Small Town Post Master Saves the Day!

This is what I love about a small town:

I’m sitting in my office today, on the phone with a client, when I see Lisa walk through the door with a package in her arms. Lisa goes to my church and works at our local post office.

She walks in and puts the package on my desk. As I’m getting off the phone, I realize the package is addressed to my house. My co-worker also notices and says “Hey! Why does she get special deliveries?!”

Lisa said she saw the package sorted aside in the post office this morning, which meant it had accidently been sorted wrong the first time and would be re-routed today. Knowing that I wouldn’t get it until later today or tomorrow, she picked it up and brought it to me at my office!

Now that’s some good ‘ol small town customer service!

Today's Highlight: Random guy accidently calls State Farm looking for rich dying woman

Me: “Thank you for calling State Farm. This is Amy, how can I help you?”

Random Guy: “Who did I call?”

Me: “This is State Farm.”

RG: “God damn it, 4-1-1! That just cost me $1.49. Those sons of…”

*Awkward silence*

RG: “I just called 4-1-1 for the Honeyman State Park phone number and this is what they gave me! Can you look that number up for me?”

(I pull up a Google screen as if I have nothing better to do. At least I know I have a future at a call center if this insurance stuff doesn’t work out.)

Me: “Alright, what exactly are you looking for?” (because I’ve ALREADY forgotten what he wanted… maybe I don’t have a future at a call center.)

RG: “A rich old woman with an estate she’d like to give away…” (trailing off in laughter.)

Me: (forcing a fake laugh)

*Another awkward silence*

RG: “Honeyman State Park”

Me: “Alright, here ya go. The number is – “

RG: “oh hold on, hold on, let me get a pen. I’m breaken the law here on my cell phone driving down the street.”

(I start pulling up an auto claims screen on the computer, you know, just in case.)

RG: “Okay, go ahead.”

I proceed to give him the number, which I’m hoping concludes this fantastic phone call, but instead of him saying thank you, he says “Hey I’m taking out a personal ad. You wanna know what it says? It’s going to say “Middle aged man looking for an elderly woman, about to die, who has lots of money to hand down. You think that will fly?” (He is absolutely cracking himself up right now.)

Me: “Well, probably not, but you’ve picked the right city for it, so good work.”

RG: “Alright, well thank ya much. Have a good one.”

Faaaaaaaaantastic!!!

So You Think You Can Date Me?

Being single at the incredibly old age of 28 (its called sarcasm) means dealing with a ridiculous amount of people trying to hook me up with a ridiculous amount of people, most of which are just ridiculous. I used to be open minded and give all these retarded contestants at least one good opportunity. But it doesn’t seem to have served me well, so I came up with a much more effective process to filter out the awkward ‘this isn’t going to work’ conversations.

So if you have someone who you think would be “just perfect” for me or you’re the one who thinks you’re just perfect, make sure you go over the following criteria before giving me a call. Good luck.

Your parents have to hate me. Long after we broke up, an ex-boyfriend’s mom bought me flowers for my accomplishment at work. When telling one of my long time chick friends about it, she said “the in-laws always love you!” To which I mentally flipped through the album of past relationships and realized she was right. The boys, not so much. But the parents were always thrilled. So I’ve decided that if it’s ever going to work out with anyone, their parents can’t like me.

You can’t like sports very much. I am borderline obsessed with sports, which is probably why I end up so into guys who are so into sports. But I constantly find myself sitting around watching sports with guys whose wives are either in the kitchen making dinner or running around taking care of the kids. This presents quite the predicament for me because I want to get married and have kids but let’s face it; someone has to get dinner ready and take care of them, and if the game is on it certainly isn’t going to be me.

You have to be funnier than me. And chances are, you aren’t. So good luck with that one.

You have to know how to iron. Not because I think you look hot in a fresh pair of wrinkle free slacks, but because I can’t iron to save my life and I really need someone to get my work pants ready for me in the morning. Honestly, I don’t wear skirts because they’re cute. It’s usually because my pants need to be ironed and I’m waiting for another load of laundry to pile up so I can just throw them in with the dirty clothes. Wrinkles go away in the dryer better than they do if I take an iron to them.

