Normally, I’m a really good card picker-outer. I’m great with goodbyes, awesome at anniversaries, kick ass at Christmas, bedazzle with baby deliveries and bar mitzvahs, scintillate sentimentally with sympathies. But for some reason, I have this mental block when it comes to picking out birthday cards for my mom and dad. I mean, they seem perfectly fine when I’m in the store. I found this one for my mom that made me laugh out loud, so I bought it and put it away until it was time to sign it yesterday. But when I dragged it out again, I groaned and wondered what I’d been thinking, for it was neither funny nor sweet. It showed a guy on the front cover saying, You deserve the perfect gift every year. Then when you flip it open, the guy is pointing to himself and saying, That’s why you have me! Happy birthday, mom. 

Ugh.

Way to make my mom’s birthday all about me! And I’m not conceited. I swear. Unfortunately, we were leaving for dinner at their house and only had five minutes to spare, so there was no time to return to the store and pick out a different card. The unfunny, unsentimental one had to do. Luckily, we had a bouquet of fresh flowers we’d picked up from the farmer’s market that morning. I hoped that it would divert attention away from the crappy card. Distract ‘em with shiny objects, you know?

If this had been the first time I’d screwed up the card, I could be forgiven. But sadly, it’s an ongoing occurrence.

This all began on my dad’s birthday a few years ago. 2009, to be exact. That year I bought what I had deemed a clever, funny card. But the minute I walked in the door, he was all up in my face.

“Take a look at the great card your brother sent me,” my dad said, shoving it into my hands.

I could tell right away I’d made a mistake in my card choice.  Scott had picked one of those sentimental, aww-shucks-you’re-swell-pop types of cards that is guaranteed to tug at the heartstrings, while I had opted for something humorous that came with a bottle opener taped to the inside.  My card was more along the lines of ha-ha-you-really-dig-those-beers-don’tcha-dad.  Oops.  And then I opened the card, and saw what my brother had written.

To the greatest dad in the world, it began.

Oh shit, I thought.

Calligraphy or not, I was still bested by my bro. (Courtesy of bethge-hamburg.de).

“Umm, dad, can I have my card back?” I asked quickly, but it was too late – he was already tearing open the envelope. To make matters worse, not only had I opted for a funny card, but all I’d added to it was a hastily scribbled Have a happy birthday, dad! And it wasn’t even in cursive, because I can’t stand my handwriting. It’s not like I was competing with my brother over who would come up with the best card, it’s just that, in the face of a thoughtfully sentimental card with a straight-from-the-heart personalized message in a swirling cursive font, my bottle opener and second-grade print (with nary a message of my dad being the “best” anything) paled miserably in comparison.

Luckily, my dad’s birthday is in January and my mom’s is in May, so I vowed that evening to go all out in four months and get her the sappiest damn card this side of the Mason-Dixie line. I would even work on my cursive writing weeks in advance, so whatever gushy message I came up with would look like freakin’ calligraphy.

Fast-forward to her birthday that year, and I was ready with a fantastically sentimental card. It was flowery and the poetic verse (thanks to the scribes at American Greetings, but still) flowed beautifully. I love you, mom. You’re the best mom in the world. All that sappy junk that mothers just eat up. And she did, commenting on how nice it was. I smiled to myself, figuring this time around I had surely beat my brother handily. But then, just like dad had done back in January, she was foisting Scott’s card in my hand whilst oohing and ahhing over it and calling it “amazing.” Talk about deja vu. I was confused at first. It looked pretty plain from the outside – a standard card with a generic happy birthday greeting – but then it unfolded and opened into a birthday cake. It was like freakin’ origami.

That was the moment I realized I was in a full-scale war with my brother over greeting cards, and suffering heavy casualties. He was an unwitting participant in this birthday battle, unable to savor his hard-earned victories because he hadn’t the slightest idea we were locked in a competition.

Surprise, Scott. We are. And you continue to kick my ass to this day.

But maybe there’s hope this year. As lame as my card was, by the end of the day his card hadn’t yet arrived in the mail. A bad card trumps no card, right? This could be the turning point in the war, that decisive moment where the balance of power shifts to the opposing side. This could be my Tet Offensive. It could be my D-Day.

More likely, his card will show up in the mail tomorrow, perfect and wonderful as always.

I’m glad my parents only have one birthday apiece every year. I can’t handle the stress!

Not in the conventional sense, anyway. Trees and mountains and lakes. Sunsets. The ocean. The smile on a baby’s face. The glint in the eyes of lovers. Those things are beautiful. Concrete and steel? Different words come to mind. Manmade. Sterile. Linear. And yet, a city is like a living, breathing entity. It’s got a skeleton. Arterials and a pulse. A beating heart. And without a doubt, a city can be beautiful and striking and resplendent in its finery.

I have long had a love affair with Seattle.

