The Black Swan

Slats of wooden floorboards creak beneath the delicate movement and placement of feet pirouetting across its surface. Feet which house both worn and unworn pink slippers. Tiny strings of thread poke out where stitches have been restitched from the numerous stories they have told through their journey across the stage. On others, stiffness envelopes the feet which shifts to their bodies; these are the novices of the room who are still uncertain if their arm position is appropriate to whatever their lower half is currently engaging in. Mirrors consume all four walls-floor to roof-so not a moment passes unaccounted or observed for.

Sweet serenity.

Today I decided I wanted to be a ballerina. And this idea was further reinforced by my refrigerator magnet that I strategically placed at my favorite haven to serve as a reminder that it is okay to face any and all vulnerabilities.

The thought of dancing again is a bit terrifying. When I was young, like most kids, I was fearless (despite having a father who taught the opposite daily, I mean hourly, of all the possible things I should be afraid of). It’s a wonder I don’t still reside in one of my parent’s residences.

The previous statement should be edited. Today, I decided I wanted to be a ballerina again. I once was a ballerina; the days before adolescence, thighs, and when wearing make-up was confined to the stage. Which in retrospect is a hideous way to introduce young formidable girls to make up.

“Cake it on!"

"They can’t see you without it!"

" You won’t be noticed! You don’t want to be a wallflower, do you?”

Well, I guess not, but you do have me dressed up like a mushroom (true story), not exactly the preparation for someone that’s about to be the chandelier of which parties and events revolve around.

Stite’s Studio was thrilling. I loved going to ballet class. I felt important carrying my lavender dance bag with the pink slippers screen printed on the side, and taking out my own slippers that matched once I got into the studio. It was forbidden to walk on the streets with your ballet slippers. I loved the feeling of my black skirt grazing my standard pink tights as I spun around in circles and anticipating my turn to do grande jete’s diagonally across the floor. And then back. I was always eager to go one more time and never understood the hesitation of some of my classmates and their willingness to let me cut in line as they continued to allow others to “go ahead” while they hoped to get lost. In a room full of mirrors.

My hiatus from the jewelry-box dancer was due to taking on more “competitive” sports. Maybe I should say “contact” as I’m sure I’ve offended, and rightfully so, someone who has starred as Clara in Juliard’s production of “The Nutcracker.” Or some other big deal where you literally ruin the shape, feeling, and overall attractiveness of your feet. Or where you work so hard in becoming a character that you manifest this war between self and evil ultimately dying for the role [Spoiler alert].

So after much thought, hesitation, longing feelings during a cinematic blockbuster that shouldn’t warrant such emotion, more hesitation, and conversations with a friend who had recently taken the leap [pun], I decided to take Mrs. Roosevelt’s advice.

[my favorite new pair of shoes I've bought this week. Besides the strappy sandals I bought yesterday...]

Before I had an opportunity to change my mind, I googled the nearest dance store and bought a new dance wardrobe. I was reassured when the lady told me, “You totally need a leotard with a strappy back,” which I interpreted as my lifting has been paying off and Operation 2011: Tone back, is giving noticeable results. Even though I was wearing a cardigan at the time this comment was made.

Here’s to dancing like no one (besides 15 women and possibly 2 men) is watching.

Wait, so what is it that you DO do?

Disclaimer: This is a rant.

Since I've relocated there are many a things to take care of. Changing of addresses, opening accounts, closing accounts, HR paperwork, car stuff, etc. etc. I have been postponing a few of these phone calls for the dread of listening to prompts as I can no longer get an operator when I obsessively press "0." They're on to me.

One of these calls was to my doctor's office. I needed to refill a prescription a whopping four days before I am "allowed" to refill it AKA before my insurance is finito from this physician. I left a message with person #1, who has person #2 call me back a couple hours later, flabbergasted by my request.

Person #2: Well there are still 5 refills on this prescription

Me: Yes, I understand that. But I won't be refilling anymore except this one time as my insurance by your provider will be ending at the end of this month.

Person #2: So...what is it that you want Dr. Anonymous to do?

Me: To give the pharmacy permission to fill it 4 days earlier. And if she has to take out 4 of the pills, I understand {breath of sarcasm}.

Person #2: {Deep Exhalation} Oh, wow. So you would need a new prescription

Me: I'm not quite sure how this all works, but I guess if that's what it takes, yes. Or she could just make a phone call

Person #2: But she's already written the prescription.

Me: Yes.

Person #2: Well, I don't know how she'd do it. She'd have to write a whole new prescription.

