My Cat Is Fat

January 30, 2012 by Mark Petruska

Last night, I was forced to admit a terrible truth, one that I had long suspected but habitually denied.

My cat is fat.

I knew she was lazy. Anybody who sleeps 21 hours a day earns that designation. The excessive girth my parents keep pointing out whenever they’d stop by for a visit? Nothing more than visual deception. A trick of the light. “She’s just furry,” I’d say. And, when that declaration was met with skeptical stares, I’d throw in an adverb to appease the masses.

“Really furry.”

About a month ago, Audrey decided to weigh Sydney. She came in at 11 pounds. I hardly thought this was anything to be concerned with. Why, she was the size of a large infant, and nothing more! So I went about my business, still believing my cat was not fat. And then last night, Audrey decided to do a little Googling about cats and their average weight and blah, blah, blah.

“Guess what?” she said. “Sydney’s fat!”

“No, she isn’t,” I replied. “She’s furry. Really furr…”

“The average female calico weighs between 7 and 9 pounds,” my daughter said, cutting me off mid-argument.

Sydney, looking very regal. And fat.

Well, then. I guess it’s true. My cat is fat. What’s up with that? I don’t overfeed her (though she is devious when it comes to her canned food, tricking both me and Tara into feeding her one morning last week). I suppose it’s the lack of exercise, but I can’t very well make her wake up and run around the townhouse, unless I grab the laser pointer and have her chase after that red beam of light (which, come to think of it, is always hilarious). Even now as I write this post she’s curled up at my feet, snoring contentedly.

That’s right. My cat snores. It’s the damnedest thing.

But as far as cats go, Sydney’s pretty cool. I’ve owned many cats over the years, and she is hands down the best I’ve ever had. She’s friendly and affectionate and tolerant, doesn’t shy away from strangers, and aside from her predilection for jumping onto the dining room table and chewing up napkins when my back is turned, really doesn’t cause any trouble.

I suppose I’ll overlook those few extra pounds and let her hang around for awhile longer.

Even though I adore her, the fact that I am blogging about my cat is a sad sign that I’m sort of scraping the bottom of the barrel for blog topics today. Sometimes the inspiration is there, other times it isn’t, but when five days have passed without writing I feel like I’ve got to put something out there. I actually have a running list of blog ideas saved to an MS Word document, but mostly they are random scraps of ideas without much substance. Some of them have been on there a year. In an effort to clean up the list, and add a couple hundred more words to this post, I thought I would finally allow some of them to see the light of day. So, without further ado, and exactly as I have written them, here are a few of those topic ideas (in bold), with my current thoughts.

Poaching an egg.

I’ve never poached an egg before. I thought it might be fun to chronicle my first attempt, complete with photos documenting the process. Trouble is, I prefer my eggs scrambled or over medium, proving this idea wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

3-Day Rule.

Umm, what 3-day rule?! I don’t really remember! I think I was referring to the unwritten but widely accepted rule that some guys have about waiting three days after a date to call a woman back. Here’s my take on that: it’s a stupid rule. There isn’t much more that needs to be said about that.

Coaches surprised about Gatorade bath.

I was watching a football game and, for the umpteenth time, the coach looked genuinely surprised when his players dumped Gatorade all over him. This happens after every. single. victory. Do they really not know it’s coming?!

Chai Tea/Tai Chi

Love the play on words, but I’m not a fan of chai tea and I don’t practice martial arts, so really it was more of a punny title than anything else.

Pant like a dog.

One day last summer I was driving home on a sweltering afternoon and I spotted a dog on the side of the road, tongue hanging out of its mouth, panting away. I thought to myself, what an efficient cooling system a dog has – it’s so much better than sweating!

Grocery stores require too much thinking.

I’ll bet you a hundred bucks I had just returned from grocery shopping and was mentally exhausted after having to choose between paper and plastic.

Comic strips – all the best are gone. Except Pickles!

R.I.P. Calvin and Hobbes, The Far Side, Bloom County, etc. The only comic strip that still makes me laugh on a consistent basis is Pickles.

Random Twitter followers.

Why are you following me, John G. and Cody and Ashley? Who the heck are you, Mildred and Pierce? How many people in this day and age are actually named Mildred and Pierce, anyway?! I don’t know half my followers on Twitter. Is that weird? And why won’t Zach Braff ever reply to any of my tweets??

There you have it! It’s good to purge sometimes, and now that I’ve removed those admittedly odd ideas from my list, I can focus on coming up with better content in the future! What do you think? Do any of those ideas deserve to be expanded on? Do you make lists for future blog topics, and then sometimes wonder what in the hell you were thinking later? Is there any topic that should make my list but hasn’t?

Remembering The The’s

January 25, 2012 by Mark Petruska

Maybe, she says, they’re getting tired of hearing about all this.

But, but…I stammer. There may be some truth to this, but who isn’t a sucker for a good love story? The romantic in me has been unleashed, trumpeting forth furiously and without abandon. A broken record, perhaps, but it still spins, playing the same happy tune over and over, and it is sweet music to my ears. A blog is many things, I reply, but first and foremost, it’s a bookmark in the pages of your life. I want to look back on this, to always remember The Beginning. I’ll still write about mandolines and geoduck, but also of the great times we share together. Photographs fade over time, details become murky. I’m compelled to remember so we never forget.

You’re right, she says. Don’t ever stop.

It’s a good thing, because I couldn’t if I tried. I don’t just talk, I shout. From the rooftops, for the world to hear. There are so many moments in time to capture for posterity…

The adrenaline rush of the late night airport greeting. The ride home, holding hands the entire trip. The [ARE YOU CRAZY? MY PARENTS READ THIS]. The pizza and beers Friday night, followed by Wii games with the kids. The drive to the Oregon coast on Saturday, when rain and snow and fog gave way to hail moments after I remarked that we had seen every kind of weather imaginable. The rainbow that blossomed right before my eyes the instant I pulled over to take a picture of the water. The World Famous Octopus Tree (how they laughed over my Griswold-like enthusiasm) and the view of the Pacific Ocean from the Cape Meares Lighthouse. The squeaky cheese at the Tillamook Cheese Factory and the wine tasting next door. The snowball fight and the Mad Libs tournament on the drive home. The belated birthday dinner for my dad, and Tara’s first experience with Chicken Paprikas.

