Okay, so Google ads is churning out such losers as "Aberdeen mom cures wrinkle problem" and "Aberdeen mom whitens yellow teeth." In Aberdeen, the obvious solution to these problems is not to remove the wrinkles and yellowness as it appears but to take preventative measures by not smoking (meth). Since the Aberdonian solver is a mother, I can only assume she is inculcating anti-drug messages into her children. And since I don't smoke anything, I think I am ahead of the curve there, too. So Google ads, you can stop that.
So Ray and I headed out to Seaside for a weekend of relaxation and adventure and engagement pics, which I will post when Sara sends some my way but it was just last night people. We biked at Fort Stevens, did a hike there, walked the promenade and it was chilly and because it has been so nice here, I hadn't packed long sleeved anything. Still, there were plenty of people out in shorts/tanks/flip flops.
To get there, we headed through Astoria, where we ate at the Silver Salmon Grill, a really nice restaurant with the added bonus of having a magician performing at tables. His name was, no kidding, Dale Dvorak. A carpenter "up at the college," Dvorak's passion is magic, and although he has performed for 8,000 ppl at the Tacoma Dome (he says) he likes to keep the close-in stuff as part of his repetoire. That's the tough stuff, really. He did a mentalist trick with me, where he set out five cards with different symbols and he produced a card with the same symbol from a little wallet in his pocket. I have a pretty good idea how this trick is done, and the same with the card tricks he did.
Ray mentioned to DD that I am a former member of my high school magic club, so DD realized he had to step up his game. I apologized for being a tough audience, but knowing some of what to look for has spoiled me for magic. DD understood that, and said as a magician, he was onto other magicians all the time. So when he saw a magician do a trick that he couldn't draw a bead on, he would have his mind blown. And possibly because I mentioned I was bad at prestidigitation, he did such a trick for us, with an English penny and a half dollar that involved alternately dropping them into his pocket and making them reappear in his hand or vice versa. Very smooth. It was very impressive, especially when, apparently without moving his outstretched hand with a half-dollar in it, he made it disappear. Excellent misdirection and prestidigitation skills, Dale Dvorak. He is at the very least a 9th level mage with a dexterity score of 16.
We made it to Seaside in time for a walk on the chilly promenade.
The next morning at Fort Stevens we avoided making eye contact with some reenactors, who were waiting until 11 to set off a small cannon and were dressed in Civil War regalia. What, you ask, was Oregon's role in the Civil War? Small. Incredibly, incredibly small. A man filled with "sessecionist feeling" (i.e. booze and redneckery) walked down the street in Eugene, Ore. in 1865 saying "Praise Jefferson Davis, and damn the man who won't," and was arrested so as to quell pro-sessecionist feelings. It apparently worked.
While the Union worried about sessecionist feelings breaking out in Oregon territory, it must have been apparent from the start that it would not make a great slave state, so although there was Fort Stevens, the Civil War aspect is so small, that you can read this in the Oregon Blue Book: "For many of the soldiers the Civil War in Oregon was a monotonous, numbing assignment. In their monthly post returns, officers recorded desertions, suicides, and bouts in the brig because of drunkenness and misbehavior. The Indians were quiet on the Siletz and Grand Ronde Reservations. The rain was predictable and depressing. 'Nothing transpired of importance,' recorded Royal A. Bensell, a soldier at Fort Yamhill. Too many days brought that refrain in his Civil War diary."
Mostly the forts were used to quell Indians and do the Manifest Destiny thing. Fort Stevens was also set up in WWII to fight the Japanese.
At any rate, Fort Stevens is now a pretty big state park with a lot of bike trails, hiking spots and a beach with a shipwreck on it, which seemed more sunken into the sand than the last time we were there. It's a nice place. I highly recommend it. I saw a vole, too.
Back at Seaside, we did more promenade walking. While doing that, we saw three teens on skateboards, two of whom were having an argument while balancing. It went like this:
Girl: You don't ever contact me.
Boy: THAT'S NOT TRUE I text you like every second day!
Girl: THAT'S NOT TRUE I check my Yahoo every day!
Etc. while balancing. Jeez, what is with the texting? I wanted to applaud the young man for refraining from texting every hour on the hour, as some kids apparently do. Now that they've finally managed to hang out, why is this even an issue?
We also saw a guy who may have been busking or possibly hired by the ginormous condo complex to sing on the street backed up by CD. He was a very suave-looking older black guy in breezy cruisewear and his songs were jazz standards sung in the swing style. I heard him tell some dude he'd "love to sing at Branson." I don't think Jazz is a thing there, bro. A grungy emo kid with a guitar and a neck tattoo was set up far too close to the dude and he was playing his own crappy songs until he realized nobody cared, I guess, because when we came back he was playing along with Suavitay's CD. I appreciated his musicality in that he figured out the key and the chords he'd need. Cheers, emo kid.
Another guy who sounded neither suave nor emo was playing "Leaving on a Jet Plane" further down the promenade. Ray and I seriously need to consider busking next time we hit the shore.
Possibly the worst thing we overheard was a non-stop real estate conversation while eating lunch at the Pacific Way Cafe in Gearhart. It's a great place to eat, but these two phony-looking people were talking about waterfront property, investment properties, yard redos, inside redos, "Have you been in Jerome's place?" how much stuff costed ad nauseum. Because Ray and I were hungry, we basically were kind of forced to listen in. Ironically, the woman, who started off at the cafe ON HER CELLPHONE got all antsy with the waitress, telling her she wanted to move because she felt "confined" in that spot. Oh, please. WE were the ones who were confined. Like animals.
Gearhart is a precious little place. So precious, it must be on a hellmouth or something. Honestly, I defy you to travel through Gearhart and not feel that there must be something vile under all those pleasant shake facades and well-manicured yards and precious commercial corner (no center in Gearhart, it's that small). There simply must be a zombie problem there. I refuse to believe there is a place that idyllic without a dark underbelly on this earth. That said, I bet their city council meetings are fraught with tension and self-righteous entitlement. Which is as good as a dark side to me.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Some Random Thoughts
1) Why trust makeup counter ladies with their knowledge of what foundation is the least cakey and most like your actual skin when they look like they've put their own foundation on with a trowel?
