i dreamed a dream...

I've come to realize that very few of us know what we want to be when we grow up now, let alone 10 years ago when we should've been becoming fantastic at it. I decided in 4th grade while traipsing across the street that I should be a writer- but, truth be told, I had other floundering ambitions along the way.

I "majored" in Psychology for almost 2 years. I use quotes because it was freshman and sophomore year- at CBC. So... less than legit. It ended up getting too science-y and technical and -ology like in the end. And really, what would I have done with a Psych degree? Been a counselor? Listened to people bitch all day? No, thank you. I hate people. And their problems.

As you can see, I'm ill-suited to be in a field that works so intimately with the human race... I'm much more an 'observe from afar' kind of girl... but regardless of my aptitude and desires, I decided to switch my major to business. Because you don't typically encounter people in the business world... The switch was mostly because I was fucking awesome at DECA in high school, and I didn't really know what else to do. I lasted about half a quarter (an eighth, if you will), because, well, I didn't like it. 

In addition to psychologist and... business woman?... through out my formative years I also wanted to be:
a lawyer (I'm really good at lying)
an anesthesiologist (they're rich and they get to do crosswords all day)
a songwriter (I'm super poetic with words and stuff, and I played the oboe)
a psychiatrist (I can spot mental illness from miles away... and I always thought it'd be cool to wield the power of prescribing anti-psychotics)
an editor (I enjoy finding, pointing out and exploiting flaws in people, be it grammatical or otherwise)
a photographer (you should see my landscapes of Pullman bars and Palouse highways. Ansel Adams, who?)
a documentary filmmaker (I'm still kind of into this one... I like documenting things. I like film. Boom. Career. Next...)

While I thought myself incredibly well-suited for all of these occupations, none of them every really got past the early stages of inception. I would tell my friends that I "finally figured out my life's passion!" and they'd agree and say things that were encouraging, all the while non-committal and sort of rude. "Law school, huh? And you thought playing fast and loose with the law and your apparent lack of moral fiber would be good for nothing..."

Even though I decided to be a writer years and years ago, I still play the what-if scenario in my head. Like, what if I were a...

Typographer. Who knew there were so many fonts?! And that people actually made them?! I don't know where I thought they came from before I discovered typography... I figured they just appeared out of thin air, like Jevon at a buffet.

Helvetica. Times New Roman. Courier. The horror that is Comic Sans and Papyrus (blogger doesn't support those fonts, for good reason)... Fonts are everywhere. They're art. They can be authoritative, or silly... they can be clean and crisp or intricate.

Yeah fucking right I'll stop.

Fonts save lives, people. And I could be the best font life saver of them all...

Private Eye, AKA full-time Facebook stalker: I am creepy as hell. I can admit this. I deleted my old Facebook with hundreds upon hundreds of people friended, and now have like, 80. Most of whom I actually do know in real life. And you know what? They are sooooooooo boring. Gone are the many status updates belittling someone's baby-daddy. No longer am I up to date with the happenings of my hot science TA and the many girls from my lab with whom he was fornicating. I can't log in and feel better about myself because everyone on my current friend list is too normal and well-adjusted. Ugh. Losers.

I was just so good at it. The stalking, that is- which is why downsizing my online presence was all for the best. For awhile there, I knew too much. The enormity of information at hand was entirely seductive- and I did not handle it well. I'm too nosy of a person to be able to have so much drivel at my fingertips. Seeing acquaintances lost its appeal because I already knew that they had an "awful day! three cavities at the dentist, parking ticket, and I come home and find out my fridge broke!"... What the hell were we going to talk about at the Sports Page, then? Future aspirations? How grim.


Pro-Whistler: I don't know, I'm just really good at it. Perfect pitch, vast range... I can even pull some didgeridoo shit and whistle while inhaling so that my tune is unblemished by the pesky need to breathe.


