Tag Archives: Pacific Northwest

Can You Call a City Beautiful?

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You wouldn’t think a city could be beautiful.

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.

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A Three Chord Revelation

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Last night I found myself in a dimly lit music lounge sipping a gin and tonic while listening to a rock ‘n roll band playing loudly and energetically. I turned to Tara and said, over the wailing guitars and pounding drums, “I’m living the life I always wanted.”

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!

Mary Poppins I’m Not

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Today I broke not one, but two cardinal rules of mine.

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!

It Doesn’t Get Any Groovier Than This

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It’s a well-documented fact that I like items of a retro nature. Lava lamps. Dogs-playing-poker tapestries. Avocado green appliances. The Bee Gees. So, when my birthday rolled around on Friday and Tara presented me with this, I was absolutely thrilled.

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.

Nevada’s a Trapezoid But We Aren’t Square

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It’s been an exciting few days. Aside from missing out on scoring an awesome piece of art – yes, I’m still fixated on the dogs playing poker tapestry! – plenty of groovy stuff has happened. The biggest piece of news is that my wonderful girlfriend is moving in with me.

That’s right. Tara and I are shacking up!!!

I’m such a romantic, huh? But truly, this is fantastic. We met in person just over a year ago, and as I was driving away from our lunch date that drizzly March afternoon, I never would have dreamed that she and I would be in an amazing relationship six months later, and starting a life together not long after that. She and I have talked about this, and it seriously boggles both of our minds. I spent a portion of this past weekend skimming through old Facebook status updates from 2009 (Timeline makes this very easy to do), and couldn’t help but smile every time there was a comment from Tara. Which was often. I love that our friendship dates back so long – it makes for a wonderful story. And also solidifies my belief that we were meant to be.

Also, there was a very interesting comment I made about “suddenly becoming a Peyton Manning fan.” As a Broncos fan, it’s strange how this has come to fruition. The past is a funny thing.

Nevada is shaped like a trapezoid. Anybody know the circumference of Vegas?!

Tara’s original plan was to find a job and then move out here, but the reality of the situation is, long-distance job hunting is even more challenging than short-distance job hunting. The fact that she wasn’t living here was a disadvantage; even though she rocked the interview for a job she was perfectly suited for a few weeks ago, the hiring manager told her straight up that not being here was a strike against her. Suddenly, it looked like she might not be able to make it out here for a long time, which would never do because we’re both so damn impatient. And then, she came up with a brilliant plan that will enable her to move out here right away and search for a job. She’s much less pickier than I am, and I’m confident it won’t take her long to find something right up her alley. Yesterday she gave three weeks’ notice to her employer, and she’ll be moving in on April 14th!

Tara, however, isn’t used to living in a large metropolitan area. There are big differences between her state and mine. For starters, Nevada is a trapezoid and Washington’s more of a rectangle. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. In the interest of easing my girlfriend’s transition to life in “the city” (which is how her friends and family refer to this place – or anyplace with more than four stoplights, actually), I came up with a list that not only points out the differences between Nevada and Washington, but also provides a few handy tips to blending in with the locals and embracing the Pacific Northwest lifestyle.

Nevada v. Washington, or How To Survive in “The City”

