure, it was Sunday, but I wasn't even that hungover.)

Looking back on a year of iPhotos, I came across more than 20 pictures of food items. I know as I've gotten older I'm less apt to take woo-hoo drunk, buddy-buddy pictures (Put up your peace signs! Act street tough and laugh, ladies!), or pictures of me or loved ones standing like statues in front of semi-important arhitecture (like the house from Goonies or my favorite bar in LA), but this isn't because I'm too sophisticated for such endeavors, this is more about vanity (going through iPhotos, it also occurs to me I'm not in my prime anymore, and need to be in significantly less pictures.) Regardless, some of these food photos are outright ridiculous.

But to make a weak argument that there was some sort of point to all this food obsession, I've decided to make a gallery of sorts and let the art the speak for itself (aside from the accompanying titles and mini artist statements). So track my progression, if you will, and see how far I've come as an artist. (Note this is less about the photography, and more about the subject matter.)

"Dainty, delectable, sweet" - How three young women interpret themselves on holiday. (Montreal, QC, May 2009)

"Transgression" - A metaphor for one last horrah, a phase where a young lady says goodbye to junk food consumerism and beer pong keggers, and much like the vehicle her goods were on, has to move forward, feel the air roll through her cabin and take flight, past all the Chinese buffets, tire shops and Wendy's drive-thrus along the I-87, to become the poised artist of the work noted above. (Bumfuck, NY, May 2009)

"Fate" - Moment of awe captured on film. Greeted by three menus and thirty ways to make a peanut butter sandwich at the JFK airport. Also referenced as "Girl Arrives Home." (New York, NY, March 2009)

"Sugar Bomb" - Materials: Zippy's Apple Napple, broken plastic fork. Documentation on how hard it is to eat through 20 layers of flaky pastry with a plastic fork, especially when drunk. (Kahala, HI, December 2008)

"Grassy Knoll" - Inspiration: tequila, the humor of a 13-year-old boy. Process: Spontaneous, collaborative piece that came about after professionally-made artwork was left in a fridge many miles away, and four road-tripping drunks got a hold of confectionary squirt tubes and battery-operated candles. (Newport Beach, OR, August 2008)

Dazzle

I moved from one sublet to another yesterday. When I arrived at my new place, it seemed Rainbow Brite had thrown up all over my room. 

Yes indeed, that is a hand-bejewled dresser. I would show you what the room looked like in its full regalia but I immediately started stripping things from the walls. 

The artifacts (once on the walls, now in the closet):

(Yup, that's a trampoline underneath that stitched heart, which I must say, is pretty effin cool.) 

In context to the rest of the house: 

The living room. (The pinata was apparently leftover from a birthday party and now serves as candy dish and sculpture.)

The tutu light fixture in the bathroom.

Okay, so you ask why or how I managed to overlook all of this when I agreed to sublet here for the next few months. Let me try to explain. 

At the time, I was living in a loft without a window in my room, and even the drapes in the living room were constantly drawn because my roommate, who exclusively wears black, usually laid on the couch watching cable from the moment she got off of work on Friday evening to when she went to bed Sunday night.  And my other roommate usually slept past noon or whenever she had to get up for work or felt the need to discuss her chemical dependency problems with the goth roommate. These were nice girls but they were in a dark place. Literally. 

However, as of yesterday, the Portland doom-and-gloom in me suddenly made a case for the solace of gray. (Should I buy black tarps to throw down on everything? Like an idiot, I did buy brown sheets, which next to the pink night stand, now makes the room look like Neapolitan ice cream, which I guess isn't so bad really.) 

After stepping away for a few hours, I came back to find my new roommate home. She was quick to mention her plan to de-colorize the place now that her former roommate took off. I was happy I didn't have to hide my sunny aversions; she's from San Francisco. 

Peeves

I've recently been reminded of a few pet peeves. But my irritations weren't as cut and dry as I remembered them. For instance, I hate...

1. Strange men telling me to "smile" when I walk down the street. But it's not that I'm upset by the attention (or any attention), I just don't appreciate people telling me what to do. Catcalls, whistles and "hey mamacita"s don't bother me. (Heck, sometimes, I'll even say "hey" back.) But being bossed around does. 

Today, on a my way for a run, (yes, I walk to a park, I run around it, and then walk back), dressed in faded track pants and a hoodie, I felt a man brush up beside me. He put his smiling face in mine and started saying way too much. I had my iPod on so I continued to ignore him, but when he kept blabbering, I finally pulled an earphone out. "You should at least get a greater pace going if you're going to exercise. Move those arms!" I put my earphone back in.  I mean, really, what woman is going to be charmed by such advice or even demands of emotion, like smiling? (Okay, maybe one who doesn't have the same issues with authority as me.) Hell, maybe these guys just get off on the look of female contempt. 