In my time as a patient, for the last 26 years or so, I've had allergies of every kind, sleeping problems, aches, pains, etc. that have brought me to the doctor's office. Usually, to cure any of the aforementioned ailments, the doctor reaches into the magical abyss of their white lab coat, obtaining a white notepad with their inked credentials already printed on this pad, scribbles a few illegible notes, and I am on my happy way to the pharmacy. The whole process takes about 1.5 seconds.

Person #3 has returned my call. And guess what? Dr. Anonymous made a call and it's done.

Why is it that people feel compelled to make their jobs more difficult than they actually are?

Chillax Rx.

I can tell that we are gonna be friends.

There are cardboard boxes still folded over and stacked up in my living room, but I am unpacked. What a feeling.

It did not come without struggle, thanks to my nostalgic tendencies, but everything has its place (almost) and my new home is looking glorious. I absolutely love it. I feel serene, relaxed and comfy cozy in my new walls.

I love it so much that I find it hard wanting to leave my living room and the sound of my record player to go exploring. Well, that and I’m getting over the plague. But I peeled myself off the couch and have started to wander around the greater part of my new home.

It seemed like I waited days to receive my first piece of mail that wasn't junk as I was impatiently waiting to get my new library card. Since I don't have a Washington license, this is required in order for them to hand over the goods. Now I feel intellectually connected that I am the proud owner of a Seattle Public Library Card.

I've also found the nearest Target and have paid them two visits. Balance.

On my first night out with one of my girlfriends that lives up here, Sarah, we found ourselves in the funky streets of Fremont. I've visited this area before on previous trips, but it very much reminds me of the weirdness of Portland and I'm pretty sure I'll find my corner there as I had such a good time walking on its sidewalks last night and today. We went to The Dubliner, an Irish bar as the date of March 17th calls for us all to become Irish or a descendant of some famous leprechaun, then found ourselves food that wasn't Shepherd's pie and additional libations at Dad Watsons. The best part of this night for me was unknowingly finding a parking spot right by the troll underneath the Aurora Bridge. I know most wouldn't find such excitement in the presence of an unsightly troll (especially if your surname is Sheen), but it happens to star in one of my favorite movies and seeing that concrete face of disgust on St Patty's night, brought me great joy. On our ride home, the downtown city skyline was to our right, all lit up, and I couldn't believe it was my time to be apart of this city.

In another internal dispute this morning, I thought it would be a good idea to maybe get some work done on my upcoming term being that I have no material whatsoever prepared. To further convince myself to remove thy booty from thy cushion, I gave myself permission to do some not-so-window shopping before I found a cute cafe and got to work. Back in Fremont, I rummaged through 99 cent bins of Vinyl to find a few select gems I had been looking for and of course, walked away with ones I now could not live without. Some Simon with his boy Garfunkel, some Elton, Billy, and Tommy James & The Shondells ("Crimson & Clover" is one of my faves of all time). My record collection is really starting to fill out.

Afterward, I was innocently walking to my car to find this cafe, when the words "Wine Warehouse" invaded my line of vision. I stopped in. Just to look around, of course.

I met Michael, the owner of this mecca of wine. He told me about the special events, the free tastings they have on Fridays (did I mention it was Friday?) and I left the store happily with some vino and now as a member of this great establishment. I have already received an email of upcoming events that I can't wait to attend. Now I feel Oenologically connected.

Eventually, I found my cafe. What I didn't find in my bag that I packed so well, was my laptop. Oh well. I guess work will have to wait.

A Tale of a City.

Chapter 1:

I’m 18. I’ve just stepped out of the mundane, judgmental halls of a homogenous high school. Everyone dresses the same, wants to act the same and wants to not be seen as different. I never had daydreams of being a wallflower. Freedom came to me in the form of an 8x8 dorm room cell infested with Ladybugs on the 7^th floor of Bloss Hall at Oregon State University, shared with my best friend. I guess that whole thing of Ladybugs being good luck had some sort of truth to it, and we had a ton.

In those four years of Undergraduate, Oregon State gave me friends. Lifelong friendships birthed in walks at halftime to and from the stadium, neighbors made in dorm room hallways coming back from midnight snacks or the country store and from proximity of sitting next to someone repeatedly in class and being forced out of awkwardness to say, "So is this class in your major?"

Barbecues were a weekday staple when afternoon classes let out Spring afternoons and friendships were strengthened around marinating chicken and steaks in the classiness of front porches and yards. And on some special Fridays when the sun was really out for the day, we may have taken a personal day to go to the beach 45 minutes away.

