In Flux

“Everything has a place.” That was my dad’s mantra he repeated, very slowly, many times when I, as a child, was in the midst of doing convenient things like leaving lunch leftovers in my backpack for days or dropping a patchwork trail of toys between my bedroom and the kitchen.

I didn’t appreciated the simple profundity of this jewel of knowledge until, mm, nowish. We left Alaska four years ago, and since then my earthly possessions have spread between school, home, wherever I happen to be working for the summer, deep storage, deep-deep storage and the ether.

Now, theoretically, everything is either in my bedroom or the garage here in Oregon. But everything is not in its place. I just found my red swimsuit in my medium saucepan, none of my cds are in the correct cases, and my trash can is harboring a mini-skirt, a wooden spoon, dorm-fitted sheets, and a pair of painted sticks I picked up at an Indian dance event on campus three years ago. I can’t find my iPod or my razor. And my brothers are starting to notice (my armpits).

Everything has a place. Sigh.

Ah, Unemployment

I’ve never worked full-time for more than a summer, but this year a whole new level of meaninglessness accompanied my Labor Day holiday since I’m now no longer in school and I don’t have a job.

I got up shortly before 10 a.m., tromped to the kitchen and ate potato chips until my mouth was raw. Then I took the dog for a walk. I played some ping pong. And I squeezed in two naps and a bath. I also managed to get dressed by mid-afternoon. Feeling extra festive, I donned an XXL t-shirt I received at an interview in Texas for a job I wasn’t chosen for. It would’ve been better had the shirt read, “I flew all the way to Houston for a job interview and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.” But alas, it only carries the company logo.

I couldn’t savor the full existential crisis I expect befalls some non-laborers on Labor Day, because I do have a half-baked plan for the next 12 months or so. Oh well. There’s always next year.

In a Name

I didn’t want anything more than four syllables. Nor anything too obvious à la “Leslie’s Travel Blog,” yawn.

A sundog is an optical atmospheric phenomenon that happens when ice crystals refract the Sun’s light, sayeth Wikipedia.

Sundog was also the name of my parent’s sailboat when I was a wee Alaskan princess. We sailed out of Seward. Paddling the dinghy, watching porpoises swim alongside our bow, squishing seaweed on the beach, and seeing a seagull doo doo on my father’s face were terrific formative experiences. Resurrection Bay is where I learned to be curious about the world. And Sundog was the vessel of my discovery.

So that’s how I named my blog. Obscure enough?

Inaugural Blog

Three months ago I finished college. In a week I’ll be 22. I have no job. And I’m leaving the country. Under said conditions, there was clearly just one thing left to do: start a self-aggrandizing public diary of my daily canoodling.

If I had a rose garden, I’d strike up the band and lay a hand on the nearest religious text. Then there would be a big ball in which I would celebrate my achievement, which was badgering my boyfriend into making a web page for me. Yeah, that’s right. I didn’t even do it myself.

But there’s no rose garden here, just some gladiolas and sunflowers blooming against the corrugated metal siding of my parents’ garage. Instead I’ll take the opportunity to say, “Hello, Internet.” Welcome to what I hope will be an unboring account of why I’m right about everything.