Sometimes known as "WTF"?

2. Cats. I realize now that it's not cats that bug me, it's cat people, or any pet owner for that matter. Why must they only talk about their animals? The same rules apply to people with children: Cutesy stories about little ones regurgitating breakfast are not interesting to people who don't have them. 

My new roommate has a cat. She's kinda cute, white and fluffy; I can deal with her. (The cat that is; actually, the roommate, other than what follows, isn't so bad either.) But when I came home the other day, there was another cat. This one looked like every other gray straggler on every other street corner or in every other bodega. (Really, what is up with cats roaming down the aisles of the mini marts? Isn't there a NY health code against this somehow?) Whitey was not a fan of sharing her territory and went into hiding. Frenzy ensued. Trying to get Whitey out, talking about getting her out and the social breakdown of cats became the preoccupation of my roommate for the next several hours. I nodded and listened, when all I wanted to do was watch the "I Love Money" reunion show and eat my string cheese. 

Okay, I get why she thinks I'd be interested in what's consuming her immediate world. Sure, I'm self-involved too. But at some point, when I notice people have lost interest or have stopped humoring me, I'll snap out of whatever diatribe I've ventured off on. (Another one of my pet peeves is boredom - being subject to it and inducing it.) 

I think the "New York City Cat Meetup Group" needs to do more advertising. They have less than 300 members. (This may be a reflection of what I knew all along - people in NY have way better things to do than hole up in an apartment with a cat. Well, most do anyway.) I think social networking groups for cat people would not only rescue bystanders like me from nights like this, but these groups would also take care of the source of the problem. Such as why cat owners choose companionship with an animal that snubs most humans and looks perpetually pissed off. 

(I was going to apologize for cattiness of this entire entry, but I think I'll apologize instead for using a bad pun and then pretending that I didn't purposely use it by apologizing and overusing parenthesis.)

Tourist

I grew up 15 minutes away from Pearl Harbor. However, I didn't step foot on the USS Arizona until I was 28. Blame it on my lack of interest in historical guided tours, youth's fixation on the immediate present, or my taking for granted what was in my backyard, but it took moving away from Hawaii and coming back on vacation with a boyfriend before I even thought of visiting the WWII landmark. He was the one who suggested we go.

Don't get me wrong, I know it's disconcerting for me to be impassive about an event that killed or wounded nearly 4,000 people where I grew up; it happened only five years before my father was born. I can only take solace in that I'm not alone in my indifference. Many of the friends I grew up with have never been either, with the exception of maybe a third-grade field trip. 

Since I can't recall a time when the bombings have made their way into any causal or even political discussion had or overheard in Hawaii, it could be argued that now, two generations after the attack, local people think of Pearl Harbor as just another base, another exit on the freeway that they pass on their way about their daily business. The bombings happened during a time most of us have never lived through on a corner of an island we usually have no reason to visit. Its impact has been relegated to a few paragraphs in textbooks, a part of American history, which is much different than Hawaiian history and less pertinent to local culture. I believe because of its geography, Hawaii always has, and probably always will have, a strange disconnect with Mainland America. 

The other day, I ventured to Ground Zero for the first time. I have been to New York on one other occasion since 9-11, but having made the token tourist stops on a pre-9-11 visit in 1998 (Statute of Liberty, Times Square, Central Park), I didn't think to do anything but simply be on vacation (i.e. shop, eat, drink) while I was here last. Visiting Ground Zero honestly slipped my mind. (Again, the only excuse I'll offer is that murky Hawaiian/American paradox: I'm almost too familiar with the tragedy's impact because I'm a media-consuming American, but the event's distance, enormity and its aftermath has left me somewhat desensitized because I'm a self-centered West Coaster, and well, a media-consuming American. Like I said, I'm not proud of my bizarre disassociation or my priorities. I know if I were a tourist from another country, this would probably be the first place I'd go.)

Almost eight years after 9-11, if there weren't posters advertising the soon-to-open September 11th Museum stapled to the site's perimeter, a tribute center in a neighboring storefront or a staircase leading to a covered walkway for photo ops, Ground Zero, almost, almost could pass as another construction site in the city. Sure, a steady stream of people circle this block of Lower Manhattan, but a steady stream of people plow through every block of Manhattan. Ditto for the cops manning the fenced-up site; cops commonly patrol "no trespassing" zones.

In the covered overpass, I was one of several tourists taking pictures through a roped-off glass window. Behind us, businessmen in designer suits shuffled off to the World Financial Center at the other end of the walkway. 

After I took some photos, I paced the overpass for a bit, stopping at several windows, trying to look past the cranes and scaffoldings. But I felt like I couldn't strain my neck far enough to get inside this space that was now just a dock for steel, concrete and piping; I would never be close enough to walk in the dirt where those buildings once stood. After a few minutes, I joined the rest of the tourists. I took a last photo and walked away.