Don’t get me wrong: my heart belongs to Portland. But this wasn’t always the case. Flash back to 1993, when I was living in San Jose with my now-ex wife. We were kidless still, so when I suggested on a whim that we fly to Seattle for the weekend just to check it out, she eagerly agreed. I didn’t know much about the city then, other than the fact that some really good music was coming out of there. And the Space Needle dominated the downtown skyline. The Pacific Northwest had always held a strong allure to me, so we flew north for a mini getaway. Ended up staying in a really crappy motel near SeaTac on the same busy strip where the Green River Killer was abducting women. We’re talking syringes in the parking lot and drifts of garbage piling up. This was before the days of Yelp reviews and hotels.com, so booking a room in a city you were unfamiliar with was like rolling the dice. Despite the less-than-stellar ambiance, I fell in love with the city that weekend. Pike Place Market, Seattle Center, Elliot Bay, the monorail, the ferry to Victoria B.C., some really great seafood at a lakeside restaurant – it was a terrific trip, and the catalyst for my job transfer and move north a year and a half later. Granted, I ended up 2.5 hours south of Seattle, but my fascination with the city continued, and that was close enough for the occasional visit. I did get back a couple more times over the years, but those trips were few and far between, and were barely enough to whet my appetite.

Now, with Tara’s family up there and her nephew barely a month old, we have plenty of reasons to go – and, in fact, just got back from an overnight visit yesterday. It was my 4th trip to Seattle in seven months, and I envision many more in the future.

This makes me happy. I feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface of the Emerald City. There’s so much to see and do there – neighborhoods to explore, restaurants to try, sights to seek out. And yet, sometimes you want to return to your old favorite haunts. Yesterday, we did a little of both. Had lunch with Tracy and David at our favorite little hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant on 1st Avenue, and then wandered the market. Afterwards, we caught views from two different perspectives. Kerry Park and Alki Beach. The mountain was out, as the locals say whenever Mount Rainier pokes its snowcapped head over the horizon, and it towered over the city like a protective parent. The day was perfect, the scenery stunning.

I’m not saying Seattle is perfect. It’s big and sprawling and busy. Traffic is an issue. Unsavory characters roam the streets. And yes, it rains. A lot. But none of those things detract from the undeniable beauty of the city.

A beauty which we will return to again, very soon.

Related articles

• A Few Days in Seattle (davidniddrie.com)
• Visiting Seattle: A day at the Pike Place Market (cessology.wordpress.com)

This pisses me off.

Because if anybody appreciates a good thrift store bargain, it’s me. I frequently scour the aisles of my local Value Village in search of inexpensive treasures, but do you have any idea how many times I’ve found a work of art by a famous artist and made a 500% profit? I’ll tell you how many: ZERO. Sure, I’ve found my share of warped records and dogeared paperbacks and chipped drinking glasses and faded flannel shirts, but an undiscovered Monet or Van Gogh has never once found its way into my shopping cart. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for the dude. He’s unemployed, and can use the money. But, hello – same here! I don’t ask for much in life. Just a roof over my head and food on my table and a priceless work of art that I can resell for a huge return on my investment.

C’mon, Universe. Help a brother out here!

Why can’t I find one of these for fourteen bucks at Value Village?

I’m also irritated that I can wander through a vintage store and find really cool things like dogs playing poker tapestries and glass milk bottles and classic rock albums and metal lunch boxes and posters from World’s Fairs gone by and yet my local neighborhood garage sale has nothing but cracked Tupperware canisters and tacky Christmas figurines. Obviously I’m shopping in the wrong ‘hood.

Oh, well. Guess I’ll just have to make my fortune the old-fashioned way and work for it. Grr.

Speaking of garage sales, Tara and I had one on Saturday morning. Our goal wasn’t to make a lot of money but merely to get rid of some of the really cool things my girlfriend made me get rid of when she moved in duplicates we had between us. And it’s a good thing too, because lemme tell ya, customers weren’t exactly flocking in off the street. We were “open” an entire hour before the first person even stopped, and when he walked away after spending a whopping $2 I figured the writing was pretty much on the wall. Luckily business picked up a little after that, but we still only managed to pull in $60, which is fine – it’s seed money for our Broncos fund (we’re hoping to fly to Denver to catch a game this October). We stopped the sale at noon and then donated everything that didn’t sell to the Value Village mentioned above. You know, the place that has never once sold me a rare Pablo Picasso print. Not that I’m bitter or anything.

Much.