2) Does Weird Al know how much deep wisdom there is in "Whatever You Like?" It's about having an array of terrible, and terribly limited, choices. It describes the situation of millions of Americans who, like the character in "WYL," are working jobs with terrible pay. The narrator does not appear to have kids or really any responsibilities, but still, his fancy options are large fries. We laugh because we assume he has no taste, or that he is ignorant of what is out there, but in reality, there are millions of American children who have never eaten at a restaurant with tablecloths before.
3) I believe carbonated drinks are best from a fountain and not a plastic bottle for reasons that have to do with carbon footprints, portion control and also flavor (but they can taste bad when the syrup is low). Ray is surprised I have thought this deeply about sodas.
4) The nice day blues. Some days, when it is beautiful out, I have no desire to be outdoors after working. Because there are so few nice days to take advantage of, I wonder what is wrong with me. No one should feel like a punk because they want to do what they want to do.
5) Kelly and friends are providing garden protection. Ever since Ray got the Dumpster back for Kelly's family (their slumlord landlord forgot to pay for it) via phone call (he didn't do it alone, the real estate company that manages the building also called the guy), Kelly and her friends have been watching the Tulip Terrorist so he doesn't bang up the flowers or even ride on our macadam (which he does anyway in spite of their "Stay out of their yard!" screams, the kid is kind of sociopathic that way). Thanks, Kelly! Come and get a can of tuna for your cats any time!
6) Why did "Wanted" have to have a Loom of Destiny? That would have been my first clue, as an assassin in their employ, that the company's model was very, very stupid. And how did Morgan Freeman ever do that scene where he introduces said Loom without a) cracking up or b) crying that he was having to sell this dog's breakfast?
2) Does Weird Al know how much deep wisdom there is in "Whatever You Like?" It's about having an array of terrible, and terribly limited, choices. It describes the situation of millions of Americans who, like the character in "WYL," are working jobs with terrible pay. The narrator does not appear to have kids or really any responsibilities, but still, his fancy options are large fries. We laugh because we assume he has no taste, or that he is ignorant of what is out there, but in reality, there are millions of American children who have never eaten at a restaurant with tablecloths before.
3) I believe carbonated drinks are best from a fountain and not a plastic bottle for reasons that have to do with carbon footprints, portion control and also flavor (but they can taste bad when the syrup is low). Ray is surprised I have thought this deeply about sodas.
4) The nice day blues. Some days, when it is beautiful out, I have no desire to be outdoors after working. Because there are so few nice days to take advantage of, I wonder what is wrong with me. No one should feel like a punk because they want to do what they want to do.
5) Kelly and friends are providing garden protection. Ever since Ray got the Dumpster back for Kelly's family (their slumlord landlord forgot to pay for it) via phone call (he didn't do it alone, the real estate company that manages the building also called the guy), Kelly and her friends have been watching the Tulip Terrorist so he doesn't bang up the flowers or even ride on our macadam (which he does anyway in spite of their "Stay out of their yard!" screams, the kid is kind of sociopathic that way). Thanks, Kelly! Come and get a can of tuna for your cats any time!
6) Why did "Wanted" have to have a Loom of Destiny? That would have been my first clue, as an assassin in their employ, that the company's model was very, very stupid. And how did Morgan Freeman ever do that scene where he introduces said Loom without a) cracking up or b) crying that he was having to sell this dog's breakfast?
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Remembering the dead through sales
So Beth and I went to the Supermall for Memorial Day because I looked like a hobo in my threadbare and dated clothes, and Beth needed some enabling in her life. We learned a special lesson in how old we are, too.
First we got our dresses from the dress shop. Surprisingly (or not), and in complete contrast to how well we were treated when we were buying, while picking up said dresses, the staff was kind of curt and "whatevs." Beth thought it was chintzy that they had a steamer but did not offer to steam our dresses, and especially my wedding dress. I kind of agree. Consistency may be the hobgoblin of little minds, but it's really a fundamental value for retail.
Then we headed to the Supermall, a place designed to make minds go loose. We first hit Nordstrom Rack, where I bought a pair of $100 (discounted from $275) Cole Haan booties. And seriously, I kind of had to because they were Cole Haans, a detail in an old John Hughes column that made such a deep impression on Ray he once mentioned it and we managed to turn it into an inside joke. Obviously the hottest shoes are Cole Haan shoes, or something.
Anyway, those boots, though not necessary this time of year, replace the utterly useless stiletto-heeled black suede boots made by a white devil. The bottoms were made of cardboard, which in this weather soaks straight through. So although they were cute as hell (and did not have the name of that evil man emblazoned all over them) I had to give them up. The Cole Haans appear to be much better made.
Nordstrom Rack is a seriously disorganized mess of a store. I know it's by design, or buy design. But they could try a little harder because I got wore out the minute I left the shoe section. Also, their cashiers aren't uniformly bright. I pointed out three $7 eyeshadows I was getting to the chick checking me out and she still didn't ring them up. Oh well, they were getting shed of them anyway. I made a good faith effort, anyway.
Now, I can't talk about every item I got because we'd be here all day and even I can't do that. But suffice to say, Beth and I discovered how old we were when we went into the Liz Claiborne outlet. Beth was all, "We're too young," and I was like, "But that red polka-dot dress is cute," and she was all, "well, then let's see what we can find," and I was all, "This dress is $40? Maybe I should try it on?" and I found Beth and was like, "Is this totally boring for you?" and she was like, "I started a changing room already. The shirts are cute and $7.50."
Needless to say, I got the dress and we both got some cute shirts.
Beth tried to justify liking Liz Claiborne because Isaac Mizrahi designs for them now, and I'm pretty sure Tim Gunn was recently brought on to freshen up their look. But I've seen Isaac's stuff in Target and it's either for ironic skinny young women or non-ironic old women with no in betweens, so I'm not cutting him any breaks for being "youth oriented." No, I will give it all up to Tim Gunn.
Funny, I did not get the things I was looking for — cute shoes I can walk around in a lot while on the honeymoon and semi-technical capri-style pants for biking on said honeymoon. Because biking will happen, I swear.