The homemade biscuits and gravy and pitcher of Bloody Marys Sunday morning. The flight to Vegas, our first airplane ride together, full of laughter and good conversation and Mousetrap on my phone (“Airplane Mode,” of course) and a few more Bloody Marys. The pictures in front of the iconic Welcome To Fabulous Las Vegas sign, retakes because those we snapped a few weeks earlier in the dark didn’t turn out. The Presidente margaritas at Chili’s (and the realization that we hadn’t been lacking in our recommended daily allowance of alcohol that day). The drive down the Vegas strip, in the dark, neon lights shimmering in the desert air, before trekking Over The Hump To Pahrump.

The solo excursion to the hotel casino Monday morning while Tara was in a board meeting for work. The four “3″s perfectly lined up on my video poker machine, 800 nickels that translated into a rare chance to leave a casino with more money in my pocket than I entered with. The lunch with Tara and her coworkers, and admonition (or was it a threat?) from her boss to take good care of her. The trip to Pahrump Valley Vineyards while she finished up work. The rain showers and chilly wind sweeping through the valley (I thought it never rained in the desert!). The housing inspections we went on together with Michelle from the Pahrump office that afternoon, a chance for me to see my girlfriend in action. The two-and-a-half-hour dinner at Tommasino’s, a classy and gorgeous Italian restaurant that seems as out of place in Pahrump as a tumbleweed would in Portland. The calamari, tentacles and all. The Italian wedding soup and roast duck and chocolate chip cannoli and live jazz music and pinkie ring-bedecked owner straight out of the Sinatra era.

The breakfast burrito and coffee from Sonic Tuesday morning before heading out for more inspections. The crazy antics of Lisa and Laura, the local realtors who are partners-but-not-in-that-way. The detour through Red Rock Canyon on the drive back to Vegas, the mountain formations stunningly beautiful in the afternoon sunlight. The long, sad walk through McCarran Airport, neither of us wanting to part ways after such a wonderful visit. The tearful goodbye at the gate. The new countdown beginning: 25 days until we are together again.

That’s a lot of The’s to remember. A lot of The’s to never forget.

A lot of happy memories.

This rainbow over Tillamook Bay appeared out of nowhere, just in time for my shot.

Best airplane flight ever!

Las Vegas sign, Welcome To Fabulous Las Vegas

The iconic sign welcoming dreamers from around the world.

The Vegas skyline.

Over the hump you end up in Pahrump.

Tommasino's in Pahrump: one of the best Italian restaurants I've ever been to.

Red Rock Canyon outside of Las Vegas.

My hair is blowing in the wind and there are cars in Tara's eyes, but I love this picture anyway.

My Italian Wedding Soup (jtwhite5.wordpress.com)
Pahrump, NV and beginning of the Las Vegas Visit (quiltergal1.wordpress.com)

If It Slices or Dices, It Entices

January 19, 2012 by Mark Petruska

Last week, I bought a mandoline. And by mandoline, I mean this:

NOT this:

Captain Corelli I am not.

I do, however, have a fondness for kitchen gadgets. Let’s just say if it slices or it dices, it entices. This is why I think Tara’s mom is so cool. She has both a miniature blowtorch and a set of battery-powered salt and pepper grinders that I oohed and ahhed over during my visit in October (an identical pair of the latter subsequently found their way beneath Tara’s tree on Christmas day, proving that Tracy actually paid attention to the attention I paid to (confused yet?) her gadgets. Hmm, maybe I’ll find a blowtorch stuffed in my stocking this year?! Dare to dream, Petruska).

Anyway.

The point is, anything that is cool and handy and helps out around the kitchen makes my heart beat faster. This applies to both my girlfriend and inanimate objects. I found myself in Fred Meyer last week with a little extra cash and a mandoline that happened to be on sale. Ooh, I thought. I can’t believe I’ve survived all these years without one of those! And into my baby cart it went.

Bread? Check. Milk? Check. Mandoline? Check.

Sadly, the next few dinners I made did not call for any sliced ingredients. I was beginning to think my poor, lonely mandoline might be forever regulated to the Second Drawer Down, destined to gather dust, when I found a new casserole recipe that I wanted to try that called for, among other ingredients, sliced shallots. Be still my heart! It was time to bust out the mandoline!!

I grabbed a shallot and commenced to slicin’. Everything was fine and good – I had perfectly uniform sliced shallots piling up in a neat little stack on the cutting board – until I nearly severed my thumb.

In case you’re not familiar with a mandoline, it’s got a very sharp blade that slices through a myriad of vegetables – onions, carrots, potatoes, turnips – with ease. And also, I might add, human flesh.

I didn’t even realize I’d cut myself at first. There was a sharp pain and my reflexes kicked in immediately. I examined my thumb and it wasn’t bleeding, so I figured it had been a close call and nothing more. But then it did turn red and, upon closer examination, I discovered a chunk of flesh missing.

Ouch.

You know, being a fan of the cooking show Chopped, I have never been able to understand why it is that on nearly every episode somebody ends up cutting him- or herself. Is one of the mystery ingredients blood? But after my own close brush with a heinous cooking injury, let’s just say I’m a little more sympathetic to their plight. I get it now. Cooking is dangerous. It is not for the faint of heart.

Maybe I’m exaggerating a little. “Chunk of flesh” might be a bit extreme. But there was a knick in my thumb, and it smarted a little.

Fortunately, the casserole turned out delicious.

Here Today, Gone To…day!

All my wishes for snow, I’m happy to report, came true. Around 8:30 Tuesday night it began snowing, and was piling up nicely by the time I went to bed. By daybreak we had 3″ on the ground, and school was cancelled.