Chalkboard Artist: Something about scrawling on a blackboard with a chalky medium really soothes me. I started noticing this when I was commissioned to draw cookies on the board at Starbucks (I worked there, it's not like I was buying my latte and they said, "Ma'am, are you handy with liquid chalk?). Many of the patrons thought my cookies were potatoes- to which I said; we don't even serve potatoes... why the fuck would we decorate our store with them!? But, matter not. I was hooked.


Once I started working at the winery, my love for chalkboards segued into a love for bigger chalkboards that stand outside.

 It really does smell like wine in there.

Now it's kind of my thing. Chalkboard girl. That's me...

I've been called worse.


Mix-CD Maker: I'll just come right out and say it. I make a mean playlist. At least, I think I do. I sample some classics with some Top 40... I've got several gbs to work with. The only problem is, I can listen to some songs over, and over, and over, and over... without getting tired of them. Just like I can watch certain movies many a time to the point of memorization. Some people might think this kind of behavior signals Autistic tendencies, or a moderate case of OCD. I beg to differ. I just know what I like.

Anyway, when we're on a road trip, or when we need a mix at work, I'm your girl. My mixes transcend genres, occasions and time itself. Also, if I'm not controlling the music in any given situation, I turn into a real bitch. But that's not why they ask me to make mixes... they ask me because I have a knack for it. I promise :/

Heart-string Tugger: Another thing I've noticed over the years is that I'm pretty good at making people cry. Whether it's because of my laziness (my parents were usually susceptible to this one, cry me a freaking river, guys), my cruel nature, or my propensity to just hit them where it hurts, I can always draw out some semblance of emotion. I made someone cry last week at the bar. It was by unknowingly mentioning something that brought them tremendous pain, and I didn't feel particularly good about it afterward, but still. It's definitely a tangible skill.

I could put it to use by penning sappy greeting cards, or writing silly love songs. For a very reasonable one-time fee, I could jot down eulogies that will have the congregation rolling... in tears. You want a maid of honor speech that will have her mascara running down her face onto her ivory Vera Wang Chantilly lace applique a-line gown? I've got you covered.


Number Rememberer: I'm pretty good with numerical-ish things. Like dates, and phone numbers. 867-5309? Yeah, Tommy Tutone, that's Jenny. She wrote her number on the wall, and, I remembered it. And you got it. Something like that.


I don't exactly know when this came about, because I couldn't remember a single damn equation in any math class I've ever been enrolled in, and usually I can't find my keys. But do you want to know the SKU number of this one cup we sold at Starbucks that kept cutting people so we had to recall it? Of course you don't, it's useless information. Unless your cup turned itself into a bit of a shiv... in which case you should probably know it was 11003503. Check your tumblers. Get your refund.

Time-waster: I'm best at this. I'm actually better at wasting time than anything else. That's why I know so many random things- because I learn them when I should be doing something else. Like sleeping. Or hanging out with people. Or writing... which brings me to this:


Through-out all my 'discovering my life's passions' and figuring out the things I could have been great at (stalking, whistling, etc.), I always come back to being a writer. And not one of those "oh I just write for me, I love it and I don't care if I ever make a dime..." kind of writers, either. I would like to make a living from it. A modest one is fine. Minimum wage, I don't care. I'd even settle for being rather poor. I just want to write.

Knowing what you want to do, and what you were meant to do, and what you will do, is kind of a relief. It's the only thing 'relieving' about wanting to be a writer, to be honest.

I can pretty much be sure that I will never have a steady paycheck from writing. If I ever do publish a book or sell a script, there will be a number of people that think it's complete shit. Also, I know that my own work will never be good enough. It will never be edited well enough, or brilliant or funny enough, or as sincere as I meant it to be. I'll re-read it years after 'finishing' it and be disgusted with the errors glaring at me from the page.

There might be a day when I run out of things to say, and while that's frightening now, I can only imagine how devastating it will be the day it happens.