  1. There are no video poker machines in the corner laundromat. Or the convenience store, the carwash, McDonald’s, etc. I’ve spent a lot of time in Nevada the past six months and still can’t get used to the novelty of seeing gambling machines wherever there’s a spare electrical outlet.
  2. People don’t have “jockey boxes” here, they’ve got “glove compartments.” I didn’t know what Tara was talking about the first time she mentioned a jockey box. I assumed it was a holding pen for people who race horses for a living, not the opening on the passenger side of a car’s dashboard where people store, oh you know, gloves and things. I don’t care how short he is, there’s no way you could fit a jockey in there!
  3. A “crick” is something you get in your neck, not a fast-flowing body of water. You will see plenty of CREEKS when we are hiking, dear. If we do happen to come across a crick, I’ll massage it out for you.
  4. People lock their doors when they leave the house here. I wish it could be like Ely. I was amazed that Tara would leave the house without locking the front door. This happened time and time again, whether we were leaving for ten minutes or fourteen hours. I always worried about my “stuff” disappearing, yet it never did. Almost makes up for the weird “jockey box” and “crick” talk.
  5. We freak out over snow. I know you think our two-inch snowstorms are “cute,” but you know who doesn’t? The mayor. He absolutely panics. So do most other people. If there’s so much as a threat of a few flakes in the forecast, people flock to the grocery store to stock up on essentials like salmon and hazelnuts. Oh, and we can’t drive in it, either.
  6. Rain, on the other hand? THAT we’re used to! So used to that, we don’t bother with fancy contraptions like umbrellas. Don’t buy one if you want to blend in with the locals. Or buy one, but use it as a hiking stick. Or to poke all the annoying Californians invading our slice of paradise.
  7. We take recycling very seriously. Sorry for freaking out over the fact that your dad didn’t have any recycling bins in his house. I felt like I’d committed a crime, throwing aluminum cans in the trash like that. We have bins for paper, plastic, glass, and aluminum. We even have bins for recycling our old bins.
  8. Washington is as blue as blue can be. Politically speaking, that is – I certainly don’t mean the sky. Sure, there are pockets of conservatism out there – but that’s all east of the Cascades, where the population is roughly 65. We’re the state that just legalized gay marriage and will be voting on legalizing marijuana for recreational use in the fall. We haven’t had a Republican governor since 1985!
  9. The Mob doesn’t give a damn about Washington. We do have a disproportionately large number of serial killers, however. People like Ted Bundy, Ken Bianchi and Gary Ridgway. Even the DC Sniper used to live here. Instead of burying bodies in the desert, our killers choose the forest. Which, when you think about it, is simply another form of recycling! (See # 7).
  10. There’s actually stuff to do here all the time – and you don’t have to drive 4 hours to do it. We both love music, and you’ve been busy penciling in your calendar with all the live shows you want to see. We’re going to be going to a lot of great concerts! Not to mention restaurants, art galleries, farmer’s markets, wineries, festivals, trips to the coast, etc. I promise we’ll never be bored!

 And I didn’t even mention Voodoo Doughnut…

I Wonder What The Sky Looks Like

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The condo complex in which I reside is in the midst of a makeover. The HOA sued the builder for faulty construction and won, a lawsuit that unnerved me as I wondered what “faulty construction” meant, exactly. Apparently it’s nothing major – just the windows, siding and roofs. Whew! As part of the settlement, they hired a construction crew to do repairs, an eight-month job that includes replacing the siding and all windows. This has been a pretty big disruption, one that got worse last week when they finally reached my building. I was asked to remove all my blinds, and on Friday they came in and put up a “dust barrier” – covering every window in the house with plastic sheeting.

I used to have windows there.

I gotta tell you, this just sucks. Makes me feel claustrophobic, like I’m living in a cave. The worst part is, I have no idea what the weather is like. Yesterday, it was snowing – SNOWING!! – and I had to learn this through Facebook. Through the plastic sheets, the world outside looks like a dreary shade of gray. Which, let’s face it, it probably is - this is the Pacific Northwest, after all – but still, I hate not knowing. Tara suggested I cut out little eye holes, a brilliant idea but one that would surely meet with resistance from the construction crew. Personally, I’d rather deal with a little dust than not be able to see outdoors. That’s why they invented vacuum cleaners, after all. But it’s not my decision.

Without blinds, it’s too dark during the day and too bright at night. About the only advantage to this situation is the fact that I can now walk around the house completely naked. Of course, it’s March, and we’re having record cold (see “snowing” above). Why couldn’t they be doing this in August??

My friend Steven said I ought to decorate the plastic with drawings. He suggested little cars, trees, ghosts, etc. I loved his idea, and when I mentioned it to the kids, they were all in. Saturday morning, we got busy on the plastic covering the sliding glass door. I added my own flourishes – peace symbols, a math equation straight out of A Beautiful Mind, etc. I was tempted to draw a geoduck, but…umm…I don’t really want my townhouse looking like a page out of Playgirl magazine, thanks all the same. We wanted Rusty to dip his hands in red paint and put up bloody handprints on his second-floor bedroom window, but that might startle somebody on a ladder, and I don’t need a broken neck on my conscience.

A few of the drawings decorating my windows.

What I do need are suggestions. From you guys, my faithful readers. Since this construction is going to last six to eight weeks, I’m looking for ideas on how to have fun with the whole thing. How can I make lemonade out of lemons? Turn living into a cave into something that doesn’t drive me batty? Short of staying away (and I do plan to make many daytime excursions to other places that actually have functioning windows), what can I do to make the experience more palatable? And if I do have to stay away, where should I go? What should I do? What types of adventures might I embark on to take my mind off the fact that I’m holed up in a bunker back home? And what exciting blog posts can I spin from these little getaways?

