Newness and Stuff

Just when I thought I was going to have to change my name to Chrysanthemum Rose if I wanted to work at any of the places I was applying to ("Hello, this is Violet from the Meadow"..."Hi, this is Sage from Sammy's Flowers," and don't even get me started on "Karen Fern") I finally got a job.  Actually, I got two.  And one of them has allowed me to cross something off my bucket list.  In a blog post a couple months ago, I made a list of possible career paths, and working in a flower shop was on there, right after interviewing Hannibal Lecter.  My case is one in which persistence paid off. Granted, it was borderline creepy persistence -- I actually just found a cover letter I had written Sammy's Flowers over a year ago.  But my almost-stalking and intense enthusiasm did the trick: I started working at the shop last week.  It's a whole lot of everything -- bouquet making, sweeping, answering phones, taking orders, tagging flowers -- with almost no down time, and it's the best.  The woman training me was telling me how lucky she was to get a job at the shop since she hadn't worked with flowers since college, and all I could say was how lucky I was to get a job at the shop without any experience, period.
   My other job is at a dress boutique just a few blocks down from Sammy's, so I'll be spending quite a bit of time on Northwest 23rd.  All the dresses in the shop are designed by one woman and are handmade locally using Fair Trade silk from India. The fabrics are beautiful and the quality is high, but the dresses certainly aren't cheap, so they appeal to a very specific clientele from what I've seen - mainly brides-to-be and older women looking for special occasion dresses.  One of the perks of working there is that I get to wear the clothes without any cost to myself, but the owner was out of town when I started working (about 2 weeks ago now) so I have been wearing my own skirts and dresses, but I still try to look nice and put together.  "Try to" are the key words there.  The first day I worked I spilled this pungent oily salad dressing down my skirt while I was eating lunch in a dressing room.  It got on the dressing room floor, and then I had to rinse my skirt off in the sink and dry it with the automatic hand dryer that I still haven't gotten used to.  This dryer is situated uncomfortably close to the sink to the point where it will sense your shoulder or elbow while you are washing your hands.  The stupid thing will blast on unexpectedly and scare you like you never thought an appliance could. Trust me, I've been there. 
      Both my jobs conveniently started the week I moved into a new house.  For the past year I had been living in this big old Victorian that I had a really hard time pulling myself away from, even though the landlords lived onsite and left passive-aggressive notes on things like salad spinners: "Please don't leave me wet, sad, and alone. It only takes a few minutes to clean me!!!!" Please don't leave notes around the house that make it sound like kitchen gadgets are talking to me. It takes less minutes to wash the object in question than to write a note about it, and no matter how many exclamations you put at the end, the note is just not nice!!!! It's a beautiful house and I could see the flashing 'Portland, Oregon' sign from my bed, but it was time to move on.  I got really lucky and found this great little house in Southeast that is owned by the nicest couple, and I get to live in it with two friends.  The house was built in 1892, and before the current owners bought it, it was falling apart.  Since last spring they've basically gutted the whole thing.  We have new drywall, new electrical wiring, new stainless steel appliances, but the outside of the house still has that old-school Portland charm. There's a porch, and a pear tree in the yard that's a big draw for people looking for rotting pears to feed their chickens.  We even get our own raised garden beds, so I'll be able to grow some treats for myself next summer.

Home sweet home.

Nature!

All this said, the past couple of weeks have been the teensiest bit hectic. And apparently it's become tradition that with every new job comes yet another parking ticket. I wouldn't be surprised if I am a bit of a laughing stock for the Portland Parking Enforcement staff.  "This chick again. C'mon, California Plates."  I was almost late to my first day of work at the dress shop because I had gone to court that morning to appeal a ticket I had gotten for parking in a spot reserved for carpools. Anyhow, in a mad rush I parked in the closest spot I could find to the dress shop, and 7 hours later I walked out with salad dressing on my skirt to see a bright yellow ticket drawing attention to itself on my windshield because I had parked 7 hours in a 2 hour zone.  I've probably funded a small city park with all the money I've paid in parking fines.  You'd think I'd learn. But, no. I will continue to be that person running after the tow truck driver who is going off to tow the White Hyundai with California plates because it has been parked all day outside of the Plaid Pantry next to Sammy's flowers.  I accept that role, as well as the role of that girl dragging her feet in stupid blue foam slippers around the swanky Alphabet District on a Friday night because all she wanted was a pedicure after a long week of moving and new jobs and forgot to bring open-toe shoes.  Or so she thought. But, of course, when she finally finds her car 20 minutes and at least that many weird looks later, her Birkenstocks are waiting loyally in the front seat.  On top of the canvas sack carrying a couple of hatchets that need to be returned to their makers after being used in a Portland Monthly Camping Gear Guide. Aaaaand, scene.

Happy Weekend!