Carnival Fantasies

Yesterday, Jake and I went to the Puyallup fair - a big-time carnival in a small town. After riding the sky ride and playing carnival games, I regressed to my teenage years. I chatted to Jake a mile a minute about how many rides I'd been on (the zipper, ring of fire, and the octopus) and demanded he win me a stuffed animal.

When I was twelve the carnival seemed like the ideal place to pick up a boy. Every summer, I looked forward the neighborhood carnival like a lonely woman looks forward to speed dating. Who could I meet? Spiked haired Tommy, shaved head Joey, or maybe someone to make my parents mad - a bad-boy with pierced ear. We'd meet at the fair, then he'd win me a stuffed animal, followed by a ferris wheel smooch at sunset.

To me, the summer carnival was the place to pick up boys, followed by the arcade. Pathetic, I know. Back then I was more likely to be recruited by the freak show than find a boyfriend.

As I walked around the carnival this year, I noticed girls walking hand-in-hand with their boyfriends, giant stuffed animals in tow. At one time, I longed to be them. Now I wonder how many teenage pregnancies are caused by after-carnival lovin? Has to be at least 9 or 10 a year.

Sigh.

I'm no longer delusional and thoughts of carnival romance faded with time. I look at Jake, happy he's not a meth-head carnie or a pierced bad boy. We're just us. I don't need him to win me a stuffed animal because now I can buy one. But the ferris wheel kiss? Everything I thought it would be.

Who the Hell Am I?

At 27, I'm so adult and boring at times, like when I scour the paper for half-price steaks or buy- one-get-one-free ice cream. Ok, so I rarely open the coupon section of the paper, but maybe I should. I'm at a weird in-between age - should I have kids and buy a house in the burbs? Or should I continue living my life the way I like it - in the city, working as a copywriter, married with dog?

Whenever I walk through (insert trendy neighborhood here) _____, I feel like I'm back in high school, sans lockers and gym class. A guy whizzes past on a unicycle. Another man stands at the corner, his shirt off, skinny and pale under the street lamp, waving a cane and screaming about the current war in Iraq. As a seasoned city person, I follow the protocol - look but don't stare. Give more than a quick glance to someone with giant combat boots and a mohawk that almost scrapes the clouds? You're likely to get a scowl and "don't look at me."

In the adult world, real world, or whatever you want to call it, people still want to be noticed. And it isn't just the bustling, trendy city neighborhood. In the suburbs, mothers want you to know their son is in the honors program and dads can't wait to pull the new BMW out of the garage. Everyone impatiently wait to hear the words, "you look like you lost weight" from coworkers and friends.

The world is what it is. We are all the same people with the same basic emotions. Hipsters and suburbanites want to be recognized, for their outfits, for their achievements, for whatever they do. Most people are another version of mediocre. Hipsters conform to other hipsters, while trying to make "great art" but saying things that have been said already.

The world is highschool but with manicured lawns, perfect houses or cityscapes as the setting. I don't want to be a part of either world. If I "grow up" and conform to society's expectations - beemer, manicured lawn, whitened teeth, I'm not me. But if I explore the creative, eccentric part of me and travel the world on a dime that's not responsible.

At 27, I have many choices. But the window of opportunity is quickly closing. More responsbility means less time for fun. I don't feel the need to get noticed, but I don't want to look back on these years and think I spent them looking through the paper for coupons or changing diapers. I also don't want to be the girl who rides a Vespa to poetry readings. So not me. Who the hell am I?

Out of the Bathrobe...back into the real world

I did it! Writing those three words have never felt better. I have a job now. That's right. No more unemployment. No more laying around in my powder blue bathrobe. The house will go to hell and my dog might be upset. Dinner might come out of the microwave instead of the stove.

And I just don't care. I love to work. :) This gig is super sweet as I will be writing ALL DAY LONG.

Dear Seattle,

Dear Seattle,

Although I do appreciate your glorious views and steamy lattes, I’ve grown weary of our relationship.

First of all, I cannot tolerate your mood swings anymore. I wake up with sunlight streaming through my bedroom window and by the time I take my dog outside, you’re crying all over me and my bathrobe. Get a grip, at least for a couple minutes so I can walk the poor beast.

Another thing, why must we have so many hipsters? I understand that music is the culture here, but are jagged hair styles and tight jeans also mandatory? If I see another snowflake sweater or ironic t-shirt picked so carefully (and so obviously) from the bins at Goodwill, I might puke. Please bring back regular people.