Unfortunately, by daybreak it was already 40 degrees and raining. Alas, within a few hours all traces of snow had disappeared. It’s often like that around here; it rarely lasts more than a day or two. The high temperature yesterday reached 52. Our meager three-inch snowpack never stood a chance.

But it was beautiful while it lasted, and winter isn’t over yet!

Rx For a Successful LDR

Tara and I are approximately 12 hours away from seeing each other again. Woohoo!

The thing that has made this long-distance relationship bearable is the frequency of visits we have made back and forth. We’ve never been apart too terribly long, despite fears to the contrary when we first started dating. Of course, I don’t think either of us expected our feelings toward each other to be so intense in the beginning, either. We are both very anxious for Tara to move here, and looking forward to starting that chapter of our lives together. In the meantime, we’ll keep enjoying these little get togethers.

The last time she was here, I ended up in the hospital while she was stuck in my house by herself for three nights. We definitely hope to make up for that this time around. We’ll have a day to ourselves, a day spent adventuring with the kids, a birthday dinner for my dad, and then on Sunday we fly out together to Vegas. We’re not staying there this time – our destination instead is lovely Pahrump, Nevada – but it’ll be fun regardless. We wanted to take advantage of some work she had to do down south by spending a couple of extra days together. Translation: free hotel room.

Hey, a bargain is a bargain.

I fly back Tuesday night, so it won’t be a long trip to Nevada this time, but even a couple of days will be worth it.

Then, we’ll reset the countdown clock to our next visit, in February.

Great Kitchen Tools: Hand-held Mandoline (mapetitemaisonverte.com)
Ode to the Shallot (lilmisspoutinessegues.wordpress.com)

My Bologna’s First Name Isn’t Oscar

January 17, 2012 by Mark Petruska

Yesterday I made myself a bologna sandwich for lunch. Ordinarily this would be no big deal, but I felt weird about the whole thing thanks to Jess Witkins’ confessional about her own bologna sandwich experience last February. Maybe it wasn’t the bologna so much as the fact that she paired it with a glass of Chardonnay, but for some reason she got a lot of flak over that post, so much that she now considers that tiny indiscretion one of her most embarrassing moments of 2011.

Personally, I don’t see what all the fuss was about. Bologna’s good, right? And a decent Chardonnay is plenty tasty. Why not enjoy them together? It’s like a Happy Meal for grownups!

Who cares what's in it - it tastes good! (Courtesy of defglam.com).

And yet, there I was, feeling weird about my own sandwich. Like the reputation of bologna had somehow been sullied. Granted, it’s never been held in very high esteem in the first place. It probably ranks just above hot dogs but slightly below Spam on some fictitious list of Questionable Food Products To Avoid. But you know what? I happen to be quite fond of both hot dogs and Spam, so an occasional bologna sandwich is really no big deal. It doesn’t help that my girlfriend wrinkled her nose when I brought up the topic of bologna during my Christmas/New Year visit. How and why we ever got into a discussion over processed lunchmeat escapes me, but knowing she’s no fan of bologna was also detrimental to my enjoyment of the whole sandwich experience. In retrospect, I was doomed from the start.

It should be noted that I’m very particular when it comes to bologna. Not just any old kind will do. My bologna does not have the first name Oscar; in fact, it is flavored with garlic, sliced paper thin, and imported from Trenton, New Jersey.

I kid you not.

There’s this company called Loeffler’s Gourmet that is based in Trenton, the city both my parents call home. Any time we’d visit, we’d return with a couple of pounds of their bologna, which is unlike any other. I would venture to guess that even people who claim not to enjoy bologna would love Loeffler’s bologna. I haven’t been back east in nearly fifteen years, but my folks still return a couple of times a year, and the tradition of Bringing Back Bologna continues to this day. So yeah, I had some in my freezer. And once I took a bite of that sandwich – on a Kaiser roll, with a slice of American cheese (don’t even get me started on that), and mustard and tomato and pickle – all my initial consternation faded away and I was left with a mouthful of pure processed bliss. And to all the naysayers out there, I may not know which part of the animal my bologna came from – or even which animal, for that matter – but I also don’t care. When something tastes THAT good, it’s hard to give a damn whether a tongue or cheek was involved. Much like Spam, it’s almost a religious experience.

I apologize if this post made you drool.

Yes Or Snow?

For days now, we Portlanders have been teased with the prospect of snow.

Keep in mind, it’s a pretty rare event here. The fact that it’s a novelty excites many of us, and also causes widespread panic and chaos the moment the flakes start falling. Those east coasters who are so skilled in bologna production no doubt chuckle over our reaction to even the threat of a little snow. Snow lover that I am, my eyes have been glued to the sky ever since Saturday night, hoping for a little bit of the fluffy white stuff. And while we’ve had snow showers for three consecutive days now, the temperature has hovered at a maddening 36 or 37 degrees the whole time, making it too warm for anything to stick. I posted on Facebook this morning that the snow reminded me of the Republican presidential field of candidates – just a bunch of big flakes not adding up to anything. And all white, too.

I can be quite the comedian when I try.

Audrey, kicking the soccer ball around in the snow yesterday.

The ironic thing is, I’ve seen more snow in Vancouver, Washington in one hour than I ever saw in Ely. Before my trip to visit Tara, I was excited over the prospect of lots and lots of snow. After all, normally by New Year’s Eve they’re measuring their snowfall in feet instead of inches. When my trip was still a couple of months away I was assured by more than one person that I’d be sick of snow by the time I left. I fretted over a lack of warm-enough winter clothing and even contemplated purchasing long johns in advance. Instead, I was treated to constant sunshine and 50 degrees. Suuurrre it was 20 below zero with 24″ of snow on the ground last December 31, honey.

So, yeah. Hoping to make up for that around here, but even twelve hours before this big storm is supposed to hit we don’t know what’s going to happen in Portland. According to the various local meteorologists we will see either:

Nothing but rain.
A little bit of snow turning to rain by daybreak.
A lot of snow piling up all morning.