I had a bubble tea and she had a pretzel. Auntie Anne's now puts calorie counts by all their pretzels and it scared Beth into only eating one. Me, I'm pretty sure the bubble tea was a nightmare of faux fats, sugar and tapioca starch. But it's all good because I am working out like a maniac. On Tuesday I did Levels 1 and a bit of 2 on the Jillian Michaels 30 day shred DVD after the Yoga mat I got off-gassed significantly (it reeked). I will give her props, she is motivating and the exercise is pretty good, even for a first level. Only problem is, I am straining something in my legs every time I work out, something between my ankle and mid-calf, and all the jumping jacks don't help. I was about to die in Zumba from the pain tonight. What, see a doctor, you say? Pfft. I don't trust doctors. They just want to take your money for your two-minute visit and can't solve your problem.
Besides, I probably just need new kicks, like I was going to get while shopping on Monday but didn't find.
Unfortunately, I may yet need to go shopping again within not just the year, but the next few months.
First we got our dresses from the dress shop. Surprisingly (or not), and in complete contrast to how well we were treated when we were buying, while picking up said dresses, the staff was kind of curt and "whatevs." Beth thought it was chintzy that they had a steamer but did not offer to steam our dresses, and especially my wedding dress. I kind of agree. Consistency may be the hobgoblin of little minds, but it's really a fundamental value for retail.
Then we headed to the Supermall, a place designed to make minds go loose. We first hit Nordstrom Rack, where I bought a pair of $100 (discounted from $275) Cole Haan booties. And seriously, I kind of had to because they were Cole Haans, a detail in an old John Hughes column that made such a deep impression on Ray he once mentioned it and we managed to turn it into an inside joke. Obviously the hottest shoes are Cole Haan shoes, or something.
Anyway, those boots, though not necessary this time of year, replace the utterly useless stiletto-heeled black suede boots made by a white devil. The bottoms were made of cardboard, which in this weather soaks straight through. So although they were cute as hell (and did not have the name of that evil man emblazoned all over them) I had to give them up. The Cole Haans appear to be much better made.
Nordstrom Rack is a seriously disorganized mess of a store. I know it's by design, or buy design. But they could try a little harder because I got wore out the minute I left the shoe section. Also, their cashiers aren't uniformly bright. I pointed out three $7 eyeshadows I was getting to the chick checking me out and she still didn't ring them up. Oh well, they were getting shed of them anyway. I made a good faith effort, anyway.
Now, I can't talk about every item I got because we'd be here all day and even I can't do that. But suffice to say, Beth and I discovered how old we were when we went into the Liz Claiborne outlet. Beth was all, "We're too young," and I was like, "But that red polka-dot dress is cute," and she was all, "well, then let's see what we can find," and I was all, "This dress is $40? Maybe I should try it on?" and I found Beth and was like, "Is this totally boring for you?" and she was like, "I started a changing room already. The shirts are cute and $7.50."
Needless to say, I got the dress and we both got some cute shirts.
Beth tried to justify liking Liz Claiborne because Isaac Mizrahi designs for them now, and I'm pretty sure Tim Gunn was recently brought on to freshen up their look. But I've seen Isaac's stuff in Target and it's either for ironic skinny young women or non-ironic old women with no in betweens, so I'm not cutting him any breaks for being "youth oriented." No, I will give it all up to Tim Gunn.
Funny, I did not get the things I was looking for — cute shoes I can walk around in a lot while on the honeymoon and semi-technical capri-style pants for biking on said honeymoon. Because biking will happen, I swear.
I had a bubble tea and she had a pretzel. Auntie Anne's now puts calorie counts by all their pretzels and it scared Beth into only eating one. Me, I'm pretty sure the bubble tea was a nightmare of faux fats, sugar and tapioca starch. But it's all good because I am working out like a maniac. On Tuesday I did Levels 1 and a bit of 2 on the Jillian Michaels 30 day shred DVD after the Yoga mat I got off-gassed significantly (it reeked). I will give her props, she is motivating and the exercise is pretty good, even for a first level. Only problem is, I am straining something in my legs every time I work out, something between my ankle and mid-calf, and all the jumping jacks don't help. I was about to die in Zumba from the pain tonight. What, see a doctor, you say? Pfft. I don't trust doctors. They just want to take your money for your two-minute visit and can't solve your problem.
Besides, I probably just need new kicks, like I was going to get while shopping on Monday but didn't find.
Unfortunately, I may yet need to go shopping again within not just the year, but the next few months.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Survival of the Fittest
So the other weekend while visiting Ray's dad, we couldn't make it to see Ray's mom (the nursing home was on quarantine lockdown because someone had the flu — not swine, not like it really matters, all flu is bad for the compromised), so we went mountain biking. I had a hard time keeping up, in part because we were shooting straight uphill and in part because I had worked out for about two hours the previous day.
I would say I was in recovery mode, but Ray saw it differently. He thought I was getting my butt kicked because I don't work out hard enough with Zumba and whatever else it is I am doing at the Y. "I don't think you're keeping your heart rate elevated for a long enough time," he said, as my eyesight went purple and red with rage and disbelief.
True, Zumba does not have a consistent across-the-board high heartrate inducing situation happening. There is a warm-up and a cool-down and fast songs interspersed with slightly slower ones for about 35 minutes before the floor work starts, which lasts about 25 minutes and rounds out the hour. The amount your body works is pretty much dependent on A) knowing and following the steps and B) Pushing yourself on the faster workouts to kick your knees higher, bounce a little more and generally be as inefficient as possible. Why do you think aerobics instructors scream out, "SQUEEZE THOSE TUMMY MUSCLES!!!" all the time? They want you to think you're shrinking your abs, sure, but they also want people to push themselves a little harder. A tough workout — it is possible to get.
What Ray does is, however, incredibly consistent. It is so completely consistent that sometimes I wonder that he isn't overtrained in some muscles. To wit: Ray has the most jacked-up treadmill, set at an incline that could train an Everest climber. He gets on it about three or four times a week and walks for 30 mins at top speed (about 3 mph) and then takes 2.5 mins to "cool down," which does not seem significantly slower to me, then does some pushups and sit ups, always the same sort. Now, Ray is the best hiller on bike or foot that you have ever seen. He marched up Mt. Elinor like it was flat pavement. He bikes up hills that I'm walking up. He is like the Terminator or something on grueling hikes.