But, I know my calling. Maybe I'm no good at it- but I love it enough that I will spend every day trying to get better. Maybe it will never happen for me- but I'm delusional enough to think it will.

And, if all else fails, I can always fall back on one of my aforementioned skills. How cool would it be if I were a professional chalkboard typographer who stalks people via social networking sites as I whistle a sad, sad song I wrote and burned to a mix CD whose SKU is 12983475?!

It'd be really cool, obviously.

deficient.

It seems that I, at least according to my blog entries, am either incompetent- or drunk, all of the time.

Sadly, this is another sparkling example that backs up that very assumption.

This afternoon, I got off work around 4, and, being the completely lovely person that I am, I offered to go to the store for my mother. She had five things on her list; coffee, milk, paper towels, and orange juice. Okay, four things.

She sent me with $50. I should mention that in my house, we generally purchase paper towels weaved with spun gold thread...

Anyway, almost two hours later, I returned, $90 poorer, yet enlightened.

I am not cut out of the housewife cloth. I will be a terrible wife. And mother. Just now I was trying to think of an area in which I excel, but, I can't even think of one.

Cooking? Pshaw. I can bake one kind of cookie, and I lifted the recipe straight off the back of the Reese's Peanut Butter chip bag. I fail miserably at almost everything else. Even my cereal is so-so at best.

General house cleanliness? Oh, God, the horror. I never put things back, or away in the first place. When I buy new things, I take what is needed immediately out of the bag, and then toss the rest on the ground. Months later, I'll stumble upon the sack, a pack of gum, a few point-of-sale DVD's and a wrinkled $5 bill sprinkled with change still inside.

The other day when I slipped and fell (I'm also not so good with balance), my crash landing was cushioned by various outfits that I'd tried on, decided not to wear, and subsequently left on the floor.

When I'm sick, I literally lie in bed until someone comes to save me. My mother, the only one who seems to care enough to search me out during my absence, then forces me to 'drink water' and 'take medicine', two medieval tricks that must have been passed down through the generations.

If it's cold in the house, I'll sit, freezing. Sometimes I'll get a blanket. When someone questions my choices, wondering why I didn't just 'turn up the thermostat', I stare at them blankely. Thermostat? That box-like contraption strapped to the wall? Witchcraft. I'll wait for the sun to warm me.

My plight is a combination of apathy, incompetence, and I think, most of all, laziness.

I'm in a pseudo-teenage purgatory, in which I look like an adult, and have shining moments of clarity and capability, but largely, I'm worthless.

Upon entering Yoke's Fresh Market, I was pleased, as I noticed the cart had cup holders, and I was currently utilizing only one arm because of my chai tea. I nestled the drink into the designated area, and begun my 90 minute shopping-trip-from-hell.

"We were doomed from the start, as starters are, why am I doing this?" Oh Brand New, you are so wise. Why had I agreed to go to the store? I always get lost in the stupid aisles, and I manage to consistently forget half the things on the list. I italicize list because if there is written record of the necessity of 'milk', then, you'd think I'd be able to read the damn thing and deduce that I do, in fact, need to purchase milk.

But alas, I always forget the milk. Milk has it out for me, this much I know.

I grabbed two bags of salad, and while you'll probably notice that 'salad' was not requested by my mother, it was something that I felt our house was lacking at the present juncture.

Making my way into the wine area, I was mesmerized for at least 25 minutes. I had decided that we were to have spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, so I figured a Malbec would go nicely. For those of you who don't know my drinking habits, I think Malbec goes nicely with everything. Spaghetti, pizza, chocolate, breathing... etc.

There were Cabernets and Merlots and way too many Syrahs, and right now, to be honest, I'm wondering if varietals are capitalized at all? For this, let's just say they are. So yeah, I found a few $40 Malbecs, one of which I very nearly purchased (it was the first one I ever tried, back when I started drinking wine legally, AKA, last year.), but decided against it, because, really? $40? This is Yoke's, not Chateau la Brignon (I'm pretty sure that I made that up).

