Did I ever mention that we live in a tiny studio apartment? Despite my moaning, most days the apartment is pretty darn charming. You know, days when everything is in it's proper place and J's soccer socks are freshly washed. Who am I kidding? That never happens. I occasionally contribute to the chaos when I get a wild hair and decide to start a new project. Last week I realized that it has been well over 2 years since I worked on a quilt for myself. While J was out at his weekend soccer game, I decided to do something about it.
Step 1: Think about how to execute the plan for around 3 seconds.
Step 2: Jump in head first and pile all possible supplies on our poor little kitchen table.
Step 3: Welcome back wild hair. Goodbye Ikea BJÖRKUDDEN, we'll see you in a few months.
When I finished my first quilt back in September 2005, I joked that it's honorary name was the "J-E Love Quilt." We needed a lot of love between the two of us to drown out all the cursing. Operating a 20-year-old sewing machine for the first time was challenging. So was sandwiching (what seemed like) billions of yards of fabric together without any lumps and bumps. Luckily our relationship survived the first quilt, and Jesse still decided to marry me. And since then, I have gotten a much better sewing machine and have completed two more quilts for other people. Through trial and error (lots of error) I figured out new tricks and took mental notes on what works best.
This weekend I pulled out my fabric stash, washed a few new colors, and started cutting. Last year, I really enjoyed making a patchwork style baby quilt for our friends Bret & Stephanie, so I'm going try it again. Only this time it will be sized for an adult. I'm so excited because a majority of the fabric so far has been scraps and leftovers from other projects. A scrap of Ava's quilt here, a dash of Lauren's quilt there, and a few bits from the J-E Love Quilt thrown in as well.
I guess I could call this one the "J-E Love Quilt 2.0," but this time around it's going to be about a different kind of love. Portland Love. I'm hoping it will serve as a good distraction in the limbo time between here and out there. Anything to occupy my mind while we're sending out resumes and waiting. Oh there's so much waiting!
And maybe, just maybe, by the time it needs a binding, I'll be stitching from the Pacific Northwest.
This is probably the first item in a somewhat long list of things that I will not miss about our little studio apartment on Columbia Rd. Oh I'm sure in 10 years or so, the nostalgia will set in. We will think back on how we managed to live together for 4 years in 580 square feet and will laugh. However, some memories can't even be softened by the rosy-colored passage of time. One of those things is our stove. Our miserable, minuscule, temperamental stove. The darn thing never ceases to confound me and I am convinced, in all honesty, that it is out to kill me.
This is our second stove, and much smaller than the first (that's an entirely separate story that I've tried to put behind me). Technically, it has four burners. However, I'd have to pull out my Fisher Price cook set in order to actually fit four whole pans at one time. Plastic peas and carrots anyone? Given that I have adult-sized pots, and actually like to cook things, this poses a real problem anytime I want to get more elaborate than one-pan pasta dishes. In fact, several of my adult-sized pans have been decommissioned because they simply won't fit. My poor pizza pan stands alone in the corner because it's just too wide. Regulating the burners is also a treat. We have three settings: Off, Blazing Hot, and Somewhere in Between (but never EVER a low simmer).
And forget baking. Anytime I would set the oven temperature above 325 degrees, it continued to climb until I'd massacred another round of cookies or a beautiful layer cake. I had serious doubts in my abilities to do anything but boil water when Jesse put a moratorium on pies and cakes a few years ago - he even banned cupcakes! This was a very hard decision for him to make. I thought it was because he was so hurt by my utter disrespect for a decent baked good, but as it turns out, he was worried about my mental state when I kept failing over and over again. The moratorium has been lifted, thanks to my pizza stone, which has triumphed over the oven's most valiant attempts at wildly fluctuating in temperature. It's sad, though, that I need a rock in my most important appliance in order to cook food properly.
