Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Stupid Tuesday

Let me preface this by saying this is not a pity party. Well, maybe it is. I don't care. I can bitch and moan all I want because I know I don't have to remind any of you whose blog it is.

Today sucked. I thought yesterday sucked until I got to today, but I was wrong. Yesterday sucked because I was busy and sort of lost and all over the place and had a ton of stuff to do and couldn't even finish it in the twelve hours I was at work. But that's an entirely different kind of suck all together.

Today sucked because no matter what I do I cannot seem to please people. I please the living hell out of clients because they are clients and they bring us business and we need them and so you do and do and do because that's what this whole work thing is all about. But what happens when you can't please your internal customers, your coworkers? It's not like you never have to see them again. In theory.

So my job is a difficult one because I am someone new roughly every week, sometimes more and sometimes less. I have to walk in to situations that are completely foreign to me and pretend like I know EXACTLY what is going on, when I don't. If I don't pretend to know what's going on, the client gets nervous because their usual escrow officer isn't there and it freaks them out and makes things generally worse for everyone. So the phone rings, a client asks about a file, and I pretend like all me and the person I am covering ever do is talk about them and their file. All this I can do, I think I'm pretty good at it, and I have a modicum of success doing what it is that I do. But it's no picnic, and it can't be done by anyone, as was suggested last week by a disgruntled employee. Fat chance. Give it a try, big shot. We'll see how it works for you.

My job is also difficult because I am the only one of my kind on the west side. And people take vacations. And lately we've been asked to use a few of our PTO days to sort of even out the company PTO kitty, so staffing becomes a little bit sketchy in some branches and it gets busy and suddenly there aren't enough bodies to do the work that has to be done. Like today and yesterday. I was scheduled to be someone else and it just didn't work out that way. And that happens, and I get that it isn't fair, but really, it's not me. It's my boss, and my job, and the way the cookie crumbles. And I don't wake up in the morning wondering who I'm going to fuck over that day. I just go in and try to do a good job and hope to Christ somebody doesn't come in and tell me they're mad at me because somebody else's desk took priority over theirs.

I know it isn't fair and I know it sucks but maybe if you spoke up and said something to your manager or someone other than me you might get more attention. I hope you felt better after telling me your thoughts, but I can't do anything with it and nothing will change if you don't speak up and tell somebody who matters. Because all you did to me was un-do any good I might have felt like I did today and make me feel like a worthless piece of shit who plays favorites and doesn't do a good enough job.

So thanks.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

A recipe story

What a productive Sunday I've had so far! Not yet noon and I've conquered the mess of a bedroom, finished two loads of laundry, changed the bed and baked.

Baked? Yes. Baked.

I'm not much of a bakestress, you see. I CAN, I just don't. I prefer cooking, like meals and stuff. I don't do THAT all that often either because cooking for one is kind of a drag and I'm not a huge leftover fan. Baking is the same thing. I mean, what am I going to do with a whole cake? Or sixty cookies, besides the obvious? So it's really better that I just don't.

So, many many moons ago when I was young and in a happy relationship and embarking on what I just figured was the rest of my life (I was wrong, but that's okay. I like an ending with a twist), my boyfriend-at-the-time Gus's Tia Nevia would come to California to visit her sister. Tia Nevia could cook the hell out of food. Gus's family came from Merida, Yucatan, and though his mother could cook well, Nevia was the master. We looked forward to all the fantastic things she would make for dinner - cochinita pibil, huevos con chaya, carne negra. One fine Sunday Gus decided that I needed to learn how to make some of this stuff, you know, so he would never go without, so we started simple with Hojaldra con Jamon y Queso.

