Sympathique

Some days, today being one of them, I just want to come home from work, put on sweat pants, pour a glass of wine, and dance around my apartment while listening to Pink Martini. Though this activity might not be alluring to many people, I find that it is one of the things that keeps me sane after a 10+ hour work day. I get comfortable, relax, indulge, and yes, sometimes I sing to myself in French… it happens.

Pink Martini has been one of my favorite bands since 11th grade, when I did a solo in ballet to their song Sympathique. I wore a red velvet leotard, and donned the most ridiculous fake eyelashes, put on my pointe shoes, and exercised my flair for the dramatic.

At the time I only knew Pink Martini as “that one band that sings that French song” but thankfully my music repertoire has expanded a little bit since my high school days..thank you iTunes, the wonderful Portland Music scene… and also my college roommate CoCo, who’s musical collection blew me away, and made me a much cooler person. Since those days, which I now tend to refer to as my musical dark ages, I have discovered the rest of the genius that is Pink Martini…

With songs in English ,French, Italian, Japanese, Croatian, and Spanish, the bi-lingual talent of the group is undeniable. Their sound is garden-party, old Hollywood glamour, mixed with modern global rhythms and perspectives. Group founder Thomas M. Lauderdale says . “We bring melodies and rhythms from different parts of the world together to create something which is new and beautiful.”

Much to my delight, Pink Martini calls Portland its home, which means I’ve had the opportunity to see them in concert a number of times. Never a disappointment, the twelve person ensemble puts on an amazing show. Every member of the band seems to embody finesse and charisma and one can tell they are passionate about performing. They always seem to have a great energy and connect with the audience in a unique way. I attribute this not only to the home-town appeal of the group, but also to the fact that their fan base is as diverse as their music.

Their debut album Sympathique came out in 1997, and twelve years later it is probably the most adaptable CD in my music collection. There is a song for every mood, every occasion, whether I am dancing around in my sweatpants, or throwing a sit-down dinner party, Sympathique is my CD of choice. Their two subsequent albums Hang on Little Tomato and Hey Eugene, are every bit as unique, delightful and charming.

Now, years after my first exposure to Pink Martini, I find I can relate to the French lyrics of Sympathique a bit better than I could in 11th grade. The English translation might not roll off the tongue quite as nicely, but the overall meaning and mood of the song transcend the language barrier. I come home from work and know exactly what China Forbs is feeling when she sings

Je ne veux pas travailler

Je ne veux pas déjeuner

Je veux seulement oublier

Et puis je fume

I don't want to work

I don't want to lunch

I want only to forget

And then I smoke

To find out more about the members of Pink Martini, hear samples of their music, check tour dates, and get a better feel for the band as a whole, visit their website at www.pinkmartini.com

Bouquets of newly-sharpened pencils

Don't you love New York in the

fall? It makes me want to buy school

supplies. I would send you a bouquet of

newly-sharpened pencils if I knew your

name and address.- You’ve Got Mail

There is something indescribably delightful about the imminent arrival of fall. Though I am devoted fan of summer & all that comes with it, I find myself to be looking forward to fall more and more.& really, what’s not to love about Autumn? Sure in the Pacific Northwest it gets a little rainy… but let’s be honest if we didn’t secretly love that (even if it’s only on a subconscious level) we wouldn’t live here. Maybe I find fall so appealing is because of the tangible excitement that surrounds it, or at least surround its main actives…. going back to school, grape harvest, post season baseball… Or perhaps it is change I’m craving more than anything, whether that be a change of address, change of outfit, or change of season, I’m ready for something new, something different, and Fall seems to bring this in the perfect small doses.

Everything. Colors, the climate, the couture, are practically exploding with change this time of year. Leaves cycle from green to vibrant shades of yellow, orange and red. What was once verdant and lush is starting to become neon and electric. Harvest is upon us in the Willamette valley & the age old question of “to pick, or not to pick” is on the edge of every vineyard manager & winemakers minds. The evenings and afternoons are becoming cooler, breezier, & summer footwear is starting to be traded in for closed toed options.