The rest of the weekend was pretty awesome (except for the heat – we seem to have skipped from winter to summer with a vengeance). After the garage sale, we headed to the Hawthorne District in Portland for a few hours. The highlight? Sitting at a sidewalk table outside the Bagdad Theater sipping cocktails and watching all the strangely funky Portland people walking by. Hipsters and homeless people and every imaginable type of human being in between. Sunday we strolled around the farmer’s market in Vancouver and even though there still isn’t much in the way of fresh produce available, we came away with hummus and pita chips and mango salsa and kettle corn and olives. Then we walked around a couple of our local parks before coming home to veg in front of the TV with season one of Breaking Bad (which Tara has never seen but happily decided to check out after listening to me rave over this incredible show (see?) constantly). We ended the day with margaritas and, now that I have my patio back again and the grill is hooked up, the most delicious dinner consisting of barbecued chicken, grilled corn on the cob, baked beans and french bread. I even let Tara do the cooking, which might not seem like a big deal except for the fact that nothing comes between a man and his grill. The bond between the two is sacred. It was tough relinquishing the reins, believe me, but my girlfriend did me proud and the food turned out fantastic. I was so impressed, I think I’ll let her do it again sometime.

Until then, if anybody’s got a hot lead on a hidden Matisse gathering dust in a thrift store somewhere, hit me up!

Related articles

• $14 For A Picasso. Thrift Store Gold! (wdok.radio.com)
• Man pays $14 for signed Picasso at thrift store, sells it for $7,000 (todayentertainment.today.msnbc.msn.com)

Call it a three-chord revelation.

Many years ago, I saw the movie Singles. It centered around a group of twentysomethings in the Pacific Northwest as they dealt with work, relationships and hobbies. I was the exact same age as the main characters when the film came out, but my life couldn’t have been more different. While they were hanging out in clubs and bars listening to music and navigating the minefields of new and complex relationships and following their dreams (those dreams weren’t even working out in the movie, but there was a certain romanticism in the fact that they were trying their damnedest regardless), I had already settled down into a monotonously routine existence that would slowly and methodically stifle me. I was envious of those characters, even if I couldn’t put my finger on the exact reasons why. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, I can fill in the blanks. I won’t go into a lot of details. Let’s just say I wasn’t being true to the person I really am. Fortunately, one day I woke up and realized that, and did something about it. The ensuing years were often a struggle, but look at the end result. Like I said to Tara, I’m living the life I always wanted. It took longer than it should have, but you know what they say: better late than never.

Matt Dillon and Bridget Fonda were living a life I wanted. (Courtesy of projections-movies.com).

That life isn’t just about rock ‘n roll, though music is a very important part of the equation. We went to two concerts this week – a big arena show with The Black Keys at the Portland Rose Garden on Monday, and a smaller, more intimate gig with a couple of local Northwest bands we both like, Campfire OK and The Lonely Forest, at a much smaller venue – the Doug Fir Lounge on East Burnside Street – Wednesday night. Both were awesome in their own way (and I have the ringing ears to prove it). The Black Keys put on an elaborate, energetic show chock full of lasers and strobe lights and played some of the hookiest, most soulful rock music out there these days. The Doug Fir was small and candlelit and intimate, and the bands were an arm’s length from where we sat. Tara and I bonded over music right from the start, and there will be plenty of concerts in our future. We’ve already got The Shins in Bend over Memorial Day weekend and a few days later, The Moondoggies at another small club in Portland. A mix of popular bands and lesser-known local acts. I like that.

But as I said, this life is about more than just seeing bands play live. It’s about being in a loving relationship where both partners are equals, never take each other for granted, and actually have fun together. We’ve both had our share of less-than-perfect failed relationships, and this has given us a strong appreciation for what we’ve got now. It’s a reason why we’ve never had a single argument or cross word, and still make out like a couple of lovestruck teenagers half a dozen times a day. There’s a passion I’ve never experienced before. The relationship is just one more piece of the puzzle, though. There are so many other components. Friends. Family. Traveling. Hiking. Cooking good food. Following your passions (like self-publishing a novel). And through whatever strange confluence of events, the stars or planets have all lined up almost perfectly (jobs are the last missing link, but I’m confident they’ll fall into place, too). Hence, my comment last night. What’s especially great is recognizing those moments while you’re living them, instead of looking back someday and thinking, “things were going pretty well then.”

Funny how revelations can come from the oddest places. Kite strings and intimate music clubs have made me introspective in the past few days. On Saturday, we’re having a yard sale. Can’t wait to see what kind of wisdom I glean from haggling over the price of a 99-cent apple corer.

Here’s a clip from The Lonely Forest. This is probably their “signature” song and the one they closed the show out with last night. Enjoy!

This surprises me. You wouldn’t think such a simple pursuit would bring much joy. All you’re doing is standing there, holding onto a string. The wind does all the work for you. Sure, you have to tug on it occasionally and make an adjustment or two to ensure that the whole thing doesn’t plummet to earth, but otherwise you’re pretty much just standing still with your neck craned skyward. And yet, there is undeniable joy in the act. A sense of freedom and adventure that is unparalleled.