Simple in theory, I suppose, but apparently Gus never stuck around the kitchen long enough to watch her make the pastry. Holy mother. I wasn't at all happy with the fact that the pastry part was basically a pound and a half of lard, flour and water, and I certainly wasn't happy with touching it. But learn I must, and it was a good thing that Tia Nevia had no, and I mean zero, English. Gus kicked back nearby in the family room watching sports while I battled it in the kitchen with Tia and her amazing french rolling pin (a tool that I looked around forever for, so that I too could reproduce such fabulous pastry, but couldn't find for years and years until finally my boss gave me one for Christmas, and which I ended up giving away when I thought I was moving back to Mexico for a good portion of my forever. Ironic, isn't it?). The pastry took for FLIPPING ever but it was worth it. I scribbled notes and we yelled for translations from Gus a lot, and in the end there was a ridiculously satisfying pastry, not too sweet, not too savory, very much delicious.

I remember I tried to recreate it while still with the boyfriend, using, instead of homemade pastry, crescent roll dough or something similar. Fail. Don't try it. But fairly recently I decided to try it with phyllo dough. Success. Really good, almost-close-to-the-real-thing success, as a matter of fact.

So for some reason yesterday I was getting all nostalgic and all these signs were being thrown at me from every direction, and I decided to make an hojaldra. I bought the stuff and made it this morning. It's fabulous, so I thought I'd share.

Hojaldra con Jamon y Queso (a la a lazy white girl)

You will need:
Phyllo dough
Sharp cheddar cheese (not shredded, you'll have to slice up a brick yourself)
Canadian Bacon
Melted butter for the dough

Follow the directions on the box of phyllo - it's a pain in the ass to use so pay attention. Do everything it says or you'll have a bigger mess on your hands than necessary. I pretty much use one whole roll, maybe a little less. Slice the cheese, maybe an 1/8th of an inch thick, maybe a tiny bit more. Prepare (according to the box, remember what I said about following the directions on the box) the bottom pastry level - I use a decent sized base, maybe a little less than half the sheets in the roll - brushing each sheet with melted butter so it doesn't dry up and tear and be all out of control like it can. Lay it directly on a jelly roll pan or cookie sheet. Sprinkle lightly with sugar, and lay the cheese out - it doesn't have to completely cover the pastry, allow room for it to melt. Make sure you get it as close to the edges as you can because nobody wants a piece that's all phyllo - that's just a recipe for disaster. Next lay the Canadian bacon down on top of the cheese, evenly spaced. Cover the cheese and cb with your top phyllo layer, again using the melted butter on every sheet. I use less than the bottom, but it's still a pretty good amount of sheets. It won't look perfect and that's okay. Use melted butter to kind of seal the ends around the pastry. Sprinkle the top with sugar, and bake at 350 degrees for about 30 minutes. The top should be golden brown, and there may even be some cheese bubbling out from the sides here and there. Let cool and cut into squares. Provecho!

(I'm not sure what happened to the size of this picture but you get the idea)

It may not be absolutely authentic, but I am sure Tia Nevia, where ever she is, would be proud to know that I continue to honor her in my little corner of the world.

Happy Sunday - I've done my quota of crap for about the next month, so it's time for a little nosh and maybe a little nap!

Saturday, March 27, 2010

Pet Peeve #793

I'll admit it: I'm on Facebook plenty. I find it entertaining, and as a single person with no kids and not a ton of disposable income, I like how it burns time. Sue me. But as a person on Facebook plenty, there are some things that drive me crazy. So I'm going to tell you what they are. Not all of them, mind you, but just the two that are on my mind right now because I was just on Facebook before I started this post.