Though I may not be ready for a huge life change, I am ready to start cycling my cooler weather clothing into daily use. What is it about this time of year that makes scarves and boots, and light jackets seem so delicious? I know, full well, that two months into the rainy season I will be longing for these dog days of summer back, but right now I have a menagerie of accessories waiting to be released into my everyday wardrobe. Like the foliage my attire is starting to make a gradual shift from grassy greens and blues, to richer tones of chartreuse, orange, umber & ash.

Along with layering of clothing and addition of accessories, also comes a nearly uncontrollable urge to spend copious amounts of my latest paycheck on “school supplies.” I’m not even in school, and yet September rolls around, and all I want to do is stock up on composition books, mechanical pencils, highlighters, post-it notes, and rainbow sharpies. It doesn’t matter that I’m not enrolled in any classes, I’m a student of the world, and damn it, I want new pens and spiral notebooks! Of course I realize this whimsical desire for school supplies isn’t entirely practical. I don’t have an actual use for twelve different colors of highlighter, a handful of notebooks, and a years supply of pencil lead, let alone a place to store it all, but I want it just the same… bouquets of newly-sharpened pencils.

The Wardrobe Malfunction

Anything that can go wrong will go wrong- Murphy’s Law
S*** Happens. It’s a cliché. It’s also been the underlying theme of my life over this summer. This is not so much a complaint as it is an observation. I’ve spent hours contemplating my karma, but in the long run, the events of the past fifteen weeks have given me a long list of fodder and personal anecdotes.

Hello Granny-Panties, Goodbye Dignity

It all started on a Tuesday in early June. Tuesday’s are by definition my Saturday’s and are often spent running errands, doing laundry, & playing catch up. I packed up a large hamper full of laundry and hauled it down the stairs and across the street into my vehicle. Though my building does have a communal coin operated washer and dryer, I often choose to do my laundry at my parents house, since they don’t charge me $.75 a load. I tend not to think of this a freeloading, as I often add their laundry to the mix. As I was loading up my car, I got a phone call from a client, and as I was getting ready to run some errands I opted to pace up and down the street rather than sit in my car. Though it is not a particularly busy street, it is adjacent to 3rd street, the main street in the heart of the downtown and is one of the many factors that make apartment ideal. I’m located mere feet away from the organic grocery store, a stone’s throw from multiple coffee shops, gourmet restaurants, dive bars, and a book store, all I could ever need is within walking distance of this apartment. It was around 1:00 in the afternoon and there were a handful of people eating outside the grocery store, and people walking to and from offices etc. I paced outside my apartment for a good 10 minutes, answering my client’s questions, and when I was off the phone I jetted around the corner onto 3rd street and down a block to the bookstore. I passed several people on the sidewalk, smiled, nodded, made eye contact, and went on my way. As I browsed through the day-planners at the bookstore I brushed up against a shelf and suddenly it came to attention that the jersey skirt I was wearing was, and had been the entire time I was outside, tucked into my underwear.

This is one of the downsides of living alone, there is no one to tell you to fix your skirt before you go outside & inadvertently make a spectacle of yourself. At least if this happens in a public restroom there is usually a woman kind enough to let you know before you expose your cellulite to the world that your skirt is in fact tucked into your skivvies. I was actually disappointed in the community as a whole that no one had taken the time to let me know that I might be feeling a draft. I would like to think that I am the kind of person that if I saw some spastic girl with her ass hanging out, I would double check with her to make sure it was indeed a wardrobe malfunction & not just a bold fashion statement. Granted, I typically am not the type of person who tells random strangers if they have lipstick on their teeth, or something in their nose, because let’s face it, these are minor daily instances & often it’s more awkward to bring this to someone’s attention then to pretend you don’t see it.But I draw the line at ass exposure. This is something that no matter how awkward should be brought to the person’s attention. When the situation begins to border on indecent exposure, I feel as though the community should feel an overwhelming sense of obligation to tell that person & save them from further embarrassment.

