Merry and bright

Merry Christmas to everyone! (As you can see, we have our power back.)
Hope it's a good one!

No Christmas lights on today

Brrrrrr... We trying to stay warm after 36 hours of no electricity. At the moment, our house is so cold, you can see your breath. Sleeping under about 25 blankets, we were fine. But having to get up this morning was tortuous!

A giant windstorm blew through the Pacific Northwest Thursday night, downing trees and knocking out power. The upside was, our office was shut down yesterday so I got a day off work. The downside was, I spent all day cleaning a frigid house!

SMH and I are supposed to have a big Christmas party tonight, but we'll probably have to postpone if we don't get power by 3pm. Otherwise, it would be a party in a freezer.

We did, however, go to a neighborhood holiday party last night, hosted by our friends Dave and Joellen. (Joellen is a fellow Ohioan.) Their home was also without power, but the party went on all the same, with the candlelight giving it an especially festive ambience.

Last night, I went out in pursuit of some ice for our fridge contents. No ice to be found, but I did discover some dry ice at the local Safeway. On the way home, I gained some valuable advice from the radio talk show: "Don't bring your Webber grill inside to heat your home, even if it seems like a good idea." Ummmm, does it really seem like a good idea? Situations like this always provide good illustrations of Darwinism at work.

Typical of the PNW, the lines at the Starbucks around town are obscene. People cannot function without their cuppa!

Does your city make the list?

If you're reading this, you probably reside in one of "the absolutely worst places to live in America."

Indeed, Cincinnati has earned the dubious honor of being named one of the 50 worst cities by author David Gilmartin. In his book "The Absolutely Worst Places to Live in America," Gilmartin also relegates Seattle to the list. So, supposedly I went from one craphole to another. Well, not actually, because I don't live in Seattle. But, close enough.

Other honorees include Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, D.C. , and Detroit. Whaaat?

Reports The Baltimore Sun, "(Gilmartin) said he doesn't have to go to Detroit to know that it stinks. 'I think enough evidence exists," he said in an interview." OK, clearly this guy hasn't been to Detroit. Otherwise, he would know that the new Museum of Contemporary Art Detroit makes the city a *supercool* place to live.

According to the article in The Baltimore Sun, "David Gilmartin" is a "pseudonym being used by a 30-year-old New York advertising copywriter — raised in South Jersey, schooled at a Boston-area (but not Harvard) university — who admits to never setting foot in many of the cities and towns included in the book."

What? An arrogant East Coast whippersnapper who fancies himself a clever satirist? I can't believe it! No, I haven't been infected with a West Coast disdain for East Coasters. (In fact, I even laughed at a few of the book excerpts in spite of myself.) I'm just all bent out of shape about this guy's methodology.

To select the 50 cities, he apparently posted messages on Craigslist and other online public forums, where he threw out the question, “What’s the worst town in your state?” If we are to believe The Sun, Gilmartin took the results, including comments, and used them to craft (at least some of) the book's contents. So, his writings don't even reflect first-hand knowledge of the cities' alleged crappiness. Come on!

That's all you need to do to "write" a book?! Sheesh, sign me up.

Christmas tree hunting, Ingalls-style

I remember reading "Little House on the Prairie" when I was a kid and being especially enamored with the Ingalls' Christmas -- the simple holiday pleasures of the good old days, when sturdy folks went out and chopped down their own Christmas trees.

I'm not talking U-Cut tree farms, either. I mean, going out into the woods with ax-in-hand like Pa Ingalls, and bringing home a "real" tree for trimming. It seemed almost magical.

What can I say? We were seduced by this notion of "simply holiday pleasures." And so, we left last Sunday morning for the Olympic National Forest, where our $5 permit would allow us to chop down our tree.

It was an exciting adventure. It was a day of thrills. But, let's call the experience what it really was: A comedy of errors.