1) People who say "yum" or "yummy" to a wall post about food. It sounds kind of silly, doesn't it? To have this be a pet peeve, and #793 no less, which is pretty close to the top of the list? But it drives me insane. I have quite a few friends who like to post what they're eating at the time they're eating it (I'm not sure why, really, or what a waiter thinks when he sets down the plate and the camera comes out), and strangely enough that doesn't bother me. It's the never-ending comments of "Yum!" that do. Let me clarify, before you all get in a tizzy and wonder whether or not you over-post your own yums on food pictures: You can yum whenever you want, I suppose, it's a free country after all, but do you have to yum on EVERY food post? And not have anything else to say? To anyone? Except yum? Or yummy? I realize my food-posting friends, like all my friends, want someone to respond to their post, but why not be creative about it? Like "Wow, that's a lot of baba ganoush!" or "Nice wiener!" I saw a picture of head tacos yesterday, and seriously, some chick yummed it. She wasn't Latin, probably never had a head taco in her life, and would likely recoil in horror if someone actually told her that it was really head. But she yummed it. I think I know why - I think she secretly has a crush on my head taco-eating friend and the only thing she can think to do is yum his picture. It could have been a picture of anything food-related. I wonder how many girls get dates by yumming a picture? Seems like a rather interesting strategy. I sure hope if it works that she at least puts out.

2) People who CLEARLY are madly in love with a FB friend but are too shy/passive-aggressive to tell them. I see this on a couple of my friends' posts, both guys who are attractive, outgoing, gregarious and very active both on Facebook and real life (if you believe what anybody writes on Facebook). They both have over 500 friends and update their statuses almost hourly. Nothing wrong with any of that. But the same friends comment on each and every update these guys make, and it would crack me up if it wasn't so irritating to me. "Joe Blow is in the car wash!" "And you didn't invite me? :p" "Joe Blow is sporting alligator boots!" "Sexy!" "Joe Blow has a killer sinus infection" "Poor baby, I'd love to take care of you! ;)" And on and on. Joe Blow rarely comments back to her, and I think it makes her want him even more. Which is kind of pathetic. Whenever I see these girls posting on my friends' posts, I fear a little bit more for the 'teens and 'tweens in our country, never learning that you don't necessarily need a boyfriend or girlfriend to complete you, always hoping but never asking for what they want. I'm not sure this particular thing is as much of a pet peeve as the yum thing, but I've always been one of those people that feels sorry for someone making an ass out of themselves because SOMEbody has to and clearly they don't. I've always been a fan of the underdog but I kind of get the feeling that if it wasn't for these girls, these two Facebook friends of mine wouldn't have the kind of egos they have. I suppose that's what makes the world go around, though, right? Maybe.

I suppose it doesn't matter that these things bug me, in the end, because people will continue to yum food pictures and shy, spineless girls will continue to stalk Facebook eagerly awaiting the next status update of their beloved who will never pay enough attention. And the world will continue to revolve. And I'll continue to be irritated by the littlest thing.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010


My friend Rebecca T. showed me a couple of articles the last few days, and for the most part they irritate and disgust me. But the rest of the part is sadness. The articles focus on bad behavior. Not bad behavior between adolescents or even poorly educated hillbillies that don't know any better, but between political parties.

I'll take this opportunity to mention I don't consider myself that political of a person. I tried once, it didn't take. I think it's because I don't know enough of all the parties involved to decide what fits my beliefs specifically. I believe in some of the things a traditional Republican would believe in, but not in all of them. And I believe in some of the things a traditional Democrat would believe in, but not in all of THEM. So I'm somewhere in the middle. And though there probably are other parties that would cover those in between spaces, I don't know enough, or want to take the time to know enough, about them to say what it is that I might be. Do you see how exhausting that is?

That being said, let's go back to these articles. I'd had it on my mind for some time now, what these articles talk about, and I'd seen some headlines on the news sites, but frankly if something doesn't interest me I don't really finish reading it. I finished these articles like I would finish reading a really well written horror novel: mouth agape, eyes squinted, afraid to continue but too involved with it to not. The subject has to do with the behavior of the Republican types toward the Democrat types as a result of the passing of the health care situation.

Think what you want to think, believe what you want to believe. Think it and believe it strongly, with great vigor, if you want. But don't, like, throw a brick through the window of someone who doesn't think what you think, whose beliefs might be the opposite of yours. Not when you're in, say, your thirties. Or sixties. Not when your in your teens either but at least then one could say, well, they're young, they don't know any better.

