I started training for my new job at US Bank on Monday. It is a "perfect" job for me, and I imagine I will do very well at it; however, it is depriving me of nine hours a day that would otherwise be spent loafing, eating, working out, exploring and, most importantly, exercising my insane brain. My sane brain is getting plenty of exercise. In fact, it's on overdrive. But I find myself in class every day, by about lunch time, getting very antsy. My fingers start tapping, my leg shakes, my eyes dart around between the instructor, my classmates, my computer screen and anywhere else thay can go. And my brain goes to La La Land for undetermined periods of time. I will snap out of it and realize that the teacher has moved on to a totally different subject, and I better start paying attention.
It is not that the material is uninteresting. On the contrary, I have always found personal finance fascinating. Really, even as a child. My mother will testify that I would see ads in the newspaper or in magazines for financial service agents to talk about investing in stocks and bonds, and I would call them to discuss ways to invest my money. I was ten. I had no money, other than paper route and allowance. When they would finally ask how much I was looking to invest, I am sure that $40.00 must have been a heartbreaking number to hear.
Anyway, I love what I am learning, but I inevitably find myself in a theatrical mental state. Our instructor will be talking about interest rates, and I am hearing the entire score of "Next To Normal" or I am participating in a comedy sketch about bankers. My brain flys away for a little trip, and before I know it, class has moved on, and I am not sure what all I missed.
I am grateful to be employed by such a respectable company, but I am quickly rediscovering the importance of feeding my artist. For me, and for many others, creativity is more than a pastime or a hobby. It is a necessity. Like oxygen. Well, maybe not as important as oxygen, but certainly more important than, say, chocolate. Oh, I know. It is on the food pyramid above grains. I have never understood why grains occupy such a large space on that pyramid. Honestly, who eats eight servings of bread, rice, pasta or cereal a day?! I am replacing at least half that space with creativity. When people deprive themself of a creative outlet, it ends up hurting them elsewhere. I have seen it in my own life as well as in others. When we get too busy or too focused on work or on other people's problems, we cheat our artists of exercise and playtime. Wait. Stop. I am getting preachy, and what I really wanted was to provide an example of me on the job.
Yesterday, we were given some quiet time to take an online course in workplace harassment. Now, as you may know, there are few workplace topics with more comic potential than harassment. I was reading a scenario about Banker John who has been persistently asking Banker Sally out on a date. She has turned him down three times, but he is just not getting it. When he asks for a fourth time, she responds by saying "Look, John, I have told you three times I am not interested in going out with you. Your persistence is making me uncomfortable, and if you don't stop asking, I am going to report this to my boss." At this point, we are given four multiple choice answers for what would be John's best response. The third option was "What about tomorrow night?" When I read this, I guffawed. Not a little giggle, but a guffaw. Strangely, I was the only classmember who found it that funny. I don't recall anyone else in class laughing. And there were other scenarios that cracked me up too. I spent a good portion of classtime laughing. And then, of course, the natural progression is to imagine myself in a Saturday Night Live sketch about sexual harassment in the office. This, for some reason, satisfies my brain much more than learning about actual serious harassment issues.
Having worked in theatre for so many years, sexual harassment is a part of daily life. There is a reason actors have no organization for countering harassment. They would have to be open 24/7 and have offices staffed in every city with theaters. Plus I think actors inherently enjoy it. Any attention is good attention. They would probably complain only if they were not being harassed.
Anyway, there I go, rambling again. And it's after 7! I have to go to work so my mind can wander some more.
Normino out.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Attention, Ikea shoppers!
MOVE!
A phenomenon of the retail world is the human wall. Nowhere can this phenomenon be more observed and more frustrating than at Ikea. And apparently you don't even need to visit on a weekend because it seems that Ikea is packed with shoppers all days of the week by all sorts of people. And, evidently, they like to bring all their family members with them when they shop.
I am somewhat of an expert on this now as I visited the Portland Ikea not once, not twice, but THREE times last week. I am not a good shopper. I rarely get the enjoyment from shopping that normal people might derive because I deliberate over everything. Whether it costs six dollars or three-hundred dollars, I argue about every little detail before I can confidently make a purchase. What exacerbates this problem is when I am at a store like Ikea where I am trying to match items like, say, a nightstand and a table lamp which are in different sides of the showroom. Every time I try to walk from one section to another, my stride is brought to a screeching halt by--
A. a family of six spending the day together at the store (and yes, they clearly intend to be there for the day),
B. a trio of very large companions strolling in such a way as to block anyone from going around or through their human wall, or
C. the mom with the super-stroller that is at least eight feet wide and has every possible contraption hanging off all sides. This mom is generally the slowest of the human walls as she is slowly and carefully viewing every piece of furniture all around her throughout the showroom. This mom is rarely able to take more than one step per ten seconds, and her every step seems to be taken directly in front of me in whatever direction I am walking.
