Portland bust

I don't want you to have a mustache.
I don't want you to only ride a bike.
I don't want you to be a vegan.
I don't think it's cute for you to write your robot profile in binary code.
Beer is cool and all, but there are other things to have strong feelings about.

Dating in Portland is like trying to weed your way through a corn maze, but you know Jack Nickolson is waiting somewhere in there with an ax and you're just not sure it's worth the stress and over-excitement for the slight possibility that you might make it to the end alive... where you find a mediocre prize waiting for you that may or may not even be gratifying. Corn?

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One man's trash is trash

I floated the Clackamas river this weekend. My, oh my, did I have fun. I went there assuming "floating" meant the same as it does in Bend: jump on your floaty, hook onto your friends and casually float down the river for an hour and a half. I wasn't prepared for a three hour float with rapids and constant paddling. Once I detached myself from the others and removed my watch (safely placing it around an empty beer bottle in my friend's raft), I was much more adept at navigating the waters, which led to an exciting float indeed.

But let me tell you, young Portlanders make me sick. There was so much trash in the water. Cigarette butts skimming, beer bottles bobbing and plastic bags dragging. What at first started as a simple plea to those in my group to PLEASE put their butts in a water bottle in the raft, turned into a personal mission to pick up as much trash as my floaty could handle. It was all in vain, as I eventually ended up losing it all in the rapids anyway, but I did my best. What hurt me the most was that I don't even consider myself an environmentalist, yet the fact that I wanted to simply keep the water clean earned me the moniker "river police." I suppose I grew up in a place where nature and the preservation of it is innate. In SE Portland, I guess it's inane.

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My temper

Today I blasted my way home from work on I-5 with Temper Trap. I sort of cried a little bit. And then I'd get all "I can do anything" and then I'd tear up a little bit again. Driving on I-5 late at night toward my new house is kind of awesome. I get to look at the city across the river and then as I come around toward my neighborhood, see OHSU on top of the hill shining down on me like a beacon of inspiration: I CAN DO SOMETHING WITH MY LIFE. No, not be a doctor. But something. But what? Something.

What am I doing in this city? I should have more of a nightlife and date more boys and go to coffee shops and write write write. My new roommate is great for me because she too is looking for some inspiration. Together, we will conquer.

Now, how to fight the loneliness? Smile all the time. That's what Jeff Tweedy thinks anyway. It doesn't really help. F you JT.

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Inspiration, tweet sized

I've had a tab to my blog open on my web browser for three weeks now. Every day I intend to write in it and find an excuse not to ("Oh, I should watch that episode of Entourage I downloaded," "I'm going to browse some jobs," "I'm going to endlessly read Facebook updates"). So then, I sort of gave up and instead pulled out my journal--yes, it's made of paper and requires a pen and some hand stamina to add any thoughts. And then, this journal sat on my bed for two weeks. Before bed, I'd push it to the side "for tomorrow" and in the morning, I'd set it on top of my comforter "for tonight." This morning I put the journal back in its place with nothing new inside. And as I was about to close this tab, I suddenly felt an urge to follow through on SOMETHING.

I don't have Twitter but I kind of wish I did. I could much more easily commit to regularly banging out 140 characters. On the other hand, I don't need another personalized outlet to ignore.

I started part-time nannying an eight-week-old boy today. Though he's pretty adorable, he bored the hell out of me. My arm was sore and I smelled like boob milk and I wanted oh-so-badly to take a nap all day. When I go to a public park on a Sunday and am surrounded by children playing, I'm annoyed, not delighted, by the sound of laughter. When that stupid child's parents do not stop her from reaching out to grab me every time I walk by her at work, I want to punish them for their irresponsible parenting and her for her irritating behavior.

I am so not ready to be a mom. And I'm pleased, cause I ain't even close to getting there. Things I want to do before I start actually liking the thought of having kids: go to at least five more countries. Learn Spanish. Have steamy affairs with more people that aren't my baby's daddy. Make some money. Spend some money. Buy a better car. Get more tattoos. Eat lots of sushi. Road trip across America. Not have kids.

I mean no offense to those of you who have them. For the most part, I like all my friends' kids. I just don't want them. Not one bit.

Here's to being 25 without a little mini-me.

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