These over-zealous Republican types about which the articles discuss, albeit in generalities, I am quite sure do know better. They are for the most part elected officials, business people, and one would assume somewhat educated individuals. Acting like bullies and fighting dirty and calling names, really bad names, names even TtheD wouldn't kid about in the worst of a tirade. For what? Because you don't like the president? You think he's a socialist? You fear for our country, a country that has survived quite a few damning administrations in its past? You fear for our country's future, and the future of your children, so you set an example for these children you claim to care so much about by verbally abusing "lesser" individuals, using violence, degrading and embarrassing people who may or may not be less fortunate than you and outwardly displaying bigotry? That's fantastic - I'm not in the slightest bit concerned about the future of a nation run by children who are being raised to think that THAT's okay...

And where does this come from, anyway? When I was a kid, seriously, not that long ago, I still got in trouble for picking on others or using bad words or misbehaving at home or in public. Most of the kids I knew did, too. And I was coming up in the time where people were a bit more cognisant of the diversity in our communities, in our world, the cultural and religious differences. We were taught to make an effort to be empathetic and compassionate toward others. Clearly that has gone out the window. When it is all over the news and the internet this kind of behavior by adults is commonplace and condoned, the only thing we are doing is going back to a society of hate. I don't want to live in that kind of society. I don't really hate any one. I feel sorry for a lot of people, but I certainly don't hate them. And most definitely not because they believe strongly in the con of my pro. So I guess I don't want to be in anyone's party, if this is what it becomes.

But they say you have to believe in something, so I believe in people acting like adults. Playing nice, not acting like a bunch of bullies, not pushing others around like well-dressed thugs. Have your beliefs, your pros and your cons, but if someone else doesn't feel the same, celebrate the differences with a healthy well thought out debate.

Don't throw a brick in their window for God's sake.

Monday, March 22, 2010


So instead of hanging around the casita doing laundry and threatening to vacuum like I might have any other Sunday, I agreed yesterday to take Tom to Al's Garden Center in Sherwood. He wanted a plant for his deck. It was sort of misty but not entirely icky out so off we went. It was good to get out, good to shower and have something to do. Plus I forgot some things at the supermarket Saturday and thought I'd pick them up after dropping Tom off.

I stop at the Safeway, get my shit, spend stupid money on it, and get in the car. Look behind me, look left, look right, look BEHIND ME craning my neck because people never watch their kids anymore and it seems like a good idea to them to let them run willy-nilly in a supermarket parking lot. All clear, I back up. And hear crunching. Get out and see this:

So yeah. Now I have one more bastardly thing to do.

She better not suddenly change her story and say it was MY fault (I mean, look at it. It COULDN'T have been anyway). And that insurance better be valid.


Saturday, March 20, 2010

In praise of the unsung hero

I've said it at work and I'll say it again here - I sucked as an Escrow Assistant fourteen years ago and I suck at it now.

When I started in this business back in the day I came from mortgage lending, a reasonable transition. The assistant that I worked with, and who "trained" me, was one of those types that didn't want to give up everything she knew - just pieces of it. And she had control issues: one time my stapler ran out of staples so I asked her to point me in the direction of the supply room so I could get more. She denied me and told me if I needed anything (including staples) I was to get it from her. At the time (and still) I didn't have a stapler at home, and I told her so, to reassure her that I would in fact not be a risk for staple-stealing. She didn't budge. I had to wait for her to be sick one day and have someone else show me where the supplies were. Seriously. I also asked her pretty early on what the life of an escrow was so I could get a grip on WHY I was doing the things she had me doing. She refused to answer. I said "Surely someone has written this down somewhere.." and she gave me a stern and subject-ending "No." It wasn't until I became an officer myself that I discovered there were marketing pieces entitled "The Life of an Escrow" that were handed out freely to our clients (and practically stapled to telephone poles) so that they could better understand what escrow does. Apparently Jackie did not want me to be as informed as our clients. Or at least as informed as her. Job security, indeed. Lucky for her I seek knowledge like ants seek my dishwasher, and managed to successfully lobby everyone else to do the unpleasantries of my job for me for the next fourteen years.