Some days, especially since we still don't have air conditioning, I gaze out of our open kitchen window that is conveniently located next to the miserable stove. I fantasize about the day I will have a vessel that is large enough to accommodate a whole turkey. Sometimes, the wheels start turning and I think about how fun it would be to just chuck the whole thing down onto Belmont Street (possibly setting it on fire first). I know, I'm nuts, but the stove is small enough to fit through the window (I've measured twice). Coincidence? Hmm.
Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure there's a clause in our hypothetical marriage contract that prohibits me from throwing large appliances (I'll verify later with Jesse). This same contract also prohibits him from buying musical furniture, so I guess for now the oven gets a stay of execution.
Way back in March, J applied for a position with the City of Portland in their Research and Communications department. Because it was a completely online process, he got an email stating that his resume had been received and for weeks, no word. We both just assumed that he didn't qualify, or the job had been retracted (like another sweet position that he really wanted). Then yesterday, he got this weird piece of mail. I was groggy on the couch after a late-afternoon nap while watching him open the perforated form. He had a smirk on his face while reading it over and over again without saying anything. Impatiently, I asked him what it was and he just kept smiling. I thought for sure he had been called for jury duty again.
The perforated envelope's form is a hybrid between a high school report card and one of those junk mail statements that say, "YOU'VE JUST WON $85,000,000,000." It's sentiment is about as warm:
J, Congratulations! Your name has been placed on the equally ranked eligible list for Management Analyst (Research & Communication). Thirty-four (34) candidates were placed on the list, all with the rank of 1.00. All qualified candidates on an equally ranked list are eligible for appointment to a vacancy within the job classification. When you are being considered for an appointment, you may be contacted directly by the Bureau with the vacancy.
So many questions go unanswered. I guess to look on the bright side, he's still in the running and wasn't eliminated from the first round like last time. However, thirty-four (34) candidates? That seems like a lot to me. Out of all those equally-ranked eligible candidates with a score of 1.00, in reality he must be at least a 1.25 right? Who knows. I did find the Portland City Administrative Rules Manual and the equally eligible list is pretty standard. From that list they rank candidates for the interview process based on how suited they are for a particular job.
As my parents have reminded me frequently, job hunting is pretty much summed up by "hurry up and wait." Believe me, there's been a lot of waiting. This weekend with a copy of Resumes and Cover Letters for Dummies in hand, we'll put in a little more hurry time. There are several non-profits that would be a perfect fit for J, but they never post any jobs. So for this round, we're going unsolicited!
For the past three years, J and I have begged G to visit us in D.C. Finally, he was able to work us into his busy schedule and gave up his spring break (March 26th-30th) to fly across the country for a long weekend. His stay was somewhat unusual (I managed to not pick up my camera once), so I was excited when G emailed his photos from the trip last night.
J and I were so happy to have him all to ourselves. We picked his brain on all the exciting things going on in his life, and of course showed him all of our favorite places around town. Naturally, J expressed enthusiasm for having his little brother around by arranging two epic runs around the city. I think they totaled over 20 miles that weekend. I hurt just thinking about it.
In order to ensure that G's brain wouldn't atrophy on his days off just before finals, we decided that the weekend would definitely have to be about education. G is a no-nonsense dude, so naturally he wanted to absorb as much info as possible. On Friday, with plenty of sandwiches and snacks in hand, we drove out to Monticello for a day trip. Upon arrival, we had an hour or so to walk around the grounds before our house tour. Unfortunately, it was a little early in the season for the gardens to be in bloom, but the walk was a welcome change after 2.5 hours in the car. The house tour was pretty interesting and I am always amazed at how Jefferson spent his entire life perfecting his house and grounds. We didn't finish at Monticello in time to make it out to Mt. Vernon, but I think that was probably for the best. It was a long day.