So I challenged Ray to come to Zumba with me. Now, Ray knew that Zumba is the kind of environment that may drain a man of all his masculinity for 30 minutes or so, but he bravely tagged along to a Saturday morning lesson, which was only sparsely attended. He had a hard time keeping up. I'm not saying he was floundering like a bottom feeder or anything, but Zumba is not as obvious as walking, after all. But he was very game and I was very proud of him. Also, one of the creepy hillbilly-type people that stare in the Zumba classroom from the house out back was out on the porch staring in. Ray got the full experience.
At the end, he thought his legs might be kind of sore from the floorwork — "Just the hamstrings though" — which was his concession to me that Zumba may have benefits. He has not changed his assessment of the inconsistency of the heartrate, however. Of course, Ray is all about the consistency.
In spite of his refusal to truly accept Zumba as a legitimate form of exercise, he did make me a really nice dinner Saturday night.
I would say I was in recovery mode, but Ray saw it differently. He thought I was getting my butt kicked because I don't work out hard enough with Zumba and whatever else it is I am doing at the Y. "I don't think you're keeping your heart rate elevated for a long enough time," he said, as my eyesight went purple and red with rage and disbelief.
True, Zumba does not have a consistent across-the-board high heartrate inducing situation happening. There is a warm-up and a cool-down and fast songs interspersed with slightly slower ones for about 35 minutes before the floor work starts, which lasts about 25 minutes and rounds out the hour. The amount your body works is pretty much dependent on A) knowing and following the steps and B) Pushing yourself on the faster workouts to kick your knees higher, bounce a little more and generally be as inefficient as possible. Why do you think aerobics instructors scream out, "SQUEEZE THOSE TUMMY MUSCLES!!!" all the time? They want you to think you're shrinking your abs, sure, but they also want people to push themselves a little harder. A tough workout — it is possible to get.
What Ray does is, however, incredibly consistent. It is so completely consistent that sometimes I wonder that he isn't overtrained in some muscles. To wit: Ray has the most jacked-up treadmill, set at an incline that could train an Everest climber. He gets on it about three or four times a week and walks for 30 mins at top speed (about 3 mph) and then takes 2.5 mins to "cool down," which does not seem significantly slower to me, then does some pushups and sit ups, always the same sort. Now, Ray is the best hiller on bike or foot that you have ever seen. He marched up Mt. Elinor like it was flat pavement. He bikes up hills that I'm walking up. He is like the Terminator or something on grueling hikes.
So I challenged Ray to come to Zumba with me. Now, Ray knew that Zumba is the kind of environment that may drain a man of all his masculinity for 30 minutes or so, but he bravely tagged along to a Saturday morning lesson, which was only sparsely attended. He had a hard time keeping up. I'm not saying he was floundering like a bottom feeder or anything, but Zumba is not as obvious as walking, after all. But he was very game and I was very proud of him. Also, one of the creepy hillbilly-type people that stare in the Zumba classroom from the house out back was out on the porch staring in. Ray got the full experience.
At the end, he thought his legs might be kind of sore from the floorwork — "Just the hamstrings though" — which was his concession to me that Zumba may have benefits. He has not changed his assessment of the inconsistency of the heartrate, however. Of course, Ray is all about the consistency.
In spite of his refusal to truly accept Zumba as a legitimate form of exercise, he did make me a really nice dinner Saturday night.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Say what?
So Ray and I are trying to teach ourselves some foreign language before we go on our honeymoon later this year, and that means CDs from the library. So far we listened to some on the way to Oly for the big banjo band playout at the First United Methodist Church (where we drew a record crowd for the Saturday afternoon "Potluck and a Program") from the Living Language series. They weren't that great. Maybe for review, since they're all in my iPod? So we moved on to the Instant Immersion series, which is an improvement.
Now, the Living Language series scores some points from me for its "cultural facts" portion. Because the cultural facts are so ridiculous it's hard to believe they aren't trying to get one over on us but then again, the French love Mickey Rourke and Jerry Lewis and only one of those cats has had a comeback. According to Living Language All-Audio French, the French are obsessed with graphology and if you apply for a job there they may send your handwriting off to a grafologiste who will divine your personality traits. When we heard that, Ray and I looked at each other and went, "Wha?" On the other hand, in Latin America they are really into astrology there, in a way people aren't up here.
Other news: Went to Longview, where Kris was assembling a mock 7th-street cake. She was going for a whole-building effect; I thought she would try to recreate the facade (un mot francais (perdonnez-moi, je escoute les CDs, non escrives pas). It was kind of a wash though as it looked funny, so she was on the verge of chucking it, but Ray and I took it home and had Mickey over to share the manifold delights of the 7th Street cake, which was from scratch yellow cake with an entire bottle of red food coloring in it and buttercream frosting tinted the fleshy tone of the theatre.
It looked like a fake-limb cake. Not sure which limb. It tasted good, though. Anyone ever read the Armistead Maupin books about San Francisco? Remember the guy who couldn't remember anything but hated roses? And it turned out he was part of a Catholic cult with the crazy ideas about transubstantiation? Well, this cake could stand in for that guy's cult — and much more deliciously and less repulsively.
The mountain biking was meh in Eufala Heights, which this weekend could be called "You Fail-a" heights. Trees were down, we got lost, my legs got all scratched to heck, Ray didn't feel he got a good enough workout (gee, we only pushed our bikes up a hill for a couple of miles). We had a forced march around Broadway hill and up 6th Street and then back down through the post office. Ray impugned the aerobic benefits of the Zumba, too, because I was dawdling and sweaty. Not everyone wants to pretend they're hauling it up Mt. Everest for 32.5 minutes (no warm-up, the extra 2.5 mins are the "cool down") on a treadmill set to "almost vertical" while watching Lil Kim and Derek the dancer jive to "Jailhouse Rock." Some of us like and need the sociality of Zumba.
OH! MAJOR NEWS! I BUSTED THE TULIP TERRORIST RED-HANDED!!!