I became an officer roughly nine months into my career. I'm pretty good at convincing people that my ideas are the right ideas, and really, I was ready for the promotion. Back then deals were falling from the sky and we were all so busy that we could barely keep our heads on straight, working ridiculous hours and performing miracles on a regular basis. Oh, the anger issues I had! It was not uncommon to see a stapler fly out of my office and crash into the copy machine (the only way I could get my assistant's attention when I was on the phone, which was ALWAYS) or hear me screaming bloody death to a lender client (don't get me wrong, they loved it. Or so it seemed. They kept on coming back, so I assume it was my color commentary along with my ridiculously awesome escrow skills).

Things have changed dramatically, however, and escrow branches and personnel have been scaled down to ride out the current economic situation. And I'm a floater now, so I don't have my own desk, which means I cover everyone else's desks when they are out (you know this by now, don't you?). I love it, seriously, because I see things differently than the person I am covering - I have no baggage from files past or future - I see mostly the present. It's good for my psyche that I can sail onto a desk, do a bunch of successful things, and sail off to another one in a week or two. And hope that the person coming back to their desk after some time off can figure out where I left off. I've been an officer for a long time, I know how to do the job. I know how to play the game. I know how to keep their clients happy.

But sometimes I have to cover an assistant's desk. And I dread it. Don't get me wrong, when I had a desk I spent a large part of the time without my own assistant, so I know how to do the fundamentals - clear title, send back docs, pay out a file. It's the other stuff that kills me, and I'd list those other things but they are far too numerous to list. I'm not kidding you, assistants do a TON of stuff. Stuff I don't even know how to do, or remember how to do, or WANT to know how to do. So when I have to sit on a desk like Sherri's, even for the two days this last week that I had to, I brace myself for the complete trauma that it can be.

Her closer is busy. I mean BUSY. In this environment of low numbers and excruciatingly painful files, she is an anomaly. Her desk is always covered in stacks of files, there are docs flying off the printer, the phone calls and emails are never ending. She doesn't complain, works crazy hours, and doesn't use violence as a tool (like I used to). Sherri is the same way - the shit just gets done and you never hear her complain.

Enter me. Oh my hell. I can't even begin to tell you the shit I went through. It's like juggling, and I could never do that either. I managed fine, I guess, in the end, but I kept having to clear away the clumps of hair falling out of my head to see the work in front of me. I can't explain how much harder the work is these days, and you wouldn't get it anyway, but it just is. And with deadlines and crazy conditions pulled out of the asses of underwriters all over the country and not being able to smoke except for in the middle of Hwy 26, well you can imagine the color I brought to the office those few days.

All I can say is this - Escrow Officers get most of the glory (if that's what we're calling it today) but the assistants are the true heroes. They work hard, they make us look good, and they rarely complain about it. Their salaries are lower, their bonuses (when they exist) are smaller, but they continue the fight to make us EOs keep our promises and deliver every time. I am in constant awe of them. And when I have to be one I panic because I am convinced I will never live up to their standards.

So here's to the unsung heroes of the real estate world - Escrow Assistants, Funders, Processors and Closing Coordinators - I don't know why you do it, but you do it well, and I salute you for it.

Today I am SINCERELY relieved that it's Saturday.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Waiting for a break

Next week is Spring Break for the publics here. Being 44 and childless, it still has a very positive impact on me: no school buses for a week. One glorious week.

I hate school buses. I've probably hated them my whole life, but I never actually had to ride in one to school, so I don't recall any deep-seated negative trauma that may have resulted in my extreme dislike of them now. I only know this about them - they are always on my route to work, always just one step ahead of me, and always in my way.