After agonizing over my options, I walked away with two bottles, one of which, an 'old-vine' Malbec from Argentina. For those of you who don't get paid to pore over the origins of various wines, Argentinian Malbecs are insanely popular. FYI, the Malbec sucked. It smelled like alcohol, something that, ironically, isn't really a good thing in wine.

Happy with my long awaited decision, I toddled down the aisles, searching for the things my mother had requested.

As you may know, I am easily distracted, which is part of the reason why this should-have-been-a-jaunt to the store turned into an all out marathon.

Rounding around a freezer case, this caught my eye:



Mmm, mmm, mmm. Beef pasties and pork fritters. WTF? What, exactly, is a beef pasty? I'd Google, but I have to admit I'm rather afraid of what results I'd obtain. And a pork fritter? Is that anything like an apple fritter? I sincerely hope not.

Severely disturbed, I continued on to the milk, a safe white liquid that's squeezed from a cow. Ugh. As I was about to reach for the dairy case door, I balked.


If you can't make out the lettering, let me break it down for you. For only $3.99 a pound, you could go home with a whole rabbit.

"Mom, what's for dinner?"
"Rabbit stew, Jimmy."
"Rabbit stew? Again? It better be a WHOLE rabbit, none of that half-rabbit shit from last week. That was gross."

This is how I imagine a rabbit eating conversation. I also figure they'd have no front teeth, thick southern accents and missing adjectives and pronouns through out their dialogue, as I'd always assumed people in the Ozarks were the only ones who ate rabbits.

I hate rabbits. They're weird, and I'm just not sure why they're allowed. Easter is a terrible time for me. Big rabbits that lurk around, hiding brightly colored eggs? If they hid brightly colored wallets, with green money inside, I might be more copacetic to their existence. But they do not. Their eggs contain jellybeans, at best.

When I was about 7, my cousin lived in West Richland. Back then, there weren't too many houses in their area, and their development was brand new, situated amongst the sage brush.

He was 8, and quite the outdoorsman. I generally stayed inside, with his mom, and made crafts. Already, I was living a very thrilling life. I'd venture outside with Chris every once in a while, but he liked hiking and running and searching for things, whereas I'd rather play in the yard. Where there was less dirt and more grass. And it was also in close proximity to the house, where I'd rather be.

One day, my aunt came home to find Chris and his friend holed up in the garage.

"Mom, we're starting a business. You gotta see this," Chris said, ushering her into his workspace. I wasn't there, but knowing her, and knowing what she was about to see, I imagine she let out a blood curdling scream.

There, nailed up on a large piece of plywood, were two, rather poorly skinned, jack rabbits. Bits of fur and flesh clung to their carcasses, their chests protruding out in their final pose.

Not understanding her complete shock and terror, Chris tried his best to soothe her crumbling exterior. "Mom! You paid $12 for my rabbit pelt. Think of how many we can make! And rabbits feet? We'll just cut them right off!"

"My son's a serial killer!" She told my mom, probably having seen too many Jeffrey Dahmer documentaries. "This is how it starts!"

FYI, Chris isn't a serial killer, but rather an upstanding citizen and sailor in the Navy. He has yet to kill anyone or anything, other than those rabbits. And, his business ventures since have been way less hare-brained. HA, I love a good pun.

Anyway, these were the thoughts bouncing around my head as I saw the rabbit sign. Easter, serial killers, jellybeans... all terrible things. I hopped (ugh) on the back of the cart and rolled on, into the salad dressing aisle.

I've never done too well with a lot of choices. I don't really belong in a democratic society. After only seconds perusing the Italians, Zesty Italians, Roasted Red Pepper Italians, and Creamy Italians, I was ready for a white russian.