Way to nail down the forecast, guys! It’s all dependent on where this low pressure system makes landfall. Just a few miles north or south will make all the difference. The kids are already counting on a snow day tomorrow. Of course, they had the same hope for today, but woke up bitterly disappointed.

If it happens, great. If not, it’s hardly the end of the world. Besides, any snow we do get had better be all gone by Thursday evening, as Tara is flying in for another visit.

Thank god. These fourteen-days-apart-and-counting have been torture.

Again, I kid you not.

Peace out for now – and, think snow!!

0 Angry Men

January 12, 2012 by Mark Petruska

I was selected for jury duty this week.

Actually, I was selected back in September. But that wasn’t convenient for me, so I requested a postponement. You have to pick a date sometime within the next six months, so I perused the calendar and decided that the week of January 9th would be about as dead as dead could be. When Sunday rolled around, I had to start calling the Jury Information Line for recorded instructions.

I’m not going to lie: I was hoping I wouldn’t get chosen. I’m not even really sure why. It’s not like I have a job to worry about or anything else very pressing in my life these days. Plus, I love a good John Grisham legal thriller as much as the next fella. Hell, I was a big fan of L.A. Law back in the day. I find courtrooms fascinating, and the American judicial system intriguing. Still, I couldn’t work up much excitement over the possibility of having to actually serve, so when my group number wasn’t required to report on Monday, I was hardly devastated. On Tuesday, they skipped my group too, and on Wednesday nobody had to report. At that point I started feeling cocky, telling my friends and family that it looked like I’d skirted my civic duty.

Naturally, that’s when they called my group number.

And of course, it was the least convenient day of the week for me. I actually had a lot going on, including a job interview scheduled for 4 PM and a dinner with my parents for my dad’s birthday. My first instinct was to Google “how to get out of jury duty.” There are some interesting tips online, lemme tell ya, but most of them would A. Really piss off a judge, and B. Make me look like a moron in the process. I have too much self-respect for B to be an option, and am far too paranoid about being pulled over for phantom traffic violations by cop buddies of some disgruntled judge to make A look any more appealing. Still, I could plead hardship if I really wanted to.

But then Tara and I were texting, and a few sweet words on her part made me realize how trivial worrying over something like jury duty is. She made me see the Bigger Picture, and considering that I was already in a rah-rah-life-is-awesome mood after that morning’s amazing sunrise, I decided to quit bitching and just go with the flow. In fact, I began to think the whole experience might actually be fun. Deciding the fate of an individual is heady stuff, and besides, getting an up close and personal look at how the wheels of justice turn might just inspire my next book.

So this morning I was up early and arrived at the courthouse before 8:00. I promptly set off the metal detector and was practically asked to undress before passing through again, and then my belt got caught in the rollers and started to get all tangled up before I was able to dislodge it. Hardly an auspicious beginning, but I made it to the Jury Assembly Room without further incident, and the waiting commenced. There were only about eighteen of us there – hardly the large crowd I had anticipated – so I figured my odds of getting selected would be pretty high. We were told there was a civil trial, it would most likely last just a single day, and we’d be paid $10 plus mileage for our time. I was secretly hoping for something juicier where the death penalty might be an option, but no such luck. At 8:30 we were told we’d be going into the courtroom to hear about the case, meet the judge, and be grilled by the attorneys at 9 AM. I settled in with a book to wait.

Even the Founding Fathers loved jury duty! (Courtesy of forbes.com).

Fifteen minutes later, the jury coordinator announced that she’d just received word that the trial had been cancelled and we were free to go. Our service term was up, just like that.

I was half disappointed, half relieved. How fun it would have been to hole up in a room with eleven of my peers while deciding the fate of the ~~guilty bastard!~~ accused, 12 Angry Men-style.

Oh, well. It simply wasn’t meant to be.

And speaking of “simply,” I have a special treat for you. I am turning over the second half of this post to Catherine from Simply Solo. I had promised her the use of my blog sometime, and yesterday she called in a favor and decided to collect. It’s only fair; I’ve guest posted on her blog a bunch of times. Never linked to those posts here, because Simply Solo is basically a dating blog, and I never write about relationship stuff.

Err…

In any case, here’s Catherine. When she isn’t writing about relationship stuff, she’s talking about dressing up like a zombie or surviving those vicious east coast earthquakes. You should check her out. And don’t just skip ahead and leave a comment now, because she’s even promising to dress up like a French maid for one lucky person who follows her link below, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to miss out on an opportunity like that!

About a million years ago, Mark very graciously offered me a chance to rant on his blog. I proceeded to totally forget about it. I mean, what do I have to rant about? I get all my ranting out on my blog, Simply Solo. In fact, I’m usually quite exhausted (sometimes slightly embarrassed) from my own blog posts. But this week, it became evident to me what I must rant about. The drag out, no-holds-barred competition that I’m in the fight of my life to win. The upcoming winter Olympics got nothing on this battle I’m about to tell you about.

Okay, I’m being slightly dramatic. Here’s the deal: One of my clients is having a contest for the chance to win an iPad 2, a pair of Manolo Blahniks or a wine party for 20 from Rioja Wines. There is also a separate contest between my colleagues and me to see who can get the most entries for the contest. It’s down to me and another girl fighting desperately for first place. The thing is, this girl is a born winner. She’s about the most competitive person I’ve ever met, but being competitive is new to me. It feels weird. I’m finding myself obsessively checking the score and peeing an awful lot. Oh, and calling on random friends like Mark to help.

Will you help me win by entering to win yourself? I’ll be forever in your debt. Want my first born? Done. Need a maid for the day? Just give me a sec to grab my Comet and plastic gloves. Want me to wear a French maid costume while I’m cleaning? Okay, now I think you are taking this a bit far.