Little boy was holding a tulip I'd had my eye on for a week in his hot little grimy hand while riding bike circles around me as I asked him, "Do I go into your yard and pick your tulips?" (shoulda used the word "flower," in retrospect). He was all cagey about where he got it — "I got it somewhere." But eventually he fessed up — "I got it there" (pointing to garden). Other tulips were missing. I was annoyed. I don't think TeeTee learned much, but one can hope.
TeeTee also played what appeared to be chicken with us when we were about to leave the driveway for the grocery store. With his bike. He came right at us on his bike, swerving almost at the last moment at our (stopped) car. What preschooler has thanatos? Does he feel some sort of existential angst — la nausee (is nausea masculin ou feminin? Je ne sais pas)? What is up with this kid?
I told Ray if we were to spawn our kid would probably get beat up by TeeTee while simultaneously worshipping him.
The temps this weekend was gloriouse. Notre premiere weekend de la ete. More, please!
We saw the Driftwood show, "Crimes of the Heart." Nice set! And it was really good. Debbie's daughter was in it and she was as precious as she could be, and so was Ray's distant cousin Julayne. Anyway, it was a really well-done show. Apparently, because I went in and sat down while Ray hit the bathroom, he couldn't find me and it took half of Livin' Harmony (the local barbershop quartet) to point me out to him. I was reading the program so I missed out.
This is such a small town. Sometimes it is hard for me to get over. Although there are a lot more social problems here than in Stars Hollow, there are a lot of similarities to that fictional community, too. Like when Hoquiam thought about banning chickens, pigeons, ducks and geese the other week. Small town governmental decision-making at its finest (it was voted down — let people have their poullets).
Now, the Living Language series scores some points from me for its "cultural facts" portion. Because the cultural facts are so ridiculous it's hard to believe they aren't trying to get one over on us but then again, the French love Mickey Rourke and Jerry Lewis and only one of those cats has had a comeback. According to Living Language All-Audio French, the French are obsessed with graphology and if you apply for a job there they may send your handwriting off to a grafologiste who will divine your personality traits. When we heard that, Ray and I looked at each other and went, "Wha?" On the other hand, in Latin America they are really into astrology there, in a way people aren't up here.
Other news: Went to Longview, where Kris was assembling a mock 7th-street cake. She was going for a whole-building effect; I thought she would try to recreate the facade (un mot francais (perdonnez-moi, je escoute les CDs, non escrives pas). It was kind of a wash though as it looked funny, so she was on the verge of chucking it, but Ray and I took it home and had Mickey over to share the manifold delights of the 7th Street cake, which was from scratch yellow cake with an entire bottle of red food coloring in it and buttercream frosting tinted the fleshy tone of the theatre.
It looked like a fake-limb cake. Not sure which limb. It tasted good, though. Anyone ever read the Armistead Maupin books about San Francisco? Remember the guy who couldn't remember anything but hated roses? And it turned out he was part of a Catholic cult with the crazy ideas about transubstantiation? Well, this cake could stand in for that guy's cult — and much more deliciously and less repulsively.
The mountain biking was meh in Eufala Heights, which this weekend could be called "You Fail-a" heights. Trees were down, we got lost, my legs got all scratched to heck, Ray didn't feel he got a good enough workout (gee, we only pushed our bikes up a hill for a couple of miles). We had a forced march around Broadway hill and up 6th Street and then back down through the post office. Ray impugned the aerobic benefits of the Zumba, too, because I was dawdling and sweaty. Not everyone wants to pretend they're hauling it up Mt. Everest for 32.5 minutes (no warm-up, the extra 2.5 mins are the "cool down") on a treadmill set to "almost vertical" while watching Lil Kim and Derek the dancer jive to "Jailhouse Rock." Some of us like and need the sociality of Zumba.
OH! MAJOR NEWS! I BUSTED THE TULIP TERRORIST RED-HANDED!!!
Little boy was holding a tulip I'd had my eye on for a week in his hot little grimy hand while riding bike circles around me as I asked him, "Do I go into your yard and pick your tulips?" (shoulda used the word "flower," in retrospect). He was all cagey about where he got it — "I got it somewhere." But eventually he fessed up — "I got it there" (pointing to garden). Other tulips were missing. I was annoyed. I don't think TeeTee learned much, but one can hope.
TeeTee also played what appeared to be chicken with us when we were about to leave the driveway for the grocery store. With his bike. He came right at us on his bike, swerving almost at the last moment at our (stopped) car. What preschooler has thanatos? Does he feel some sort of existential angst — la nausee (is nausea masculin ou feminin? Je ne sais pas)? What is up with this kid?
I told Ray if we were to spawn our kid would probably get beat up by TeeTee while simultaneously worshipping him.
The temps this weekend was gloriouse. Notre premiere weekend de la ete. More, please!
We saw the Driftwood show, "Crimes of the Heart." Nice set! And it was really good. Debbie's daughter was in it and she was as precious as she could be, and so was Ray's distant cousin Julayne. Anyway, it was a really well-done show. Apparently, because I went in and sat down while Ray hit the bathroom, he couldn't find me and it took half of Livin' Harmony (the local barbershop quartet) to point me out to him. I was reading the program so I missed out.
This is such a small town. Sometimes it is hard for me to get over. Although there are a lot more social problems here than in Stars Hollow, there are a lot of similarities to that fictional community, too. Like when Hoquiam thought about banning chickens, pigeons, ducks and geese the other week. Small town governmental decision-making at its finest (it was voted down — let people have their poullets).
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Banjo madness continues
Saturday night the Banjo Band took Olympia's First United Methodist Curch by storm. They have a "dinner and a program" every other week, and this Saturday, we were that program.
The benefiit of the dinner part was we all got to take part in the potluck. Let me tell you, there is no finer eating than a church potluck. Not only are you exposed to the culinary heights of mac-n-cheese with summer sausage mixed in, devilled eggs and QFC Fried chicken, you are risking food poisoning because non-professional cookery is the number one way people get that stuff, which makes eating kind of like an extreme sport. It is fascinating what people cook, too. The best thing I ate was what appeared to be a rhubarb bar. Like a lemon bar, but with a different, rhubarby top. It was spectacular.