Instead, we took an alternate route home and stopped at Manassas battlefield. You can't visit Virginia without going to at least one battlefield. If you look hard enough, you can see the excitement on my face. Look a little harder! I'm not sure if we were standing next to a confederate or union cannon. I didn't pay very much attention to the 6 minute audio program about the Second Battle of Bull Run, and refused to take 1-mile Henry Loop Trail that may have given a bit more context. So, the men settled for a quick walk around the close-in battlefield and opted to play around with the cannons.
Depending on which Civil War scholar you consult, I'm sure they'd agree that G is depicting a relatively accurate account of how "Stonewall" Jackson led his infamous charge at the First Battle of Bull Run. Since I am a historian, and qualify to be a member of the Daughters of the Confederacy, I felt it was my duty to tell him that it was much more likely that Jackson rode the cannon like a horse (he was, after all, a cavalry man). For the sake of getting home before dark, we had to agree to disagree on that minute detail of history. G opted for his pose instead. I still feel that General Jackson would never have stooped to the level of a "foot cavalry" man. The mounted pose would have been much more accurate.
We continued our weekend of learning with additional coursework, which included a seminar on the wonders of Bourbon, and a hands-on workshop aimed at obtaining the maximum potential of your falafel pita (without embarrassing blow-outs). G even played schoolmaster and taught me a thing or two about rap music and the emotional roller coaster that is the big-budget movie soundtrack. We closed our eyes while listening to clips from Dragonheart and I imagined men in armor and damsels in distress, or Civil War soldiers (to tie it into our weekend lesson plan) marching off to battle. It was very epic. I don't think I'll ever be a soundtrack convert, unless The Ark miraculously takes on movie making, but it was fun to listen to new things.
I think I got to know G better in those 4 days than I have in the 4 years that I've been visiting California for the summer and winter holidays. I think we sent him home completely worn out (at least I was completely worn out), but it was so much fun. I certainly hope he will have more time to visit us in the future!
I think I mentioned earlier that the Pope is in town this week and the city is all aflutter. I guess it's a pretty big deal, since this is only the second time a Pope has visited the White House. Helicopters, motorcades, and endless streams of buses are transporting (very important) people all over town. I wish someone would enforce a noise ordinance or two, because the choppers, and sirens, and yelling has to stop! How is a lady supposed to get any work done when ambulances are screaming through Dupont Circle every 5 minutes? Anyway, I didn't bother to go out to see the spectacle yesterday morning, knowing full well that there would be more than enough photos to peruse on the internet. And there were.
Apparently, people were gathering on Pennsylvania Avenue at 9am and waiting over three hours to see the Popemobile go by. To a lot of that same crowd's disappointment, the Pope cruised along at a rather speedy clip (in what is quite possibly the most ridiculous-looking vehicle ever invented). If only the general public knew that on the other side of the car is a giant wind-up key. The Secret Service probably cranked it a little too hard, so it zoomed right up Pennsylvania rather than cruising at a moderate, more Popely (Papal?) speed. I hear that once the car reached Rock Creek Parkway (out of the public eye) it started to do random stunts - like spinning in circles and popping wheelies. Oh god, I'm laughing out loud here in the office. Is the Popemobile sacrosanct? I'm going to Hell aren't I?
Aside from learning a whole host of new words like "apostolic" and "nunciature," I think the most impressive thing that I encountered was this photo.
Look at those sassy red shoes. The Pope's garb may be a time-honored tradition (as we found through the unauthorized Pope bobble head controversy), but damn, that's one stylish old dude. I just wish the press would start capturing him in a pose where he's not waving two arms around like a zombie.
In my spare time I often think about the things I will miss when we eventually leave D.C. As much as Jesse and I are eager to move on, there are a lot of things that will make it hard to say goodbye. Of course the obvious comes to mind, like close friends and all of the connections we've made over the course of our 5 1/2 years, but what will really hit home are the little things that have made our stay so unique - both good and bad. As they come to mind, I'm trying to write them all down!
