Baggery

I'm not quite sure when you're too old to be carrying a flask to a party, taking shots of Goldschlager, or begging the convenience store cashier to let you buy a case of beer at 2:03 a.m., but I'm pretty sure it's sometime before the age of 32.

Now, the above scenario would be somewhat excusable on Halloween (which was when this occurred), but when you find yourself playing a drinking game called "Moose" at 3:30 in the morning one week later, you start to wonder if growing up is even plausible.

Because I don't mind further exposing my blatant immaturity and sharing what I learned this weekend (when other "kids" my age were changing diapers, or doing more sophisticated things like the New York Times crossword puzzle or lines of blow), I've created a handbook to playing Washington state party favorite, "Moose." (Being from Hawaii, in college, I only played games like "quarters," which involved, simply enough, flipping a quarter into a shot glass. I didn't even see a beer bong or a keg stand until my midwestern ex-boyfriend demonstrated such classics at a holiday party one year.)

Moose rules:

1) All players pour some of whatever they're drinking (at this point in the morning it was whatever crap beer was left in the fridge - Hamm's, Olympia, PBR) into a mug.

2) Prop up an empty ice tray onto the mug.

(And take inaccurate documentation of such a display. I apologize for the missing mug. It was 2:30 in the morning after all.)

3) Players then take turns bouncing a quarter off of the table and into the ice tray.

4) If the quarter lands in the left column, the "bouncer" (aka the one who threw the quarter) drinks the number of cube spaces reached from the bottom of the tray.

(In this case it was four spaces. And four very long gulps.)

5) If the quarter lands in the right column, the bouncer gets to delegate drinks to whichever player he/she wants based on the number cube spaces reached from the bottom.

(In this case it was five and the player delegated them all to himself.)

6) Whenever a player gets the quarter into one of the very top two spaces, all players race to bring their hands to their heads like antlers and call out "Moose." The last player to call "Moose" has to drink the contents of the mug.

7) If the quarter lands in the mug, the bouncer also has to drink whatever's in the mug. (Depending on how you look at it, I was either the night's biggest winner or the biggest loser. I Moosed every single time. Hence, the lack of photos after this first Moose.)

On an unrelated but oh-so-related note, today, I overheard a woman old enough to be my mother explain the meaning of the word "douchebaguette" to her colleague. Hint: It was the inspiration for this post.

Bittersweet

Today I made a date with Portland. I thought it was time the two of us got reacquainted outside of the bar scene.

We met up at the Wildwood Trail at Forest Park. No headphones, no cigarettes. Just a trickling creek, fallen leaves and the mushy ground below us. It was a surprisingly sunny day and I questioned why I was so eager to break things off for good. Haven't we had a good time? Haven't you given me the peace and quiet to write? The refreshing air and clean streets to play on? Could this other city that I'd been courting for some time romance me with midday strolls through damp greens and mountaintop vistas?

I continued on the trail for several miles until I got to Pittock Mansion, a centuries-old home a thousand feet high in the air. No one was around and I went around the back, remembering there was a beautiful view of the city from the yard. I hadn't seen my date in its full glory in some time, probably since we first met, when our romance was new and I was excited to traipse around its every crevice, when every quirk was endearing and I was protective over its every flaw.

As I turned the corner of the house, I could hear the drizzle of rain. By the time I walked across the yard over to the edge of the cliff, it was pouring. I stood there for a minute, the release upon me. The city looked hazy, gray covering gray, gray muting green. Speckles of concrete peeked out through the clouds. The rain stopped as soon as I got back on the trail, but I was already running down.

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.

Ettiquette

There are certain things I believe that we, as a society, should come to an understanding about when using.

For instance, when running on a track, let's all run in the same direction, counter clockwise. Who are the people (usually the one guy in elite running gear) who think they're above this?

Also, if you can see a staircase nearby, and you get into an elevator, you should only be: a) ascending four floors or more; b) ascending two or more floors and in a rush; or c) providing entertainment to whoever's stuck with you for the ride. People who meet these criteria do not have the time or patience to stop on every goddamn floor.