To begin with, we had had a blast of bad weather the night before. But HA, the ice and snow would not stop us! No, we pressed on through the treacherous roads, ignoring the ominous signs of abandoned SUVs and spun-out four-wheel drive vehicles along the highway.

We ambitiously took on several forest roads, only to drive 2 or 3 miles down each road and then turn around, when we realized our car wasn't up to the task.

Our day went like this:

This is about our fifth attempt to find a "legal" place for tree-cutting. This snow was really, really wet. So, as this picture was being taken, I'm thinking, "Hmmmm, the thermal longjohns are good, but snow pants may have been a better choice than jeans."

Finally! After our many attempts, we were able to drive into the Collins campground by Duckabush. It was beautiful and quiet (the kind of quiet that only happens after a snowfall...with the exception of giant branches snapping off the trees under the weight of the wet snow.)

Any tree-cutting had take place more than 100 feet from the campsites. So, we hiked in a bit.

Hmmmm, good trees are hard to spot when they're snow-covered.

We were all alone. Nobody was around. Except this little snowman, who just stood there in the middle of the road. A little creepy, my coworker Dan observed, in a Stephen King kind of way.










"Hey," yelled SMH. "I've found the perfect tree. Come into this wet snow that's up to me knees and help me chop it down!"





"Please don't make me come in there and help you. Seriously, don't."

















Good job, Pa Ingalls! Notice saw in right hand.












Hoisting this tree on top of the car was ridiculous. The tree was heavy, and we were soaking wet. And freezing.






You know how when you buy a Christmas tree (in the more conventional way), they wrap it up nice and tight so you can just pop it on top of your car and drive home?

No such luxury. This is how we drove home (about 65 miles) -- with the tree precariously bungeed to the car, branches hanging over the sides.

Tah-dah! We made it home!

It was a little rough, but we did it! We chopped down our own tree!

Wait a minute...wasn't the tree a lot shorter and a lot skinnier when we spotted it in the forest?









Now I know why the call it "tree trimming." After taking the clippers to several branches, we managed to fit it into the room.





We decorated that night.



















Tree in situ. Please disregard the stupid pajama pants.

Taking a turn down Neurotic Lane

Yeahhhhh, so...wouldn't it figure that immediately following my mini-rant about the isolation that computers will inevitably inflict upon humankind, I receive an e-mail from an old friend trying to reconnect after years of being out of touch.

Not just any "old friend." My first puppy-love boyfriend (that's Marcus, if you are a high school friend). Flashback to 18 years ago! It was actually very sweet to hear from him, but...

From the looks of things, this guy scores way more cool points than me. He has a myspace account, is a dj who does a radiomix show, and still apparently hits the club scene. I like to listen to public radio, bake Christmas cookies, and lay on the couch and read "Harry Potter." Oh good grief, WHEN did I turn into an old lady? (And when did I start using expressions like "good grief"?)

This turn of events is NOT helping my current "I-feel-old" crisis.

I hate birthdays! They make me neurotic!!! I plucked 15 grey hairs while at conference last week. I am getting laugh lines and crow's feet like crazy. And that biological clock is making nothing but cacophony.

I need something else to obsess about.

Let's face it, I'm old

My lesson from the past week is this: Putting on a four-day conference for 1,000+ people is hard. Really, really hard.

I returned from Spokane last night, and I am completely exhausted. As in, falling-asleep-on-my-feet exhausted. I feel old.

While it required long hours of hard work, I can't exactly say that I descended into "conference hell" (except for one particular night, better left forgotten) because overall, the experience was very interesting. There were several fascinating speakers who gave their perspectives on the same thing -- improving education.

One speaker was Erin Gruwell, a high school educator who inspired her tough, gang-member students, long written off by the education system, to become high-achieving individuals. They called themselves "The Freedom Writers", and their collective work was eventually published as a book. Gruwell's story is going to be told in a movie called "The Freedom Writers," scheduled to open in theaters in January, and she is going to be played by Hilary Swank. Just a warning: If you see the movie, bring tissues. After Gruwell's talk, several members of the audience were spotted casually wiping a, uh, speck of dust of two from their eye.

