The Breakup

Portland and I broke up.

We're going to need a little space, a little time, but I think it's safe to say that we are still going to be friends.  I know that most of you have known about the end of this relationship for a while, but I'm now ready to make a more public statement about what happened.

It was a whirlwind relationship, I must admit.  We didn't really know each other before I dived into the commitment, but I wanted to take a risk.  Embrace a challenge.  It seemed like a good fit.  There was plenty of internet stalking involved, and many of my friends vouched for what an awesome pair we would be.  (Side note:  I'm going to have some strong words with anyone who ever told me I'm "SO Portland".)

And we should have been awesome.  On paper, everything seemed right.  Great theatre community, low cost of living, high minimum wage, stellar mass transit system, and blue state status.  You have nature and a giant book store.  A bar that is filled with old arcade games and pinball machines.  And the beer.  UGH.  The beer.  It seemed like a match made in heaven.  Portland loves to recycle?!  I love to recycle!!!  That was basically the thought process.  So I moved.  Blind.  I visited once to make sure the apartment I was moving into wasn't a hell hole.  It wasn't.  It was the most magical green apartment of all time.

Of course I knew things were going to be rocky at the beginning.  Transitioning is no easy feat.  But eventually I hit my stride and the honeymoon phase.  I had jobs, I was being cast in shows, I was capable of both paying my rent and feeding myself!  I even convinced a loved one to also move to Portland.  Life was good.

But then I realized that I didn't want life to be good.  I wanted life to be great.  And Portland and I, sadly, were never going to be a great match.  I'm not saying that my life needs to be perfect, and I'm not saying that I was unhappy in Portland.  It's pretty safe to say that I can will myself to be happy almost anywhere.  Therein lies the problem, though.  I was willing myself to be happy.  Sure, life isn't going to be sunshine and rainbows 24/7.  That's unnatural.  But so was the amount of energy I was putting into being happy.  It took a Disney Cruise to remind me my full capacity for happiness and how little of the right things it takes to bring me obscene amounts of joy.  Choosing to be happy in Portland had turned into a full time job.

At this point you may be wondering what exactly made being happy in Portland so dang difficult.  We've all read the blogs.  It's common knowledge that Portland is supposed to be the most desirable place in the country to live, especially for my age bracket.  More people moved to Oregon last year than to any other state.  According to my Facebook, Buzzfeed is telling 8 out of 10 people that the city they should be living in is Portland.  One man posted in his travel blog that if you're going to visit Portland, bring all of your possessions, because you're not going to want to leave.  Guess what.  I left.  I moved back to Detroit.  Take that, bloggers!

For a while, I was too bitter with the separation to pinpoint or explain logical reasons for my departure.  "Portland is secretly lame" does not shed me in a particularly flattering light.  So I've given it some time and some thought, and I'm here to share some things that you may not read on the "Top 10 Cities to Live In" lists.  Yes, most of these items have more to do with me and my personality, but I hope you find them interesting none the less.

Guys… Portland is really white.  Yes, I am well aware that I am also very white.  And I didn't think that this lack of diversity was going to bother me.  Well, it did.  It may not be the whitest place in America, but for a city, the demographics seem really off.  You may not notice it at first, but give it some time, and it just feels wrong.

This leads to my next point.  The general population is incredibly fixated on being politically correct.  So when they do encounter diversity, things get awkward quite quickly.  It's as though people want to prove that they are the apex of all things liberal and openminded, so they end up walking on eggshells.  I swear people would break out into a sweat if they were around a black person because they were afraid they would say or do something that could be perceived (by their white, liberal friends) as racist.  And this ended up extending beyond race.  Everyone is incredibly polite in Portland.  Because that is the "correct" thing to do.  Of course we should all be polite, but when it's coming from a place of, "Ha.  I'm nice to everyone and never discriminate.  I'm proving what an emotionally and intellectually superior human I am," it's not cool.  It actually comes off as kind of cold.  What happened to, "Hey, I'm going to be nice!  Because it's nice!"?

Next, I found Portland to be incredibly narrow minded.  This may cause outrage, considering that the city is all about being weird and doing your own thing, but I found that if your "own thing" did not fit into their construct of what was "right" you were shunned.  So, a man walking down the street in a lobster costume for no reason?  No big deal.  Saying you enjoy baseball and hockey?  JUDGEMENT!  How is that a better way to live than if the tables were turned?  Just because you only accept liberal, weird things does not make you an accepting person.

Moving on.

There wasn't enough joy.  People seemed to have a hard time letting themselves be happy.  I know bad things are happening in the world, but that doesn't mean you can't enjoy your locally sourced meal.  

"UGH!  It's 80º out with 2% humidity in AUGUST!  I'm going to MELT!"  Let me take you to Michigan.  "AGH!  It's 35º in JANUARY!  I thought I saw a snowflake!  I can't be expected to be productive in these conditions!"  No.  Really.  Let me take you to Michigan.  Actual conversations.

