Small Talk, Big Idea

I get upset when I think about the food I ate as a kid.

I wish I could go back and be vegan from the start.

I suppose if that were the case, I might not like cooking as much as I do now.

As well as appreciate food as much as I do now.

I think my favorite part of cooking is the space I get to call mine while in the kitchen.

I don’t like anyone bothering me, especially those that come in and pick at what I just prepared.

I learned that was rule number one while living with a Spanish family; don’t go in the kitchen while your mother is cooking.

 It is her palace.

Advertisements

There Are Some Things I Can’t Forget

Like a conversation with best friend years ago as to when to clean your ears; before or after your shower.

Like when I first started shaving my legs, I asked that same best friend if she shaved her legs in sections (thigh, knee, calf and shin). My mom responded before she could, “Emily, duh.” As if I was already supposed to know.

Like a similar “duh” my mom gave me when I paused her story to ask what a word meant that she kept using.

Like when I was having a birthday sleepover at twelve years old and my high school sister came trampling over us in the middle of the night half talking, half crying on her cell phone, “I don’t know. We were swerving all over the road..”

Like when my boyfriend at the time and his friends led me and my friend up the stairs at a house party. He shut the door on us right before we were about to walk in.

Like when my great aunt told me she felt I was ruining her marriage.

Like when my parents told me my decision to move far away from the midwest was a wrong decision and I began crying in a grocery store buffet lounge.

Like when I was a freshmen out for cross country and I saw two seniors puke their guts out on a Saturday morning practice.

Like a recent Friday afternoon when I walked into the janky office where I worked at the time, told my boss I quit, handed her everything I had been working on, and left.

Like when I lived in Hawaii and got approached at the beach by the most dreamiest of surfer boys.

Like when that same surfer boy told me I brush my teeth wrong.

Like watching my brother and dad play catch in the backyard and I wanted in. I said over here, and got a bloody nose from trying to catch the football.

Like leaving the bar with a dreamy boy I was crushing on, talking with each other as we walked home. He couldn’t take his eyes off me and ran right into a street light.

 

Web Art

I remember getting off work early from the bar. I was a sophomore in college and it was Thursday night. Everyone was pre-gaming, especially at my apartment. I grabbed a beer from the fridge and told them I’d be out in a bit to join them. I went down the hall into my room, kicked my feet up on my desk, and lit a hittie. 

My mind began to think of relationships – mine, my exes,  my friends’. I thought of my high school, my hometown, my future. I thought how everything and everyone was connected. 

I decided to put my thoughts out into the physical world. I had a huge bulletin board hanging on my wall with pictures of friends, a calendar and a hundred post-it’s. I took it all down and placed one post it with my name on it right smack dab in the center. I wrote down the males I had been with up until that point, each on their own post-it, and stuck them up on the board circling my post-it. 

Next, I wrote down females I knew the guys I had been with had been with, circled them around the guys.

I stepped back from the bulletin board to observe what I had created. I took another hittie and got back to work. 

I found some yarn, cut four pieces, and attached them from my post-it to the guys’, from the guys’ to all their other girls, and added in those girls’ guys. (Still with me?)

Some of the post-it’s now had two or three pieces of yarn attached to their name, intersecting. They had been with the same partners.

I sat down, drank some more of my beer, took another hittie and texted my closest girlfriends for confirmation of these relations. Sure enough, they confirmed. They were confused as to why I wanted to know, but nonetheless, they confirmed. 

I am working (and working) on submitting a piece for publication. I became obsessed with working on it this past weekend. But I still can’t seem to get it right. I tell myself I will send it in by my birthday in October.

In other news, my coworker went on a quick ramble of puns today. All in the same category. It was pretty damn creative. I was pretty damn envious. I wouldn’t be able to do that in a million years. It’s crazy how differently each human brain works.

Today is also my grandma’s birthday. My dad (her son) sent out a group text to my sister, brother and me this morning:

“Grams bday today.”