Another speaker was Ian Jukes, who wigged out just about every person in the audience with his predictions of technological progress. He discussed the impact of "exponential growth," which boils down to the fact that in 15 years, computers will be a kazillion times faster and cost $1.50. (I am only slightly exaggerating.) His question was: How does this affect our approach to education?

My question is: How does this affect our interaction with one another? After hearing Jukes' presentation, I started obsessing on the inevitability of a worldwide human disconnect. It seems counterintuitive, I know -- with all the technology advancements, human beings will be increasingly connected to one another. But, it seems to me, they will become increasingly isolated from one another, too.

Again, I feel old. Is this what people thought when telephones were invented? Radio? TV? Am I just resistant to technology? Am I an old fogey? I hate cell phones, and I don't even know how to text message. I am happy as can be living sans crackberry. The fact that I even know how to blog is a modern-day miracle, as far as I'm concerned. Sheesh, I am old, old, old.

Well, now that the conference is over, I can go back to a normal existence, which means:
1) I go back to working a regular 8-to-5 day.
2) I have time and, more importantly, energy to run.
2) I have time to indulge in a nice, old-fashioned book, with words written on real paper pages, not a computer screen. So, now I am going to bed to curl up and read "Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince." ("Harry Potter?," you ask. I know, I know. My love of Harry Potter was completely unexpected.) I already knows who is going to die at the end of the book, thanks to an article in The Olympian, but that's OK.

Have a listen

Leaving for a conference in Spokane in a few minutes, so I'm a bit frazzled, but wanted to pop into my blog quickly.

Last Monday, on Election Eve, Melissa Block of "All Things Considered" did a story on the guys who do voiceovers for negative campaign ads. Did you hear it? If not, click here and have a listen. This is non-partisan fun! Stick with it to the end of the segment -- the "ads" at the end will make you laugh! They had me in stitches.

If I were a serious blogger, I would have written about this a week ago. But ah well...

My new favorite

Tonight I indulged in one of my new favorite treats: a Starbucks non-fat steamer with a shot of maple. I call this invention a "buttery nutkin."

If you like the taste of butterscotch, I highly recommend the buttery nutkin.

In an ongoing effort to kick caffeine (a losing battle for the most part), I have taken to getting these non-fat steamers (ie, steamed skimmed milk) with a shot or two of flavor, and I tell you, they are delicious.

Why did the salmon cross the road?

Steven M. Herppich / Copyright The Olympian

Yes, that is a salmon making its way across the road.

And yes, badmonkey, it is wet and dreary out here. Hours of darkness and torrential rainfalls have made for a few miserable days. Time to start the Prozac, the official state pharmaceutical.

I know, it is Seattle (almost), so what can you expect? But still, 3.4 inches of rain in one day is unusual enough (thank God) to be the topic of conversation around the water cooler.

I came home last night to find SMH cleaning up our flooded basement, which incidentally has no drain. Happy Birthday to me!

Now, so much to write about -- the weather, the elections, K-Fed filing for a divorce from Britney, my rapid descent into workplace burn-out -- I just don't have time. I have to go watch Dan Rather's election commentary in hopes of gleaning some inspirational similes, though nothing could really beat his classic, "This race is tight like a too-small bathing suit on a too-long ride home from the beach," could it?

Crabby McCrabberson

I am insanely crabby today, and I don't have much to write.

So, please, talk amongst yourselves. I'll give you a topic:
Lance Armstrong and the NYC Marathon. How fast will he run?

Care to make a wager?

I scream, you scream...

Every city and state
Has something so great,
It sets them apart from the rest.

And each one maintains
That it holds the reins
For delivering the world's very best.

Kentucky breeds mares,
Montana has bears,
And our friend Idaho grows potaters.