All you need to do is enter your email address and zip code to this link by midnight this Saturday: http://www.crttriojafriendsandfamily.com/ads/crt?referredby=CGryp@CRT-tanaka.com. If you have multiple email addresses, enter them all – more chances to win! And please share it with all your friends and family. Tell them I’m the underdog. Tell them they can win great prizes. Tell them entering might solve some disease. Hell, tell them whatever you want to get their support. I need absolutely every entry possible.

If you happen to post it on Facebook, please remind your friends to enter the link I just gave that has cgryp in it, not the link that Facebook automatically generates (the one Facebook generates doesn’t properly track entries).

Thanks so much for your help! Mark’s blog is one of my absolute favorites, and it truly is an honor to have an opportunity to rant to you all.

There you go! Feel free to help a sister out. Well, not my sister, but a sister. And by the way, if you’re ever interested in guest posting here, drop me a line and I’ll be happy to feature you on the pages of my blog. Jess Witkins has done it! My awesome girlfriend has done it! All the cool kids are doing it…you can, too!

All you gotta do is ask.

A Sunrise Got In The Way

January 11, 2012 by Mark Petruska

Sometimes in life, everything just falls into place perfectly.

This morning when I left the house to take the kids to school, dawn was barely breaking over the horizon. Sunrise was still more than thirty minutes away, but you could tell it was going to be a good one thanks to a faint glow on the horizon that was already reflecting off the underbellies of the clouds overhead. I’ve lived here long enough to know that once the sun rose, the sky would briefly come afire with a burst of eye-catching color, and I wanted to be ready to capture the moment. Fortunately, I had my phone with me, and the camera on the EVO is pretty decent. It’s got 7 megapixels and has churned out some surprisingly good photos in the past.

The sky brightened as we reached Camas, and nature’s watercolors came to life, the horizon a canvas of brushstrokes that had been dipped in purple and pink and orange and red. A breathtaking scene. We passed Audrey’s school, and the sky was so brilliant my heart ached a little. I’m a sucker for nature’s beauty, what can I say? It’s why I love the Pacific Northwest so much. I knew that I had a very limited window of opportunity – just a few minutes at best – so I had to find a spot to pull over and snap a picture. Camas’ biggest claim to fame is its paper mill, which was already spewing steam into the atmosphere. Hardly photogenic. I was afraid I was going to miss out on the chance to capture what had become a stunning sunrise, when I saw my opportunity. A little side street next to her school. It was on a bluff that faced east, and was dotted with trees.

Perfect.

I pulled over, jumped out of the car, aimed my phone/camera toward the horizon, and pressed the shutter. Fortunately, I captured that magic moment for posterity.

My detour caused Rusty to be late to school. I was going to call the attendance office and excuse his tardiness by letting them know a sunrise got in the way, but his teacher ended up waving it off. It was worth stopping, anyway. Within minutes the sky was nothing but a muted shade of gray, and there’s a lesson to be learned in this. Our time here is fleeting, so we have to make the most of it. Stop and smell the roses whenever they’re in bloom. Grab the brass ring. Go for broke. Life is too short not to pull over to the side of the road and take in the beauty of the world for a few moments when the opportunity presents itself. If you had blinked this morning, you would have missed it.

I was reminded of a quote from one of my favorite movies ever, American Beauty. The narrator, Lester Burnham, might as well have been inside my head this morning.

Sometimes there’s so much beauty in the world, I feel like I can’t take it, and my heart is just going to cave in.

So, here’s the sunrise. This photo hasn’t been doctored in any way, shape or form – I just downloaded it right off my phone. It’s not a perfect shot, but it was a perfect moment…and that’s all that really matters.

Turning Into My Girlfriend

January 9, 2012 by Mark Petruska

Slowly but surely, I am turning into my girlfriend.

I suppose this is natural in any relationship. Spend enough time around your significant other, and you start to absorb some of their traits. It’s not like I’m suddenly wearing heels and carrying a purse – at least not in public – but there are little things I’ve picked up here and there. Habits and phrases and the like. And I believe she’s done the same. After all, she was a football fan when we met, and now she’s a Denver Broncos fan, which probably has something to do with my longstanding allegiance to the team. Either that, or she’s suddenly developed excellent sports tastes.

(As an aside, there was a brief time when I did carry a purse. Well, not really. But I did strap on a fanny pack a few times in the late 80s, until I actually got a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realized that doing so was wrong on about a hundred different levels. Oh, the shame. I worked in a luggage store and they were all the rage. Luckily, I never succumbed to the whole “man bag” craze despite an episode of Seinfeld (greatest sitcom ever!) in which Elaine convinces Jerry to carry a purse. But I digress).

Anyway. This became evident to me yesterday, when I was shopping for groceries and picked up a tube of squeezable minced garlic.

When I visited, Tara had a tube of squeezable minced garlic in her fridge, and I sort of made fun of that. In a lovable way, of course. Because there is nothing like freshly minced garlic, am I right or am I right? Especially when you’ve got a fancy garlic press (thanks, Ikea!) that makes it simple to mince garlic to your heart’s content. I couldn’t understand why somebody would pay $3 for a tube of garlic when you can buy a whole clove for 33-cents.

And then I tried it.

I was cooking her dinner that Tuesday after Christmas. Chicken cacciatore. The recipe calls for garlic, and because all she had was that squeezable tube, I grabbed it from the refrigerator and squirted a dash into the pan.

Wow, I thought. That was easy. And really convenient. There was no garlic to peel, no garlic press to disassemble and wash, no garlic residue on my fingers. And the dish did not suffer from a lack of fresh garlic. The dish, it turned out, had no idea I’d made a fourth-quarter substitution.

Which is why I forked over $3 for a tube of squeezable garlic yesterday.

But that’s a little thing. One bigger change I’ve noticed is a sudden interest in being sociable.