This past weekend, Tara and I took a trip to the Oregon coast. Saturday was Cinco de Mayo, and Lincoln City was advertising a fish taco cook-off. This sounded like something fun to do and a perfect excuse for a romantic getaway, so we booked a room in a cheapish motel on the edge of a cliff and headed out early in the morning. We stopped to visit briefly with my aunt on the way, and then continued on to Lincoln City, arriving at the Culinary Center (which also doubles as the fourth floor of the local library) a few minutes past noon. Perfect timing. Tacos were $1 each and there were six teams competing, so we bought enough tickets to try all six. There was a good mix of fish – three cod, one tilapia, one salmon, and one blackened mako shark – and beer to wash them all down. Then, with several hours to kill before it was time to check into our room, we drove south along the coast, holding hands and rocking out to music. Just north of Newport we stopped at Beverly Beach. Before our trip Tara decided she wanted to fly a kite on the beach, and I thought this was a wonderful idea, as neither of us had ever done so. She picked up a couple of cheap kites from Target – $2.98 on clearance – and we were good to go!

We walked to the beach and tore open the packaging, quickly assembling our kites. The Oregon coast is always windy, so we weren’t afraid of catching a good breeze. It took a try or two to get them in the air, but before long we had unspooled the full 75′ length of string and our kites were dancing in the sky, weaving and bobbing, buffeted by the gusty winds. And for the next half hour I lost myself in the experience.

I’m not even sure how or why it happened, but I gotta say, it was pure joy. I hadn’t flown a kite in many years, the last time being when my kids were very young, and on those previous rare occasions I was never able to keep it in the air for long. Saturday afternoon, along the coast, this was not a problem. I stood there mesmerized, watching my kite fly with the constant sound of the crashing surf as my backdrop, and I felt the weight of the world simply melt away, all my cares scattered in the wind until they dissolved. I thought of my previous trips to the beach, how I longed for somebody to share my adventures with, and was overcome with elation because this time, finally, I had somebody very special with me. She was a few dozen yards away, flying her own kite, and looked every bit as happy as I did. This warmed my heart.

I love her so much.

And then I was running down the beach, my kite chasing me from seventy-five feet in the air, the sand beneath my toes and the Pacific Ocean lapping at my ankles. Giddy like a child. Free like a bird. I had found happiness at the end of a string.

If you’re ever feeling stressed out in life, go fly a kite. Your worries will melt away. I guarantee this.

The rest of the weekend was bliss. We checked into our room that evening and enjoyed Bloody Marys on our ocean view deck before heading out to dinner. The food was delicious: coconut shrimp for me, a sauteed seafood sampler for Tara, and some of the best clam chowder we had ever tried. We arrived back at the beach just in time to catch a fantastic sunset, and fell asleep that night to the sound of the ocean. Sunday we wanted to take the long way home, so we meandered up the coast, all the way from Lincoln City to Astoria, and had to drive across the bridge because, well, the Astoria-Megler Bridge is awesome and whisks you across the mouth of the Columbia River to Washington. We stopped at the Astoria Column and I convinced Tara to climb the 164 steps to the top for a breathtaking view of…well, everything. You can see for miles and miles in all directions, and the sky was cloudless and blue. Afterwards, we stopped for dinner at a former cannery that had been transformed into a brewhouse and then took the final leg back home. With all the stops we made it took us over nine hours from the time we set out, but it was a fantastic day and a wonderful weekend.

I couldn’t be happier.

Fish tacos in Lincoln City. Happy Cinco de Mayo!

The Oregon Coast at Cape Foulweather.

My lovely girlfriend.

The Yaquina Bay Bridge in Newport.

I had a whale of a good time.

One amazing sunset.

View from the top of the Astoria Column.

Go fly a kite. Cheapest therapy ever.

Related articles

• Go Fly A Kite (marshmallowmondays.wordpress.com)
• Let’s Go Fly a Kite (heartyparenting.com)

First, I walked across the parking lot of my condominium complex carrying an umbrella. An open umbrella. Over my head!! 

And if that wasn’t bad enough, it was a leopard print umbrella.

Granted, it was pouring rain. Using an umbrella prevented me from getting drenched. But I’ve got this hard-and-fast rule that I never use an umbrella. Not up here in the notoriously soggy Pacific Northwest, where it’s either drizzling or misting or flat-out raining nine months out of the year. Most locals avoid umbrellas. Hell, I don’t even own one. But Tara, being new to these environs, does – and as I was walking out the door, she offered hers up. Leopard spots and all. I hesitated for a few seconds, but the cold early May chill (48 degrees) and the sound of the rain drumming incessantly against the roof convinced me that, just this once, it wouldn’t hurt to actually stay dry for a change. Comfort and practicality won out, you might say, temporarily silencing the stubborn Taurus in me.

“Thanks, honey,” I said, and stepped outside. Walking to the car, I marveled over the fact that even though the rain was coming down in buckets, I was completely dry. Hmm, I thought. Maybe I’ve been wrong all along. Perhaps I should resign from the anti-umbrella contingent. It’s kind of nice not getting drenched. 