The best idea will WIN!!!

What’s the prize? My gratitude. But hey, that don’t come cheap!

 

A Sunrise Got In The Way

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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.

Rabbits, Goats and Chickens, Too

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This is going to be the best Thanksgiving in years! Maybe ever. I have never been so excited for a holiday before. However, it will only be spectacular if I don’t…

  1. Float away.
  2. Blow away.
  3. Overdose from inhaling noxious pine-scented fumes.
  4. Stub my toe on a protruding corner of the kitchen counter and, while falling to the ground in agony, choke on a pine nut husk lodged in my throat.

Scoff if you will and laugh if you must, but all of these scenarios are distinct possibilities. It all started last week when Tara asked me, during an otherwise innocent phone conversation, when I had last removed the knobs from my stove in order to clean behind them.

“Oh, those things come off?” I asked. Which pretty much answered her question.

I don’t even know how we got on the topic of housecleaning in the first place, but I was inspired by our talk. Or shamed? Can’t decide which. In any case, while I have always considered myself a neat freak – remember, I can’t even leave the house with dirty dishes in the sink lest I get hit by a bus and have people think I was a slob while alive (because apparently my reputation means everything to me, even when dead) – but there is a difference between “neat” and “clean,” I suppose. Which is why I not only scrubbed behind those oven knobs over the weekend, but found myself elbow deep in a bucket of Pine Sol and hot water this morning. On the plus side, my kitchen has never been cleaner. And it smells like a forest in here, even if I am a bit woozy from the fumes. Hey, at least I have some control over #3!

Flooding along the Oregon coast this morning. It wasn't quite that bad here in Portland...at least, not yet!

#1 and #2, on the other hand? Not so much. I awoke this morning to rain. Not such a big deal, right? This is the Pacific Northwest. It rains a lot here. And while that is true, typically our rain is light in nature, and sporadic. It’s an oft-recited statistic that places like New York City and Miami average more rainfall in a year than Portland. Our 37.5″ annual rainfall comes in the form of a lot of drizzle and mist, mixed in with what the locals call “sun breaks.” That is why this morning was different: it was raining raining. As in, raining. Not just cats and dogs, but rabbits and goats and chickens, too. Heavy rain that lasted for hours – nearly 2″ worth. That’s nearly 5% of our average annual rainfall, in one fell swoop. A deluge not necessarily of epic proportions, but enough to prompt flood advisories and close a few roads. The rain slackened off a bit this afternoon, but is coming back with a vengeance tonight and early Wednesday morning. As if that weren’t bad enough, we’ve got wind. Gusts to 40 mph, to be exact. Remember that scene in The Jerk where the crazed gunman opened the phone book to a random page and decided to put a few holes in Johnson, Navin R.? It’s like Mother Nature played a similar game with Portland today.

And then there’s #4. In what can best be described as one of those this-could-only-happen-to-Mark events, I did in fact stub my toe on a protruding corner of the (shiny, gleaming and pine-scented) kitchen counter shortly after snacking on a handful of pine nuts, which caused the aforementioned chain reaction (a sharp pain, a howl of agony, a dramatic fall to the living room floor, and a sudden choking fit thanks to a not-quite-swallowed pine nut husk that was tickling the back of my throat something fierce). Sure, it’s one of those things we can look back on and snicker over now, but at the time I thought I was a goner.

Sure, pine nuts are delicious. But when you stub your toe and fall to the floor, they become deadly. Trust me on this.

I’m telling you, it’ll be a small miracle if I make it to Thanksgiving in one piece.

And by the way, quit laughing! Have you ever stubbed your toe before?! That freakin’ hurts!!!

Anyway. Assuming that the worst is behind me – knock on wood and all that jazz – Thanksgiving will, in fact, be amazing. My brother was teasing me over the phone yesterday because I’d mentioned on Facebook that in a mere 47 hours I’d be meeting Tara at the airport. “Don’t you just love it when your countdown switches from days to hours?” he asked, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I already know I’ll be landing in Vegas to see Tara in 796 hours, but that’s irrelevant. I simply reminded him that I haven’t had anybody special to share the holidays with in years, not including my kids and parents, of course. They’re wonderful and everything, but I can’t spend hours kissing them on the lips, you know? After about ten minutes that novelty wears off.

I kid, I kid.