Despite these setbacks, I managed to procure the furnishings needed. We have a ludicrous collection of DVDs and CDs, and we have never owned a proper storage solution for them...until now. We are the proud new owners of a large DVD/book shelf unit and two matching CD towers, upon which we have neatly organized and alphabetized our DVD and CD collection.
Furthermore, I treated myself to a little nightstand and table lamp for the bedroom. At first, I was looking at all kinds of cheap floor lamps and little generic bedside tables. Ultimately though, what made me happy was a cute little white nightstand with a drawer and a little table lamp with a pull chain. I didn't know at first why I was so attracted to such simple items; but then it occurred to me, they remind me of my childhood. The simplicity of the one little drawer at my bedside and the chain on the lamp remind me of all that old furniture that surrounded me growing up. It's so quaint and comforting, and it makes my bedroom feel like home.
And, I have to say, as much as I have cursed assembly-required furniture, Ikea gets it right. There's a reason so many people shop there. Because when you get a piece home and successfully put it together, there is a feeling of satisfaction as if you created and built the whole thing yourself, and that feeling makes you cherish the item just a little more than if someone else put it together for you. Ikea instills a false sense of superiority in us shoppers, as if we are pioneers settling in our new land and building our homes. Cutting down trees, chopping wood, hammering nails.
"AH HA!" as I tighten that last cam lock on the bedside table and begin to channel Charlton Heston. "I am a great builder of furniture and have succeeded in making a home for myself and my partner. This is not just a nightstand, and these are not just bookshelves. They represent my great abilities as a builder and provider for my family. I am a strong and able-bodied man, and I will continue to shop at Ikea. I will brave the throngs of people who seem to be unemployed and yet have plenty of money to buy massive amounts of furniture each and every day. I will patiently, but stalwartly, navigate my way through the walls of human flesh in order to reach the self-serve furniture aisles and obtain the materials needed to create my home. My castle. My Ikea palace. Hail to Ikea!"
A phenomenon of the retail world is the human wall. Nowhere can this phenomenon be more observed and more frustrating than at Ikea. And apparently you don't even need to visit on a weekend because it seems that Ikea is packed with shoppers all days of the week by all sorts of people. And, evidently, they like to bring all their family members with them when they shop.
I am somewhat of an expert on this now as I visited the Portland Ikea not once, not twice, but THREE times last week. I am not a good shopper. I rarely get the enjoyment from shopping that normal people might derive because I deliberate over everything. Whether it costs six dollars or three-hundred dollars, I argue about every little detail before I can confidently make a purchase. What exacerbates this problem is when I am at a store like Ikea where I am trying to match items like, say, a nightstand and a table lamp which are in different sides of the showroom. Every time I try to walk from one section to another, my stride is brought to a screeching halt by--
A. a family of six spending the day together at the store (and yes, they clearly intend to be there for the day),
B. a trio of very large companions strolling in such a way as to block anyone from going around or through their human wall, or
C. the mom with the super-stroller that is at least eight feet wide and has every possible contraption hanging off all sides. This mom is generally the slowest of the human walls as she is slowly and carefully viewing every piece of furniture all around her throughout the showroom. This mom is rarely able to take more than one step per ten seconds, and her every step seems to be taken directly in front of me in whatever direction I am walking.
Despite these setbacks, I managed to procure the furnishings needed. We have a ludicrous collection of DVDs and CDs, and we have never owned a proper storage solution for them...until now. We are the proud new owners of a large DVD/book shelf unit and two matching CD towers, upon which we have neatly organized and alphabetized our DVD and CD collection.
Furthermore, I treated myself to a little nightstand and table lamp for the bedroom. At first, I was looking at all kinds of cheap floor lamps and little generic bedside tables. Ultimately though, what made me happy was a cute little white nightstand with a drawer and a little table lamp with a pull chain. I didn't know at first why I was so attracted to such simple items; but then it occurred to me, they remind me of my childhood. The simplicity of the one little drawer at my bedside and the chain on the lamp remind me of all that old furniture that surrounded me growing up. It's so quaint and comforting, and it makes my bedroom feel like home.
And, I have to say, as much as I have cursed assembly-required furniture, Ikea gets it right. There's a reason so many people shop there. Because when you get a piece home and successfully put it together, there is a feeling of satisfaction as if you created and built the whole thing yourself, and that feeling makes you cherish the item just a little more than if someone else put it together for you. Ikea instills a false sense of superiority in us shoppers, as if we are pioneers settling in our new land and building our homes. Cutting down trees, chopping wood, hammering nails.