You should probably know how to cook, too. Take a couple culinary arts classes or something. I don’t like to eat out all the time and I don’t like to cook all the time either. So while you’re taking care of the kids and ironing my pants, why don’t you whip up something fantastic for dinner, too.

Know how to treat me like one of the guys without forgetting that I’m not one of the guys. Like, when my farts are horrendous, high five me and get me another beer. But when I’m PMS-ing, just entertain me with your amazing wit and serve me up one of those delish meals you’ve been slaving over all day. And seriously, don’t ever slap my ass and say “good game” in front of your friends.

You have to go to church with me. And you have to like it. And don’t think you can fake it once on Easter Sunday and think I’ll be so impressed that I’ll let it go. I’m talking every Sunday for the rest of your life. Dun, dun, dun!!!

If you’re an Oregonian, you can’t hate Californians. Most obviously because I am one and you can’t hate me if you want to date me. And don’t give me that “you’re the exception” crap because I have tons of Californian family and friends who’d love to kick your ass. Which I’m guessing is why you’ll never go home with me because you “hate California so much.”

If you’re a Californian, you can’t be too Hollywood for my newly acquired Oregonian license plate. I love this small, backwoods town and if you can’t live without immediate access to a mall, drive under 50 MPH, or get bored with BBQ, beer and football every weekend, then you can see your way back to Cali without me. Because this is Oregon and it’s what we do.

If you’ve checked yes to everything so far and have the phone in your hand ready to dial my number, just hang up right now. If you don’t like sports much, can cook and iron, and would rather do that than watch the game with me, I probably think you’re gay and you’ve already ended up in my BFF Friends Only Lunch Date category. If your parents hate me and you’re ACTUALLY funnier than I am, I probably don’t like you anyway. If you’ve mastered the art of number six, you’re probably too old for me because it takes way too long for a man to become that mature. And if you really want to go to church with me every Sunday and actually like California AND Oregon, then you’ve just go t me stumped and I’m not sure I’ll ever get passed it.

Top 5 Things Customers Have Said

5. “Do you guys serve anything other than Starbucks coffee here?” (Point of clarification for those hiding under a rock: I work at Starbucks.)

4. “I'm in emergency mode! Where's your bathroom? I gotta go! Bad! The guys across the street wouldn’t let me use theirs!" followed by another customer, "You get all kinds here, don't you?"

3. Two old ladies standing in line; one says to the other, "Well the only word I can think of to describe her is skank!"

2. In response to a co-workers comment, "communication creates bonds between people" my favorite regular customer replied, “Bullshit! Sex and near death experiences create bonds."

1. A customer walks in and as he's ordering, his co-worker walks in behind him and says, "Did you get the package I sent to your office?" He seemed confused as she tried to explain exactly which package she was referring to. Then he suddenly got it, "Oh you mean the hard package?"

The Anti-Compliment Movement

Have you ever noticed the fastest way to learn about something or someone is to give a compliment? It’s also the fastest way to walk into a conversation you never wanted to have and learn way too much about something you never wanted to know.

While working at Starbucks one day, a lady came up to the counter, I took her order and rang it up with the usual semi-formal conversation:

“So how’s your day going?”

“Well, thanks, and how about you?”

“Good, thanks, that’ll be $5.49”

Then there’s the obnoxiously awkward pause as she digs through her purse to get her wallet, then digs through her wallet to get her money, which she just can’t seem to find.

Trying to break the silence and hide my annoyance with her, I noticed that her wallet was kind of cute, so I said, “Hey that’s a really cute wallet.”

I expected her to say thank you, and then pay me for her order and we’d all move on with our lives.

Instead, she took it as an opportunity to give me the full run down of everything that was in her wallet, pointing out just how many different spaces there was to keep everything organized.

I had honestly had more bizarre things happen at work, so I tried to rush this along and wipe the deer in the headlights look off my face as she finally handed some money.

