Public Market Confessional

I've been thinking about the importance of the blog in my life, whether it's ridiculous that I'm doing this at all, and the consequences of sharing a lot of personal information on the internet. It's both empowering, and increases my vulnerability, but not quite as vulnerable as the result of this chance meeting the other day...

I met a friend for coffee. We'll call him, Frank, because Frank is like my favorite name and he's like my favorite guy. He's 43, and has a pretty good handle on things. I tell him about my life, he gives me honest and useful feedback. It's great. We met up at the Public Market House, a place I haven't seen much of since Kate Digby Skinner left.

It had been a few months since we'd caught up, and I had a lot to talk about. Mostly my love life- a lot about what I'm looking for, what's gone wrong in the past. I'm literally, pouring my heart out, talking about my insecurities and my frustrations and details about my renewed singledom. And this guy sits down right behind me, who I know from karaoke. I don't know him well, just a familiar face attached to a name. I karaoked a Todd Rundgren song once, and he really liked it, which is basically all of our interactions at this point. It seems like the best idea for me is to try and ignore him, that way, I can continue my earnest conversation.

This guy gets up to leave after about an hour, and Frank makes eye contact. He and Frank have an awkward interaction for about a second, when Frank motions to me, then points to this guy. THANKS, FRANK! I give a half smile to be polite, say something about how it's a small town and it's nice to see him, and turn back to my conversation.

A bit later, Frank and I leave, deciding to meet up in a few weeks. This guy, however, shows up at Bayside Bowl a few nights later, walks straight up to me and confesses that he couldn't help but listen to everything I said, once he realized it was me. There was honestly, no more than four inches between the back of my chair and the back of his chair. What was I supposed to do? Ask him what exactly he heard and his thoughts? That seemed even worse than the awkward interaction we were already having. Apologize that he overheard? Ask him to not tell anyone? It wasn't my fault, I was there first. He should've kept to himself the fact that he was eavesdropping. It was none of his business, and Frank owes me big time- if he didn't initiate an interaction between the two of us, he wouldn't have been able to tell me he heard anything, because I could've maintained that I didn't know he was there. I know I can be pretty candid, but there were a lot of things I said in the confines of that coffeeshop I don't want just want just anyone to know. It was LiveJournal kind of shit.

At one point, Frank had asked me why I don't go out with that guy, since he clearly likes me by the way he was awkwardly standing there waiting to get my attention (Frank's words, not mine.) I brush him off, because I don't find this guy attractive, in the least. So he asked, why not? The answer isn't lengthy or complicated, I just don't, which led to me explaining in great detail how I might not know what I want in a potential life partner, because I believe people can be compatible in a lot of ways, but I have a pretty decent idea of what I don't want. Frank thinks I should use the blog as a platform for advertising these qualifications, but then pointed out that it's possible the blog could be standing in the way of my quest for true love. My thoughts are, it's a silly, irrelevant blog. And you know what else? Blogging is a lot like writing!


...

These Boots

It's no secret that one of my favorite songs to karaoke is "These Boots Are Made for Walking," by Nancy Sinatra. It's easy, short and I have a little dance, and it works because even in the summer, I'm usually wearing boots.

A few months ago, I was running across Middle Street to see Tess Van Horn at the Black Parrot, one of the best clothing boutiques in Portland. That day I happened to be wearing a pair of caramel colored imitation-leather knee high slouch boots. I got them at the Salvation Army for six dollars, and wasn't totally crazy about them- my old Nine West boots had huge holes and were in dire need of repair. Six dollars for new boots was a lot less than the fifty dollars I'd probably pay at the cobbler to have the Nine West boots repaired.

So this woman, probably 50 something-ish, sees me run into to the store, parks her car and follows me in. She says that she loves my boots, and asked me if I got them there. I tried to not look completely shocked- there was no way in a million, bajillion years I'd ever be able to afford ANYTHING at the Black Parrot, let alone the boots! They were six dollars and not even leather! She told me they were a great find, I blushed, agreed, and tried to explain that she should just get Frye boots, which are expensive, but would probably last her the rest of her life. She shrugged and left the store.