Today was the first day since I started my blog that I was reminded of something I will miss. I was at Safeway this afternoon picking up a few things for lunch (and plenty of snacks to get me through the day) when I spotted something that I hadn't seen in a while. Way down at the bottom shelf in the cookie aisle, there they were, Murray’s Cookie Jar Classics Chocolatey Chip Cookies.
These cookies are probably the one item that I most associate with visiting my grandparents in Louisiana as a kid – that and the Mardi Gras beads and doubloons I would get to take home. My grandmother would always have an avocado green Tupperware container full of these little flower-shaped cookies (appropriately placed on a low shelf so my sister and I would always have access).
My favorite part about the cookies was that they were not only shaped like flowers, but they had a little hole in the center that was just big enough for your finger. I would stretch out my hand, put a cookie on each, and nibble the petals one by one. Or, I would slide them down past the knuckle and admire my lovely, buttery (and sometimes chocolatey) jewels. Apparently, my fingers were much smaller back then.
The package doesn’t lie when it says “Southern Favorite since 1941," because when we moved to New Jersey they were impossible to find. Murray's cookies are just one of many regional brands or types of foods that are only found in grocery stores in the South. Occasionally, my Mom would get my grandmother to send over a package or two for a treat.
It made me sad standing there in Safeway to think that they have probably been here all this time and I never took advantage. True, they aren't terribly good cookies (as punctuated by the ARTIFICIALLY FLAVORED declaration below Chocolatey), but they haven't changed in 28 years and somehow that makes me smile.
Today is tax day. Most of us dread having to fork over our hard earned money to The Man. I think the residents of D.C. feel the pain a little more because we pay our federal taxes, but have no vote. I'm always shocked at how many people don't realize that the D.C. doesn't have voting representatives in Congress.
Yes, we get to vote for the President and elect our local council members, but we only have "Shadow Representatives" in the House and Senate. These shadow positions are LAME-O (to use a technical term) and give the holder a right to speak up, but not vote. Every year, Congress decides our city budget, voices opinions on our local laws, and often use their power to draft sneaky legislation that greatly affects our city.
With so many hands in the pot, and a not-so-sympathetic administration, D.C. has its hands tied. True, the city has made some questionable choices in the officials it elects (Marion Barry over and over and over again). But, one might also argue that Arkansas has some questionable taste, yet they get to have voting members in Congress.
This year with the Popemobile in town, the usual Voting Rights march has been cancelled. Instead voting rights groups are gathering on Capitol Hill to educate the public and hopefully make some impression on Congress members strolling around.
Maybe 2009 will be the year that D.C. gets the vote. We have a Target now. That has to count for something right?
Sharon was visiting from L.A. this weekend and we were so happy to see her - even for just a short visit. It really felt like she never moved away and we easily fell back into the usual routine of chatting about work and life, taking turns grossing each other out, and laughing out loud for hours at a time. Oh, and music. Boy did I hear a lot about music!
The weather this weekend was fickle to say the least, with temperatures ranging from 79 degrees down to 28 with a combination of clouds, sun, wind, and thunder. Friday night was horrible (except for the the good company of course) and we nearly sweat to death in our beds. I now regret complaining about the winter weather all month. The up side though, is that with two fans running at turbo-speed, it is nearly impossible to hear the drunk crowd on 18th Street. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that they'll actually turn the air conditioning on this week.
On Saturday morning, after a refreshing shower and bagels from So's Your Mom, we set out to Eastern Market. There we were greeted with sunshine and then torrential rain and then some more sunshine. Despite the weirdo weather, we picked up some fish and fresh greens for dinner. Then we hopped on the Metro and headed to the Cowgirl Creamery for cheese. Luckily, they had Jesse's favorite, Humboldt Fog, and we also tried a round of their seasonal St. Pat. The St. Pat, a mild and flavorful cow's milk cheese that's wrapped in stinging nettles, is awesome! The rest of the afternoon we spent hanging out in the kitchen preparing dinner. I probably ate half a round of St. Pat all by myself while cooking that afternoon.