The point is, it’s going to be a great holiday because Tara will be here. For five glorious nights. So yeah, it’s different this year in ways I wouldn’t have imagined  were possible more than a few months ago. Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. This year, it’ll be even better.

Provided I survive that long…

Huckleberry Hunting 101

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I loves me some huckleberries.

If you aren’t familiar with huckleberries – and chances are, unless you live in the Pacific Northwest you’ve never even seem them – you are missing out on some seriously good stuff. Huckleberries resemble blueberries but are smaller in size and a bit sweeter. They only grow in very specific climate zones at higher elevations in acidic mountain soil, and are impossible to cultivate or farm. Each berry must be picked by hand. This probably explains why they’re hard to find other than in a few local farmer’s markets, and command prices of $15-$20 a pint.

They are amazingly delicious, though. And picking them is an adventure in itself. You get to drive up into the mountains, traipse through the forest, and have a grand ol’ time communing with nature. Which is why I headed out Tuesday morning for a drive into the Indian Heaven Wilderness, one of my favorite hiking spots in southwest Washington and a place – conveniently enough – renowned for its bounty of huckleberries that ripen right around this time every year. I got there about 10:45, and the weather was absolutely perfect: sunshine, blue skies, and a cool breeze blowing through the trees that carried with it a not-so-subtle reminder that autumn is about to land with a thud. Right off the bat, I found plenty of wild huckleberries growing all along the trail, and I spent three hours gathering as many as I could. There’s a certain method to picking them: a one-handed maneuver in which you pluck each berry between your index finger and thumb and scoop it into the palm of your hand. I would pick ten or so and then deposit them into the ziploc bag clutched in my left hand. More often than not, I was balanced precariously on a log or a hillside and being dive-bombed by mosquitoes and biting flies during the process. Like I said, huckleberries take a lot of work! But what a sweet reward. I’d estimate I ended up with $50 worth based on their market value, but I’m not selling these babies. At one point a group of hikers passed me and asked what I was picking. When I told them, they wondered what I’d do with the huckleberries. “They make excellent jam,” I explained, “And are really good in pancakes and muffins.”

When I last picked them in 2009, I made a big batch of homemade jam, which has since dwindled to two small mason jars. I figured it was time to make some more, and also enjoy the aforementioned pancakes and muffins, provided I have enough left over. I should…we’ll see.

Betty Crocker, eat your heart out.

I should also mention that black bears love huckleberries. Based on my fear that I will one day be eaten by a bear, I was a bit apprehensive while picking the berries. OK, “jumpy” is a more accurate word. I kept imagining I heard phantom growling, so I’d stop what I was doing and listen carefully, but it was always just the breeze blowing through the treetops. Whew. I’m always happy to survive a bear-encounter-that-wasn’t.

(By the way, I stopped in Big 5 Sporting Goods the other day and inquired about bear spray. They had some on hand, but it was a very elaborate “Bear Attack Defense System” consisting of a can the size of a fire hydrant that required a great deal of finesse in releasing the safety. I figured I’d be halfway digested before I was even able to point the nozzle in the bear’s direction, so I passed).

After picking huckleberries, I embarked upon a 2.5-hour hike up a very steep series of trails to a gorgeous alpine meadow teeming with lakes, wildflowers, and clusters of fir trees, interspersed with gorgeous scenery that included stunning views of two nearby mountain peaks, St. Helens and Baker. All told, I covered about 11 miles yesterday, which explains the aching back and sore muscles today. I’ve been popping ibuprofen to deal with the pain, but I wish my girlfriend’s hands could work their magic instead.

Regardless, it was worth it!

Mount St. Helens - Indian Heaven Wilderness, Gifford Pinchot National Forest.

Huckleberries resemble blueberries; they're smaller and sweeter.

Eunice Lake, one of many I admired while hiking.

It's not every day you see a man leading a pack of llamas through the forest. I told him that and he smiled. Curious what this was all about!

Alpine meadow, Indian Heaven. After a long and steep uphill hike, this was my reward.

But Have You Tried Geoduck?

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A few weeks ago, I wrote that I wanted a catchphrase – something I could use in any situation that people would come to associate with me. I wasn’t having much luck coming up with anything myself, so I put the call out to my readers – and you guys delivered! Some great suggestions poured forth, but one of them really stood out. Jess Witkins of Jess Witkins’ Happiness Project delivered the winner! I encourage you to check out her blog – she’s a great writer, shares my interest in the paranormal, and sometimes fills her canteen with wine before setting out on a hike. You’ve got to appreciate that sort of creativity! This also explains my recent canteen purchase. Anyway, without further ado – my new, official catchphrase is:

“But have you tried geoduck?”