When I'm working in Beaverton (the most difficult branch to get to despite the fact that I LIVE in Beaverton) I have no choice but to deal with them. I don't have a key to the branch so I have to leave at a time where I can avoid standing in the hallway, waiting for someone with a key to show up, for half an hour. In every other branch I can leave at like 6:45am, cruise unhindered to work, get in and get to work. In Beaverton, I have to leave the house at roughly 7:15 or so, hope for a decent line at the Starbucks drive in, and hopefully get to the building by around 7:50 or so - either someone is there by then or someone is on the way in very soon.

Leaving so late means I am on schedule with the schools. It's been a REALLY long time since I myself was in school, so I'm not even sure what time they start, but I think they stagger the times or something between grade, middle, and high school. Not for any logic that I can see beyond the maximum amount of school buses on the road.

There are all these crazy rules you have to abide when they are around you. Suddenly there's a bus stop on Murray, a five-lane road with a posted speed limit of 45 mph. If you see a bus up in front of you, you have to floor it (well, I do) to get around it because without fail there will be some hapless child standing on the side of the road, making it stop, making everyone coming and going around it stop, while the kid takes his time climbing onto the bus and slowly makes his way to the very last seat, when the driver finally is able to start driving again. It incenses me. I want to roll down the window and scream at the kid to step it up (but that would seem insensitive so I don't). On my Beaverton route, if I time it just a hair wrong, I am behind no less than five school buses and their stops. On mornings like those all I feel is despair.

Don't get me wrong, school buses are a necessary evil, I guess. Though when I was a kid I walked to school.. but there is one stretch of road I travel down where there are like three stops for the same bus. Three. All within seriously like a quarter of a mile. You can't walk a flipping quarter of a mile? Don't you think (like I obviously do) that this is catering to the little bastards a bit too much? And how I miss Mexico, where once you got on the bottom step of the bus with both feet the bus driver started moving again. School buses that wait until every child is seated are not preparing these children for the harsh realities of life - you gotta learn to walk on a moving bus sometime, it might as well be while you're still young and agile enough to survive a few headers.

I have to leave for work in about ten minutes now, so we'll see if I've timed it right. If not, then listen closely - those foul words muffled by closed windows are probably me.

Come on, Spring Break!

Saturday, March 13, 2010

Weirded out

I'm kinda weirded out. Not like freaked out or even creeped out. I have this feeling I suddenly can't shake, like something shifted, like that feeling you get when you're suddenly jolted by a little earthquake (which really only applies in California, when you're kind of used to them. Here it's a big deal, even if it's just a little jolt. There, it's just kind of a thing, when it's little).

So here's the gig - when I was in high school my Economics(? Personal Finance? I think it was Personal Finance. I can't remember all of a sudden.) teacher was Mr. Pointer. He was kind of a nerdy looking guy, black framed glasses (a la Clark Kent), crooked smile, harmless looking and acting. I liked him well enough, I guess, for a teacher, but I hated the class and usually had Jeri bring a "note" from Mr. Bubalo getting me out (this meant that she would come to the door with a folded up piece of paper and tell him she had a note for me from Mr. Bubalo, who we both teacher-assisted - me in 2nd period and her in I guess 3rd, if that was the period I had this class in, it's sort of escaping me right now - and I would take it, read it, and then sort of wave it around and look helplessly at Mr. Pointer with sort of a "I'd love to stay and learn more from you but I've got this note and I have to go" look on my face, gather up my stuff and leave. The note generally was just from Jeri, saying something like "Ha ha ha Mr. Pointer thinks you have to go help Mr. Bubalo right now but really I want cake from Rose's!"). Anyway, I'd been busted for skipping a few times from him, especially in the Spring, when I'd be absent from class in the morning but then would magically appear up in the press box keeping score for the baseball game.