My first thought after discovering that my skivvies were exposed to the greater downtown area was “Oh God, what underwear am I wearing today?” Though at the time I couldn’t remember, but since I had just loaded up about three weeks worth of laundry in my car, I knew that the odds of having cute ones on were not in my favor. Not that it really matters, but hey, if the entire downtown is going to see your underwear, wouldn’t you rather they see the cute pair edged in lace than the pair that you would deem to be unsightly?
After hearing the story for the first time, many have tried to make me feel better by saying “well it could have been worse, at least you were wearing underwear.” At this point I have to remind them that had I actually been going commando, there would have been no material for my skirt to get stuck in, so really, I wished I had had the foresight to forgo the underwear that day.

Later that week when I was recounting the story to my coworkers we began to discuss the contents of our underwear drawers. The main conclusion was this: If we were suddenly hit by a car and killed instantly, what would sort of underwear would we want to be discovered in? If you even own a pair of underwear you aren’t willing to die in, or at least be wheeled to the ER in, then the fact of the matter is they shouldn’t exist in your underwear drawer… not at the front of it anyway. For me the exception is going to the gym. Personally I don’t think that cute or sexy underwear have any place in my exercise routine, and so clearly a few pair of bland workout panties must be kept somewhere in your undergarment repertoire. But just because they are there is no excuse to be parading around town with your skirt tucked into them. Needless to say, I impulsively bought new underwear the next day, all of it in striking colors and mostly lacy…Sure I hope that this was an isolated incident, and though I certainly don’t plan on unknowingly showing the downtown my unmentionables again, I want to be prepared! If my ass insists on making a second appearance without consulting me first, the least I can do is stack my dresser full of things I would want to be discovered dead in.

A week or two went by, and as more time passed, I had resigned myself to being the mysterious townie with the granny panties. At least it made for a good story (at least people seemed to enjoy it when I told it) and I imagined it would make a fairly good anecdote for some of the people I walked passed “Last week I was eating lunch at Harvest Fresh, when a girl walked by with her skirt tucked into her underwear…. Now that is something you don’t see every day, it really made my lunch I almost choked on my salad” I was ok with being the mystery girl, no name, no face, just a story. Of course my hopes of staying somewhat anonymous were crushed, when I was outed by a co-worker.

“Oh so I met an acquaintance of yours the other night…..” She started. I already knew by her tone what was coming…. “I asked if she wanted to hear a funny story about you” Wonderful. Let me just say for the record that this underwear story is one I am comfortable telling to close friends and total strangers (It’s a good ice breaker), but the level of mortification is just high enough where it’s not something you just toss around casually to people you sort of know. At least not sober anyway.

I grimaced at the idea. I mean, sure it’s a funny story, but did she have to go into a place that I frequent and tell this person that I had been prancing around town in my underwear? It seemed like a violation of trust. If she had taken it out of the community I wouldn’t have minded. She could have told it at a party or restaurant in Portland, but instead went blocks from my home into a place that I go on a regular basis and put my trauma right out. What made it even worse was that before my co-worker even had the chance to elaborate my acquaintance said “Oh let me guess, she was walking around town with her skirt tucked into her underwear, right? One of my friend’s saw her, but didn’t know who it was”

Goodbye anonymity. In one fell swoop I went from a faceless nameless wardrobe tragedy to a tangible embarrassing moment. There was no deniability now; a friend of an acquaintance could place me at the scene. I no longer had visions of being someone’s anonymous lunch time anecdote. Rather than being the ambiguous star of a chance observation I was now headlining in my own awkward moment. “Do you know Tayler? Yeah, well I was grabbing a coffee downtown, and she was bopping around with her ass hanging out, totally oblivious.” And what really gets me, is that this friend of my acquaintance didn’t have the gall to tell me at the time that I was parading around with my ass in full view…. Up to that point I could at least cling onto the smidgen of denial that the reason no one stopped me was because no one had actually noticed. Hello Granny panties goodbye dignity.