This is perfect on so many levels! I originally mentioned geoduck in my guide to the Pacific Northwest earlier this year. It’s something that most people haven’t a clue about. Hell, it took me a year or two of living in the Pacific Northwest before I realized it was a clam, and another few years before I knew how to pronounce it correctly! (For the uninitiated – which is probably most everybody –  it is “gooey duck.” Go ahead, say it out loud. It’s fun, right? You can’t help but smile!). And that’s why I love the catchphrase. It’s fun to say, obscure enough to confuse most people, and closely associated with the Pacific Northwest. Plus, if you have ever seen a geoduck, you’re guaranteed to bust a gut laughing, and you’ll never forget what it looks like. I couldn’t ask for anything more!

This is a geoduck. The Universe is having a good laugh. (Courtesy of marxfoods.com).

It occurs to me that I’ve never actually tried geoduck, which makes my catchphrase rather ironic. I suppose I should make an effort to taste it one of these days. Cooked and cut up into bite-sized pieces, of course. Otherwise, I don’t think I could do it.

But hey, what a catchphrase! I can’t wait to start using it. I’m imagining all sorts of possibilities. Say I’m chatting with a friend and he’s complaining about the weather. “Man, this rain sucks!” he’ll say.

“But have you tried geoduck?” I’ll reply. And just like that, hilarity ensues.

Or, somebody is upset because the Bengals just lost their home opener. I reply with “But have you tried geoduck?” and all is right with the world! It even works in those inane situations I can’t stand, where you’re exchanging forced pleasantries. You know how it goes. “Hi, how are you?” “Good. How are you?” “Good.” Ugh. I hate the phoniness of that whole transaction! From now on I’ll simply reply, “I’m alright. But have you tried geoduck?” Then it will appear that I’ve at least put some thought into my response. And I think the word “but” at the beginning of the phrase is crucial. It serves as a joiner to bridge the conversation. Otherwise, just asking “have you tried geoduck?” comes across as random.

So thank you, Jess, for bestowing upon me a nifty new catchphrase. And don’t forget that this was a contest! I wrote, Thank you for putting on your thinking caps and helping me out with this! I’ll give the winner a featured spot in my blog – one whole paragraph (!!) to write about whatever his or her heart desires. Jess took full advantage of the free blank white space and wrote about an issue near and dear to her heart. I turn the blog over to her now:

“Hello, Mark’s readers.  Lately, Mark has been sharing his realization and rationalization of his obsessive compulsive behaviors.  I’ve got those too.  But there’s one in particular that I will defend until my last dying breath on this earth (which will probably ironically come from the very cause I fight for).  Hand washing.  For the love of all that is good and cleanly, please wash your hands!  When I am in a public restroom and I hear the toilet flush, and the person walks out and goes straight to the door, I wince.  It’s worse if they fake wash their hands, the lazy faucet run for two seconds and out they go.  Put a little effort in please, I’m the next one to touch that sink!  The ultimate insult is when it happens at my own house.  And I live with all boys.  My bedroom is conveniently located next to the bathroom, so I hear every beer flush that occurs, and I don’t always hear the sink.  I buy nice soap.  I buy nice soap so people will know I care about my cleanliness and the cleanliness of my guests.  When you’re a boy who doesn’t wash your hands in my house, I begin to hallucinate that there are penis prints prancing around my home.  They quickly raid my kitchen and the TV remote.  It’s a horrifying sight.  So, I’ve taken to adapting my approach when my roommates invite their friends over.  I ask them to wash their hands in guy speak.  I put pictures of Victoria’s Secret models all over the bathroom mirror with post-it note conversation bubbles that say, “Wash your hands, I don’t want to shake your dick.”  It seems to be helping.  But the more people who can help me spread the word that hand washing is a good thing, the better.  Thank you for your time.  I now return you to your normal blogger.”

I can honestly say I never thought the phrase “penis prints prancing” would find its way onto my blog (nor “shake your dick” for that matter), but a deal is a deal! Ladies and (apparently, and especially) gentlemen, please wash your hands after using the restroom! Our health (and sanity) depend upon clean hygiene. Not doing so is too disturbing to think about. It could mean the end of western civilization as we know it.

But have you tried geoduck?

 

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