Black Cadillacs

It's true that we named our children after towns that we'd never been to.

I can't wait to name my children someday. Until then, I'm going to keep on traveling. I leave tomorrow for Israel. I will also spend a weekend in Istanbul with a dear friend where I will see culture and religion and beauty and history. I will listen to new music I put on my iPod. I will write things in my journal every day. I will take photos so beautiful they simply must be blown up and framed. I will buy art, no matter the cost and inconvenience of traveling with it. I will forget about this last week of awkward dates and disappointing nights. I will miss my friends but love them more when I come home.

I will come home and find a man--not a boy--to love. I will come home and write more in my blog and on the typewriter I will buy. I will come home and buy a violin bow and learn to play. I will come home and have craft nights with friends who want to be creative. I will come home and run run run. I will come home refreshed and inspired and ready. Mostly, I will come home.

And we were done, done, done
With all the fuck, fuck, fuckin' around.
Circlin' round.

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The troof

You lied to me friend. But for my own good. Because of your lie, I continued to believe that I was a good caretaker of plants and now it is one of my favorite hobbies. I have so many houseplants that I have to keep some at my brother's house because I don't have enough natural-light-filled windows to keep them thriving.

In June 2006 I went to Italy for three months and left behind two plants. I left them with a babysitter. A dear friend. When I came back, we reunited -- both friend and I and plants and I. I went about my life and my plant collection grew. I learned that I loved succulents and decided that no less than three jade plants would do. I resurrected an aloe three times and am still desperately clinging on to the notion that I can bring Señor Kalanchoe back from his impending grave. See, the thing is... I attach great sentimentality to every plant.

Exhibit A: Typical leafy houseplant. First plant ever. Gift from mom while living in dorms. Accidentally left to die over Christmas break but brought back to life after months of bedside care. Still have to this day. Isn't very pretty. Special place in my heart.

Exhibit B: Similar to A. Ivy. Gift from mom at age 19. Easy to keep alive. Been with me a long time.

Exhibit C: Aforementioned kalanchoe. Gift from my daddy. Can't let it die. It's really ugly. But I can't let it die.

Exhibits D, E and F: Jade 1, zebra plant and aloe. All cuttings from my parents' plants. Feel special connection to them. Want to pass their babies on to my babies. Already started by passing on to sister-in-law.

Exhibit G: TJ. Yes, he has a name. This jade comes from a giant, 40-year-old tree named Tom. I purchased him in Yachats and all of Tom's babies are called Son of Tom. I renamed him TJ for Tom Jr. He is my pride and joy.

Now, let us return to Exhibit B for just a moment. This ivy is the plant from my original story. "Friend" sends me a message tonight and says something along the lines of, "Oh hey, I never told you this, but back in college when I babysat your plant, it died but I just replaced it and you never knew."

OH. MY. GOD. My whole life would have been different if I'd known. I would have stopped saying "look at this cute ivy! I've had it for 7 years and it's always been so healthy." Okay, I don't really say that. But here's my point. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger... or something. I'm glad I never knew because this lie has helped turn me into the plant-lover that I am today.

But Marcy Ann, you can bet your socks that it won't be so easy to foil me again. My taste in plants has progressed significantly and fooling me again will be next to impossible. Try replacing this guy without me knowing:
But on another note, thanks for babysitting. I'll be sure to never leave my children with you in case you kill them and try to replace them without me knowing....

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How to be creative

Well shit. I don't know. I pulled out the old guitar recently. That didn't last long. So now I'm looking for something else.

All I really want to do is write a book. I want to live in a cabin for 3 months and write a book. But that creativity issue is really a problem for me. I think to myself, "self, what can I write a novel about?" and I can't think of a thing. So then I think, "well, what about essays about funny stuff that is real?" and then I realize that not that many funny things have happened to me. So, I'm hoping to be inspired in Israel.

I was accepted to go on Birthright and will be spending at least 10 days in Israel, maybe more. I will bring a journal and I will hopefully get some wham-bham for my writing-noodle while I'm there. I love to write and when I have a topic it comes pretty easily. But as you can see by my epic failure of a blog, the ideas don't flow freely.

The blog of my dreams is one in which I get to do posts about grammar and nerd stuff. Unfortunately, five million already exist and the only way to make that cool is to do something different... like that girl who draws funny cartoons to illustrate her anguish at the world's word stupidity. Need to do something like that....

While I ponder, I'll find a fun picture for this post.

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Shwing

It's time.
The rebirth.
I got a job and quit this one. Now I'm going to try to do both.
It rained today. It rained so hard I wished for snow. I wished for anything else that wouldn't fill my fragile boots with soggy, squishy water-logged socks. I realized how much harder it is to drive in rain than snow. You can't see anything. And the inside of your car gets really foggy. And puddles make you lose control. So why is it that Portlanders are so fucking stupid when they try to drive in snow? The whole city shuts down. Sure, the snow plows aren't prepared and there just aren't enough of them. But on the other hand, you can't see a damn thing when you drive in rain and you all seem to do just fine with that. Also, my lights were off. Oops.

Sigh. I miss Bend.

As my most recent job endeavor comes to a close, I'm back to thinking about what I want to do with my life. Currently, my main criteria is something that I can sleep in for. Oh lord, please don't make me ever have to wake up at 6am for a job. 10-4. Now that's a schedule I could wrap my arms around...

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Who says money can't buy it?

I've never been more tired. And I've never wanted a real life more than today. Went to a dinner party. This dinner party was on the 30th floor penthouse of a building on the south waterfront. Yeah, I have a friend who lives in a penthouse. And my, is it ever amazing. He had such a wonderful group of friends over. Some of them had kids, some of them had boyfriends or girlfriends, some of them had gray hair. The point is, they were all awesome and they all have jobs. Cool jobs. Jobs that are real.

I started a new one of my own two weeks ago. I'm so very exhausted. So many hours for something so temporary. I'm working in an office environment that keeps coffee brewing all day long and purchases a couch for the boardroom because they work through the weekend. I've been lucky that I haven't had to work a weekend yet, but I know that I will. Working to get democrats elected. Then, after the election, I'll be unemployed again. It's freaking me out, but it's also making me think about what's out there.

Tonight I was surrounded by a group of men and women who have struggled their way from someone like me to owning their own businesses. They are all entrepreneurs. They are all really smart. And damn are a lot of them rich! How do I go from 25-year-old me to 35-year-old them and be successful and (seemingly) happy and proud that I started my own life and my own business and my own world? All it takes is one good idea. I want it to be wordy. I want it to involve writing. I want to be able to hire my own employees that make me laugh. I want to own a penthouse where my kids can ride their tricycles around and around my 360 degree rooftop patio that alternates view of the river with view of the hills.

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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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