I know I’m new to this relationship, but we can try to improve things? No more whining about Starbucks, I’ve heard enough already. And I need some transportation to get around – the bus just plain sucks. You brag so much about being eco-friendly, so where is the train?

I confess, I’m not the easiest pePublish Postrson to get along with. I don’t always clean up after the dog. Sometimes I shuffle around in my pockets and lean over him, pretending to pick up his nasty little pile. I might be disgusting, but when I’m out of baggies a visual imitation of poo pickup is the best I can do. You should know these passive-aggressive tendencies well – I learned them from you.

Don’t take it too hard Seattle. Most days, I love you for letting me spend hours on the beach – laptop in tow. I admire your cliffs, curves, and lowlands. I love that you accept me even (no especially) when I’m wearing glasses. I love that you’re sexy and smart and that you aren’t San Francisco or Vancouver.

Seattle, I’ve decided to stay.

In the Land of No Jobs

Right now, I'm kicking myself for not being born a right-handed, left-brained, mathematical genius.

There are JOBS for people that can do calculus and physics - a rolling field filled with them, each one waiting to be picked like a flower. You could be a Doctor, an Architect, an Engineer -- the possibilities are endless and since most people just don't "do" math the mere fact that you can makes you a star.

The math genius doesn't have to compete with every m-fing, hipster on the planet for one coveted writing spot that pays $20,000 a year. Curse this creative brain! It doesn't do me any good.

• Brain tells me to be like Hemingway, but I don't drink rum, so I find myself sitting among 8 diet cokes and 4 Mike's Hard Lemonades. I can't even do writer's binge drinking properly.
  
  
• Brain tells me to watch four rerun episodes of Roseanne, instead of starting the pile of freelance work that is due in the morning - I'll be up til 4:00 a.m. typing away trying not to misspell the word "embroidered"
  
  
• Brain tells me I'm not inspired, so I end up strolling along the beach, go home - guess what? Still uninspired...
  
  
• Brain tells me I need to be distracted to get motivated -- so I end up checking my e-mail seven times in twenty minutes just to "refresh"
  
  
• Brain tells me an MFA is the answer, but then tells me to write this blog instead of taking the Math prep class for the GRE
  
  
• Brain tells me an MFA would be too hard, too expensive, too pretentious ... Brain then gives me an image of me sitting unhappily in a roundtable discussion debating whether Shakespeare was a homosexual (or really Edward De vere) AGAIN.
  
  
• Brain tells me I have to A. Be tragic B. Live in the City and C. Be on anti-depressants if I ever want to be taken seriously -- oh and that at some point I should do some soul searching --whatever that means.
  
  
• Brain says I should journey deep in the woods and do nothing but write for days on end -after all, that is what "real writers" do. Oh and the trip would have to cost no less than $500 and goat cheese must be involved somehow.

I'm tired, hungry, and my dog snores. Am I today's version of a starving artist? I shudder to think of it. When I was a kid, I longed to be a Veterinarian. I even convinced my grandma to teach me how to sew, so that I can stitch the animals back up after they were done with surgery.

Despite having to put someone's poor 15-year-old family dog to sleep, being a vet would be a sweet gig. Damn you creative mind. Now shut up, I have a novel to write.

UnEmployed

My mom always reads my horoscope for the year on my birthday. This year, it said a lot of changes would take place. The changes started taking place in January.

I lost my job. There wasn't anything I could do - it was the company's fault. I knew the day would suddenly come when my job would slip through my fingers and I'd have to dust off my black suit, pull myself off the couch, and get out there.

As an ambitious career woman, I miss getting up and ready for work everyday. My unused creative energy causes me to lose sleep at night. I have work - I am a freelancer at the moment, but it is difficult to organize all the projects and manage the income coming in. I don't like the business part of being a freelancer at all and I'm worried I'll owe thousands of dollars in taxes at the end of the year.

Frankly, I'm tired. I'd like to take one year off work, write a book of essays and do some travel pieces. But I have no clue how to get started and even if I did - I'm not sure if I desire the stability of a job or the lax structure of a freelance career.

I'm at a crossroads. Again.

And to further the life-altering decisions I have to make, I'm wondering if I should buy a condo. If I do, that means the Pac Nrthwest is home for at least 5 years, while we ride out the market. If we don't, it means renting, which I am a little sick of. If we moved back to IL, I'm not sure it could ever feel like home again. I've changed so much, my perception of it is much different and I can't stand bitter cold winters anymore. However, I can stand to be a little less lonely these days. My 3rd year here, I can feel friends distance themselves and family doesn't call as much as they once did.

Can I ever have a normal year?