"AH HA!" as I tighten that last cam lock on the bedside table and begin to channel Charlton Heston. "I am a great builder of furniture and have succeeded in making a home for myself and my partner. This is not just a nightstand, and these are not just bookshelves. They represent my great abilities as a builder and provider for my family. I am a strong and able-bodied man, and I will continue to shop at Ikea. I will brave the throngs of people who seem to be unemployed and yet have plenty of money to buy massive amounts of furniture each and every day. I will patiently, but stalwartly, navigate my way through the walls of human flesh in order to reach the self-serve furniture aisles and obtain the materials needed to create my home. My castle. My Ikea palace. Hail to Ikea!"
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Step In Time
Window dining, step in time
People watching, step in time
Never need a reason, never need a rhyme
Window dining, step in time
1, 2 , 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
Man in all orange, step in time
Full orange jumpsuit, step in time
Never need a reason, never need a rhyme
Man in all orange, step in time
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
He had pink hair, step in time
Orange and pink hair, step in time
Never need a reason, never need a rhyme
Made our evening, step in time
People watching, step in time
Never need a reason, never need a rhyme
Window dining, step in time
1, 2 , 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
Man in all orange, step in time
Full orange jumpsuit, step in time
Never need a reason, never need a rhyme
Man in all orange, step in time
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
He had pink hair, step in time
Orange and pink hair, step in time
Never need a reason, never need a rhyme
Made our evening, step in time
Eating Out
I think that if you try to avoid dining out in Portland, you are essentially defying the laws of nature. We have tried, semi-successfully, to be frugal since moving here; but when you have the assortment of dining options that we have, temptation is always at your door.
Yesterday, I had a yen for Indian food, so at lunchtime I headed downtown because I had read about a food cart called Indian Chaat that is very popular with locals. I failed, however, to note the location. It turns out there are many, many food carts downtown, and they are not concentrated in any one particular block. They are all over, as abundant as the panhandlers, the street musicians and the homeless people hawking Street Roots newspaper which I really should read because I have no idea how it appeals to anybody un-homeless.
I never found Indian Chaat; however, I did happen upon the Rialto Cafe where I scored a delicious veggie quiche and side salad for $6.00. Later, I went online to discover the location of Indian Chaat as well as two other Indian food carts. Even the food carts have a website! They don't have a permanent address, but they have a website!
Last night, Tommy got home from work and wanted to go to our local McMenamin's for dinner and a movie. McMenamin's is a chain of pub-movie theaters in Portland where you can go get a burger or a pizza and a beer and watch a movie in a very relaxed living room style fashion. That's a big motif here. Beer and lazing. It's not relaxing enough to sit in an air-conditioned auditorium watching a film. One needs an intoxicant and a carb-load while doing it.
Anyway, the flick was Star Trek which we have both seen, and I wasn't in the mood to see it again. Tommy seemed a little disappointed and went downstairs for a workout. Feeling bad, and hungry, I checked out the website of a restaurant called Mother's that our friends Amie and Chris had recommended. After drooling on my keyboard, I called to make a reservation.
It is not a cheap restaurant, especially when you add the pre-dinner martinis and the wine, but it is so worth it. I started with a Ruby Red martini which was their house vodka infused with grapefruit, fresh grapefruit juice and sugar in a sugar-rimmed frosty glass. It went down like fruit punch. I could have had three more. Don't worry. I didn't.
For dinner, Tommy had the fried red snapper with sauteed spinach and spaetzle. I had the...I need a moment as my heart is starting to race...okay...macaroni and cheese du jour which was fettucini with smoked salmon, whipped cream cheese and capers. It was rich delctable comfort food at its finest. I ate half of it and brought the other half home.
Upon receiving the check, which came with a slap of reality, I remembered that we are supposed to be on a tight budget and probably should have eaten at home. But at home no one would be cooking for us, or serving us, or cleaning up after us. And that just doesn't seem right. After all, isn't it our responsibility to keep people in the service industry employed? And what if all those other diners at Mother's had decided to be frugal last night. Where would Mother's be then? In the red, that's where. I think it's our duty as Americans to get out there and support our local restaurants. They want to cook for us! In some countries, it is considered shameful to turn down a gift. Don't deny someone the privilege of serving you. Get out there, America, and eat! Eat for the children! The children of that server who need a good orthodontist! Get out there and fix those teeth!
Tonight, we go back to frugality. No expensive dining out. McMenamin's, here we come.
Yesterday, I had a yen for Indian food, so at lunchtime I headed downtown because I had read about a food cart called Indian Chaat that is very popular with locals. I failed, however, to note the location. It turns out there are many, many food carts downtown, and they are not concentrated in any one particular block. They are all over, as abundant as the panhandlers, the street musicians and the homeless people hawking Street Roots newspaper which I really should read because I have no idea how it appeals to anybody un-homeless.