Anyway, this was about the extent of my memory of Mr. Pointer, and after graduation, life went on and that was that. My mom moved to an apartment after I had moved to California, so it would have been in about 1986 (three years after graduation), I guess, and she told me one day that she was somewhere, on the street? Again, bad memory, but anyway, some man in a motorized wheel chair approached her and asked if she was my mom. She said yes, and he told her he had been my teacher and wondered how I was, what I was doing, etc. - if he introduced himself at the time, she didn't remember his name. This was/is very odd to me because I didn't have the kind of mom that showed up at school for any reason, and certainly not for baseball games, or anything - she worked. She didn't even go to my graduation (Brad was graduating at Stanford at the same time so a trip to California obviously trumped a trip to the Memorial Coliseum) so it's not like he would have met her there. This guy would have had no way of knowing who my mom was and I remember at the time wondering who the hell the guy was - since she didn't remember his name I had to throw out descriptions of various teachers I'd had and try to get her to remember and it didn't work but I do remember finally deciding that it had to be him, Mr. Pointer. Though at the time he was my teacher he was not in a wheelchair.

All this was pre-internet so I really had nothing to go on by that. My mom told me later that she would see him all the time, tooling up and down the sidewalks on Murray, and if he saw her he would wave. I mean that in itself is weird enough. Right? Isn't that kind of a weird story? I mean, wouldn't you think I would have thought more about that over the last 23 years? And I haven't.

Until today, as I was driving down Murray, minding my own business, headed to the Palm Beach Tan over by city hall because it turns out they have my favorite of all the beds to tan in. And then I see it, first from far away, and then approaching and approaching.. motorized wheelchair. As I passed him, I saw his face - and there is no mistaking that it was Mr. Pointer. He had on a baseball cap but he had a very distinctive lower face and mouth area and so did this guy. I felt a sudden urge, seriously, to pull over and talk to him. I didn't, because I was going 45 miles per hour down a busy street, but I really wanted to. Actually, I really needed to. I continued on my way but thought about going back over and over again. Like I was drawn to him. Weird.

I googled him when I got home and came up with nothing.

So this is why I'm weirded out right now. Not freaked, not creeped. Just weirded. Because remember how I always say I hate the weather and I hate this town and even though I move away all the time I always come back and not just to Portland but to BEAVERTON and I can't figure out why and people always say well maybe you were meant to do something big here or something? Today has me wondering if it has to do with him. Mr. Pointer. I don't know why I think that. I mean I don't totally believe that but I mean, what if it did? What's the flipping deal here? Why do I feel this? Do you see why I'm weirded out?

I wonder if I'll dream about it. That happens a lot. I'll keep you posted. But for now, don't think I'm some kind of weirdo or anything. I have a big mind and this might be one of those times it tries to fuck with me.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Going through the motions

Yeah. Dry. Nothing too dramatic going on. Mind like an empty paper sack. Boring. Trauma: the Drama? Not really.

So last night was the second Wednesday night in a row I crossed a bridge and met out for drinks. This time I finally met up with my friend and former client Jenn. We'd been threatening to do this for no lie a year at the very least. Since it's been light after work I actually followed through. She brought her wedding photos, and she's been married almost a year. Aren't I great?

It was great fun, and I had to keep reminding myself of that as I crossed the bridge again and drove home. I never do anything in the winter because I hate the dark and to me, when it's dark at 5pm, it might as well be 10:30pm because it's all the same. With a little bit of light things change. We swore to God and each other that we would do this again soon, with her husband and sister who I also have not seen in forever. I even got home at a reasonable hour, and went to bed early. I could have slept until 10 (not really) this morning but here I am.

Busy day ahead, and I'm returning to Beaverton this morning for a couple of days. It should be fun and challenging (see where the optimism is peeking out?) because I am on possibly the busiest desk on the west side AND I get to cover the quote desk single handedly. Which, you know, will be really hard when you consider I have signing appointments. I wonder how that will work? Hm. Interesting.

It always seems to be pouring rain when I'm in Beaverton. I'm not sure what that means. It's been dry for the most part for a week but this morning it's wet and gloomy and Thursday. I can't be absolutely sure, but I'm getting the feeling that the weather changes with my mood, and not the other way around, like you'd think. I have that kind of power over the Ducks, so why wouldn't I have it over the weather? It's not so hard to believe..