Procrastination

I’ve always been a bit of a procrastinator…. I’m procrastinating right now in fact, working on a blog when in reality I should be pouring over vocab lists or brushing up on my algebra skills. The GRE is less than a month away now, and even though I know I should be spending a majority of my free preparing for it, I find myself typing away at my computer….. Not that this blog is stemming from my desire to procrastinate. It’s been on my “to-do list” for over a year now. But as it so often happens with to do lists (at least with mine) I seem to need a looming deadline or a need to avoid something else to really find my motivation. This is not to be confused with inspiration. I find inspiration in most everyday things, but it often takes that extra push to get things down on paper.
Maybe procrastination wouldn’t be so appealing if it wasn’t so often rewarded. You get countless college professors who reiterate over & over again the importance of not leaving things till the last minute, giving yourself plenty of time to get assignments & papers in, & then they drive it home by saying that they can always tell when something is completed at the last minute. And you have good intentions of starting early, doing plenty of research, leaving time to let your ideas marinate, time for re-writes, revisions etc. Of course there comes a time when this is just unrealistic, and you find yourself the night before a large project is due, hyped up on caffeine, sitting at your desk frantically typing. The pressure is on, you’ve only got tonight to get it right, and your ideas have to be clear and original and free of typos. You know the odds are against you, because you’ve been staring at the screen for hours, you are sleep deprived & all of your paragraphs are blending together, but you reach the point where enough is enough, and decide to put yourself out of your misery. You write a conclusion, and pray for a passing grade. And after you’ve gotten your first A under these less than optimal conditions, you start to wonder if maybe you work better under pressure? Do you need the last minute fear & angst to push through the writers block? Probably not, but it does seem to add a unique rush to the experience, and so long as you are coming out on top why not?
It’s been quite a few years since I’ve had to push through the last minute pressure to meet an academic deadline, but with the GRE looming in the imminent future, I’m beginning to revert to some of my favorite procrastination tactics. My affinity for clutter lends itself to this quite nicely. It’s not that I enjoy messes or clutter, but the fact is, they don’t bother me, provided they are my own mess, my own stuff. But everyone has a breaking point, a point where suddenly the dishes in the sink have to be cleaned before another breath can be taken, a point where one’s mail must be sorted & filed, the recycling taken out, the plants pruned & the shelves dusted. For me this point typically occurs when I should be doing something else. No, when I NEED to be doing something else. I’m faced with a deadline, and suddenly the only thing I can focus on doing is bleaching the grout in my bathroom, reorganizing the fridge, backing up all my music files, color-coding my closet, scrubbing the kitchen floor on hands and knees, making a grocery list, tweezing my eyebrows etc. On the bright side, most of my procrastination distractions tend to be things that do need to get done, and I’m usually much happier once and more focused when they are done. Unfortunately my ability to prioritize is often clouded when in the procrastination haze. Why is it that I only seem to notice the toothpaste on the bathroom sink when I’m running 15 minutes behind schedule in the morning? Why, when I know I’m running late, do I feel compelled to do things that will slow me down even more, like clean the mirror?
Is it a self sabotaging strategy? Time will only tell. I’m taking the GRE in a month and I desperately need to study (since the idea of spending $150 to do poorly on a test isn’t my idea of fun). In the meantime I’m also starting a blog, researching graduate school (and important step, but one that could probably wait until I know my score), getting together a display for a work related trade show (the day after the GRE) coordinating two weddings, contemplating moving, and organizing a writing competition. Throw in all my other compulsive procrastination habits, not to mention my favorite fall distraction, MLB playoffs, and I begin to wonder if I’m biting off more than I can chew. Am I crazy? Probably. Can I pull it all off? God I hope so.