I never found Indian Chaat; however, I did happen upon the Rialto Cafe where I scored a delicious veggie quiche and side salad for $6.00. Later, I went online to discover the location of Indian Chaat as well as two other Indian food carts. Even the food carts have a website! They don't have a permanent address, but they have a website!
Last night, Tommy got home from work and wanted to go to our local McMenamin's for dinner and a movie. McMenamin's is a chain of pub-movie theaters in Portland where you can go get a burger or a pizza and a beer and watch a movie in a very relaxed living room style fashion. That's a big motif here. Beer and lazing. It's not relaxing enough to sit in an air-conditioned auditorium watching a film. One needs an intoxicant and a carb-load while doing it.
Anyway, the flick was Star Trek which we have both seen, and I wasn't in the mood to see it again. Tommy seemed a little disappointed and went downstairs for a workout. Feeling bad, and hungry, I checked out the website of a restaurant called Mother's that our friends Amie and Chris had recommended. After drooling on my keyboard, I called to make a reservation.
It is not a cheap restaurant, especially when you add the pre-dinner martinis and the wine, but it is so worth it. I started with a Ruby Red martini which was their house vodka infused with grapefruit, fresh grapefruit juice and sugar in a sugar-rimmed frosty glass. It went down like fruit punch. I could have had three more. Don't worry. I didn't.
For dinner, Tommy had the fried red snapper with sauteed spinach and spaetzle. I had the...I need a moment as my heart is starting to race...okay...macaroni and cheese du jour which was fettucini with smoked salmon, whipped cream cheese and capers. It was rich delctable comfort food at its finest. I ate half of it and brought the other half home.
Upon receiving the check, which came with a slap of reality, I remembered that we are supposed to be on a tight budget and probably should have eaten at home. But at home no one would be cooking for us, or serving us, or cleaning up after us. And that just doesn't seem right. After all, isn't it our responsibility to keep people in the service industry employed? And what if all those other diners at Mother's had decided to be frugal last night. Where would Mother's be then? In the red, that's where. I think it's our duty as Americans to get out there and support our local restaurants. They want to cook for us! In some countries, it is considered shameful to turn down a gift. Don't deny someone the privilege of serving you. Get out there, America, and eat! Eat for the children! The children of that server who need a good orthodontist! Get out there and fix those teeth!
Tonight, we go back to frugality. No expensive dining out. McMenamin's, here we come.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Keep Portland Weird, Man!
Keep Portland Weird is a saying that has been slung all over for years, on bumper stickers and T-shirts and billboards, etc. And now that I am a Portlander, I am discovering why it is so important to the locals. They are like animals of the forest, bizarre and primitive, protecting their culture.
The other day, I was in my apartment, and I heard some Tourettes-like shouting and carrying on. I had only to look over my balcony to observe the native Portlander pacing and hopping and dancing around in his native dirty ragged clothing in front of the H&R Block office across the street. He had quite an act. I was tempted to throw money at him as one might toss peanuts to the monkeys. I felt quite privileged that I was getting this show for free.
Yesterday, while walking down Tenth Avenue, we passed a rather typical middle-class-looking fellow who was standing at a phone booth. We observed that as people would approach (everyone walks here), he would grab the phone off the hook and start muttering to himself while pretending to dig in his pockets for change. Then, as we got within earshot, he said "Hey, can you spare fifty cents?" The best part was that he had what appeared to be an iPhone in his other hand. I figured his iPhone must be out of service.
Finally, there is the bizarre and colorful Portland dressy casual moviegoer. As we sat at the bar at the Living Room Theatre enjoying our local beverages (beer), in he walked in all his glory. A young man wearing a collared button-down striped blue and white dress shirt which was half-tucked in to his cherry-red running shorts which were pulled up high revealing his snowy white legs, and the outfit was completed with black dress shoes and no socks. What a sight! It made us both take pause from our frosty beverages and give thanks for the visual delights we discover each and every day in this wild landscape that we call Portland.
The other day, I was in my apartment, and I heard some Tourettes-like shouting and carrying on. I had only to look over my balcony to observe the native Portlander pacing and hopping and dancing around in his native dirty ragged clothing in front of the H&R Block office across the street. He had quite an act. I was tempted to throw money at him as one might toss peanuts to the monkeys. I felt quite privileged that I was getting this show for free.
Yesterday, while walking down Tenth Avenue, we passed a rather typical middle-class-looking fellow who was standing at a phone booth. We observed that as people would approach (everyone walks here), he would grab the phone off the hook and start muttering to himself while pretending to dig in his pockets for change. Then, as we got within earshot, he said "Hey, can you spare fifty cents?" The best part was that he had what appeared to be an iPhone in his other hand. I figured his iPhone must be out of service.