Georgia's got peaches
The Carolinas have beaches
While Florida lays claim to its 'gators.

Wisconsin has cheeseheads
Alaska's got dogsleds
California boasts surfers and skaters.

In Kansas there's corn crops,
Out here we've got raindrops,
Heck, even the moon has its craters.

But there's nothing on earth
Like the place of my birth,
And I'd gladly send in some invaders

To fetch me the treat
That's got all others beat
And makes us sad to be out-of-staters

For we only can dream
Of a cone with ice cream
From Ohio's own heaven called "Graeter's."

So friends be aware
that an ice cream so rare
is made in your very own state.

And move if you dare
But no cone will compare
To the one that is truly "the Graet"!



















Love = Graeter's ice cream

Thanks, Mary Alice!

My faux pas

Yikes. So it turns out that the person giving away "Charlotte's Web" for a Halloween treat last night (see below) was neither a hippie nor a dentist, as I had originally suspected. No, it was Chris Gregoire, the governor of our fair state.

Sorry, Governor. I meant no offense. It's just that, to me, "Charlotte's Web" is only a childhood treat if you enjoy the feeling of having your young, innocent heart ripped to shreds. Could a child endure a sadder story than that of Charlotte? Oh, how that tragic tale torments me to this day!

But giving away books is a good way to promote literacy...so...um...yay, way to go, Governor!

If I were giving out books, I'd go for Flat Stanley, no doubt about it. I still pull that little gem off my bookshelf for a bedtime read.

If you too are a fan of Flat Stanley (Mary T., I'm talking to you), you must check out this photo essay of FS's trip to the White House. Flat Stanley, you better not mess with Condi!

A quiet Halloween night

7:30 p.m. and our trick-or-treaters seemed to have called it a night.

When you were a kid, did you race against the clock to get to as many houses as possible within the 6-to-9 timeframe? I remember leaving at 5:55 and not returning until 9:05, unless I was faced with the predicament of having to empty my bag.

In all, we had about 30 t-or-t'ers, all polite as could be, bless 'em. The best costume award goes to a trio of young boys, whose leader explained, "I'm a ninja, he's a ninja zombie, and he's the zombie from Resident Evil 1." (The Resident Evil zombie added, "You know, the one that walks like this," then gave us a demonstration of the foot-dragging, undead gait peculiar to that zombie.)

Sadly, we didn't have any gangstas, which was always the costume of choice on Hollywood Avenue.

One sweet little girl opened her bag, and inside, I spotted an unusual treat: Charlotte's Web. Some health-conscious neighbor (probably a dentist or a hippie or a hippie dentist) was handing out books instead of sugar. Nice thought, but come on -- Charlotte's Web for a treat?!

"Eat that candy, kid," I wanted to tell her, "and get you jollies out now. By the time you get to the end of that book, you'll be curled up in the fetal position, crying your eyes out."

Maybe this will cheer the little lass up if she's feeling down, because let's face it, nothing says "eternal salvation" like a smiling jack o'lantern. (Thanks, Karla.)

Getting ready for Halloween

Last Saturday, SMH and I drove down to Portland for a day of sales-tax-free shopping. We really did our part to improve the economy. Our big purchase was a new digital camera, which will translate (in theory) to more visual blog entries.

Halloween is one of our favorite holidays. So, SMH and I were keen to spend our Saturday night carving pumpkins. I know, I know, we're so wild and crazy.

We decided to document the occasion with the new camera. This morning, SMH retrieved the photos... and edited out all the photos of himself but one, leaving only photos of me. OK, Mr. Photo Editor, time to let me have some say in the editing process.

Yep, that's me, hard at work. Please ignore the cluttered room behind me and through the door. That is our ramshackle laundry room/Loki's lounge -- it will be one the first rooms that we'll redo. In the photos that I took, which have since fallen victim to the editor's cuts, I cleverly cropped out all evidence of clutter. But now you know the truth -- some of our rooms have clutter.


