Any Port

Sadly my Spring Break is almost over. Especially sad because now I have to do all the research for the long papers that I've been putting off. If I research for them, it means I then have to actually write them. My desire is not that strong to begin research.

Still, I did get to go shopping over Spring Break! This amazing thrift store is close by, so I stopped in on my day off to browse. I don't use the word 'amazing' lightly here. Not only is the store seperated by type of garment and then size of garment, but also by color. Are you looking for a medium green blouse? Why, then, you should go to the blouse-medium-green section and take your pick! It's an OCD dream, I swear. I picked up several pieces for interviewing outfits to calm some of my panic at the idea of venturing into the Real World. I now own suit jackets. I feel so grownup.

I have made one monumentous decision aobut my future. I'm moving to Portland. The one in Oregon, if you're not like me and actually know that there's one in Maine as well. Apartment hunting has been so much easier since I realised that fact.

What am I going to do in Portland, you ask? Good question! I'm asking it too. I have no idea. Hence the panic. Which led to the suit jackets. More of a lateral move than a forward one, I suspect.

Despite almost having a degree in English, I have the nagging suspicion that there just aren't that many jobs that need me. I don't want to teach and I can't be a librarian without a master's degree, so I'm out of ideas.

Anyone need someone in Portland? Bookstore, coffee shop, ditch digger?

(Seriously, I've got skills with a shovel.)
(Well, maybe not seriously seriously, alright?)
(Unless you need a shovel-wielder, then totally seriously.)
(Seriously.)

Hello? Anyone still there?

So, holidays and moving for the lose, apparently. I am a NaBloPoMo failure. Such is life.

But now I have a new apartment!

It's so cute, a little efficiency, but they put in this HUGE bookcase, so all I had to do was hang drapes and *voila* instant 1-bedroom!

I thought I might be paranoied - more than usual - living all by myself, at least at first, but I absolutely love it! I don't have to worry about people being noisy when I want to sleep, about not being able to get into the kitchen, about someone walking in when I'm jamming out to the Broadway musical station, Christmas carols, and/or KT Tunstall. (For example.) Despite being rumored to be in a scary part of town, I haven't seen anyone creepy yet and I'm convinced that my neighbors - if they exist - must be somehow related to Santa Claus. Y'know the ability to sneak around a house without waking anyone up, despite decorating, eating cookies, and stuffing himself down a chimney. Did anyone else find that a little difficult to believe? Especially since I never lived in a house with a chimney. The 'magic of Christmas' was thrown about a bit, but there really was little surprise when my cousin told me Santa Claus didn't exist. I was a very cynical six year old, I guess. Either that or very logically-minded.

But my apartment. I do have a few problems finally - thank goodness! I was beginning to believe it was all too good to be true and I was going to wake up from my delusions somewhere horrific, but then I discovered that the water heater only holds enough hot water for a ten-minute shower. And then the blind fell down on me. So it's definitely real. And painful.

I've been having fun decorating, though it's been tough to stretch my decorations to fit the whole apartment. I didn't think that was going to be a problem, when I moved I had a lot of boxes. I was thinking "Wow, is everything going to fit? When did I get so much stuff? What is in all of these boxes?" Well, remember the HUGE bookcase? (Totally the selling point of the efficiency. After I toured the apartment, I pretended to need a little time to look elsewhere, but really I knew I was going to sign that dotted line posthaste.) After I unloaded all of my books onto it - and ALL of my books fit onto it, this is a new thing - I had very few boxes left. Now the rest of my apartment looks a little - empty. So, apparently all my wealth is sunk into books. If they were a valid currency, I'd be set.

Is It Better to Show Up Late or Not at All?

Well, I apparently missed the beginning of NaBloPoMo. (An acronym that I have yet to figure out, though I assume it's somehow related to NaNoWriMo. Or there are two people in the world who like to make me giggle over random syllables that sound like they should be an actual word to the point where I've tried them out in sentences. Which led to more giggling.) In any case, I've decided that will not deter me from attempting to post an entry every day for the rest of November. I only missed - what? - five days? I can so catch up.

Well, I could if I had anything to say.

Oh, wait, I do have news! I'm moving on December 1st to a lovely little efficiency that is begging me to sign lease papers. Yes, I will finally have a home all to myself, so I will no longer begin the 'five-block-prayer,' an apt phrase for the way that I begin praying that there is no one in my house for the last five blocks before I can see the driveway. It has changed over time, moving from the 'five-step-prayer' in the dorms to the 'five-stairs-prayer' at my last two apartments until its current incarnation, but the presence of such a desperate pleading at least once a day for the past three and a half years has led me to believe that I am perhaps better suited to living on my own. At least until I can find a roommate who believes in the sanctity of silence, particularly when one's roommate has to get up at insane-o'clock and it's already after eleven and who the hell cleans the kitchen at eleven-o'clock at night anyway with the added sin of very loud country music? As perhaps too-convincingly evinced by that last sentence, I need to move before I consider offing my current roommates. They deserve better. After all, she was cleaning the kitchen. And then the bathroom, the living room, the hallway, the hall closet, and her own room. Cleanliness should be encouraged. Particularly after my last Roommate-From-the-Lower-Depths-of-Hades. But honestly, eleven? Midnight? One? Ad infinitum?

Okay, deep breaths.

I am very excited about moving. Partially, of course, because I'm going stark raving mad, but also because I just like to move. It's the perfect excuse to go through my belongings and organize, to clean out all the useless stuff I've accumulated, to make lists of what to pack and where to put things like books and shoes. This is the point where my friends begin looking at me like I'm speaking a rare dialect of Swahili, but I know precisely who to blame. My mother. Not only did she teach me how to move with every military order my Dad received, she also passed along the genes that cause one to take an unholy delight, generally reserved for a fully stocked dessert bar, in a completely organized room. She's also the one who taught me to read, sew, cook, stress, worry, and panic prematurely. My Dad taught me to procrastinate and got me addicted to the internet and rock music. The combination of these elements has often been disastrous.

I think I derailed my topic, but my initial points were:
1. I'm going to be blogging through November.
2. I'm moving!
3. I'm currently being driven to slowly mad.
4. But I'm moving!
5. And I'm excited about getting to pack!
6. Wow, that was a really short list for the amount of words it took to express those ideas.

Right, so I'll see you tomorrow, with absolutely nothing to say. Again. So at least you're used to it, right?