Post! I’m having withdrawals!
If you don’t start writing, I’m going to stop checking your website.
So, have you given up blogging?
You’re my closest friends and family members, so you know exactly what went down this past month. If you were me, wouldn’t you take a break from the blogosphere, too? Wouldn’t you take a break from sharing stories about your personal life with complete strangers? With cyberspace? It’s not like these narratives materialize on your computer screens by themselves, you know; they take time — energy, brain power! — to produce. Which I haven’t had much of lately. (Oh, and by the way? I love you guys.)
Anyway, the three of you know I’ve moved back to Oregon, to the Beaver State, and am living with my parents in the house I grew up in. (What’s the word for used-to-be empty-nesters with a twenty-three-year-old living at home? The twenty-three-year-old is a “boomeranger,” I believe, but what about the parents?) Soon I’ll have an amazing job and reside in a classy apartment in downtown Portland, of course, but for now I have to make do with what’s at hand. Mom and Dad are well aware of my plan, which is why they bought me a beautiful bouquet of roses — to reiterate the fact that I'm a City of Roses girl now — and a “Best Places Portland” book a few days ago. When I arrived home after an eleven-hour drive from San Francisco, the charming book rested on the vanity in my room against an eruption of red blossoms.
I tore open the package to find the “Best Places” manual. The cover read:
The Best in Eating, Going, Getting and Seeing
262 Boutiques and Specialty Stores
43 Venues to Rock Out
The 200 Best Restaurants
So I started from the beginning, with the fold-out map. (Which is essential for my survival in any city.) (Have I mentioned my north-south-east-west disorder? If not, it’s a horrible disability that causes me to: turn the wrong way at almost every intersection — as in, steer the car left when I should be steering right; not realize which way is north, south, east, or west; and incompetently give directions — from anywhere, to anywhere, including my house, school, the gym, the bank, the neighborhood grocery store, and so on. It’s a dreadful ailment known as Directional Dyslexia. In fact, sometimes my GPS navigation system can’t even help me.)
Anyway, I continued reading about the lay of the city and the general costs of living, dining, and entertainment in PDX. Then I came across this sentence:
“Prices at Portland restaurants may be above the national average, but if you’re used to eating out in San Francisco (Portland’s close big-city neighbor), dining in the City of Roses may seem like a bargain.”
As if not having to pay sales tax or pump my own gas isn’t enough to jump up and down in pure jubilation, now I learn that dining is cheaper than in San Francisco, too! (I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right: This is not at all shocking. But it’s fun to hear, especially when you’re broke and jobless and expected to write about stuff — like restaurants. I’ve learned that you can’t really write about restaurant experiences unless you actually visit — and experience — them.)
So Jenn, Maijken and Dad? This means more meals out for me, and more blogs for you.