And then I saw them. The construction crew. As you might recall, my complex is in the midst of a months-long construction project. They’re replacing the siding and windows, redoing the support beams, fixing the roofs, etc. Dozens of orange-vested construction workers mill about the area every weekday, and today was no exception. Burly guys. The kind who drive Camaros and drink beer and use the f-word as an adjective, a verb and a noun all in the same sentence (i.e. “that f*cking f*ck is so f*cked”). They stared at me as I passed by, and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why. And then it dawned on me. The leopard-spotted umbrella clutched in my hand was an odd contrast to their hard hats and tool belts. Not exactly the picture of manliness (and I’m already at a disadvantage because on the rare occasion when I let the f-word slip out, it’s only once per sentence). They probably thought I was on my way to fetch a nice cup of chamomile tea somewhere. To add insult to injury, once I reached the car, I got soaked anyway because it took me a good two minutes to figure out how to collapse the damn umbrella. This took quite a bit of skill and dexterity, as it requires the user to push down on multiple levers and buttons with his fingers while sliding said contraption closed. I felt like a f*cking contortionist (see? only once) trying to fold that sucker up.

Guess I won’t be flying over the skies of London anytime soon since I HATE UMBRELLAS!

None of it was worth the hassle. Next time I’ll just get wet.

And then, when I got back inside, I made myself a sandwich because it was lunchtime. Not a normal sandwich, mind you. A grilled cheese sandwich. But not a normal grilled cheese sandwich, mind you either. A grilled cheese sandwich with my old nemesis, Velveeta.

What has gotten into me today?!

My mom swears by this particular grilled cheese concoction. Bread, Velveeta, a sliced tomato. Since I had half a box of Velveeta left over, and because I’m such a grilled cheese fan, I decided to try her sandwich out myself. I asked Tara if she wanted me to make her one, but she came up with some excuse about not being hungry.

“Hmm,” I remarked upon taking a bite. “It’s not as bad as you might think.”

Which is a backhanded compliment (a/k/a a complisult) if ever there was one. “Not as bad as you might think” is hardly a ringing endorsement. If that’s the best I can say about a grilled cheese sandwich, I think I’m going to stick with honest-to-goodness real cheddar next time. That’s twice I’ve tried to like Velveeta now, and I’m 0 for 2.

Sorry, mom.

On a positive note, the house is probably about 90% organized now. The boxes are gone, and the place is looking pretty spiffy if I do say so myself (god, it’s a good thing the construction workers aren’t around to hear that sentence come out of my mouth). Tara and I were actually able to kick our feet up last night and enjoy a movie and a bowl of stovetop popcorn (if you’ve never seen the classic film Some Like It Hot with Jack Lemmon, Tony Curtis and Marilyn Monroe, you’re missing out). The night before Tracy and David were in town, and they stopped by for a visit after we helped them clear out a storage unit. There have been several surreal moments I’ve encountered over the past eight months while dating Tara, and having her mom sitting across the table in my dining room was definitely one of them. Surreal but good, I should say. Tonight, my parents are coming over for dinner (Velveeta is most definitely not on the menu). We’re settling into a routine of – gasp, dare I say it? – normalcy, and it feels pretty good!

She had been teasing me with hints all week. “It’s something you’ve always wanted,” she said. She had elicited input from friends and family, and one person (hi, Esther!) told her, “He’s going to love you even more after this, if that’s possible!” Suffice it to say, I was pretty intrigued, and my mind raced with possibilities. I actually compiled a mental list of things I had always wanted in a vain attempt to figure out what my girlfriend had gotten me.

1. A Volkswagen Bus. Ever the hippie at heart, I have long coveted a Volkswagen Bus. Preferably a Type 2, with curtains in the windows and a split windshield. Gotta have room to haul around all those lava lamps, after all.
2. A walk-on role in Martin Scorsese’s next gangster movie. Who wouldn’t want to hobnob with the greatest director of the past 40 years and work side by side with the likes of Robert DeNiro, Ray Liotta, and Leonardo DiCaprio? It wouldn’t need to be a big role. I’d be content as Guy Who Serves Drink To Joe Pesci’s Character Before He Goes Apeshit And Stabs Fellow Bar Patron To Death With A Ballpoint Pen Over Some Perceived Slight.
3. A rock ‘n roll recording contract. OK, so I can’t sing. Or play any instruments. I don’t even like karaoke. But none of these minor details dissuades me from the rock ‘n roll dream! I’d love to strut around stage wearing tight leather pants while thousands of adoring fans chant for an encore.
4. A meet-and-greet with Abraham Lincoln. I’m about 150 years too late for a sitdown with the sixteenth President of the United States. Le sigh. I’d love to pick his brain about topics like being born in a log cabin and the Emancipation Proclamation and all those vampires he hunted in his youth. Plus, I could change history by warning him away from the Ford Theater that night.
5. An official Red Ryder carbine-action two-hundred shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing which tells time. But I’d shoot my eye out.