Today, I was late for class, so I jumped in the elevator in the basement of a very busy building. A guy singing along to his ipod got in with me. I pushed "3." He reached in front of me and I prepared for the worst. He hit "G" for ground. One measly floor.

"Yeah, that's right," he told me as he backed up into the far corner. "I'm lazy."

I couldn't help but chuckle.

"I know, I know," he continued. "I saw the way you looked at me."

According to my rules, he got a pass. Self deprecation and calling out fellow passengers' uptight bullshit also fall under option c).

As soon as he got out, I violently pushed the close door button, making sure none of the people waiting on the ground floor had a chance to get in.

Served

I probably have no reason to admit this now that it's behind me but here it goes:

For the last month I've waited tables at a Hawaiian fast food restaurant.

Unfortunately, when I say "behind me," I don't mean that it was of my choosing to leave, but instead, I was taken off the schedule. My boss said she gave away my two shifts a week to servers who want to make scooping rice and mac salad "their careers." I hope they all live happily ever after in delusion.

Anywhoo, now that it's over we can all laugh about it, right? Many lifetimes ago I vowed never to wait another table, let alone do so for $25 a night, wearing a bright orange T-shirt and serving soda out of a can. It seems absurd that at 32, I was being bossed around by my 23-year-old coworkers, these same coworkers who'd ask me where I'd previously worked, ones I tried to tell without sounding arrogant or like a pathological liar that I write for the state paper and that I'll be soon graduating with my MFA. I could justify why I took the job (it's the recession, we're all taking crappy jobs to pay the bills; it was temporary until I move; I'd just come back from Hawaii and was nostalgic; I knew I wouldn't run into a single soul I knew there), but ultimately, the whole thing was a lesson in humility.

Here's what else I learned while serving salty meat products for $8 a plate:

1. I still hate haoles. Sure, I'm haole (or white) but when white people are juxtaposed against local Hawaiian people, it becomes very obvious why locals hate whities. Haoles think they know everything, especially haoles in their twenties, whereas locals never assume to know a damn thing. They're from an island for chrissakes. They know they don't know shit. Half of my former coworkers grew up in the islands and had humble positions at the restaurant like cooking and dishwashing. They smiled and showed me where things were; they treated me how they'd want to be treated. My haole coworkers were the servers who told me it was my turn to mop the floors and how I'd sprinkled coconut on the haupia pie the wrong way. This could obviously be a metaphor for how whites end up dominating indigenous people and getting ahead. But when it comes to making the perfect riceball, their ambition is being wasted. Haoles simply need to relax.

2. The perfect scoop of rice is all in the firm touchdown--when the scooper meets the plate or to-go container--before the release of the handle.

3. Free food shuts people up.

4. As much as I'd hate to admit it, mindless work from the hours of 5-9 is kinda the perfect break for someone who sits in front of her laptop, mulling over her life every other hour of the day.

5. Eating Kahula pig never gets old. Neither does mac salad. (Reason #3 also applies to grumpy servers who get shift meals.)

6. Every once in a while, you need to feel rejected by something you never really wanted. Puts into perspective who you think you are.

7. This will surely make great fodder for an essay one day.

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.

Zen

For a brief, delusional period yesterday, I fancied myself one of those rare people who could sit alone on a park bench and actually take in the scenery. I didn't glance at my phone (I didn't even have it on me), nor did I peruse any reading material. Instead, I watched a couple split a burrito and a large woman wearing a sandwich board warn passersby about the dangers of the flu shot. I was ready to congratulate myself on my five minutes of purposeless observation, when I put a cigarette to my lips and exhaled a puff of smoke. That's when I realized I was no different than the other eaters, talkers and smartphoners who couldn't find a reason to sit alone and do nothing.

Worse than this is the 2.01 tendency to be doing two or three somethings at once. When I'm walking down the street, I cannot simply be walking. I have to have my earbuds in. I'm 32. If someone asked me when I was eight if I'd still be listening to my walkman on thrice daily basis when I was 32, I'd think he was crazy. I'd also think 32 was only a short ride away from my grave.