While dinner was a cinch, the dessert I chose to make, an almond pear tart, was in another category all together. Had I known how long it would take, I would have started the night before, but once I go the the crust and filling going, there was no turning back. Do I regret making the tart? Heck no! It was incredibly tasty and was welcome fuel during our epic Trivial Pursuit tournament. Jesse had the most wedges filled in his pie when we finally decided to give up, but I say, we're all winners for having such stamina after a giant dinner, a few drinks, and lots of dessert! This, unfortunately, is the only remnant of Saturday night. Probably by the time you read this it will be long gone!
I think it's pretty safe to say that this will be the last time Sharon visits us in D.C., so it was great to have her all to ourselves for a weekend. I think the next time we see her, she'll be in Seattle and we'll be in Portland. Only 3 1/2 hours and and a $65 Amtrak ticket away. I look forward to having our close friends within a reasonable distance again!
This week I'm feeling the crunch. In just a few days (4 to be exact), I will make a call to a firm in Portland that indicated some interest in my resume last month. It was one of those situations where a friend of a friend knew someone who worked at this place, and somehow my resume landed on the right desk. So here I am, planning every day as though my next phone call or email might be "the one." Its hard living in a way that requires you to be noncommittal to any occasion that is further in the future than 30 days from yesterday.
I've been holding my cards pretty close at work, since we really have no clue when we're actually going to leave. The D.C. Modernism survey (a.k.a. my albatross) is nearing its final stages. The office gets weekly calls from people inquiring when the draft will be released to the public. My shoulders tense up just thinking about it. In a matter of a few months, people will be salivating over the work that I have prepared over the past 3 years. OK, maybe there won't be a stampede, but oh god! The pressure! Professionals will actually use my survey as a future reference - a benchmark for evaluating modern architecture in the post-WWII period. What was I thinking? I certainly can't be qualified to be a benchmark for anything!
Self doubt aside, the strict deadline I have imposed on myself is the most stressful thing of all. As with any project, the last things left to complete are the most grueling tasks. They are the ones that I have been avoiding, all while knowing that someday I would just have to (as Jesse would say) sack up. Well, that day is here and I am hating life. Footnotes, formatting, and little research tasks make my day drag on and on. However, I can't (no, won't) leave D.C. without having finished what I started. At the same time, I feel as though I can't stay in D.C. another minute.
So, in honor of my misery, I declare Thursday "Love My Modern Architecture Day." Tomorrow, I will furiously fill in the gaps between highways and the Metro, solve the time lapse between Gropius and Hartman-Cox, and become an architectural history machine. Wish me luck, but please, only send over the pure and functional vibes. I don't want my mojo muddled with that Postmodernist garbage.
I filed our taxes pretty early this year. They were in on February 4th and our federal refund was back by the 12th. Despite my nervousness about filing as married, the federal return was a breeze and I was finished within an hour (thanks to Turbo Tax). I then moved on to the antiquated D.C. online forms, because they're so Secure! Accurate! and Provide Faster Refunds! Usually this takes about 15 minutes. All you do is answer a few questions, do a bit of simple math, and zoom through to a measly, yet welcome refund.
I started out by entering the same filing status as our federal return (Married filing jointly) and whizzed through the form. Oh crap! We owed almost $1000. Ok, back to the paper. I went through all the steps again and we still owed in the quadruple digits. I knew something had to be wrong, so I started at the beginning. I read the booklet from cover to cover and found that there are multiple ways to file if you are married or in a domestic partnership:
1) Married Filing Jointly (common sense would tell you to pick this category)
2) Married Filing Separately
3) Married Filing Separately on the same Form (huh?)
4) Married Filing on Mars with 18 feline dependents (just kidding)
Apparently you're supposed to figure out your filing status all three ways and choose the one that gives you a better return. What? Is this a joke? You get to choose how much you want to pay? So, I did something that I swore I would never do.... I paid for Turbo Tax State edition. It hurt my newly found frugal soul to shell out $11.95, but in the end it was a tiny fraction of what we saved.