Each of these items I summarily dismissed as unlikely gifts from Tara for various reasons, so I remained stumped until the moment I tore open the box. You should have seen my eyes light up when I saw the beautiful beaded curtain with the rainbow-colored peace symbol inside! Both she and Esther were right. I have always wanted a beaded curtain (I was even going on and on about one that was in the beach house in Lincoln City a few weeks ago when I crashed spring break), and I absolutely do love her even more since she gave me such a thoughtful gift. That, and concert tickets to The Shins, who are playing in Bend on May 25th. Best birthday ever!!

And it was. Last year I got an oil change for my car and didn’t even have cake. This year Tara made me a fantastic seafood quiche for breakfast, then we went into Portland for a visit to Powell’s, and ended the day with redneck eggrolls and red velvet cake. She showered me with attention and love and I ate it up like a beaver in a forest.

Today also marks the end of the first week with both the kids and Tara under the same roof (they go back to their mom later this afternoon). Things have actually gone incredibly well, which doesn’t really surprise me given how perfectly everybody has gotten along ever since our first weekend together in Boise last November. Rusty and Audrey love her cooking and sense of humor, and we had many good conversations and played a spirited (if rather lengthy) game of Trivial Pursuit last night. Yesterday we all went on a hike to Falls Creek Falls in the Washington Cascades, and that was a blast. All in all, a fun week! I love how well everything is working out.

Here are a few pics from our adventure yesterday.

Audrey, Rusty and I posing in front of the falls.

Snowmelt made this section of the hike treacherous. Luckily, nobody fell.

We're so fierce.

Falls Creek Falls, Washington. Probably the best-kept secret around here. We were the only ones at the lookout the whole time.

It all started when I saw friends on Facebook talking about the app and looking for people to play with. It sounded kinda lame, to tell the truth. You draw a picture on your phone and send it to your opponent, who then has to guess what it is you have just drawn. This would never appeal to me, I figured, because I am a terrible artist. My people are invariably stick figures with lopsided, too-long arms and no ears. I can’t draw to save my life, despite years of art classes in middle and high school. I’m not sure why {cough, cough…EASY A…cough, cough} I ever decided to take art as an elective. But I was missing the point, as it turns out. Because, as oddly counterproductive as this sounds, with Draw Something it doesn’t matter if you can’t draw. It’s actually a better experience if you’re a lousy artist. Half the fun is in coming up with a really lame picture and figuring out how to make your opponent figure it out – and trust me, you want to do this, because you only earn coins when the person you’re playing correctly guesses what you’ve drawn a picture of. What do the coins “buy” you, you’re wondering? Access to more colors, beyond the four you initially start out with. More colors = more detailed drawings! Woo-hoo!!

Isn’t technology a silly thing?

The premise is simple. Each round, you’re given a choice of three random words. One is supposed to be easy (and worth one coin), one is supposed to be somewhat difficult (worth two coins), and one is supposed to be tough (for three coins). For example, you might have to choose between drawing a keyboard, a scorpion or Brad Pitt. When you’re guessing words (which can vary from three to eight letters long), you are given a series of letters, some of which spell out the word, and some that are “ringers.” You have a limited supply of bombs which you can use to “blow up” a few of the letters that aren’t part of the word to make it easier to guess.

My biggest current addiction: Draw Something. (Courtesy of hlntv.com).

Boy, the things that keep us amused nowadays.

But it’s addictive. Extremely. And I’ve got Tara’s brother, Eric, to thank for turning me on to this app. When we were visiting him in Seattle last week he whipped out his phone and suggested I play, so I did. I want to make a positive impression on Tara’s family, you know? I was actually just being polite, but it only took a couple of games for me to become full-on hooked. So much so that I posted a Facebook status update of my own trolling for friends to play, and was inundated with requests. Now this little drawing game is taking up ungodly chunks of my day, and has supplanted both Angry Birds and Words With Friends as my favorite “game.” Which is all good, clean, innocent fun, I suppose – except when there is still unpacking to be done and job searching to be completed.

I’m not the only one to have fallen under the Draw Something spell. It’s wildly popular. There are even websites devoted to some of the best drawings that people have done, like this one.

All in good time. We’ve actually got about 75% of Tara’s stuff unpacked and organized now. It’s been a crazy, hectic week filled with manual labor and a whole bunch of job interviews that I am dying to talk about but refuse to discuss lest I jinx myself. With everything going on, Tara and I needed a break, so we took advantage of a Groupon I had purchased some time ago and went to the movies yesterday. Not just any theater – this was Cinetopia, the local luxury movie house with a living room theater complete with leather recliners and ottomans, food and beverage service delivered right to your seat, and a butter bar for your popcorn. This was us, twenty-eight hours ago: the picture of relaxation.