Finally, there is the bizarre and colorful Portland dressy casual moviegoer. As we sat at the bar at the Living Room Theatre enjoying our local beverages (beer), in he walked in all his glory. A young man wearing a collared button-down striped blue and white dress shirt which was half-tucked in to his cherry-red running shorts which were pulled up high revealing his snowy white legs, and the outfit was completed with black dress shoes and no socks. What a sight! It made us both take pause from our frosty beverages and give thanks for the visual delights we discover each and every day in this wild landscape that we call Portland.
Movies Then and Now
I love old movies. I love new movies. Movies provide the perfect opportunity to look at other peoples' lives and sneer.
Yesterday, I watched a film from 1938 entitled Test Pilot. It was directed by Victor Fleming, about whom I have been reading in the most recent biography of his life, and it starred Clark Gable, Myrna Loy and Spencer Tracy, a glossy cast if ever there was one. I enjoyed the chemistry among the stars, but it was funny just how much our sensibilities as an audience have changed over the years.
Clark Gable is a, you guessed it, test pilot whose plane runs out of fuel right over Myrna Loy's farm, and he ends up making an emergency landing at 6:00 in the morning on her property. Out comes Myrna, fully made up, hair, face, dress, to flirt with our hero. They end up spending a day together during which Clark wins over her parents, takes her into Wichita for a ball game and a movie, and pretty much wraps her around his little finger. That Gable is a fast worker.
The next day, when Clark doesn't profess his undying love for Myrna, she ends up getting engaged to an old beau who lives nearby and rubbing it in Clark's face the night before he is scheduled to fly back. When he doesn't freak out and beg her to change her plans, she gets all emotional and ridiculous. After all, he did spend a day with her. What a cad.
Filmmakers would not get away with such insanity today. First of all, what did she expect? They have known each other 24 hours! I want to tell her, "Myrna, you get all dolled up by 6 in the am just in case some hot guy falls from the sky; and, when it happens, you get depressed if he doesn't whirl you away. Girl, you don't need Clark Gable. What you need is to get the hell off this farm! Plus, you're no spring chicken. You are clearly past 30. Aren't you tired of living with your folks? Get to the city. Heck, Wichita is only 20 miles away." I said these things to the TV, but, as usual, it did not affect the outcome. My favorite moment was Gable and Tracy attempting to buy a nightgown for Loy, and Gable struggling with the word "lingerie."
Then, last night, T and I went down to the Living Room Theatre for tapas and drinks and a movie. Our film selection was a little indie from the PNW entitled Humpday. This movie made me laugh a lot, and not for the same reasons I laughed at Myrna and Gable. Humpday is about two guys who are old college friends, one is now married, and they decide to enter an amateur porn festival by making a porn together. Yes, together! And they are straight. This idea is hatched, as so many are, during a night of drunken silliness. After sobering up, they decide it really is a very artistic idea and they should follow it through. They don't think about details like, oh, I don't know, flaccidity.
The hilarity ensues when the married guy has to explain this to his wife. The conversations between the characters in this movie are what had me LOLing. They are ridunculous. At one point, as the guys are in their hotel room prepping, they start trying to remember what exactly about this they thought was artistic.
I found the movie refreshingly honest and funny, and I highly recommend it. While I don't necessarily recommend the double feature with Test Pilot, I did like Test Pilot a lot, and it is an excellent example of where we used to be and where we are now. As I watched the guys in Humpday try to recapture the "artistic" qualities of what they were doing, I enjoyed the comic irony that, in fact, there is nothing artistic about much of what we do in our lives, but in the retelling. That's where we can be artists.
Yesterday, I watched a film from 1938 entitled Test Pilot. It was directed by Victor Fleming, about whom I have been reading in the most recent biography of his life, and it starred Clark Gable, Myrna Loy and Spencer Tracy, a glossy cast if ever there was one. I enjoyed the chemistry among the stars, but it was funny just how much our sensibilities as an audience have changed over the years.
Clark Gable is a, you guessed it, test pilot whose plane runs out of fuel right over Myrna Loy's farm, and he ends up making an emergency landing at 6:00 in the morning on her property. Out comes Myrna, fully made up, hair, face, dress, to flirt with our hero. They end up spending a day together during which Clark wins over her parents, takes her into Wichita for a ball game and a movie, and pretty much wraps her around his little finger. That Gable is a fast worker.
The next day, when Clark doesn't profess his undying love for Myrna, she ends up getting engaged to an old beau who lives nearby and rubbing it in Clark's face the night before he is scheduled to fly back. When he doesn't freak out and beg her to change her plans, she gets all emotional and ridiculous. After all, he did spend a day with her. What a cad.
