Kristen’s Newsletter

IRL friends and family, check out my private blog at kristenmartin503@wordpress.com.

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From Renting to Owning

First, we decided we needed more space. We lived in a two-bedroom apartment with a young toddler at the start of the pandemic, and both us were forced to work from home: I in a corner of the master bedroom, and my partner in a cobbled-together plywood booth next to the dining table. It was all functional, but not comfortable, and our child was going to be two years old soon. So we broke our lease and found a house to rent. It had a front yard, back yard, and actual office space.

Then our rent went up. Inevitable, but it stretched our budget and made us look around and ask how much value we really got out of renting. The house needs a lot of improvement, and as renters we don’t have much to gain from requesting or making improvements. We revived the conversation we’d had at various times about buying a home. Coincidentally, our landlord said that he might be interested in selling the rental house to us at a price slightly below market rate. We got excited.

Then we used some online mortgage calculators to see how much it would really cost to buy this house. It was unachievable. We live in the Portland metro area. So, we started talking seriously about leaving the Portland metro area.

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I’m a first-time home buyer. Since we started shopping in earnest this fall, I have learned a lot about the process and had some major mood swings tied to different stages in that process. I hope to share some stories about shopping, negotiating, closing the deal, and eventually settling into and fixing up the new house. As of this writing, we’re about to close on a three-bedroom house in Salem, Oregon, that is quite a bit larger than our rental home and will cost us less per month. I’m incredibly excited, and hopeful that I’ve found a new topic to write about occasionally. Merry Christmas.

A Long December (2020)

Major hat tip to Counting Crows. (This is one of my all-time favorite songs.)

A long December
And there’s reason to believe
Maybe this life will get better in ‘21
I can’t remember the last fun that we had before the lockdown
Now the days blend into one

And it’s one more day of the pandemic
And it’s one more night in quarantine
If you think that we should get together … wish we could

Na na na na, na na na na na na na na na

The sound of restaurants and bars
Glasses clinking and enjoyment of companions over food
Suddenly you think about your favorite spot
And miss the freedom and some lightness in the mood

And it’s one more day of the pandemic
And it’s one more night in quarantine
I know you really want to travel … please stay home

Na na na na, na na na na na na na na na
Na na na na, yeah

Checked up on news headlines first thing in the morning
Felt sorrow and despair about the year
Isolation makes you feel a little lower
Makes you wish that this was over, that the virus would spread slower

And it’s been a long December
And there’s reason to believe
Maybe some new kind of normal will return
I’d like to forget all the suffering inflicted
And how Trump just let it burn

And it’s one more day of the pandemic
And it’s one more night in quarantine
In your sorrow and your cabin fever … you’re not alone

Na na na na, na na na na na na na na na
Na na na na, yeah

Notice

There have been jobs I have quit with inward glee because I was tired of dealing with some aspect: micro-management, terrible processes, unnecessary stress. The workplace I am leaving tomorrow has none of those things. Since I gave notice almost two weeks ago, I’ve been in something like a depression. It is mixed with denial, so I suppose it’s part of a grieving process, which came as a surprise since I’ve never gotten this sensation from quitting a job. I’ve also never worked at the same place for six years, until now.

This organization has allowed me to grow into new areas of expertise and pursue a career change from quality assurance to business analysis. My team members have become friends—sometimes very good friends. They supported me when I left to have a baby and celebrated my return. No questions were asked when I needed to take time off for mental health reasons. I have felt valued and at ease. I’ve laughed at work and been able to make stupid jokes without getting too many weird looks.

I even met my life partner at this job, which I suspect is one of the deeper and thus harder to understand reasons for my sense of impending loss. Since he no longer works here, I’ve been keeping that part of our history alive, and maintaining a sort of emotional bridge between him and the former co-workers he was fond of. Cutting that off will not measurably affect our lives, but it feels significant somehow.

I haven’t cried yet, partly because I don’t want to get too emotional at work, but mostly because it doesn’t feel real. The goodbyes will happen soon, and that part always hits me; I don’t like it when co-workers leave. But then Monday morning comes around, and everyone moves on.

Photo Shorts: Espresso Revival

One thing I enjoy about Jerry Seinfeld’s Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee is the sexy B-roll footage of coffee being poured, milk being frothed and swirled, and espresso being extracted. The closest thing I have in real life is this photo I took, for unknown reasons, of a shot that I pulled from our office espresso machine. I came across it last week and mourned this contraption, which went out “for repairs” at least three months ago, all over again.

I saved the picture to my desktop, planning to write a mini tongue-in-cheek eulogy on this blog. Not five minutes later, an email went out to the entire office with news that our espresso machine had returned. Huzzah! Once again I can be spoiled with freshly ground and tamped beans, instead of the bitter mystery liquids that the automated machine in the kitchen labels “coffee” and “espresso”.

Thriving, not Just Surviving

My typical weekend as a single person with no kids: sleep in until 9:00, go to brunch, ride a bike, read a book.

Typical weekend with a baby between months five and twelve: get up between 6:00 and 6:30, feed baby, take him to the designated play zone of the living room, wait for him to get tired, put him down for morning nap, turn off baby monitor, and go back to sleep by 8:30. Even with the benefit of a child who usually sleeps through the night, I’ve come to dread this weekend routine. All I could think about, while trying to entertain my son in the early morning hours, was putting him back to bed so I could get more rest. I would feel guilty about initiating a nap at merely the first sign of tiredness, but I was following a survival instinct.