No one replied.

Hours later, my mom sent a group text to my sister, brother and me:

“Did anyone call to wish their grandma a happy birthday?! She is 76 years old today!”

Again, no responses.

We’re old enough to know to put it in our calendars. Well that was my reason not to reply. Maybe it’s just one of those things your parents do that you should be appreciative of. I’m a weirdo I guess, I was annoyed.

 

Solo Nite Out 

It is a weekend plus some without the boyfriend. His brother’s bachelor party calls him to Vegas. Hard working men in need of that Vegas atmosphere I am sure.

As for me, I went out tonight on a Thursday night for the first time by myself in I don’t know how long. Something I enjoy doing, but have not done in quite some time.
Let me tell you how it went:
I looked up my two favorite things to do, near me:
Powell’s book readings
and
Al’s Den music
After researching both artists, I decided both would be the ideal plan but leaned towards the book reading more.
The author was Nate Dern, a news editor at Funny or Die, reading from his first book, “Not Quite a Genuis”.
So hilarious. He seems like an amazing, funny, successful dude. Check him out.
Prior to, I visited the best happy hour I have come to find in my neck of the woods;
$3 glasses of wine at generous pours. The last time I went in for this happy hour, which was my first time, I was served by an amazing, punkish looking bartender who knew what the fuck he was doing. So of course I went back, considering it is right across the street from the bookstore where the reading took place. The same bartender was not on duty, as I had assumed. But, an older looking gentleman with an Oregonian beard took care of me who, unfortunately and fortunately, had the white wine keg blasted on him, in which he gave me two glasses of wine for the price of $2.50.
In the transition from my first glass to the second, he looked at me and shared, “You are the utmost beautiful person I have ever had the pleasure of serving in my bar.”
I don’t know if it is actually his bar, but I blushed a bit of course, said thank you and told him I was happy to be in “his” bar.
It’s funny, at least to me, because I pace in the apartment and tell myself I don’t need to go out. But I know I want to go out, I know it will be ok if I go out, it will be a good time for myself.  I contemplate the alternative of TV, reading, writing, etc. But, I like getting ready and deciding for myself what the plan is for the night. No one to text or communicate with but myself.

I was not expecting a free glass of wine, I was not expecting such a precious, unforgetting compliment from a bartender, and I was not expecting to write a blog post about the night. But here we are.

I Think I’m Creative

I have yet to thank the guy who told me about Deepak Chopra.
I am 6 songs in on his latest album, “Home”.
If you are not familiar with Deepak Chopra, he is an author, public speaker, and an advocate for alternative medicine. I have been listening to him for over 5 years now, after a friend advised I take a listen during a rough period in my life.
I have listened to him many nights, and many days, whenever I need a calming and meditative state of mind.
Today, I listen to him because my mind is struggling to think of anything other than a recent instance in which I was described as “uncreative”.
IMG_2975
Excuse me dude, I carry beer bottles in my cardigan pockets..
So, I am listening to Deepak Chopra whisper magic into my ears and I will follow up from my last post:
I had a job interview, three of them actually and all within the same company. They didn’t choose me, then they did. 
Then, I told my current boss I was leaving, she did not like that idea, so we talked, and I am still with her. (Yay)
I wanted to stay with her all along. We will create!
“It’s the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting.” — Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

A Booger That Was Not Picked

I had an interview today. However, I just got a call from the company and they, “decided to pass.”

Am I upset? Yes.

Was it my dream job? No.

So, I ask myself, why am I so upset?

My best answer: I am confused as to what my dream job is. I don’t know what, who, or where I want to dedicate my day to.

Myself? My reading? My researching? My writing? My cooking?

I tell nearly everyone I meet, “going back to school to get a Ph. D is always in the back of my mind.”

So there’s that.

Maybe I am confusing myself. Maybe I am rushing myself.

For now, I will tell myself,  “Goos fra ba.”