Also extinct: The art of cooly waiting at the bar alone. The company of a stiff drink is no longer enough. Guys, girls, parents even, have to be texting someone, or pretending to text someone, or playing a game on their iPhone. When I'm alone at a bar, I purposely stare off into middle space, concentrating really hard on looking cool with nothing in my hands. It's rather exhausting, really.

My newish, sometimes smoking habit is the closest tool I have to putting me in the moment. Sad, I know. But I think smoking is completely underrated. Which brings me to another benefit of lighting up: since people tend to look down on smokers these days, no one will come near you. You really are all alone in the middle of a wide, open world.

Retrograde

After spending the summer documenting my observations of the East Coast, I now see my own Portland, Oregon, neighborhood with fresh eyes.

I live in an area of the city dubbed Nob Hill. It is in the Northwest quadrant, known to most as the uppety and probably the most expensive of the five quadrants (in Pdx, a quad = 5). My apartment is a skip away from the posh condo pocket called the Pearl, and minutes away from the fancy, centuries-old mansions in Hillside above the glorious rose gardens at Forest Park. Where I live on 21st Avenue, there are probably more bars and restaurants within an 8-block stretch than any other area in Portland. Two streets up from me is 23rd, or "Trendy Third," which was once Portland's premiere shopping district.

Once is the operative word.

It's time to rethink these nicknames. There's a Gap, a Levi's and a Paper Source on Trendy Third. Granted 21st's restaurant row has a handful of really good, really expensive restaurants but the ones that are within the Regular Portlander's budget (i.e. tacos and Thai takeout) aren't memorable and are pathetically un-ethnic. But these days, what seems most preposterous in relation to the neighborhood's supposed shi-shiness are the residents. There's nothing snooty about them. (Btw, let me mention how ironic it is that I'm just now noticing who lives here. While I don't get paid to blog, I do get paid to write about the goings on in my neighborhood. It is actually in my job description.)

Lately, when I wander around my hood during the day, what I see are early twenty-somethings that looked like they just got off Godsmack's tour bus--the bus for roadies and crew, mind you. The one that picked up these good ol' American slackers in northern Michigan or a suburb outside of Chicago and brought them straight to the dark, sketchy Marathon Taverna here on Burnside to drink High Life and play video poker. Everyone in my neighborhood has this early-2000 rock look about them, complete with that still-slightly-awkward-in-your-own-skin trace of adolescence. They wear a selection of less offensive T-shirts from Hot Topic and jeans that are ill-fitting, held up by studded belts. They sport wavy hair (longer for guys, shorter for girls; the more coiffed chicks have chunky black-versus-blonde highlights), and they always have a cigarette in hand. Or a dog.

Your typical couple: Guy in varying fades of black, some band logo on his T-shirt, backwards cap, sneakers; girl with chunk of blue in her hair, some naughty or supposedly clever saying on her baby tee; both of them very, very white.

The alterna-sporty look circa '94: A jersey, pleated white mini skirt and knee-high socks.

But then of course, these are the people who don't have real day jobs like me. For all I know, this could just be what college kids look like these days: outdated versions of what I looked like when I was a displaced freshman. (Note: PSU is nearby and if I were moving here from a small town, I too would think the words "Nob Hill" sound exciting.)

At night, however, it's harder to judge who actually lives on 21st or 23rd. Most who frequent the bars in my hood, especially during the weekend, have come from the bridges (ghetto Gresham) and tunnels (yuppie Beaverton). They all look like they're trying too hard, which is the exact opposite of the day crowd.

Which brings me back to the reputation of the Northwest. If the westside is supposed to be more "city" (in other words, it includes downtown), then the cool kids will tell you that the east is more laid back, honest, or "real" (in other words, cheaper, somewhat bohemian and spread out). However, I realize now that what makes the east more real isn't that my westside hood is pretentious. The guys in my neighborhood haven't changed their lip piercings and Camel cigarette tastes since 1992. What makes the eastside--the region dotted with hipster plaid and retro reading glasses--more real is that having a too-cool-for-school attitude really is what Portland's all about.

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.