At the time I could've never anticipated the events of last week... I got tipsy at (well, before and during,) the Black Parrot anniversary sale, and went home with these Rachel Comey boots. Thank you, student loan refund.

Licture Piste

Hey! It's been a while. I don't even know what to say... I've been hemming and hawing over this stupid blog thing for months. Like "Man, I wish my blog was still functioning." "Man, I wish my blog was as funny as Joe Ricchio's blog." Or the infamous, "I'm so totally going to go home and blog about that!"

So, I'm going to. Go home and blog about it. Actually, I am home... so... It's been almost a year, and life is so completely different, a little recap is in order:

March: Ordered new glasses, got my passport, and cut all my hair off. (Locks of Love... you're welcome.)

April: PARIS!!! Turned 25 on Easter. Wore an inappropriately low cut dress to my birthday party, got drunk and had a one-night-stand.

May: Decide to move to Kennebunkport.

June-August: Hilarity ensues. Lots of beach, cocktails on the patio, loving life, waiting tables, karaoke at biker bars, failed romances. Another awesome Moose River trip, and multiple teary goodbyes to Darcy.

September: Baby and I move back to Portland, where I have an awesome roommate and enroll full-time at USM, leave the MDA peeps to professionally sling coffee and procrastinate on my homework.

October: Classes? What classes? I get a Missed Connection and Bangs. What a month!

November: Mom makes the best Thanksgiving dinner ever.

December: Crash my car on the day before finals week, break my phone, and successfully ruin the rest of my year. Thank god that's over.

January: Rung in 2010 with EIGHTY Happy New Year's txts (WTF?) and classes started this week. My eyeball still isn't better, but, I can still wink, so who cares? Started modeling for Mandy's Etsy. That's right, I'm a model now.

Anyway, you know I love telling stories. So, here's one from Paris:

After a few hang-ups with my bus ticket, my luggage, and staying up like, 36 hours straight while consuming surprisingly little alcohol, Kate and I meet Tess and Mandy at the airport, and... we're in Paris. It's everything I expect it to be. Kate's family is amazing, the city is obviously ridiculously beautiful. We spend our time eating really outstanding food, drinking espresso and wine, sightseeing, and hanging out in blissful ignorance of the conversations going on around us. We tried to be ultra-considerate about giving Kate enough personal space and making sure her needs were met, after all, we were crashing her visit home- and she did the same for us. We'd go on little excursions without her, bravely navigating the RER and constantly putting our fingers on the maps, a surefire giveaway that yes, we were tourists (at least we weren't wearing Crocs? I tried to remember everything David Sedaris ever said about living in Paris, but I was too overwhelmed.


Kate brought us to this fancy restaurant where the customers were rich and a man at the table next to us had one of those dogs that Charlotte has in Sex and the City. In the restaurant. We're told that this is the best hot chocolate in all of Paris, there, on the Champs-Elysees. And it was, I think. We part ways with Kate, she's spending some QT with the rents, and we leave in search of a post office. Tess and Mandy have promised post cards, and this seems like a relatively simple task we can complete on our own, no translator required. We find a few blocks down there is a post office, with a kiosk. I was too irresponsible to remember to write down anyone's addresses, so Tess and Mandy are on their own. I stand over Mandy's shoulder, eager to jump in with my opinion, just in case. It was relatively easy to navigate the automated system, as the first option was selecting language. English, stamps, international, 10, credit card. Right? So, she swipes her card. "Licture Piste" flashes in yellow on the screen. What the hell does that mean? Didn't we select English? She swipes her card five more times, upside-down, backwards, left to right, right to left, and each time, "Lecture Piste." I walk over to Tess to see how she's doing at her kiosk, and things seem to be running smoothly until it's time to swipe her card. Licture Piste. I start laughing, because it's completely and totally ridiculous. Say, Licture Piste out loud, seriously. And we can't even buy stamps? None of us are Survivor candidates, obviously. Licture Piste! It could've meant get out of here, you silly children, for all we knew. We're so baffled by the whole thing, why wasn't it reading our card, why wasn't the error message in English, and how the hell are we supposed to get the stamps? This was supposed to be a quick stop, but was quickly becoming a fiasco.