Now that I'm going, I feel like this post could stretch on forever.  I should probably stop while I still can.  The last things I'm going to add are:

Yes, there is a completely different vibe on the West Coast, and that vibe is not for everyone… or me.

They say Portland has big city amenities with a small town feeling.  It's true.  And if I'm going to live in a big city, I want it to feel like a big city.  Portland doesn't feel like a big city because it isn't.

Hipsters are getting their own post.

Portlandia is no longer funny when you are forced to live it.  EVERY.  SINGLE.  DAY.              

The Snow Day Effect

Yet another reason home schooled kids are just a little bit off.

Everyone (or, almost everyone) knows that there is nothing better than a snow day.  Conversely, there is nothing worse than expecting a snow day, not doing any of your homework (but telling your mom you did), and then being awoken the next day by said mother only to realize that the weather people had once again blown the wintery precipitation completely out of proportion.  Oh, and the fact that your district is one of the only walking districts in the reporting area and having to deal with the fact that your school is THE ONLY ONE THAT STILL HAS CLASS.  This will take years to come to terms with, but is not, in fact, the Snow Day Effect.  The Snow Day Effect, henceforth referred to as the SDE, is the second worse thing that could NOT happen on a potential snow day.  This silver medal of snow day disappointments is not knowing you have a snow day until it is 10am and you've already slept in.  Confused?  See, I want to know I'm sleeping in.  I want to be made fully aware that I am sleeping at a time I would normally be sitting in a desk... WHILE I'M SLEEPING.  I don't think there is any better kind of sleep, and so I had a strict rule that my loving mum had to wake me up at my "normal" school time, tell me I have a snow day, and let me fall back into the most blissful of sleeps.  This, friends, is the SDE.  If, heaven forbid, my mom refrains from waking me up at an ungodly hour just to tell me that I can go back to sleep, the SDE is not achieved.  While I still may be scoring the same hours of extra shuteye, non-SDE sleep is just not the same.

Interestingly, I have grown to love the SDE so much, that I actually started setting my alarm hours before I have to wake up, not so that I am sure to arrive to any obligations in a timely manner, but rather so I can experience SDE sleep on a daily basis.  Awesome?  Yes.  I even let my alarm go off when there is NO specific time I need to be conscious (pause for consideration of the words "conscious", "conscience", and their specific etymologies), meaning that my atomic clock is going off at 7am even if I have no where to go until the afternoon.  So lovely.

On a similar note, if I actually have to wake up early and am worried about possibly oversleeping, my body will sometimes jolt me awake every hour, on the hour, starting at 3am.  This phenomenon can have one of two effects.  Either I a) have a repeated SDE experience or b) end up being so tired from the restlessness that I ultimately oversleep.  Less lovely.

Unfortunately, the era of the true SDE is a short one.  Once you go to college, you're usually stuck with waking up and checking the computer for a snow day.  Or, more often than not, you truly think that classes will be canceled, and they're not.  Sometimes, you make it all the way to campus, and though the university has made no official cancelation, your professor couldn't make it and somehow you didn't get the mass text.  Actually, that happened more when there wasn't snow.  And then you enter the real world, which, unless you're a teacher, does not include snow days.  Thus killing the pure SDE.  Unless you're in London.  Four inches and that whole place freaks out and shuts down.

Forks

And I don't mean the city in Washington.

I have a strange relationship with forks.  In my perfect world, I would be able to eat everything with either a spoon or my hands.  You may suggest chopsticks, but then, what about salads?  It's the accursed salads that foil my forkless plans.  Let's start from the beginning.

It is so hard to find a good fork.  If a fork is too long, then the distance between my hand and my mouth is too great and mayhem ensues.  Not fun, electric mayhem, but salad on my lap mayhem.  One would think that by this point in my development I would have conquered the skill of feeding myself.  No dice.  At least not with a long fork.  And I know.  I used to always know when one of my parents had set my place with the wrong fork.  It's similar to how I can sense when a glass of milk contains something other than skim.  This sounds like an OCD, but it's not.  It's more a lack of coordination on my part than anything else.  Short forks are great.  And I have no shame in asking for a little fork when attending a meal at another's house.  No shame.  The shame comes from the aforementioned salad dropping.  Or missing my mouth.  But I guess that happens more with straws.  Heavy forks?  Also good.  I may or may not have "acquired" a most excellent fork from a shady Chinese place in Kalamazoo because the fork had a good weight to it.  What can I say, it balanced well in my hand.  You can't turn your back on balance on those rare chances you find it.

Second thought.  Have you ever had to clean a fork?  I mean wash it by hand with a scrubby or washcloth or other such thing.  It sucks.  See, I like to clean and rather enjoy doing dishes... EXCEPT FOR THE FORKS.  Bowls?  Fine.  Plates?  Great.  Pans?  Let them soak.  Knives and spoons?  Things can get a little dicey, but on the whole, not a problem.  But forks.  With the tines and the encrusted schmutz?  Bah.