Looking through the eyes of the jack o-lantern.


















Feline. Pumpkinhead. I have had both of those nicknames at different times in my life. Seriously.
















SMH and demonic dog. We didn't stuff Loki into the pumpkin. It just looks that way.









Even though this new camera is a simple point-and-shoot, SMH felt the need to experiment extensively with the settings. This is about two seconds before I said, "Take the damn picture or else I'm leaving."

This is our front door. Yesterday, we locked ourselves out of the house. About 2 seconds after I shut said door, we realized we didn't have our keys. Fifty bucks later, a locksmith was letting us into the house. Unfortunately, this incident made me extremely crabby. But, if you look on the bright side, we discovered that our house is pretty impenetrable when locked.

Thanks, everybody!

Wow, I had no idea that people were actually reading this thing!

Thanks, everybody, for your kind thoughts and e-mails following my last entry. Now I feel like I was out campaigning for a sympathy vote! I wasn't, really!

Sigh... it's always nice to get e-mails from friends and family. Especially nice because I am notoriously bad at keeping up on my end of e-mail correspondence. (This is my weekend to catch up on e-mails.)

Yesterday I received a hilarious e-mail from Karla, a friend from Freaks + Weirdos, a friend with a side-splitting sense of humor, a friend who could bring me to tears (of laughter) simply by walking past my cubicle. Karla's e-mail made me realize how much I MISS having friends who make me laugh. It's not that there aren't any funny people in OlyWA -- I just haven't clicked with anybody who can make me belly-laugh the way my Cincinnati friends could.

To get my humor fix, I have been relying heavily on "The Office."

Fortunately, there is somebody in my office who shares my love of this show. His name is Bill, and he is the receptionist. And, he is one of my favorites coworkers.

Let me tell you a few facts that I've learned about Bill: He is 60-something years old, a Vietnam vet, and a Native American. He wears cool turquoise and silver rings. He grew up on a farm, and he can't stomach strawberries because he had to pick so many when he was growing up on the farm. He performed CPR on his wife last year and saved her life. He dotes on his grandkids. He loves to make jokes and tell stories about his life -- and I love to hear them (or eavesdrop on them -- his desk is right outside my office, so I get to hear everything). He would be a perfect candidate for the StoryCorps project... I keep meaning to tell him that. And, he loves "The Office," which puts him on the super-cool list.

So, I am meeting plenty of great people out here in Oly. But, I have to admit, I am looking forward to seeing -- and laughing with -- old friends at Christmas.

Breathing easier these days

I am writing today in a better state of mind than I have experienced in weeks.

About a week or so after my last entry (yes, I know, a loooonnng time ago), I went to the dermatologist for a check-up. Long story short: They found melanoma in my leg. Melanoma in situ, that is, which as the doctors put it, "If you're going to get melanoma, it's the best kind you can get." I was surprisingly undaunted by the news, mostly because the doctor reassured me it was not anything to worry about. OK, I admit, I was neurotically worried -- not about the cancer, but about the surgery to follow; I had barely made it through the biopsy -- a virtually painless biopsy -- without passing out, so the idea of undergoing a giant incision to have the melanoma removed gave me the serious heebie-jeebies. (Yep, I am a wimp.)

And so, undaunted, I told my boss about the melanoma the next morning. I reassured him it was nothing even though I would be out of the office for numerous appointments, telling him, "It's cancer with a lower case "c," not an upper case "C." (Yep, we are editors. Nerds!) His response: "Yeah, but there's still the "-a-n-c-e-r" that makes it scary." Touché.

Another long story short: In the weeks, that followed, the follow-up X-rays showed a spot on my lung. And, in the same week, my family doctor found a lump on my breast.

No need to worry -- all is well. After many rounds of CT scans, ultrasounds and blood tests (good times!), no sign of cancer. Big sigh of relief.