I'm almost doubled over laughing, as Mandy walks over the counter: "PARLE-ANGLAIS?" which is pretty much the only French she knows. The man shrugs, and she sighs. "STAMPS?" So he gives her ten stamps. Tess is still struggling to decode "Licture Piste," when Mandy walks back over, slightly defeated, but with stamps in hand. I'm still laughing, trying to help Tess, when the unthinkable happens... I fart. The smelliest fart that's ever come out of my body, by far. So let's recap: We're three young American girls, standing in the post office of one of the most elegant, posh, richest streets in the world, trying to buy stamps. We have no Kate, no dictionary, no phone, and I farted on the Champs-Elysees. Which only makes me laugh even harder. Obviously, they haven't smelled it yet. I can hardly breathe. Between gasps for air, I manage, "Guys, we have to get outta here," (long pause, more laughter,) "I just farted." Tess's face drops. Mandy and I walk out while Tess fends for herself at the counter. They get the stamps, mail the postcards, and I've never laughed so hard in my life.



Guess what Licture Piste meant? Kate, the native French speaker didn't even know: The magnetic strip on your card is unreadable."

"Hey intern, Get me a Campari."

2008 in Review

In the last year, things have changed quite a bit. The biggest change, for all of us, of course, is our selection of Barack Obama to be the next President of the United States. Our country is in one of the lowest of the lows, and this is huge. It seems like this is a moment in history our kids will be asking us about, and we'll remember.

For me, personally, things have changed quite a bit. The year I had my first skinny dip. My first apartment, all to myself. My first case of Shingles. SO many new friends. The top three events to define 2008 would have to be Paddling for My Soul (Moose River canoe trip.) The Break Up. And I know it sounds ridiculous, but singing I Would Do Anything for Love with Tess at karaoke. I think I'm that much closer to figuring out who I am and what I want- I almost feel like a different person. A new woman. I've gone from dating a journalist to Journalistic dating. And rekindling. Spring break Indiana wasn't bad, either.

Here are a few other standout 2008 things:

My cat Baby!

ChaCha!

Telethon at WABI (I do what I do for YOU!)

Best Birthday ever! (Thanks, ladies!)

The Theme Party that was not to Be.

Homecoming at Space.

DZUSA and Feel It Robot.

Best burger ever at Kelly's birthday party- it was made of Bison!

My Beyonce Pandora station.

"Hey, You bitches want some olives?"

The Mujoy Hill Exxodus (and the bittersweetness of it all.)

Gossip Girl.

The iPhone, obviously.

The Ancient Japanese Art of Karaoke

For the past few Saturday nights in a row, a few friends of mine and I have been going out to karaoke night at a former gay bar called the Flask Lounge. And it's amazing. I don't understand the social stigma that comes with karaoke- every time I've been to this particular night it turns into one big giant dance party. Journey, "Don't Stop Believing;" Mama's and the Papas "California Dreaming;" any number of Bruce Springsteen songs; Fleetwood Mac; someone always does You're the One I Love from the Grease soundtrack... There are a few 'regulars' who are truly karaoke masters, who shine in the spotlight, tear it up, if you will. Other times the song isn't quite the right choice or the stage presence isn't there, but that's when you talk about the next song you're doing, get a drink, use the bathroom. In fact, I'd go so far as to say karaoke has been my sex substitute as of late- singing, dancing, my heart rate goes up, I start sweating... And no babies!

I've only ever sang once at karaoke, and it was... painful for everyone involved. My own boyfriend didn't even suck up and tell me that I did okay. It was Wham's Wake Me Up Before You Go Go, which sounded good in theory, but in actuality was really difficult. In my mind, the key is to pick a song that you already know some of the words to. I've been picking out the perfect song. It has to be something that everyone knows, gets excited about, and isn't too vocally challenging, because I'm rather tone-deaf. I'm thinking it's going to be a Violent Femmes song, but my ears have been open. Once, my friend Hillary tried to convince me that I should be in an all-girl band with her and Mandy- I was like but Hilla, I don't PLAY anything. She said it's okay, you can sing, you have the look! I'll try to remember that next weekend.

Oh, and there's this guy, who gets in on all the action with his inflateable guitar. He gives the term 'air guitar' a whole new meaning...