I wandered to the FDNY memorial wall, located off a side street. I found another handful of tourists reading several handwritten tributes. Around the dedication plaque were a few bouquets of dried flowers.

Today

When the memorial was resurrected in 2006.

Of course I'd be silly to think I'd find New Yorkers grieving here on their lunch break. Naturally, I'm sure they avoid this crowded area as they would any crowded area. But I don't assume to know what goes through a New Yorker's mind, nor would I ever suggest that 9-11 compares to Pearl Harbor, an event that happened 67 years ago. However, time, memory and the instinct to move on--call it self-serving, human nature, or simply survival--make curious allies.

Noise

Noise comes up a lot in my writing. I seek loud, musical, buzzing distraction when I want to escape my own head; I absorb sensational disturbances to mask internal ones. For instance, I often put on my iPod to walk three blocks to a boisterous bar because I've been sitting at my desk all day, struggling to admit on the page that I've turned into my mother.

One of the things that's always attracted me to New York is, in fact, noise. But unlike the pretentious noise I succumbed to when I lived in LA--paparazzi flash, celebrity buzz, the jingle of keys given to the valet--NY noise has always seemed more authentic. I romanticized the notion that because one was surrounded by Manhattan's constant chaos--umbrellas clashing down Lexington, the stress of honking cabs, men muttering various languages in front of bodegas--one couldn't help but be aware, alive even, especially as a newcomer. In the only U.S. city that matters, every moment would be The Moment. 

Now that I'm here (okay, I'm only one week in), I have yet to concede my romantic delusions of NY, but now I believe that sometimes noise is just that. Noise.

There's one place I've grown accustomed to quiet--my home. It's my refuge. Currently, I'm staying in a loft where the JMZ trains run one story above me and the tracks block the view of my living room window. 

My view

Alright, so the cheesy part of me loves the sound of trains rushing by every four minutes. ("I am so in NY!" this cheesy part of me boasts.) But I'm also right at a train stop, convenient for traveling, but inconvenient for sleeping. Screeching tires and the recorded voice of "You are on the westbound J train. The next stop is Marcy Avenue. Watch for the closing doors, please," are constants. Although I do admit, it does get a little meditative after awhile.

In a converted loft (under the train in Brooklyn), conversions are made cheaply. I'm convinced that not only the walls in my apartment are made of plywood but so are the walls in the entire building. Apparently one neighbor has a drum set and the another just likes to play Rock Band. On one side of my bedroom wall, my neighbors always seem to either be chatting or cooking bacon, and on the other, I can hear my roommate punching the buttons on her Blackberry, which means that I can also hear every sigh she breathes into the phone and vice versa. Last night, as I lay in bed trying to read (yup, I was home and actually reading), my two roommates had a rant session about their exes after one walked through the door at midnight. "I hate her so much. If she comes back here, I will beat her," one says of the other's ex-girlfriend. About her own failed relationship she adds, "I'm realizing I can be without him. I'm working on my support system. [Phone rings.] Oh wait, I gotta take this. So-and-so just sent me this link on Facebook and maybe I can get into such-and-such for free on Friday."

Nothing against my temporary roommates; they are actually very sweet and accommodating. And living with them here in this apartment is very New York, or very young New York--in a large building with affordable rent in a hip area, surrounded by the sounds of all night partying and trains letting people off at 5 a.m. But my current living situation also serves as a reminder that I'm glad I'm no longer 25. 

Me at 25. Yikes.

Confinement

Today, for the first time in 24 days, I left the compound. I got into a car. I saw the cover of an US Weekly. I entered a strip mall. Twenty-three days I went without leaving a quarter-mile radius, and to be honest, even though we only drove ten minutes through manure pastures to get to the next town, our rendezvous made me feel like I was cheating on Johnson.

View Larger Map

The good news is that I'll get over it in a few hours. The reason for the trip was to buy hard alcohol to celebrate the artists' open studios and one of our last nights here. Which makes this a record-breaking day all around for me; yes, it's also been 24 days without vodka.

But I digress (a lot), I've become so enmeshed in small town life that I recognized over half the people at The Hub last night, including:

1. Two of the three girls who work at the coffee shop, Lovin Cup Cafe. When I approach the register most mornings, one of them will call out "Double Americano" to the other. Within a two week period, I've already filled up my second "buy 10, get one free" coffee card.

2. The lacrosse/frat guys, a.k.a. my friend's next door neighbors. This afro-sporting pair (one looks like Richard Simmons) stands out in the room full of dreadheads and lumbering overalls. They're always decked out in their Saturday-night-out-in-the-village gear (but on $2 beer Tuesdays). Richard wears a long, thin, khaki-striped scarf draped around his neck like a crochet snake, and the other flaunts marijuana leaf bling on his earlobes.