Filmmakers would not get away with such insanity today. First of all, what did she expect? They have known each other 24 hours! I want to tell her, "Myrna, you get all dolled up by 6 in the am just in case some hot guy falls from the sky; and, when it happens, you get depressed if he doesn't whirl you away. Girl, you don't need Clark Gable. What you need is to get the hell off this farm! Plus, you're no spring chicken. You are clearly past 30. Aren't you tired of living with your folks? Get to the city. Heck, Wichita is only 20 miles away." I said these things to the TV, but, as usual, it did not affect the outcome. My favorite moment was Gable and Tracy attempting to buy a nightgown for Loy, and Gable struggling with the word "lingerie."
Then, last night, T and I went down to the Living Room Theatre for tapas and drinks and a movie. Our film selection was a little indie from the PNW entitled Humpday. This movie made me laugh a lot, and not for the same reasons I laughed at Myrna and Gable. Humpday is about two guys who are old college friends, one is now married, and they decide to enter an amateur porn festival by making a porn together. Yes, together! And they are straight. This idea is hatched, as so many are, during a night of drunken silliness. After sobering up, they decide it really is a very artistic idea and they should follow it through. They don't think about details like, oh, I don't know, flaccidity.
The hilarity ensues when the married guy has to explain this to his wife. The conversations between the characters in this movie are what had me LOLing. They are ridunculous. At one point, as the guys are in their hotel room prepping, they start trying to remember what exactly about this they thought was artistic.
I found the movie refreshingly honest and funny, and I highly recommend it. While I don't necessarily recommend the double feature with Test Pilot, I did like Test Pilot a lot, and it is an excellent example of where we used to be and where we are now. As I watched the guys in Humpday try to recapture the "artistic" qualities of what they were doing, I enjoyed the comic irony that, in fact, there is nothing artistic about much of what we do in our lives, but in the retelling. That's where we can be artists.
Monday, August 17, 2009
The coffee bench
Holy cow! That wasn't a blog; it was a novel! OK, seriously, I am going to try to be shorter-winded when I write. After that first entry, I fear I may have lost any readers.
Yesterday, T and I went shopping for a coffee table. We knew we wanted something relatively small and something we could prop our feet upon or eat at while watching telly. After scouring the Sunday Oregonian for ads, we drove to Cost Plus World Imports at NW 23rd Ave. I used to think Cost Plus was the place for fun and fancy Indonesian pieces. I did not remember that it apparently is also the place for rickety scratched gnarly-looking pieces that literally fall apart when you touch them. After we almost broke a small table (actually, we may have broken it), we took off to check out the fun and fancy furniture store on NW 13th. As unique as their pieces were, nothing reached out and grabbed us enough to spend the $1200 for it.
Almost as an afterthought, we stopped in at West Elm where I had opened my first Portland credit card four weeks ago on my first evening here when I discovered I had no shower curtain. West Elm is more pricey than IKEA or Target, but their stuff is also a lot prettier. We found a darling little storage bench that most people would probably use at the foot of their bed or in their entry way; but it looked perfect as a coffee table for our living room. When the sales clerk told us it requires assembly, I should have just run away. I usually am smart enough to avoid such obvious catastrophes, but in this case I was optimistic since I loved the piece and it was so small. How hard could it be!?
It turns out it can be very hard when you only have one size of screwdriver which is too small for the screws, the screws provided are too big for the holes that have been pre-drilled (or pre-tapped as it were), and the instructions are in the most basic of English as written by the Indonesians providing the materials. After much struggling to figure out what goes where and not being able to get a proper grip on the fasteners, we called our friend Rick to seek guidance. Our first misstep was asking if he had a power tool. The conversation only went downhill from there with obvious setups like "it's too big for the hole," "we just can't get it in," etc. That was fruitless...ironically.
Anywho, we ended up having to go back to the hardware store we had already visited earlier and picking up a new screwdriver. Voila! It fit perfectly, and we got all the screws and cam locks tightened. Then, as we moved the coffee bench into place, I lifted the lid to see the inside storage area and the first thing I noticed was the sticker on the bottom panel that says "Bottom." Hmm. You know, I think that is the BOTTOM of the bottom panel. But look at that. It's on the top.
T, at the peak of frustration, wanted to tear the whole thing apart and re-do it, but I protested. I said "Babe, leave it. I want to see that sticker every time I open that lid." I mean, it is pretty funny. I want to celebrate our ineptitude and always remember that furniture requiring assembly is from the devil. Also, I like the sticker inside the bench that says "do not let children play inside storage area". The storage area is six inches deep and about a foot wide. There should never be a child that small in our apartment.