Not that I was ever a hermit or anything. Growing up an Air Force brat, all my childhood friends are scattered across the globe, so there is nobody I keep in touch with. I have been unable to locate my best friend from high school, despite repeated attempts utilizing the resources of the world wide web. And the friends I made from work are all married or partnered up. It’s tough being the proverbial third wheel. Because of these factors, more often than not I found myself alone when I didn’t have the kids. This didn’t bother me; I’m the guy who took a solo road trip across the country, remember? But there was definitely something missing from my life. I would look to my parents, who always have friends to invite over or hang out with, and wonder how they made it all seem so effortless. I think a big part of it was a mental block on my part.

Turns out I enjoy hosting dinner parties!

And then I met Tara. My first trip to Ely, she had her friend Ray join us for dinner one night. I was a little surprised to learn he was coming over, but we had a good time together. In October, when we visited her mom in Seattle, there was a night spent playing cards and drinking wine with her brother’s girlfriend, Anne. Again, a highlight of the trip. I was beginning to realize I enjoyed the company of others – the laughter, the camaraderie, the stories. So when she and I threw a dinner party the Friday before New Year’s, I was actually excited to play co-host, and had a great time.

So, when I had friends from Sacramento in town over the weekend, the logical thing to do was to invite them over for dinner. We’d already had plans to meet up in Portland on Saturday, but I figured, why not have everybody over to my house in the evening, as well? That way we could have a nice, relaxing dinner, drink some wine, play some cards, listen to music, let the conversation flow. I floated the idea out there, and it was met with enthusiasm. It was a spontaneous move on my part, and totally inspired by Tara, but I was excited to have people over and entertain ‘em. Besides, once I’d sent the text to Chris, I couldn’t very well back down!

Earlier in the day we’d met up at Powell’s Books in the funky, eclectic Hawthorne District of southeast Portland. My friend Chris (from Portland Book Review) and her daughter Ruthie, and Heidi and her daughter Jordan, who had flown up from Sacramento. I first met Heidi in person last June, when I lost my car in the parking garage (another Seinfeldian moment in my life), though I’ve known her through blogging – and as a business associate – for years. We walked around Hawthorne, stopping in a bunch of cool shops and taking a break for lunch at a Mexican restaurant before parting ways. I had a dinner to prepare, after all, and even though spaghetti is fairly simple, it still required a few hours to cook.

Anybody wanna guess why I ended up on the kitchen counter?

They showed up at 5 PM and the five of us – plus my kids – spent the next several hours eating, drinking, talking, listening to records, and playing Phase 10, the card game that I have really gotten hooked on these past few months. It turned out to be a great evening, much more comfortable (and less expensive) than if we’d been out on the town. I enjoyed having everybody over, though it definitely would have been even better if Tara had been there. That’s one thing we’ve talked about – the dinners we’ll host and the parties we’ll have when she’s living here. I can’t wait for those!

And I thank her for bringing me out of my shell and introducing me to a whole new world, one which I find quite appealing.

The $47,283.77 Bowl of Beans

January 6, 2012 by Mark Petruska

There is a belief that eating beans – specifically black eyed peas – on New Year’s Day will bring prosperity. I’d never paid much attention to this superstition, as it’s mainly a belief in the South. Besides, the closest I’d ever gotten to a black eyed pea was downloading “I Gotta Feeling” from iTunes.

A bowl of black eyed peas on New Year's Day is believed to bring good luck.

Even though Nevada is about 18 states away from the South, Tara’s family honors this tradition by cooking up a pot of black eyed peas every New Year’s Day for their potluck. So, when we were down there on her uncle’s ranch on Sunday, she urged me to dig in. I happily did so – I love baked beans, and never pass up an opportunity to dish myself up a bowl. They were delicious, too. I could’ve polished off another couple of servings, but there was already so much other good food I didn’t want to fill up on beans alone. I urged Tara to grab a bowl, too – who couldn’t use an extra dose of wealth and luckiness? – but she isn’t as fond of beans as I am, and insisted that I’d eaten enough to assure good luck for us both in 2012.

I didn’t press the issue, because I’m not one to place much stock in superstitions. In fact, I have been known to intentionally walk beneath an open ladder just for the hell of it. I also refuse to freak out if a black cat crosses my path, and if I spill the salt, I don’t throw a handful over my shoulder afterwards – I merely grumble beneath my breath and wipe the mess up from the table. Lucky pennies? Four-leaf clovers? Rabbits’ feet? Give me a break. Frosted Lucky Charms may be magically delicious, but my cereal bowl is more likely to contain Rice Krispies. I’m all about the snap, crackle and pop, baby.

So, when I opened the envelope from the hospital where I spent six lovely nights and days right after Thanksgiving, the last thing I was thinking it would contain was good news. I figured it was a delinquency notice at best, or a threat to garnish my future wages for the next twenty-five years. Instead, I found the following paragraph.

Your application for a reduction in your bill under our Indigency Allowance Policy has resulted in a 100% charity allowance to the balance listed in the TOTAL AMOUNT DUE field of this letter. You owe nothing for this account. ~ Patient Financial Services.

My jaw dropped and I reread the letter to make sure I wasn’t missing the fine print somewhere, but there was no fine print, only the glorious words “you owe nothing” which danced before my eyes in a wondrous tango.

You owe nothing.

I owe nothing!!

Which means my entire bill has been magically wiped out. The total amount due – $47,283.77 – has disappeared. It’s gone. Poof! Hasta la vista, baby. Sayonara, debt.

These Black Eyed Peas bring "Boom Boom Pow" through your stereo speakers.

This is nothing short of a miracle. Sure, I had completed the application for assistance. And yes, the woman who stopped by my room that first fateful day to collect the paperwork had said that it was possible my entire bill would be paid given my continued unemployment, lack of income, and responsibility to my dependents. But I never really believed that, and refused to get my hopes up. It seemed too good to be true. How does one walk into a hospital with no health insurance, have a surgery, stay in a private room for six nights, and leave without owing a cent?! It boggles the mind. I guess this makes me officially indigent, which is a bitter pill to swallow – wounded pride and all – but one in which I will happily gobble down in exchange for not having to fork over so much as a nickel. Take that, mutinous gallbladder! Ha!!