Kicking our feet up at Cinetopia.

The movie was Cabin In The Woods, and even though Tara isn’t a fan of horror movies, she really liked this one – as did I. The script was witty, original, and didn’t take itself too seriously. There was blood and guts and gore, but nothing too over-the-top, and the film never veered off into Cheeseville, as it could have. Good job, Joss Whedon – two thumbs up here!

Today, we met up with a few of my friends and former coworkers for lunch at Panera. I wanted to prove to them that Tara actually existed. I think, after following along on my dating trials and tribulations over the years, this group of people wasn’t entirely convinced that such a wonderful girlfriend was, you know, real and not a figment of an overactive and desperate imagination eager to make up for my past mistakes in the relationship department.

Mission accomplished, on all counts. And the sandwiches rocked.

I’ve rambled long enough now, and suppose I should go. I’d tell you that there are a few boxes left to unpack or laundry to fold or something of that sort, but really I just want to go draw something.

Related articles

• The Hottest Drawing Game On The Planet Right Now (retrenders.com)
• Draw Something Is an Evil Time-Waster That I Can’t Stop Playing (geardiary.com)
• App of the week: Draw Something (stuffmideast.com)

Minds back in the gutter.

Actually, I was referring to our trip to Seattle last week. We drove up on Wednesday to visit with Tara’s family. Stayed a couple of nights, met her newborn nephew Anthony, celebrated a couple of birthdays, and drove to Kerry Park to capture this fantastic shot.

I was bummed because our drive through the Queen Anne neighborhood was impromptu and I didn’t have my camera on me, but fortunately my phone takes pretty good pics. The evening was chilly but the view was worth it!

And then yesterday, with a perfect spring day beckoning us, we drove out to the Columbia River Gorge. Checked out a couple of waterfalls and had a picnic lunch at the Vista House at Crown Point, soaking up sunshine and 70-degree weather. It doesn’t get more perfect than that (though the margaritas and chicken chimichangas we had for dinner that night certainly gave the rest of the day a run for its money).

Holy cow, what's with all these shoes?!

So, all in all, I’m digging this whole living-with-a-female thing. It’s funny, though –  there are some definite signs that a woman is living in the house now, subtle clues scattered here and there that make it apparent that I am no longer a bachelor. I thought I’d point a few of these out for any guys reading who might not realize they are living with a girl. Not sure how they wouldn’t know that, but work with me here, people.

Five Signs You’re Living With a Female

1. Your house smells nice. I’m not saying my place reeked of musk and cigars and motor oil, but it’s definitely got a more pleasing aroma now (as opposed to having no discernible scent). There are things like Scentsy warmers and reed diffusers and Glade plug-in thingamajigs scattered about the place instead of haphazardly strewn socks. It’s nice to step inside the door and be greeted with the smell of pumpkin or vanilla or lavender for a change.
2. There are about fifty pairs of shoes filling your closets. I don’t know what it is about women and shoes. They’ve got the same number of feet as we men do – two at last count – and yet, they have shoes for every conceivable occasion. Me? I’ve got a pair of tennis shoes, a pair of hiking boots, and sandals. Tara? She’s got multiple pairs of tennis shoes and dress shoes and hiking shoes and slippers and – get this – five pairs of flip-flops. 5 pairs? Does she need one for each day of the week?? “They’re for different outfits,” she says. I tried not to roll my eyes. I swear I did.
3. You will learn the true meaning of the word “clean.” I’ve always considered myself a fairly neat person. “Haphazardly strewn socks” was a joke, because I’m pretty anal about picking things up and keeping the place organized. I thought I kept a clean house…until I met Tara. Did you know, for instance, that the knobs on your stove pop off, and that you are supposed to clean behind them?! Neither did I. And apparently, sheets shouldn’t stay on the bed for more than a week and towels should be washed on a regular basis. And the kitchen counters get wiped down after every meal. I’m not even allowed to wash the dishes anymore because I missed one little spot on a pan one time! 
4. You’ll have less shower space thanks to the gazillion and one bath products stacked up in there. When I was on my own, I had a bottle of shampoo, a bar of soap, and some body wash for special occasions. That’s it. I took inventory of my shower the other day and was amazed to find no fewer than ten bottles of various products in there. We had to get a bigger rack to hang around the shower head just to fit them all! There are lotions and gels and daily washes and moisturizers and creams and god-knows-what-else. I told Tara they make shampoo+conditioner in one convenient bottle and she scoffed at me. I do have to admit, she smells really good, though.
5. Your living room will resemble an arboretum. I like plants as much as the next guy. Keeping them alive has always proven to be a challenge, though – which explains the collection of silk plants and fake plastic trees I’d owned. The only thing better than “low maintenance” is “no maintenance,” that’s always been my motto! Yet suddenly the house is full of green shrubbery that requires things like water and sunlight, and the artificial ficus has taken up residence in the dumpster. It’s like living in a jungle – I half expect to see parrots flitting by and monkeys swinging from the chandelier.