Yesterday, T and I went shopping for a coffee table. We knew we wanted something relatively small and something we could prop our feet upon or eat at while watching telly. After scouring the Sunday Oregonian for ads, we drove to Cost Plus World Imports at NW 23rd Ave. I used to think Cost Plus was the place for fun and fancy Indonesian pieces. I did not remember that it apparently is also the place for rickety scratched gnarly-looking pieces that literally fall apart when you touch them. After we almost broke a small table (actually, we may have broken it), we took off to check out the fun and fancy furniture store on NW 13th. As unique as their pieces were, nothing reached out and grabbed us enough to spend the $1200 for it.
Almost as an afterthought, we stopped in at West Elm where I had opened my first Portland credit card four weeks ago on my first evening here when I discovered I had no shower curtain. West Elm is more pricey than IKEA or Target, but their stuff is also a lot prettier. We found a darling little storage bench that most people would probably use at the foot of their bed or in their entry way; but it looked perfect as a coffee table for our living room. When the sales clerk told us it requires assembly, I should have just run away. I usually am smart enough to avoid such obvious catastrophes, but in this case I was optimistic since I loved the piece and it was so small. How hard could it be!?
It turns out it can be very hard when you only have one size of screwdriver which is too small for the screws, the screws provided are too big for the holes that have been pre-drilled (or pre-tapped as it were), and the instructions are in the most basic of English as written by the Indonesians providing the materials. After much struggling to figure out what goes where and not being able to get a proper grip on the fasteners, we called our friend Rick to seek guidance. Our first misstep was asking if he had a power tool. The conversation only went downhill from there with obvious setups like "it's too big for the hole," "we just can't get it in," etc. That was fruitless...ironically.
Anywho, we ended up having to go back to the hardware store we had already visited earlier and picking up a new screwdriver. Voila! It fit perfectly, and we got all the screws and cam locks tightened. Then, as we moved the coffee bench into place, I lifted the lid to see the inside storage area and the first thing I noticed was the sticker on the bottom panel that says "Bottom." Hmm. You know, I think that is the BOTTOM of the bottom panel. But look at that. It's on the top.
T, at the peak of frustration, wanted to tear the whole thing apart and re-do it, but I protested. I said "Babe, leave it. I want to see that sticker every time I open that lid." I mean, it is pretty funny. I want to celebrate our ineptitude and always remember that furniture requiring assembly is from the devil. Also, I like the sticker inside the bench that says "do not let children play inside storage area". The storage area is six inches deep and about a foot wide. There should never be a child that small in our apartment.
In the beginning
Well, not exactly. I won't start with my birth, though I am sure the details of my angelic childhood would excite and inspire you. No, instead, let's jump forward thirty-something years. Last year, my partner and I started thinking about moving to a new city. Having lived in Long Beach, California, for twelve years, I was ready for a big change. As a native of Southern California, I have never deigned to consider living anywhere else. At one point when mentioning my interest in living in the Pacific Northwest to a friend, he gasped. I asked what's wrong with the PNW, and he replied "It's not LA!" There's no arguing with that kind of logic.
My perpetual state of wanderlust began in March of 1999 when I took my first trip abroad and spent four weeks exploring the UK and France. I have embraced any opportunity to get the hell out of LA ever since. There's just so much to see.
Last year, we took it a step further and started discussing the prospect of not just traveling elsewhere but living elsewhere. This presented all kinds of frightening and unconsidered possibilities. New careers? We both work in theater-we pretty much have two choices. Weather? I have never experienced actual seasons. I don't know what might happen. My skin could fall off. I could have severe allergic reactions if I experienced an actual winter. I might get COLD!!
Fortunately, Tommy has lived many places all over the world, and he put my mind at ease about some things. There are cities that are not LA or NY that actually have theaters! And even other arts and cultural venues. And believe it or not, the restaurant business continues to thrive in many cities across this great nation, not just ours. That was important. We both love to eat...and eat...and drink. Because you have to drink when you eat; otherwise, there would be no alcohol to absorb all that food. Water. Sorry, Mom, I meant water.
Anyway, I digress. We took a road trip in March of 2009 up the gorgeous, stunning Pacific coast. Truly, people, do it while you can. What an amazing testament to nature and all its beauties! Along the way, we stopped in towns that sounded interesting to us. These included San Francisco, Sacramento, Ashland, Portland, Seattle, Vancouver, BC, and a couple others that require no mention. While all had their distinct charms, Portland is the one we fell for, hook, line and sinker. I mean, where else can one experience hail, snow, wind and sunshine all in one hour?