Obviously my eyes were bigger than my stomach, which was pretty big (I'm not sure why I was so hungry, since the extent of my day had been sleeping in, returning my books to the library and powernapping). But I needed to sugar up before hitting the banjo.
The organizer told us this was the biggest crowd he'd seen at one of these potlucks, and man, they ate up every song, from "Carolina in the Morning" to "Bicycle Built for Two." They even screamed for Linda to do the Charleston. If there had been a venue where banjo-smashing was appropriate, this might have been it. Except we all love our banjos. Best of all, they actually knew the protocol for the service songs. And although this was a United Methodist Church, they hollared with appreciation for Frank Andy's "God Bless you and God Bless America." Frozen Chosen? I don't think so.
Ray and I listened to French tapes (well, mp3s on the iPod) on the way up. Maybe something sunk in, but the instructions are a little confusing. Although he took French back in the day, Ray said he is expecting me to be the primary linguist on the honeymoon. The tenses are giving me a sad, however, because I thought (why?) they'd be like Spanish and Portuguese, which have virtually identical verb conjugations, tenses and moods. Le sigh. Anyway, I can now say "bouteille de champagne," which I already could, except I can say, "Je achete une bouteille de champagne," which only sounds more moronic with the verb in place.
Finished "A Fraction of the Whole." Tres, tres bon. I recommend it wholly. Also demolished "The White Tiger" which won the Booker. I was not as impressed with it, but it's not bad. The symbolism is more obvious, the plot less ambitious than FOTW, but it's got a lot of description. I'm in agreement with the Guardian writer who was like, "The White Tiger got the Booker? Say what?"
The benefiit of the dinner part was we all got to take part in the potluck. Let me tell you, there is no finer eating than a church potluck. Not only are you exposed to the culinary heights of mac-n-cheese with summer sausage mixed in, devilled eggs and QFC Fried chicken, you are risking food poisoning because non-professional cookery is the number one way people get that stuff, which makes eating kind of like an extreme sport. It is fascinating what people cook, too. The best thing I ate was what appeared to be a rhubarb bar. Like a lemon bar, but with a different, rhubarby top. It was spectacular.
Obviously my eyes were bigger than my stomach, which was pretty big (I'm not sure why I was so hungry, since the extent of my day had been sleeping in, returning my books to the library and powernapping). But I needed to sugar up before hitting the banjo.
The organizer told us this was the biggest crowd he'd seen at one of these potlucks, and man, they ate up every song, from "Carolina in the Morning" to "Bicycle Built for Two." They even screamed for Linda to do the Charleston. If there had been a venue where banjo-smashing was appropriate, this might have been it. Except we all love our banjos. Best of all, they actually knew the protocol for the service songs. And although this was a United Methodist Church, they hollared with appreciation for Frank Andy's "God Bless you and God Bless America." Frozen Chosen? I don't think so.
Ray and I listened to French tapes (well, mp3s on the iPod) on the way up. Maybe something sunk in, but the instructions are a little confusing. Although he took French back in the day, Ray said he is expecting me to be the primary linguist on the honeymoon. The tenses are giving me a sad, however, because I thought (why?) they'd be like Spanish and Portuguese, which have virtually identical verb conjugations, tenses and moods. Le sigh. Anyway, I can now say "bouteille de champagne," which I already could, except I can say, "Je achete une bouteille de champagne," which only sounds more moronic with the verb in place.
Finished "A Fraction of the Whole." Tres, tres bon. I recommend it wholly. Also demolished "The White Tiger" which won the Booker. I was not as impressed with it, but it's not bad. The symbolism is more obvious, the plot less ambitious than FOTW, but it's got a lot of description. I'm in agreement with the Guardian writer who was like, "The White Tiger got the Booker? Say what?"
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Who's up for "Put On Your Old Gray Bonnet"?
So Friday night was the Young Artists Showcase, which I hosted, at the 7th Street and it was really good. Ray thinks it was the best ever. I started off totally nervous and freaking out and tweakery like always but soon warmed up a bit and even made some ad libs. Like when Shaylyn's shoe came off while she was dancing, she left the stage and I was like, "She danced her shoe off for you and that's the best you can do?"
The dance acts are always fun to watch, this year there was a 14-y-o named Spencer who did a hip-hop number to a medley called "Get Your Swag On," which I would like to link to some lyrics for but Ray told me he YouTube'd to see if it had any swears and heard the phrase "hos on my (you know what) like a health dept. condom," and since I already know all the words to "Get Low," I don't want a potentially dirtier song to replace its stature as "Song I know with the iffiest of morally redemptive quantities." It also brought up a fundamental question for me: Shouldn't those hos and the health department condom be simultaneously on the rapper's, uh, you know? Does he think rubbers are for fashion? Has the health dept. in his neck of the woods not been doing its job?
Fundamentally, however, I think it's just flabby lyrics that are the fault of the writer. And I'm worried I'm bringing down the town of my already not-high-toned blog with this information.
Anyway, Spencer was the big hit among the 13-15 y-o girls backstage. "I LOVE SPENCER," one breathlessly proclaimed to me while running down to see him. The feminazi in me wishes that boys would show the same amount of approval and validation to girls that is shown in the other direction, but instead they usually just lap up the attention.
The other backstage drama was the nonstop chatter. It was like Erika Wishnoff, who I went to elementary school with, was there with Sara Hutchinson or Greta Galuszka. Erika was seriously the Chatty Cathy of that triumvirate, the other two couldn't help but get sucked in even though Greta was a goody two shoes and Sara was introverted. Erika got told to be quiet more than anyone else I ever went to school with.
Let's see. There was also singing, which was all very good. If I were to pick out particularly poignant moments of singing, I would say there was Jordon, who Ray said was just good his first time at the showcase several years ago but has developed into a real artist since. I would also add Cora, who asked if I would tell the audience that she has a cold, but I said, I don't think they'll notice much. Well, she blew the roof off. There were also instrument-players, and I have to say, I was really impressed with Laurel's interpretation of a Chopin nocturne, even though Jonathan, who was also playing Chopin (and excellently), is the local pianist one thinks of when one thinks of Chopin. He did amazingly well, as he always does.