“Wow, that’s pretty awesome.” I said as I took the money, gave her the change and tried to look over her shoulder at the next person in line.

Completely oblivious to any social cues and clearly overlooking my lack of interest, she continues her tour-of-my-super-organized-accessories as she puts the wallet into her purse.

“You know, if this wallet had a place for all my pills, I wouldn’t even need this purse. I actually almost got the purse that matched the wallet but it was bigger than this one and, well, this one is just so perfect. See,” she puts the wallet in the first compartment, zips it shut and proceeds to open the next section of her purse, “my wallet fits perfectly in that front section and in this one I keep my tissues and pens and lipstick; you know, the essentials. And this one here,” she opens the back compartment of her purse, “is, of course where I keep all of my emergency supplies like my pills and what not.”

I wouldn't have been surprised if she pulled out a freaking schematic and gave me a copy.

At this point I’m pretty sure the look on my face said, “Whoa lady, all I said was cute wallet!” I would have just said that out loud but the fact that it just kept flowing out of her mouth one thing after another after another after another about all the dumb crap she keeps in her purse and exactly where she keeps it, rendered me completely speechless.

As she puts her purse on her shoulder and begins to back away from the counter, practically backing into the next customer in line, she begins a whole new tangent; “You know my doctor says I should really switch the shoulder I carry my purse on, you know, because it puts so much strain on one side. But I’ve just always carried it on this side for so many years!”

Holy crap, lady, shut the hell up! Your drink’s been ready for like an hour! Go get it!


And then there are those people who take your compliment as an open door to just violate all kinds of social rules of personal space and boundaries.

There was a regular customer at Starbucks who was a great lady. She was older and always talked about her kids and grandkids, where they lived, when they’d visit. She was always very pleasant and I looked forward to seeing her several times a week.

So when she came in one early afternoon, my co-worker and I gladly joined in conversation with her about how lovely the day was and how we couldn’t wait to get off work and enjoy the weather. You know, typical conversation.

Then, in what was to be rendered her poorest judgment yet, my co-worker complimented the customer’s perfume.

“Oh! Thank you! It’s Gardenia!”

As she rambled on and on to my co-worker, I tried to keep a smile on my face while having an entire inner dialogue that went something like, “Oh sweet Lord, I hate that scent. It smells like old lady farts and gives me an instant headache. Plus it reminds me of my ex-fiancé’s mom and that’s just never good.”

All of the sudden I look over at my co-worker, who has a horrified look on her face, and see the old lady with a bottle of perfume she had taken out of her purse, holding it in the air, and as if in slow motion, I watch her finger pump the perfume right onto my co-worker.

The lady picks up her drink and leaves, probably delightfully thinking she just blessed the world with one more Gardenia scented fan.

“She just sprayed her perfume on me. She just pulled it out of her purse and sprayed me! She didn’t even ask; she just sprayed me!” My co-worker was mortified.

Who does that?!

People you give compliments to, that’s who. And because of that one, unfortunate compliment, we went the rest of the day reeking of old lady farts.


What’s the moral of the story, kids? Don’t give compliments. There’s a reason why people aren’t nice.

Finding Home

She’s So California

I had never kayaked before. I had never flown before. I had never been to the Oregon coast before. I decided to do it all in one weekend. Turns out, it was all amazing.

I watched the sun come up from inside the LAX terminal, wondering what exactly I had gotten myself into. I boarded my flight and watched life as I knew it shrink down into a miniature existence and then vanish. It was all I could do but listen to the shallowed air flow steadily in and out of my lungs, concentrated and slow, mostly in effort not to panic and demand we turn back.

It is amazing how emotion can take over the human brain and memories become a total blur. Somewhere between boarding that plane and reaching my destination, I landed and re-boarded and rechecked and landed again. It was a whirlwind.

I hit the ground running in a town where geese on the runway hold up flights and I get into a stranger’s car (sorry mom). We met up with about six other strangers, loaded up our kayaks and hit the lake. It was a gorgeous day, perfect weather and calm waters winding around the hills.