3. The hustler.

Other indications I'm in a small town:

* One day, a fellow writer knocked on my studio door. He had my wallet in his hand. I'd left it on the cafe's counter. Thankfully, he happened to be the next person in line.

* The only thing I carry are keys. I go from the studio to the dining hall to the gas station to other people's studios to my apartment--all steps away from each other. I don't need to plan or pack for later. My right shoulder muscle is grateful after years of purse lugging.

* On walks to the gas station for beer, we play games like, "I wonder which guy will be working tonight, the curly haired one or the teenager?"

* Beer was mentioned quite a few times in this entry. Also, the only non-essential store in Johnson (a description that can be disputed for the purpose of this list) is a smoke shop.

Block

Someone once told me that if you want to be a writer then do what writers do: Writers write. Sound, simple advice. And a complete utter lie. 

Tell a writer that he has the entire day free to write, and he'll spend most of his day finding a way not to. There's a guy here at VSC who purposely packed 50 unsharpened pencils and no pencil sharpener to give himself some mundane, non-writing chore (like seeking out a pencil sharpener). Surely, there are regimented, devoted writers out there who wake up, make themselves a cup of Earl Grey and churn out 20 pages from their their antique mahogany desk and ergonomic chair, but most writers I know agonize and torture themselves about why they aren't writing AT THIS VERY MOMENT. Which makes them not only not write at this very moment, but also the next moment because the agonizing has now perpetuated. We are an anxious, neurotic breed.  

In the last few weeks I've had to adapt my "writing process" to my new studio. These are my five favorite activities to do when I stumble:

1. Chew a lot of gum. Someone came into my studio and commented that it smelled minty. That's because there's 45 pieces of wadded spearmint gum in my trash can.

Not staged.

2. Click on Facebook. I'm too anxious to do any full blown stalking, like hunting down an old coworker I had a dream about last night. I usually just run through the updates and read what the same three people are doing every hour, three people I barely cared about in high school and care even less about now. Because I don't want to appear to be one of these people with too much time on my hands,  I rarely post any of my own updates. Well, with the exception of my last post: 

Jessica Machado is blocked. And needs to be blocked from FB so this block has a chance of being overcome. 

3. Consume multiple beverages. This is the way my mind correlates my thirst to my productivity: I can't start writing without an 16-ounce americano to the right of my computer. (See trash can pic.) But I also need water to hydrate. Hydration is important to balancing my physical and mental state. Okay, my americano is now gone but I still can't concentrate. I need more caffeine. Maybe I should take a walk to the dining hall and get a soda. (This usually leads to me running into someone and the both of us making a 10 minute conversation out of "Procrastinating too? I wonder what's for lunch? Smells like curry.")

4. Take naps. I feel sort of guilty about premeditated nap-taking so instead I sit in my chair and "read." 

After the first time I did this and dozed, I decided to prepare a little better.  

Creative footrest.

Today, I stopped fooling myself and threw the seat cushion on the carpet. 

My senile writer neighbor, thinking my studio was his, opened my door by accident today while I was "reading." Lord knows what he thought when he saw my feet on the floor through the cracked door. 

5. Blog. Blog about being blocked. Keep typing so minutes will go by. Keep my fingers moving so it will feel like I'm doing something productive and more minutes will pass and this block will disappear, or it will seem like a decent enough hour to retire for the night. Like 10:36 p.m. Hit "publish post."

Klutz

As part of my fellowship, I have kitchen duty three mornings a week. This usually involves working with materials I hold dear, like scooping peanut butter, filling up cereal containers and displaying a tray of bacon. So naturally, I don't mind. My supervisor was immediately impressed by my innate restaurant work ethic, although I must say I was a little disturbed to have retained a decade's worth of service industry knowledge. It's like riding a bicycle I suppose, but then of course I don't know how to ride a bicycle. Dare I assume though that bike riding is a way more practical skill than balancing a tray of lettuce on your hips while opening a walk-in fridge. 

I'm also in charge of salad prep. My supervisor expected I'd be just as quick with these craftsman-like tasks as I was with the laborious stuff. He was wrong. I'm a bachelorette. I didn't eat salad until I was 25. I make tuna burritos for chissakes. I do not have the patience, or apparently the skill, or maybe it's just the passion, to cut vegetables. 

On day two this happened while chopping cherry tomatoes: 

Two hours ago while piling the cutting board onto the egg tray: 

Seriously, how did I get Rudolph finger from a plastic board? 

Distraction

I spend most of my day staring at this river. I hear there's a canoe somewhere on campus that we can use. This sounds like an excursion that will be made on a Saturday, probably after midnight, when the liquor store has closed and the case of High Life has been plundered.