Anyway, Ray said he thought this year was as good as the showcase has ever been and he's worried it won't be as good next year. Well, maybe if you can actually line up Miss Grays Harbor it will suffer from not having my incisive intros, I told him.
So Saturday we headed to Tacoma to get my wedding dress! It fits great and looks really pretty and although for a minute I thought maybe I should have gone white or ivory so other women won't feel silly wearing blue, it suits me. The woman who helped me try it on wasn't the same cool chick who helped last time, but she managed to make it sound like she thought it was okay that I was getting married in a blue bridesmaid's dress anyway.
We went to Woody's on the Water for lunch, and because we're holding our rehearsal dinner there and thought we should at least eat at it once before committing to it body and soul (and because we hadn't had a contract faxed to us and thought we ought to just show up in person). It was yummy. You lucky bastards eating rehearsal dinner will love it.
We then headed to Nordstrom's to look for a tie to match the dress, but failed. The thing that was most surprising about the mall was that it was jam-packed with people. This is a scene from the recession? Where we're all supposed to be saving money? Ray theorized it was a pre-mother's day crowd.
Since we almost never go to a mall, and the one in Aberdeen is basically dead (I should do a podcast tour of it. Lots of "here is a closed storefront that now is a holding space for Sears riding lawnmowers" kinds of stuff in it), we decided to cruise the Tacoma mall. A quick jaunt up and back. Also that way I could get to drink my mocha from the Nordie's cafe (where they have Aphrodite-flavored Greek Gods yogurts! I ate one! It was vanilla with a hint of cinnamon and vanilla, it was delicious! Hermes is still my favorite, though at 250 calories or more per teensy cup I don't eat a whole lot of it.
So not a lot is different at the mall, but there is a new store we saw called "DA RELM." I feel like I should add a huge "SIC" next to it. That kind of combination of ghetto-styled spelling with its cheap, gothic-fonted sign, plus its customers, of whom there were more than 10 and all of whom seemed to know waaaay more than necessary about the kind of sword Aragon used in Lord of the Rings PLUS the two-bladed battle axes with spiked handguards PLUS the knives with built-in brass knuckles PLUS the plastic sculptures of dragons and wizards for sale at the other end of the store leads me to quote this Twitter Tweet from Drew Curry, who I did not know up until I Googled "Da Rel" Tacoma: "Next time your at the mall go to DA RELM hahahaha u will laugh your butt off."
Or maybe we should have registered there (sarcasm alert!).
Then we went to REI, which was packed. Apparently they are having a sale or something? Anyway, I was looking for travel shoes and a good travel purse for the honeymoon when I had a mini-decompensation attack and had to sit down. I overheard a sales person tell a customer that when REI built the Tacoma store they only anticipated 6,000 new members to join from it. Well, it was 30,000 in one year and now they realize they were thinking too small in the store. Well no kidding, I could have told you that with my first visit there six years ago, ding dongs. The Tacoma Ys are packed to the gills, we are not a lazy city! We are Seattle's suburbs! All our public trails and parks are VERY WELL USED and REI is like the unofficial religion of the unchurched nature lover that makes up 80 percent of the population of western Washington state. And of course they built in a lot they can't easily expand in or from.
Anyway, I did end up getting a purse identical to Beth's, with stainless steel mesh in the straps and bottom and a clipping zipper. She got it for her trip to Italy this December because of all the pickpocket warnings in the guidebooks. Do people still pickpocket? Seriously is it that much of a problem? The purse is so theft-proof I'm sure I'll end up forgetting it at some cafe or something. It's even the same color as Beth's. I was hoping for a less brown or black option, but in retrospect if I get tired of carrying it Ray won't feel too feminized if he has to tote the thing.
We then returned to the Harbor in a downpour that got so crazy near Ft. Lewis that we had to slow down to about 30 on I-5 and still couldn't see that well. Mom said Arkansas had some real bad rain and called it a "frog strangler," which I'm pretty sure is what my old boss John Hughes would have called the conditions on I-5.
When we got back we were starving, so we picked up a pizza from Casa Mia and cracked open a bottle of wine. Ray let his hair down and we polished the bottle off (anyone who knows Ray will know that his drinking three glasses of wine is !-worthy) then played banjo and clarinet duets while buzzed. No, that's not a euphamism for anything. We played "Spanish Eyes," "Banjo Polka" and a medley of "Red Wing" and "Put on Your Old Gray Bonnet." Then Ray, who has to transpose everything in his mind when he plays his B-flat instrument in C notation, busted out his clarinet book and, to prove that he doesn't stumble over accidentals, whipped like a pro through the most difficult song in the book, a Klezmer ditty (called "the Klezmer's Hora") that had all kinds of symbols in it I'd never even seen before. He did this while actually moving his head up and down and side to side, unleashing his inner gypsy. Three glasses of wine and in thirty minutes he's doing what his clarinet teacher had been after him to do for more than a year.
We think we should play a few banjo/clarinet duets at the rehearsal dinner, or outside before or after along the waterfront (I can prop my banjo case open like we're looking for donations), for our peeps, to show them how we're totally meant to be. Who's up for a little "Put On Your Old Gray Bonnet"?
The dance acts are always fun to watch, this year there was a 14-y-o named Spencer who did a hip-hop number to a medley called "Get Your Swag On," which I would like to link to some lyrics for but Ray told me he YouTube'd to see if it had any swears and heard the phrase "hos on my (you know what) like a health dept. condom," and since I already know all the words to "Get Low," I don't want a potentially dirtier song to replace its stature as "Song I know with the iffiest of morally redemptive quantities." It also brought up a fundamental question for me: Shouldn't those hos and the health department condom be simultaneously on the rapper's, uh, you know? Does he think rubbers are for fashion? Has the health dept. in his neck of the woods not been doing its job?
Fundamentally, however, I think it's just flabby lyrics that are the fault of the writer. And I'm worried I'm bringing down the town of my already not-high-toned blog with this information.
Anyway, Spencer was the big hit among the 13-15 y-o girls backstage. "I LOVE SPENCER," one breathlessly proclaimed to me while running down to see him. The feminazi in me wishes that boys would show the same amount of approval and validation to girls that is shown in the other direction, but instead they usually just lap up the attention.