As we spread out across the lake I could still hear a couple guys behind me having a conversation… about me.

“So how do you think she likes it so far?”

“I think she’s having fun… but I don’t know, she might be too much of a city girl.”
I chime in, “Hey I can hear you!”

They are a funny bunch here, I thought to myself as I smiled and drifted with the current.

It was a long flight home at the end of that weekend. Change was coming quickly and I had a decision to make. Do I stay? Do I go? Do I refuse to budge, hold tightly to what I know and risk drowning under the rapid currents of change? Do I have what it takes to embrace this moment and move forward towards something new?

As I landed back home in LAX, I felt strangely out of place, realizing that I had one foot in and one foot out. Eventually I put both feet out in front of me, picked up my packed bags and drove away.


She’s Gone Country

I remember growing up in a small central California town called Madera; only about four hours but worlds away from Los Angeles, where I would spend a great part of my life growing into adulthood.

Madera was a small town tucked into the center of California, with nothing to claim but a hot valley of immigrant field workers. We had the 4H club, the FFA (Future Farmers of America), and the annual county fair that was the pride and joy of the community. Every one of my siblings has some type of award ribbon for an art contest or a bake off or something they entered over the years in those county fairs. My fourth grade best friend had a rodeo in her back yard for her birthday one year. My favorite Christmas gift as a child was white cowgirl boots with leather fringe along the sides.

There were two elementary schools in town, one junior high school and one high school. People were born, raised and buried in that town. If anyone left, it was to college, after which they would promptly move back to town, buy a house with their new spouse and start the cycle all over again. It was down home country and that’s how we liked it.

The first sixteen years of my life are buried deep in the heart of that little town.


LA or bust

Everyone has their coming of age story; the awkward stumbling from childhood to adulthood or some twisted variation thereof. My coming of age story was written on Highway 99 as my family packed up decades of belongings and memories and drove to another world 240 miles south.

Madera and Los Angeles could not be any more different, nor could either of them want anything less to do with each other. Northern and southern California might as well be two completely separate, rival states.

Change has never been my forte, and I can’t say that I was the most excited about this one. However, the second my feet hit the sand I was in it to win it and jumped in head first. I was a sun tanning, beach bumming, SoCal girl before I knew it.
This is where my life was formed as my own. It’s where I truly found myself and found friends who became family.

My 18th and 21st birthdays were celebrated there, turning the two most important corners into adulthood, of course. I loved and I lost, then loved again. I moved out of my parent’s house. I got engaged, I got un-engaged. I went to college, I dropped out of college, I went back to college. I had a few go-rounds with a few jobs, moved around with a few friends. I lived as hard, as loud and as fast as I could.

Those were the hardest and most defining 11 years of my life, to date.


Flo-Town, This Is Our Town

“So, why did you move here again?” He asked, as if I hadn’t told him the story three times already.

“I just wanted a change. I had an opportunity to move up here, so I took it.” It really didn’t seem that complicated to understand to me.

Besides, it seems that half of California had moved here years before me. I figured this town would be used to it by now. I suppose the half of California who had moved here were all over the age of 65 though, so a 27 year old girl from SoCal kind of stands out here.

Over a year later, people still ask me that question. Today, as a matter of fact, I got the same quizzical look, followed by the same questioning as to what exactly it was that I like about this place.

Having already asked myself that question and wrestling with the answer, I just smiled and replied, “I love the small town feel. It reminds me of where I grew up; my childhood. Except that it’s on the coast, which I also love! I’ve met some amazing people here and made some pretty awesome friends. I really do love it here.”

All at once, I felt my life and my heart congruent with one another. I am genuinely happy with where I am, both geographically and figuratively, and I know exactly why. It is a contentment that I have only seen glimpses of before. It is a contentment that does not ignore the difficulties or heart ache that come with the realities of life. But it is a contentment that comes from embracing the realities of life and finding the courage to smile back.

I remember the moment I sat in the LAX airport, watching the sun come up, wondering what I had gotten myself into. And when I think back to the moment I returned to that airport, feeling slightly out of place with one foot in and one foot out, I am glad that I choose to put both feet out in front of me and make my way forward.