Now that he’s thirteen months old he takes one midday nap, which means a longer stretch of awake time in the morning. That’s one reason I can’t sleepwalk through the first part of our day anymore. But mostly, I need to stop feeling like a slob and start paying attention to self-care. For months I wasn’t showering, getting dressed, or brushing my hair before I settled into the feeding and playing routine. By the time my son went down for his nap, I usually hadn’t eaten enough either. I would have had a bowl of cereal at 6:30 and been too tired or frustrated to make anything else to eat before going back to sleep. Next thing I knew it would be 11:00, the baby would be up, and I would be starving but too busy to eat much while taking care of him and trying to clean the house.

It takes me a long time to acknowledge when I have needs that aren’t being met, especially when satisfying those needs requires asking another person (i.e. my partner) for a favor—even a simple one, like time to take a shower. But I am doing it now. I’ve never been one to spend weekends lounging in my pajamas, and I can’t stand the feeling of greasy hair. I found out quickly that I’m more comfortable, and more present as a mother, when I feel healthy and put together. And my son can handle more independent play time than I was giving him credit for. He actually seems to appreciate those opportunities, and to be adaptable to the idea that parents won’t hold themselves hostage to him all day. A bit of fussing and crying is a tolerable price to pay for that lesson.

Parents of little ones don’t get much time for self-indulgence, but they need time for self-care.

Foot in the Door

At the bakery this morning, I saw a “Now Hiring” sign for bakers, cashiers, and management. (“Inquire at the counter but apply on our website,” it said.) Whenever I see “Now Hiring” or “Help Wanted” at a shop or restaurant, I recall the days of desperation when I needed a job, any job, to get me in the door of the Adult Working World. Years ago I would “pound the pavement”, as my parents’ generation put it, with copies of my resume and shoes that hurt. As a high-schooler, my dream was to work in a bookstore. I spent a lot of time as a customer/loiterer at Borders and Barnes & Noble, and hopefully filled out job applications at all locations within driving distance of my house. There was nothing to specially qualify me. I was a fairly avid reader and listener of CDs, but as a 17-year-old my breadth of knowledge about the world of books and music was not impressive; I couldn’t be that employee who offered great recommendations. I was also very shy, so I wasn’t the best candidate for cashiering either. What I really wanted to do was stock shelves, so I could see the new books and CDs coming in while feeding my organizational impulse and having minimal interaction with customers. Sadly I never got a callback.

The first place to interview and hire me was Round Table Pizza. I believe my qualifications were “seems polite” and “is physically able to distribute pepperoni on a disk of dough”. That job lasted for almost a year until I went off to college. When I came back home for the summer, I was desperate to get another job. Although I was on scholarship and my family was middle-class, I was irrationally jealous of friends who had summer jobs and were taking in money. Maybe I felt like I needed to earn my keep as part of society, or maybe I just wanted to buy more plane tickets to see my boyfriend in Irvine. Anyway, I signed up with a temp agency thinking that would be my best shot at getting summer work. I was excited about the idea of working in an office instead of a retail environment. (I was still shy and hated dealing with customers.) However, I still had no qualifications other than a good high school GPA and the nice-looking blazer my mom lent me to wear for the interview. I got a random, one-day assignment on a focus group for a jury consulting firm. Then it was back to college.

Shifting Gears

I went for two bike rides while I was pregnant last year, before my belly got large enough to throw off my balance. One was a sunny-day outing through the shopping centers and suburbs near my house. Roads are busy around there, but many have shaded bike lanes and alternative routes that wind through quiet neighborhoods. Also, once you get near the Nike campus on a weekend, you get a good mile or so of peace on a street that is normally clogged with cars and other cyclists. (It’s almost eerie to peer into the fortified grounds behind the big swoosh.) Like all good rides do, that one ended with food. After biking seven miles, I walked into a Mexican restaurant wearing Spandex and sweat and feeling too good to care about my appearance. Both the dreary part of early spring and the exhausting part of early pregnancy had just ended, and I was stoked to be riding again.

My second outing was shorter, but took more wind out of my lungs as I learned just how steep are the hills in my neighborhood. After slogging up our local bike path, going very slowly to reduce the strain on my body, I reached a plateau and a choice: turn around and go home the same way, or get onto the road and make a loop. I chose the latter because I wanted to ride some new territory, but until I started down the road I didn’t know what a sharp drop it was going to be. I felt trepidation, and then regret, thinking about the tiny fetus inside me. Mostly I worried about hitting any gravel in the bike lane at that speed, but I made it safely, squeezing my brakes all the way down.

Photo Shorts: Failed Fetch

I went to Astoria, Oregon, in February 2010. Back then, and for many years prior, just about every trip I took was a photography excursion. I usually didn’t need or want anybody to come with me. I stayed in my own quiet sphere, with my camera, inspecting the ground for textures and the sky for patterns. My photography skills have never been technically great, but I have always found it satisfying. This photo was chosen from my archives with the aid of a random date generator. Clearly I was mostly drawn to the sand: its moisture-induced color gradations; its fine layers on the left; its pockmarked, sugary texture on the right; and the vertical split down the middle. The branch interrupted the monotony of the composition, and inspired the silly title I gave this photo when I posted it to Flickr: “Failed Fetch”.