Fast forward to Thursday. We still hadn't received our state tax refund. Given the fact that Washington Post has daily updates on D.C.'s tax fraud scandal, I thought I should call and take some action before the cash flow dried up. I dialed the customer service number to inquire about my long overdue deposit and the lady said, "Honey you OWE $919. You must have looked on the wrong line in the table in the back of the book." Dead silence. She told me the problem areas over the phone for me to verify later. I hung up.
Then it occurred to me, the figure she gave on the phone was exactly the same as when I figured out the form by hand the first time. She would have been correct if I had filed under category 1, but I filed under category 3, Married Filing Separately on the same Form. That meant the back of the booklet didn't apply. Instead, I had to fill out Schedule S, Table J, and sprinkle some fairy dust on my head to get our special tax figure. I called customer service again (thankfully getting another representative) and explained the problem. They admitted it was their mistake. We should expect our whopping $212 return in 7-10 days. Whew. That was close. Rather than dipping into our future house fund we are able to pad it. Yeah, we're high rollers.
Although I'm all riled up about such a mistake on their part, it's a relief to know that I'm not a complete idiot - the tax forms in D.C. really are that complicated.
In March, we set out to purchase Jesse a new suit for upcoming interviews and to spruce up his business wardrobe. We decided to take a trip to Men's Wearhouse since it was the store most likely to have a large selection of styles and sizes. The sales clerk who greeted us was quite enthusiastic and immediately was able to tell Jesse's coat and shirt size just by looking at him. I was impressed. He pulled out a few suits based on what we described, and within minutes we were sold - a dark grey pinstripe and a brown suit. The jackets fit perfectly. The pants, well, needed some work.
When Jesse first walked out of the dressing room I averted my eyes in horror. They left very little to the imagination. He bravely hopped up on the fitting platform to take a look at the damage. The waist was just about the only thing on the pants that didn't need fixing. The seat seams were firmly lodged in his unmentionable areas, which was undoubtedly caused by the fact that the crotch was light years too short. Due to the shortness of the inseam, when he pulled the pants up to where they should have rested on his waist, we got quite a show. I seem to remember a similar situation at the Men's Warehouse in Santa Cruz when Graham was trying on his first suit. To aleviate some of the tension, Jesse firmly slapped his butt (as any older brother would do), sending the poor sales girl running. Where was Graham when we needed him?
The sales clerk called on the tailor, a nearly deaf man who spoke very little, to take measurements for hem length and to solve the bathing suit region crisis. I tried reinforce through hand motions the utter vulgarity of the pants situation - flailing and gesticulating toward the zipper region. The tailor chalked up the pants, making marks on the seat, which I could only imagine meant "give this poor boy some relief!"
Our third trip was a success, and Jesse is now the owner of two really good-looking suits. The solution was a simple (tiny) gusset to ease the tension that was causing all the problems. He mused on our walk to the car about how there used to be this company in Santa Cruz called Chi Pants that was known for their comfort-fit garments. Had they not gone out of business after the 1989 earthquake, we joked that he could be their new spokesperson/model at Men's Wearhouse for the comfort gusset. We were all set to begin marketing the "Hey Look at My Crotch" campaign, but then found out that we were are about seven years too late. It's already been tried, and looks to have failed. Either way, his body did feel like smiling.
To do this week: Capture Jesse frolicking in his new Chi Suits.
This weekend I pulled out my fabric stash, washed a few new colors, and started cutting. Last year, I really enjoyed making a patchwork style baby quilt for our friends Bret & Stephanie, so I'm going try it again. Only this time it will be sized for an adult. I'm so excited because a majority of the fabric so far has been scraps and leftovers from other projects. A scrap of Ava's quilt here, a dash of Lauren's quilt there, and a few bits from the J-E Love Quilt thrown in as well. 