There is a water tower that stands high on the outskirts of town. When I first moved here, I would drive around with my friend and her son, exploring Florence along with surrounding areas along the coast (or “esploring flo-town” as he would say because he couldn’t pronounce ‘explore’ and we had nick named the town ‘flo-town’). Every time he saw that water tower, he would know we were in Florence and he would say, “This is FloTown, this is our town!”

It still makes me smile to think about the little moments like that; the ones that crept into my heart and slowly opened my eyes to what was in front of me.

Madera is where I was born.

Los Angeles will always be where I’m from.

Oregon feels like home.

Today's Deep Thought

I fall all too easily into passivity. Today I am reminded that my life is mine to take control of.

The thought came from a distinct realization that I was having fun. I was laughing again. A co-worker even commented that I seemed incredibly chipper today and that he liked it. It made me smile and realize that I haven’t allowed myself to fully engage my own life lately.

I’ve been so swallowed up in heartache that it began to isolate and paralyze me. Not that I wasn’t doing things that are in and of themselves enjoyable, in fact I have been forcing myself to do all the things I know bring me happiness. But I wasn’t allowing myself to be happy in them.

It’s not as if I do not feel sorrow today. I am still saddened by several things that have been weighing on my heart lately. The difference is that those things are not defining me today; they are not tied around me like a straight jacket.

At the end of the day, I cannot do much about the things that sadden me. Generally, I just let them have control and passively wait for them to go away. I don’t want to do that any more. If I can do something about any of them, I will stand up and do it, or I will make a choice to leave it alone. But no longer will I choose to let it control me.

Well, not today anyway.

I’ll reconsider all this tomorrow.

Top 10 Reasons NOT to date me...

10. My farts stink. Bad.

9. My bathroom is dirtier than an adolescent boys locker.

8. I am hopelessly clumsy.

7. I will get bored with you way too quickly.

6. I care more about sports than any girl should.

5. Unless you like take out, I'm not cooking for you.

4. I will laugh at all the wrong times & embarrass the shit out of you in public.

3. I'm moody, and unless you can make me laugh, you won't snap me out of it.

2. Unless you're actually funnier than me, you won't make me laugh.

1. You aren't funnier than me.

Dakota Skye

I just watched the movie Dakota Skye. It’s about this teenage chick who has the ability to know when people are lying and, what’s more, to know the truth. She is “involuntarily blessed with what everyone else spends their entire lives trying to find,” as she puts it.

The movie was a little weird, but I liked it. It went for that edgy, artsy, memoir feel, which I appreciated.

At one point Dakota is standing at the top of a cliff with someone who asks “if you were to jump off this cliff, would you rather hit the ground facing down or facing up? Would you rather face down the whole time and see then end coming, or face up staring at the sky so you never know when the end is coming?”

I wrestled with that question the entire movie (which was kind of the point, as that was the underlying thought process of Dakota).

A great deal of my life has been chock full of fake.

“How are you?” (Truth: I don’t even remember your name but I’m going to smile and ask and hope you lie right back to me.)

“I’m great, thanks!” (Truth: I’m getting divorced and my children hate me. I think I might kill myself tonight. But I don’t think you have any clue who I am, so I’m going to smile and lie to your face and hope you walk away soon.)

It happens. We call it being polite. It’s what we do. Whatever.

I mean, do we really want to know anyway? Are we willing to get that vested in another person? Let’s face it, most of us aren’t.

When you walk up to order coffee and inadvertently ask “how are you?” and before you can skip ahead to “I’d like a grande latte” do you really want to hear “well I woke up kind of depressed because there’s just so much I hate about my job and I just went through a break up, but the weather is fairly pleasant today so I’m in a better mood. What can I get for you today?”

So maybe the fake questions and the fake answers are just best.