Knocking one into my cart, I pressed on, until I saw this:


Baconnaise, the ultimate bacon flavored spread. I think it sounds quite disgusting, but when I got home, Chris was here. I mentioned the bacon infused atrocity, and he smiled, saying, "I don't know, it sounds kind of good."

He might be a serial killer yet.

I traipsed through the noodle aisle, wondering if thin spaghetti was the same as angel hair, and
what the difference between vermicelli and capellini was. Not having the interest or patience to do an all out investigation, I grabbed the angel hair and a jar of sauce on my way to bigger and better things.

I chuckled at the discounted Tiger Gatorade, gliding to a stop somewhere near the juice fridge. Orange juice, my mom wrote. Not calcium enriched, not pulp free, not extra pulp. She didn't clarify the brand, or if she wanted it in concentrated form. Knowing her daughter, and the road that lay ahead, she shouldn't have been so vague. I only use orange juice for two things, mimosas and screwdrivers, so I'm rather inept when it comes to choosing someones healthy breakfast beverage.

It was practically cruel to leave out such crucial clues, I thought.

I settled on the original variety of Simply Orange because I like their Simply Apple juice, and I feel that everyone should like what I like. She ended up mixing it with her vodka once I got home. What can I say. Apples and trees, my friends, apples and trees...

I nearly ran into the same 3 people on 7 separate occasions, which made me think that I wasn't the only hopeless one, wandering around the store looking for milk.

MILK! Damn it. I'd forgotten it in the rabbit-melee.

I spent the rest of my trip bumbling from corner to corner of Yokes, searching high and low for things like bread, and meatballs, the latter nestled next to the whole rabbits, wouldn't you know.

Naturally, I succumbed to a few impulse buys, like red x-factor Gatorade and vanilla pudding. I don't really know how the total crept up as far as it did, but, what can you do.

As I stood in the check-out lane I looked around at all the other people, perfectly capable, responsible adults, all of whom came to the store, and left, most likely without incidence.

It'd taken me an hour and a half, but they didn't know that. To them, I perhaps looked like an actual adult, myself. This pleased me, and I did not flinch when the cashier asked me for $90. I wheeled my newly obtained possessions to my car, briefly worried by the woman behind me who was wailing in a high pitched manner.

I turned to look at her, and she stopped. I'd also come across a 60 year old man with mullet and shirt that read, "PARTY OVER HERE". Grocery shopping was a weird, weird occasion.

Digging for my keys, I felt satisfied with my effort. Maybe I wasn't completely 'able', but I was well on my way. I jiggled my purse around, sure that I heard my keys bumping around the bottom. I thought, maybe, with a little practice, I'd become a pro at shopping. Maybe I'd even learn to keep up with my laundry, and vacuum properly. And cooking a meal? I'd figure that out in no time.

Searching my pockets for the second time, I peered through my passenger side window. Where the hell were my keys? I shook my purse again, the panic setting in.

Keys, purses, wallets, phones, shoes, earrings... anything you can imagine, I've probably lost. And I lose them frequently. Once a day. You'd think that I would rectify this, by, I don't know, paying better attention to where I leave things? But nope. I don't. I'm that stupid.

I dialed my mom, still fumbling through my bag. I pushed aside paycheck stubs, and pens, and a McDonalds toy. Lip glosses and quarters littered the bottom, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out where else the keys would be? Shaking the bag frantically, I heard the tell tale sound of hope. Hidden in the lining where I keep my pints (not...), were my keys.

My mom answered, to which I said, "Nope, just kidding!"

"Where are you?" She asked.
"The store."
"Still?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'll see you in a second," I said, finally gaining entry into my automobile.

So yeah, I was feeling that this adult-responsibility thing wasn't far off, and then......

Oh who am I kidding. The day when I go to the store and don't gravitate towards the Trix and Reese's Puffs is the day that I finally can say, "Yes, I am an adult."

Until then, I'll be getting the Happy Meal, and most likely, looking for my phone for the 8th time that day.