The other backstage drama was the nonstop chatter. It was like Erika Wishnoff, who I went to elementary school with, was there with Sara Hutchinson or Greta Galuszka. Erika was seriously the Chatty Cathy of that triumvirate, the other two couldn't help but get sucked in even though Greta was a goody two shoes and Sara was introverted. Erika got told to be quiet more than anyone else I ever went to school with.
Let's see. There was also singing, which was all very good. If I were to pick out particularly poignant moments of singing, I would say there was Jordon, who Ray said was just good his first time at the showcase several years ago but has developed into a real artist since. I would also add Cora, who asked if I would tell the audience that she has a cold, but I said, I don't think they'll notice much. Well, she blew the roof off. There were also instrument-players, and I have to say, I was really impressed with Laurel's interpretation of a Chopin nocturne, even though Jonathan, who was also playing Chopin (and excellently), is the local pianist one thinks of when one thinks of Chopin. He did amazingly well, as he always does.
Anyway, Ray said he thought this year was as good as the showcase has ever been and he's worried it won't be as good next year. Well, maybe if you can actually line up Miss Grays Harbor it will suffer from not having my incisive intros, I told him.
So Saturday we headed to Tacoma to get my wedding dress! It fits great and looks really pretty and although for a minute I thought maybe I should have gone white or ivory so other women won't feel silly wearing blue, it suits me. The woman who helped me try it on wasn't the same cool chick who helped last time, but she managed to make it sound like she thought it was okay that I was getting married in a blue bridesmaid's dress anyway.
We went to Woody's on the Water for lunch, and because we're holding our rehearsal dinner there and thought we should at least eat at it once before committing to it body and soul (and because we hadn't had a contract faxed to us and thought we ought to just show up in person). It was yummy. You lucky bastards eating rehearsal dinner will love it.
We then headed to Nordstrom's to look for a tie to match the dress, but failed. The thing that was most surprising about the mall was that it was jam-packed with people. This is a scene from the recession? Where we're all supposed to be saving money? Ray theorized it was a pre-mother's day crowd.
Since we almost never go to a mall, and the one in Aberdeen is basically dead (I should do a podcast tour of it. Lots of "here is a closed storefront that now is a holding space for Sears riding lawnmowers" kinds of stuff in it), we decided to cruise the Tacoma mall. A quick jaunt up and back. Also that way I could get to drink my mocha from the Nordie's cafe (where they have Aphrodite-flavored Greek Gods yogurts! I ate one! It was vanilla with a hint of cinnamon and vanilla, it was delicious! Hermes is still my favorite, though at 250 calories or more per teensy cup I don't eat a whole lot of it.
So not a lot is different at the mall, but there is a new store we saw called "DA RELM." I feel like I should add a huge "SIC" next to it. That kind of combination of ghetto-styled spelling with its cheap, gothic-fonted sign, plus its customers, of whom there were more than 10 and all of whom seemed to know waaaay more than necessary about the kind of sword Aragon used in Lord of the Rings PLUS the two-bladed battle axes with spiked handguards PLUS the knives with built-in brass knuckles PLUS the plastic sculptures of dragons and wizards for sale at the other end of the store leads me to quote this Twitter Tweet from Drew Curry, who I did not know up until I Googled "Da Rel" Tacoma: "Next time your at the mall go to DA RELM hahahaha u will laugh your butt off."
Or maybe we should have registered there (sarcasm alert!).
Then we went to REI, which was packed. Apparently they are having a sale or something? Anyway, I was looking for travel shoes and a good travel purse for the honeymoon when I had a mini-decompensation attack and had to sit down. I overheard a sales person tell a customer that when REI built the Tacoma store they only anticipated 6,000 new members to join from it. Well, it was 30,000 in one year and now they realize they were thinking too small in the store. Well no kidding, I could have told you that with my first visit there six years ago, ding dongs. The Tacoma Ys are packed to the gills, we are not a lazy city! We are Seattle's suburbs! All our public trails and parks are VERY WELL USED and REI is like the unofficial religion of the unchurched nature lover that makes up 80 percent of the population of western Washington state. And of course they built in a lot they can't easily expand in or from.
Anyway, I did end up getting a purse identical to Beth's, with stainless steel mesh in the straps and bottom and a clipping zipper. She got it for her trip to Italy this December because of all the pickpocket warnings in the guidebooks. Do people still pickpocket? Seriously is it that much of a problem? The purse is so theft-proof I'm sure I'll end up forgetting it at some cafe or something. It's even the same color as Beth's. I was hoping for a less brown or black option, but in retrospect if I get tired of carrying it Ray won't feel too feminized if he has to tote the thing.
We then returned to the Harbor in a downpour that got so crazy near Ft. Lewis that we had to slow down to about 30 on I-5 and still couldn't see that well. Mom said Arkansas had some real bad rain and called it a "frog strangler," which I'm pretty sure is what my old boss John Hughes would have called the conditions on I-5.
When we got back we were starving, so we picked up a pizza from Casa Mia and cracked open a bottle of wine. Ray let his hair down and we polished the bottle off (anyone who knows Ray will know that his drinking three glasses of wine is !-worthy) then played banjo and clarinet duets while buzzed. No, that's not a euphamism for anything. We played "Spanish Eyes," "Banjo Polka" and a medley of "Red Wing" and "Put on Your Old Gray Bonnet." Then Ray, who has to transpose everything in his mind when he plays his B-flat instrument in C notation, busted out his clarinet book and, to prove that he doesn't stumble over accidentals, whipped like a pro through the most difficult song in the book, a Klezmer ditty (called "the Klezmer's Hora") that had all kinds of symbols in it I'd never even seen before. He did this while actually moving his head up and down and side to side, unleashing his inner gypsy. Three glasses of wine and in thirty minutes he's doing what his clarinet teacher had been after him to do for more than a year.
We think we should play a few banjo/clarinet duets at the rehearsal dinner, or outside before or after along the waterfront (I can prop my banjo case open like we're looking for donations), for our peeps, to show them how we're totally meant to be. Who's up for a little "Put On Your Old Gray Bonnet"?
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