[This was one of those days]

Oregon State gave me the world. My international experience was confined to the landmasses that we share on the North and South ends of our country. Before I went to college the “world” always seemed to be something I could only touch with my hand by lying my palm on a globe while it spun in its circles. That was the extent of my orbit. It wasn’t a tangible place; somewhere my feet would ever be able to touch upon the soil of a different nation. I’m not one for being fond of being wrong, but I’m so glad I was on this one.

[Those are my Pumas. On Left. In Greece]

[It gave me this sunset]

Oregon State gave me employment. From Student Orientation, to a Liberal Arts Ambassador, to working in the International Office to speak to students about going abroad (seriously, I’m being paid for this??) and my coveted position of a tour guide. Yes, I wore an adult men's medium Orange polo that perpetually faded with every wash and sunbeam that touched it, and I wore that thing proud. I love that I know the intricacies of the behind-the-scenes of OSU. I feel like it’s the inside look you get when you click on the extra features on a DVD.

[Fun Fact: Betty Crocker went to OSU and it was also where the Maraschino Cherry was invented.]

Oregon State gave me love. And oh, did I fall. Down that Rabbit Hole, I did fall and I couldn't seem to find Alice's hand to grasp onto.

Chapter 2:

I’m 22. I’m at CH2M Hill Alumni center searching for a future in the rows of employers represented by booths and cardboard signs. People are shoving their business cards my way and I’m reciprocating with smiles and an elevator speech of why my 4 years of education makes me better than the other nervous college student behind me who has an almost identical speech prepared.

I interviewed. I convinced myself that sales would be right for me, why wouldn’t it be? The only thing I’ve ever dreamed of doing was to write and there’d surely be writing involved there.

Then came my Department Chair with an opportunity to not only get my Master’s Degree, but on a full scholarship while teaching courses as a Graduate Teaching Assistant. Up until this point, I had never thought about a Master’s Degree. No one in my family had one, why should I? But thinking back to the row of party-pumps turned interview-attire at the career fair and showing me the very real nature of my competition while trying to discern why I was special, made me think that maybe this isn’t a half bad deal.

My aforementioned Best Friend and I roomed for all four years of college (and we remain Best Friends which is some sort of wonderful with the ways that roommate situations can go). Now I was on my way to living alone for the first time in my life that wasn’t a weekend that she’d be away for. I was very much the independent gal who didn’t need a friend in tow for every outing, but being alone had its whole other reality.

So here I was, still at OSU while most of my friends had departed (except for a selection in their 5^th year :) ); it was time to make new friends with a new cohort.

Chapter 3:

Thesis defended. Master’s degree on the bookshelf as that is the only place anyone will ever see it. No one asks to see those things. Leave OSU for the corporate world only to be back a couple years later. This time as an educator.

I’m 26.75 and I am driving to Corvallis for my last time in the foreseeable future. A thought like this is kind of inconceivable being that I have been making this journey three times a week for about a year and a half. It’s a part of my routine, and I’m a sucker for those. As I’m taking Exit 228, the violin sounds from one of my favorite songs by The Verve “Bittersweet Symphony" comes on. No truer words have been spoken.

I made a special route today to drive by Bloss Hall. And by Reser Stadium. I drive by the shop where I got my nose pierced for the first time while bored during a snowstorm that shockingly shut down OSU for two days. And a few front yards where I convinced myself I could smell barbeque even as the rain splashed onto the street making it close to impossible for any flame to burn. I drove by the dirtiest shanty of a house I had ever lived in and could not fathom sleeping in today. In fact, when we viewed the house the first time, there was a dead bird in the living room. We took it anyway. Completely different meaning to Put a bird on it.

I walk out of my last class I'll teach there and find myself in front of the Valley Library. I pull out my camera despite the rain and take a picture, even though I can’t imagine the day where I forget what this gorgeous building looks like and the way I feel so small walking down its infinite aisles of books which now includes my own work (actually, I’m not sure if they printed it or if it just exists online).

[I know it looks dreary, but you can smell the Cherry Blossoms, I promise.]

Chapter 4:

The U-Haul will pull away with my brother at the wheel and my dad following behind. My mom and I wave from my new home, surrounded by daunting cardboard boxes in the living room behind me. She’ll help me unpack, clean as she has always done and make some food to sustain what will be a busy week, but this time I’ll put her on a train back home (and she’ll all-too-soon end up in Barbados) and I’ll be alone. Left to figure out on my own devices what this freedom means in a new city, 9 years later. If a place like Corvallis could show me the non-textbook version of the world, love, teaching and friendships, I wonder where I'll find myself on these new city sidewalks. But that's another tale I suppose I'll have to tell.