I eagerly called my girlfriend to share the news. She was a little relieved that I wouldn’t have to do something crazy like sell the townhouse or put an ad up on Craigslist for a kidney for sale or pimp myself out in order to pay that massive bill. And then she reminded me about the beans.

“Looks like they’re already bringing you good fortune,” she declared.

Holy crap. She was right! Surely this was no mere coincidence. The black eyed peas that I had eaten a mere 92 hours earlier were already working their magic. As if to hammer this point home, I had just gotten off the phone with the HR rep from a company I had applied to, setting up an interview for Monday. Hadn’t even had a chance to share that bit o’ good news with Tara yet.

True, I didn’t go all Rain Man while in Vegas and sock it to the casino, but then again I played the slots on January 2nd. Those beans probably hadn’t been fully digested yet, and I’m sure they at least have to run their course through your body in order to start working properly. Yeah, I know, eww – but it makes sense. I wish I’d saved the gambling for Tuesday instead.

Be that as it may, they’re workin’ just fine now. I am eager to sit back and see what other positive turns of events will be transpiring for me this year. And you can bet your ass that on January 1, 2013 I’ll be helping myself to a second bowl of those black eyed peas.

Black-Eyed Peas for New Year’s Day (organicauthority.com)
Good Luck Foods (wholefoodsmarket.com)

Out Of This World

January 4, 2012 by Mark Petruska

My coffee tastes weird this morning.

Not because there’s anything wrong with the brew or the filter or the water. It’s just that, it didn’t come from Tara’s coffeemaker. Little things like that are hard to get used to when you’ve just returned from an amazing trip with the person you love. Don’t even get me started on sleeping alone on the wrong side of the bed last night…

But we’ll see each other again in 15 days. That ain’t bad. And she’s moving out of her house this weekend, the first crucial step toward coming out here. Her plan is to move to Vancouver in March, depending on her job search. She’ll be moving in with me. Just further proof that 2012 is going to rock. We certainly welcomed it in on a high note.

The whole trip was incredible.

Hey Good Lookin’, What’cha Got Cookin’?

Tuesday evening – 8 whole days ago already – I finally got to cook a meal for Tara. I suppose you could technically say I did on Thanksgiving, but that was more a full-blown feast for a bunch of people. This was an intimate candlelit dinner complete with wine (we polished off two bottles together) and music. I made chicken cacciatore, and she praised my culinary abilities. It was a pretty romantic night, that’s for sure.

Good food was definitely a theme for the trip. Tara spoiled me with some pretty tasty meals; Wednesday, she made a chicken and broccoli “braid” incorporating a lattice-like pattern of crescent dough. The whole thing was to die for. Then there were the redneck egg rolls and sesame noodles, the pot roast, the meatballs for the potluck…man alive. I’m so glad I’m dating somebody who knows how to cook. That hasn’t always been the case, and as much as I like to get busy with pots and pans, I don’t want to do that every night, ya know?

Tara ended up taking Thursday and Friday off from work. Fantastic, right? Well, yeah…except for the fact that she worked me like a bitch that first day. We spent a good twelve hours – minus breaks – painting her bedroom in preparation for the renters who will be moving into her house in a few days. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but she wanted taupe walls and a white trim; great color scheme, but a lot of work blending the two. The truth is, even though we were both wiped out by the end of the day, I still enjoyed myself. We had my iPod hooked up to her stereo and listened to good music, and despite our typical two-hour phone conversations every night, still managed to come up with some great conversation topics. Besides, I’d rather spend a day cooped up in a room together painting than 840 miles apart. We drove into Ely for lunch at the All Aboard Inn, a bed-and-breakfast place by the railroad depot that is owned by her friend Tricia. Had delicious stuffed burgers and got to chat with the proprietor for a bit. We finally finished for the day around 10 PM, and relaxed on the couch with some mindless television to keep us occupied. And then we crashed.

Mr. & Mrs. Social

Friday was better. After relaxing with coffee and old game shows in the morning – Gene Rayburn, R.I.P.! – we finished up the painting, then headed into town. Tara’s cousin’s wife, Andria, was coming down for a visit with her daughter Addison, and we met up at a Mexican restaurant for lunch. After a wonderful margarita and a uniquely delicious cabbage salsa we returned to Tara’s house, where we sat around her kitchen table talking, drinking and playing cards. Jessie and Arturo (sister and sister’s boyfriend) joined us, followed by Tyler (her coworker) and his girlfriend, Emily. Tara made those redneck egg rolls and sesame noodles I mentioned earlier. They were daaamn good, and we all scarfed them down. The drinking continued, and we played Apples To Apples for awhile before graduating to King’s Cup, a – surprise! – drinking game. We wound down by watching Drop Dead Fred on Tara’s VCR. No, I didn’t misspell “DVD player” in case you were wondering. Dria and Addison stayed the night, and Arturo crashed on the couch until 4 AM. The entire evening was a blast. I’m used to spending quiet evenings alone half the time; playing Mr. and Mrs. Social for a change was lots of fun. I’d say our first dinner party as a couple was a big success.

Saturday morning we had coffee and doughnuts and sat around the living room talking with Dria until she had to leave for the drive back to Elko around noon. That evening we entertained again, having Tara’s friends Jessica and Bill over for dinner. The pot roast, mashed potatoes, steamed carrots and homemade rolls were delicious.

They left around 8 PM, and then it was time to go out and PARTY!