Don’t get me wrong – I love Tara, and am enjoying the feeling of domestication very much. She has made me a better person, and filled my life with happiness! And lots and lots of shoes, but whatever.

In the interest of fairness, she has promised a rebuttal post on her blog later this week. Stay tuned!

Her dad was right behind, pulling a trailer filled with all her worldly possessions. When I saw the trailer, I breathed a sigh of relief. It was smaller than I’d expected – only about 10′ long, shorter than a U-Haul. My relief was short-lived, however; when he opened the lift gate, I saw what a fantastic job he had done of packing the thing. It was crammed, floor to ceiling, with boxes and boxes (and more boxes). And furniture. And other items.

“Holy crap, honey,” I exclaimed to Tara as I surveyed the very-full trailer. “You sure have a lot of shit.” And with those sweet words, our auspicious beginning commenced.

Really, though, I wasn’t complaining. How could I? The woman I love was here, at long last, moving in with me. A lot of shit or not, the important thing was, we were beginning a great and exciting chapter in our lives! The aching muscles, sore back and fatigue I developed from moving all that shit into the garage, and then subsequently moving most of that shit into the house, are a small price to pay for starting a life together. After unloading the trailer and pickup truck, we kicked back in the dining room with booze and pizza. I’d met Randy, her dad, on my Christmas trip to Ely, but had never really gotten a chance to bond with him one-on-one as we were always surrounded by a crowd of people. At least this afforded us the opportunity to get to know one another much better, even if he did leave at the crack of dawn on Sunday morning for the return trip home. He’s a nice guy. I feel fortunate that Tara’s family – and friends – have all accepted me so readily.

After a lot of work unpacking and sorting through things on Sunday, we kicked back with guacamole, margaritas and tacos, and put a movie on. It was Horrible Bosses, and fortunately we had both seen it before, because we basically passed out on the couch due to sheer exhaustion. We ended up heading upstairs for bed pretty early – I don’t think it was even 9:00 yet – and slept soundly the entire night.

Exhausted or not, we have still found plenty of time to…umm…well….

:)

I failed to point out earlier that this last stretch apart – 33 days – was the second-longest break we had to endure during our entire long-distance relationship. And that, I am convinced, is the key to our success. LDRs are challenging, but if you make the effort to actually see each other without too much time passing, they can work. Tara and I are proof of that. We never went so long that it didn’t feel like we were “together” or a couple, and yet enough time passed that we missed each other desperately whenever we were apart. As a result, we treasured every second we spent with each other when we were together, and never took our relationship for granted.

Oh, and Skype helped.

Boy oh boy, did Skype help. I haven’t written about that especially fun three-hour Skype session we had a few weeks ago, but let’s just say thank god for technology and leave it at that.

And living together? I know it’s been less than 48 hours so far, but it just feels so completely natural and right to me. It has added a new depth to our relationship that wasn’t there before. We were at Lowe’s yesterday buying a drill bit set and the cashier asked how We were doing and how Our day was going, and though she didn’t actually emphasize those words the way I did, it felt like it in my mind. We’ve been a couple for quite a while now – the day Tara moved in was actually our seven-month anniversary (and how appropriate is that?) – but it’s always felt like we weren’t really and truly together since our longest visit only lasted 8 days (and was exactly that, a visit). That’s an inevitable side effect of being in an LDR, I suppose. We were boyfriend/girlfriend, sure, but it always felt like it was more of a temporary thing, since most of the time we weren’t actually together in a physical sense. I don’t know, it’s kind of hard to explain, but Tara gets it. Yesterday was the first time it truly felt like we were a We and our day was actually Our day. Being together full-time has been a surprisingly easy adjustment, considering I was on my own for five years, six months and two weeks. I guess when you love somebody, it should be this simple and natural!

So, kudos to Us. We’re having the time of our lives, even if said time has included a back-breaking monotony of unpacking and moving and lifting and organizing. At least at the end of the day we can cuddle up together in bed and fall asleep content in the knowledge that our time together isn’t limited by a travel itinerary.

Tomorrow we’ve both got job interviews. How uncanny is that? We’ll see if the pieces continue to fall into place so perfectly. Then on Wednesday, we’re headed to Seattle for another visit with Tara’s mom. We’re excited to meet her new nephew Anthony, who is all of two weeks old now.

I’m sure when we come back on Friday, there will still be boxes waiting for us to unpack.

But so what. We’re loving this, regardless! The boxes aren’t going anywhere. And, neither is she!

The living room may be a mess, but it’s only temporary – and totally worth it!