Personally, I always want to know. I want to know the truth because I’m so used to being lied to that it’s pathetic and has made me cynical and bitter. My whole life I have always thought it better to know. Even as a child, I begged for truth. I asked my mom if Santa Claus was real. Her diplomatic response was something like “well honey some people chose to believe in him and if you want to that’s okay.”

“Mom, really, I don’t care. I just want to know the truth.” I swear to God I was probably four years old.

I have always thought it better to know.

Until recently someone decided to spew random personal information and for the first time in my life, I thought “now there’s something I would have been better off not knowing.” Irony at its finest moment.

Even still, in retrospect, I changed my mind. Because that one piece of truth opened my eyes to so much else that I needed to know and to realize in order to see the whole picture. Was it a picture I liked? Is that what I selfishly wanted to believe as truth? No way. Not at all. But would I rather know? Absolutely. I will jump off that cliff facing the ground.

And isn’t it odd how one bit of truth can shine light on a whole scene we never knew excited. One truth always reveals more than a single fact. Honestly, it’s usually not the single fact that fazes me so much as what it implies, what all it reveals, the deeper truths it unveils. Those things, the deeper things, are what cause paradigm shifts.

Sometimes the truth sucks. But I’d choose it every time. Because at the end of the day, at some point, fake always crumbles, it fades, it gets found out. And quite frankly, it gets old and weary and transparent. And there is nothing worse than someone who is so transparently fake.

It is what it is.

I chose to jump facing down.

The Randomness that Makes Me

I want to be a writer. It’s all I’ve ever genuinely wanted in life.

But I settle for what’s easier; a receptionist, a secretary, a coffee shop. I have a tendency to loose sight of myself and settle for what’s easy and, more so, what causes the fewest waves.

I have a book called “Get a Freelance Life” (thanks, Josh!) and I’ve read it at least ten times. I am still not a freelance writer.

I don’t want it to be a hobby. It is all I want to do. It is has always been the one thing I’ve always wanted to do. It defines the essence of who I am.

I have a passion to communicate and I can’t turn it off.


I have an ex-fiancé. I dated him for just shy of five years.

It was the best of times and the worst of times. As are the years of everyone’s life from the age of 16 to 21. The world is in the palm of your hands during those years. Unfortunately, I spent mine in the palm of his hands during those years.

It was a very high profile, seemingly perfect relationship; social, popular, funny, perfect.

Really, it was; manipulative, dishonest, horrible and tortured.

In the words of Taylor Swift (someone shoot me for quoting her), “Back then I swore I was gonna marry him some day but I’ve realized some bigger dreams of mine.” Or something like that.

I feel like this is a significant detail about my life and I don’t know why exactly I feel compelled to share it with anyone. It is an experience that defines a great deal of who I have become.


I believe in the Gospel of Grace. And only grace.

I don’t care how fucked up you think you are. There is no difference between me, you, and that guy (quick… point at someone; we need a third party. It doesn’t matter who, I’m trying to make a point here).

I don’t care what you think you deserve, what you have earned, or what someone else doesn’t deserve because they haven’t earned it. I am not the one to deem anyone good enough. Neither are you. My standards don’t come from you.

At the end of the day, we are all selfish.


I need you. And you and you and you.

The hardest lesson I have ever learned is that I need people. I am imperfect, to say the least. Without other people, I am not whole. I have to beat down my pride to remember this every day. I don’t want to hear what you have to say about me … but I need to hear it. You are my sounding board.


I’m a pastor’s kid. I have never said that out loud without shame or embarrassment.

It wasn’t the best experience for me… nor was it the worst. The experience is at the root of my habitual fakeness. Every day I have to consciously shake it off and force me to be me, no matter what that looks like.

I am passionate about making sure this isn’t anyone else’s experience of church. That is not gospel.


I’m a funny mother fucker. And I love to laugh.

I have always thought that if I can laugh at the end of the day, then life must be alright. Laughter breaks all sorts of walls and bridges the furthest distance. I laugh at inappropriate times, at inappropriate topics. I can make any situation into something funny.

Sometimes it becomes my defense mechanism. Other times it is my coping mechanism. I prefer it just be out of pure hilarity though. Smile.