10, 9, 8, 7…

I already wrote about how dull and depressing my last New Year’s Eve was. Saturday night was the complete opposite! Our first stop was Racks Bar & Grill, where we met up with Tara’s dad, aunt and uncle, and a couple of others. We had a drink and chatted for awhile, then drove to the Bristlecone Convention Center for the 105th annual Fireman’s Ball. I was a little leery at first when we sat down and the DJ started playing Boot Scootin’ Boogie. I asked Tara when we might hear a Nirvana song, and she laughed. But with plenty of drinks to keep us fueled – I started with gin and tonics and switched to cranberry juice and malibu rum halfway through – plus good conversation, visiting with Tara’s friend Mary, and hanging out with her family, we had a really good time. The music didn’t improve all that much, unless you’re really into Def Leppard and Sir Mix-a-Lot and Big & Rich, but they did throw in some Lady Gaga to keep things current. Tara even got me out on the dance floor for a bit. It’s amazing what you’ll do when you’re too drunk to care. Much sooner than expected, it was one minute until midnight. The DJ counted down the last seconds, balloons dropped from the ceiling, and I had an amazing stroke-of-midnight kiss to welcome in 2012. Ahh…now, that is the proper way to usher in a new year! Especially one so full of promise.

This year is going to rock.

We stayed for another hour, and then walked across the street to the Hotel Nevada, where Mary joined us for a very early breakfast. Chicken fried steak and eggs are the perfect way to stave off a hangover, it turns out. We dropped Mary off and then headed home, falling into bed around 3:30 AM.

Best New Year’s Eve ever.

Sunday morning we were both feeling the effects of the previous night, though I wasn’t too terribly bothered. My stomach felt a little queasy, but at least I didn’t suffer from a headache. Every New Year’s Day Tara’s family gets together for a potluck, and this year the festivities were held at her Uncle Ward’s ranch about an hour south of Ely. We arrived around 2:30, and I was blown away by the size of this place. It’s 330 acres, and I’ve gotta tell you, that’s a lot of land. Ward has cows, chickens, and peacocks, and several ponds filled with trout and sturgeon. Set against the backdrop of the Nevada mountains, the place is stunning. The house itself is a real man cave, complete with the racks of many animals Ward has hunted over the years. Moose, coyote, elk, bobcat, all mounted to the wall. Dria insisted their eyes were following her around the room. I sort of got the same impression myself.

Tara brought meatballs cooked with beer, brown sugar and onion soup mix, as well as deviled eggs. That was just the tip of the iceberg; there were all sorts of appetizers, in addition to ham, turkey, and a 20-lb. yellowfin tuna that had been buried and cooked for hours. The food was amazing, and I enjoyed meeting so many of her family members.

We were back home by 8 PM, and enjoyed a mellow evening at her place. My last night in her house, as a matter of fact. Ever. Which is sort of bittersweet but at the same time, exciting.

Out Of This World

Monday morning we awoke early. I was excited for our trip south. We were headed for Vegas, baby! I was there once before, but it hardly counts; I was 17 and confined to Circus Circus. Not very exciting, and none of the hip new casinos or resorts were around then. We grabbed breakfast to go and hit the road a little after 8:00. Soon we found ourselves on the Extraterrestrial Highway, a swath of Nevada State Route 375 that passes by Area 51 and has been the site of many UFO reports over the years. We stopped in Rachel for cocktails at the Little Ale’Inn, a bar and grill that caters to the UFO crowd with whimsically cheesy decor and, of course, a gift shop. The place looked familiar to me as soon as we walked in, and I quickly realized they had filmed a scene from the movie Paul there. After chatting with the female bartender-slash-owner, who was quite the character, and buying a few souvenirs we were back on the road, eventually hitting Vegas about 2:30. We stopped for lunch at Raising Cane’s, the chicken finger joint I loved so much in Nebraska, before checking into our suite at the Mandalay Bay Resort. Tara had found an excellent deal online, and we ended up paying about $25 each after taking advantage of a coupon she had. Viva Las Vegas!

The hotel was gorgeous, and our room very nice. Especially the jetted jacuzzi tub. I was eager to walk The Strip, so we headed out, visiting New York, New York first, before ending up at the Bellagio, where I made a $50 donation to the City Of Las Vegas. Damn slots! Tara, at least, came out slightly ahead. Oh well, it was fun to actually gamble in Las Vegas. Darkness had fallen when we left, and we stopped to enjoy the Bellagio Fountains before making the trip back to the room. I was overwhelmed by the glitz and glamour of Vegas, and the massive throngs of people walking the streets, even on a Monday night. Despite that, I loved it! We drove out to Henderson to meet up with Tara’s sister Maggie and her friends Betsy and Josh for a late dinner and cocktails before finally returning to our suite. What a busy and fun day, the only downer being that it was our 9th and final night together.

Tuesday we slept in until 7:15, but we had places to go and things to do before that dreaded trip to the airport. After grabbing coffee and scones at Starbucks we bought tickets for the Mandalay Bay Shark Reef, and the Titanic and Bodies exhibits at the Luxor. We toured the aquarium and then, on the way back to the room as we were stepping onto the elevator, a black man with a sideways baseball cap and a large clock around his neck got on. Tara was practically jumping up and down with excitement when she realized it was none other than Flavor Flav, the 80s rap star and member of Public Enemy. I don’t think anybody else on the elevator even knew who he was! We checked out of the room and hit the Luxor for the other two exhibits. Loved them both; Titanic was filled with artifacts from the doomed ship, and Bodies contained the preserved remains of actual cadavers, and was very informative. We stopped at Smashburger for lunch, and then…sigh…made our way to the airport.

Those goodbyes just plain suck.

We Belong Together

I came to a realization during this trip: Tara and I belong together.

That may not seem like an eye-opening statement, but when it comes to relationships there’s a difference between merely being together and belonging. I truly feel like we were meant to be, and our nine days together cemented that. Spending nine days in each other’s company was the perfect litmus test for what it will be like living together, and not only did we not get sick of each other, but we had an amazing time and didn’t want the visit to end. I felt comfortable around her friends and family, and accepted by everybody. We have a wonderful relationship that has blossomed and grown quickly, and I have no doubt it’s the inevitable culmination of our long and enduring friendship. I am eternally grateful that we took a chance on this, because I simply cannot imagine life without her. This feels right in a way that nothing else has, and on the flip side, being apart again like we are now just feels wrong.

So, bring it on, 2012! I’ve never been so excited for a particular year.