Portland is also a foodie mecca with a plethora of fabulous restaurants, wine bars, breweries and markets. The Pearl District neighborhood especially impressed us for its walkability (see www.walkscore.com). We can walk to a number of restaurants, shops, markets, museums, movie theaters, live theaters and events within minutes. Should we not want to foot it, we have a street car, buses and a light rail system all within walking distance as well. Furthermore, Portland has, believe it or not, a huge theater community. There are several small theaters, a few big ones and many, many artistic folk. Heck, I would venture to say that the vast majority of Portlanders are, shall we say, artistic. This can be evidenced by the increasing number of fully tattooed arms and young people with dread locks that sleep on the sidewalks for fun.
I am happy to report, however, that these types do not live in our neighborhood. No, the Pearl is an enclave of yuppies and highrise buildings that were originally intended to be luxury condos and instead have been converted to affordable apartments. Far be it from us to pass up a deal, so we jumped on one of those affordable leases, and here we are at the corner of NW 10th Avenue and Lovejoy (yes, as in Reverend). Oh, that reminds me...as if there weren't enough reason to move here, the streets in our neighborhood inspired Matt Groening in naming his characters in The Simpsons. Flanders, Lovejoy, Quimby, they are all in our neighborhood. I consider that a sign from God that this is where we are supposed to be.
We moved here four weeks ago, and we have been incredibly blessed. A good and generous friend has given us a ton of gorgeous furniture. I have auditioned for three shows and been offered roles in all three. And we both have found employment. T starts his new job today, and I start mine next week. If we needed any validation of our decision, we have it.
While I miss being so close to friends and family, I am hoping that this blog will allow them a window into our lives, and perhaps they will be motivated to come check out Portland themselves, at least to pay us a visit.
My perpetual state of wanderlust began in March of 1999 when I took my first trip abroad and spent four weeks exploring the UK and France. I have embraced any opportunity to get the hell out of LA ever since. There's just so much to see.
Last year, we took it a step further and started discussing the prospect of not just traveling elsewhere but living elsewhere. This presented all kinds of frightening and unconsidered possibilities. New careers? We both work in theater-we pretty much have two choices. Weather? I have never experienced actual seasons. I don't know what might happen. My skin could fall off. I could have severe allergic reactions if I experienced an actual winter. I might get COLD!!
Fortunately, Tommy has lived many places all over the world, and he put my mind at ease about some things. There are cities that are not LA or NY that actually have theaters! And even other arts and cultural venues. And believe it or not, the restaurant business continues to thrive in many cities across this great nation, not just ours. That was important. We both love to eat...and eat...and drink. Because you have to drink when you eat; otherwise, there would be no alcohol to absorb all that food. Water. Sorry, Mom, I meant water.
Anyway, I digress. We took a road trip in March of 2009 up the gorgeous, stunning Pacific coast. Truly, people, do it while you can. What an amazing testament to nature and all its beauties! Along the way, we stopped in towns that sounded interesting to us. These included San Francisco, Sacramento, Ashland, Portland, Seattle, Vancouver, BC, and a couple others that require no mention. While all had their distinct charms, Portland is the one we fell for, hook, line and sinker. I mean, where else can one experience hail, snow, wind and sunshine all in one hour?
Portland is also a foodie mecca with a plethora of fabulous restaurants, wine bars, breweries and markets. The Pearl District neighborhood especially impressed us for its walkability (see www.walkscore.com). We can walk to a number of restaurants, shops, markets, museums, movie theaters, live theaters and events within minutes. Should we not want to foot it, we have a street car, buses and a light rail system all within walking distance as well. Furthermore, Portland has, believe it or not, a huge theater community. There are several small theaters, a few big ones and many, many artistic folk. Heck, I would venture to say that the vast majority of Portlanders are, shall we say, artistic. This can be evidenced by the increasing number of fully tattooed arms and young people with dread locks that sleep on the sidewalks for fun.
I am happy to report, however, that these types do not live in our neighborhood. No, the Pearl is an enclave of yuppies and highrise buildings that were originally intended to be luxury condos and instead have been converted to affordable apartments. Far be it from us to pass up a deal, so we jumped on one of those affordable leases, and here we are at the corner of NW 10th Avenue and Lovejoy (yes, as in Reverend). Oh, that reminds me...as if there weren't enough reason to move here, the streets in our neighborhood inspired Matt Groening in naming his characters in The Simpsons. Flanders, Lovejoy, Quimby, they are all in our neighborhood. I consider that a sign from God that this is where we are supposed to be.
We moved here four weeks ago, and we have been incredibly blessed. A good and generous friend has given us a ton of gorgeous furniture. I have auditioned for three shows and been offered roles in all three. And we both have found employment. T starts his new job today, and I start mine next week. If we needed any validation of our decision, we have it.
While I miss being so close to friends and family, I am hoping that this blog will allow them a window into our lives, and perhaps they will be motivated to come check out Portland themselves, at least to pay us a visit.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