In other news, Corey Haim, Jeremiah Masoli, Derek Anderson (can I just say YAY about THAT one?). You all are on Twitter, have a Facebook account, and read the news. I don't have to tell you about it.

March. Transition, but also limbo. If we all just hang in there, we'll make it through. I promise.

Monday, March 08, 2010


I got nothin'.

Thursday, March 04, 2010


I'm feeling better but in weird ways I'm not. Like I feel like there is some crazy pressure system in my head, and suddenly at about 4pm today I couldn't hear out of my right ear. It's not infected and not even stuffed, it's just ... pressured. I'm all full of goo in my head too and I hate that. I wish I could just go to sleep for like a day and wake up to normal.

It's been feeling like Spring. False hope, I know, but the sun has been shining somewhat, and it's light now when I go to work and light when I get home. I don't leave the lamp on in the kitchen (the one with the lightbulb that hasn't burned out since 2003, no lie, I've told you about this. It's one of those swirlie ones you used to be able to get from PGE and when I went to Cancun in December I left it on the entire time because I knew I'd be home at midnight and I'm afraid of the dark. I do the same in the winter because I hate coming home to a dark house. It is on all the bleeping time and it just doesn't burn out. That's something.). Pitchers and catchers have reported and it just feels like Spring. I'd say people are in better moods at work but today wasn't a good example. Maybe there's something up with the barometric pressure, which is something I don't understand and therefore shouldn't be using as an excuse for anything. It could be because for some reason the heat is broken on our floor at the KOIN and it gets to be about 80 degrees in the afternoon in there and all that inspires me to do is take a nap. You'd think after a week they'd fix something like that.

I am just exhausted right now. I feel like I drank my weight in Coors Light last night and didn't get any sleep, but the truth is I went out to dinner with some friends, got home at 8:30 and was in bed by 9:45, had absolutely nothing to drink but water (and not enough of it - the only reason we left when we did is my throat completely dried up and I was incapable of speaking. I realize it was the Original Taco House and my total bill was $7.45, but I planned on overtipping until she just never came around to refill the waters.), and even slept in an additional 10 minutes. So why am I so flipping tired?

I have no answers. I don't even have anything to say. But I'm here, because this is what I do, and it's almost Spring, and baseball is starting up again, and that means there's hope. And I'm just happy to be alive and doing my thing.

Tuesday, March 02, 2010

Coming out of the dark

I hate being sick. I rarely get sick, and when everyone else in the office or the world catches whatever it is that is going around, I never get it. I just had my review the other day and one of the things my manager put in it was that she couldn't remember the last time I took a sick day. I can. It was yesterday.

I got up and went to work, but I felt and looked like complete shit. It started on Saturday around 5pm. I woke up with a tickle in my throat, but usually if I slam some extra B12 and C it generally goes away. It didn't. I was fine running my errands, but when I got home I suddenly was tired enough already to nap (at like noon) and when I woke up I was feeling kind of icky. But denying it. So by the time 5pm rolled around I was thinking about going to bed. I didn't, until around 9:30, but I could have. Sunday I tried sleeping in (my phone starts ringing early) and managed to last til 8am, and moved directly to the sofa. Where I slept ALL DAY LONG. I got up to use the bathroom and to drink some water, but that was about it. I made some soup around 6pm but only finished half the bowl. Went to bed at 8pm. Slept all night. Woke up at 6am soaking wet. It's kind of a good sign, perhaps the fever broke. I managed to work until around 9am, and went home. Rested all day (I can't say I slept, because I was on work email all day and had to wash the sheets and both duvets and clean up a little as the maintenance man is finally coming over today to fix the sink and maybe the ceiling fan).

So I'm here, up, waiting to go downtown and work, feeling okay, better, but still could totally sleep. I feel like I missed a week. I feel like I let everyone down. I feel completely out of sorts and like a thousand things have happened that I missed out on. Most of all I feel like I won't be making fun of other people who call in sick more than I do, because I did that on Friday, and now look at me.

Instant karma gets me every time.