Since I’m such a shit blogger, I figure this might be a better way of doing it. 
But I might possibly blog later, if inspired or more likely, bored.
WHO: Me, duh. Who the hell else would it be? I mean, the version of me that’s come out this week. I’m in the middle of stage four of my monthly cycle and you know what that means! DUN DUN DUUUUN. I’m more emotional than I usually am and anything even slightly resembling chocolate doesn’t have a chance in hell if found in my radius.
It all definitely came to a head on Wednesday night as I sat in the staging studio, trying to practice Traviata and burst into tears when I couldn’t keep my larynx low enough. It was far too late to call the east coast crew and explode, so I called the bf. Poor schmuck. At a loss for words he defaulted to “Just come over,” so he could feed me Trader Joe’s dried fruits and watch Family Guy. I did feel better after that. I told all this to my amazing voice teacher the next day whist fighting off tears AGAIN, and she looked at me and said “Good. Get mad and cry it out. Is it lower than it was? (I nod.) Then we’re improving. Shut the hell up and sing, girl.” She then broke out into her very vocally focused giggle/cackle which sent her dogs running and my ears bleeding.
WHAT?: Much to the amusement of everyone whom I told, Greeky started knitting lessons at knit/purl this week. I was debated between crocheting and knitting and since everyone I know crochets, I went for knitting. I just haaad to be an individual.
Like a good student, I arrived all early to class since I didn’t have the foggiest idea what I needed for basic idiot knitting 101. The lady picked out some sweet looking bamboo needles and showed me to the cheap yarn section. “Pick out a light color so you can see what you’re doing a little more easily.” I went for lavender. Sandy, as I learned later, brought me some tea, sat me down at a little round table right at the front of the shop, spun my yarn into a big ol’ ball, and joined me. It then hit me. I am the class. I had to fight off my initial wave of “Oh, damn. I’m a giant loser,” and embrace, “bitchin’! One-on-one instruction! It’s like having a grandparent that spoke English!” I was really bad. I’m still really bad. I was a very apologetic frustrated mess. “You’re fine. I’ve seen a lot worse.” I hate when people say things like that. Worse doesn’t mean good. It means not as bad. It’s a comparative adjective . Nuclear warheads are worse than bombs. Are bombs good or even acceptable? NO.
I eventually started to get it together. She stayed with me well over when the class was scheduled, chatting and being supportive when I demolished a stich or the entire project fell off of the needle. When people ask me what I’m knitting I reply “A square. Well, I’m shooting for a square, but I’m hoping for a long rectangle.” Next week, Sandy teaches me how to purl. I’ll keep you posted on the status of the square.
HOW: Poorly and without my car. Gas is about $4.35 for regular out here, so I’m breaking in my reefs and strutting my fine ass all over this town. It cost me $77 to fill up my car to drive to my lesson the other day and I will not be putting gas in my car again until AT LEAST Fourth of July weekend. I really want to buy a bike, but I’m really afraid of being hit by a car…
WHERE: Latourell falls. Yea, I went hiking again. I actually lead the newly formed “Hiking book club” out through this 2.1 mile trail. It’s pretty easy and really beautiful. There are pictures on my facebook page, if you’re interested.
WHEN: ONE MONTH TODAY I WILL BE IN NEW YORK CITY. And, yes, I meant to keep the caps lock on. I’m so excited I might pee all over the new roommate’s couch. I love Portland and my Portland life, but DAMN do I miss my friends and family. This is the longest I’ve been away from my beloved big apple with out visiting EVER, with the second longest being the first half of the season here in pdx, not so long ago.
Now, I make no bones about it. I hate NYC in the summer time. It’s a malodorous death trap of palpable humidity, violently soaring temperatures that chafe, roast, and blister the souls of a people already hardened by spending $2500 rent on a 600 square foot apartment. In BROOKLYN.
But I loooooove yooooou… especially at night. THAT’S whats making me jump up and down and giggle like an eight year old going to Disneyworld. I want to drink Sangria in the East Village on small out door patio lit by Ikea paper lanterns and chat with my nearest and dearest until someone gets the idea to crash a rooftop party of a friend of a friend of a friend in Queens. I want to walk and additional fifteen blocks south to a “really cool bar” arm-in-arm with girlfriends who aren’t sure of directions, but promise that it’s “just a little bit further.” I’m want to eat rice pudding out of a pod that tastes like golden grahams. I’m going to eat gravy cheese fries at a diner and watch the sun rise. And the people watching! And the shopping!
MY GOD ITS GOING TO BE AMAZING.
Why? Because you love me. And I, you, faithful friends.