I had the surgery a couple weeks ago, and they have confirmed that they removed all the melanoma. I had a lovely 4-inch incision, bruised and swollen, with giant Frankenstein-like stitches.

So, in the end, it was nothing to worry about. But what a strange experience. Isn't it bizarre how we respond to serious news? As, in the kind of news that brings us a few steps closer to our mortality?

I am embarrassed to admit, my very first response to the news that cancer was a possibility: "Wait, no, my running is the best it's been in my life. I am on the best streak ever. I can't stop training." Ah, yes, vanity, vanity, all is vanity.

My second response: "Wait, no, I can't stand needles and blood. I can hardly face the prospect of having a tourniquet put on my arm, much less having to be poked and prodded on a regular basis."

My third (and more nagging) response: "What if I leave this earth never having contributed anything to the world? Why me?" -- But why not me? Why shouldn't it be me? Doesn't it seem more fair that I get cancer rather than somebody who has a family, or somebody who is a Nobel Peace Prize winner, or somebody who is feeding starving children in Africa? -- "What would I be remembered for? And why is it even important that I be remembered?" These are the kinds of things that kept me awake at night, as my thoughts dipped into issues a little more existential than running PRs.

In any case, I feel like the weight of the world has been lifted from my shoulders -- which makes me feel more than a little guilty when I consider all the hundreds of thousands of people who have to face the true reality of cancer, and who have to go through round upon round of treatment.

Today I ran for the first time in about 1 1/2 months. The doctor told me I should take a little more time off if I wanted to prevent scarring from the incision. (Screw the scar, I'm crabby as hell when I don't run.)

It was an ugly, awkward, clumsy run. I looked like a fool, I know. I tried to spit off to the side in the grass and ended up spitting on myself. Nice. But it was sunny and beautiful, and Mt. Rainier looked gorgeous, and I felt great, despite feeling alarmingly out of shape. Who would've known how wonderful such an ugly run could be?

Brad Pitt, hero to men everywhere

I don't usually comment on celebrity news, but this one is so good.

Brad recently announced that he wouldn't marry Angelina "until everyone else in the country who wants to be married is legally able."

"What a coup for commitment-phobic males across the nation!," says our friend, Rachel. "A way to escape commitment AND project a hip image of social consciousness? A stroke of genius."

Oh Brad, you are so crafty.

Big purchases

This picture shows two of our two biggest purchases in the past six months. One of them is the biggest purchase in our life. Can you guess which?

At right is our "new/old" house. New, as in we bought it six months ago. Old, as in it was built in 1884. Our fate was sealed as soon as we crossed the threshold -- we loved it as soon as we stepped inside.

At left is our new car, a very practical station wagon.

A third purchase of note is the Thule Atlantis roof box (mounted on top of the car), which we bought last week, about one hour before we left for the Oregon coast with Laurel and Kevin.

I think each purchase says something about us.

The Thule box says, "We are now official residents of the Pacific Northwest. We are ready to camp at a moment's notice." I realized that my metamorphosis into a Pacific Northwesterner was progressing nicely when I bought my first pair of Teva sandals. You see, I have never owned Tevas or Birkenstocks, and I have never had any desire to do so. But suddenly, I am shamelessly galavanting around town in outfits accessorized by Tevas and wool socks.

The Focus station wagon says: "We are nerds. Pragmatic nerds. Nerds who have have cast aside any illusions of coolness for excellent gas mileage and ample space." It also says, "We are not truly Pacific Northwesterners because we couldn't afford the Subaru Outback."

The house says, "We are in debt. But we have finally found our home."

A weekend with Laurel and Kevin

Not to bore you with details, but please oh please allow me to wax poetic about the most wonderful weekend ever, which we spent with friends Laurel and Kevin (formerly of Cincinnati, OH, now of Eugene, OR).

SMH and I took our brand new station wagon (yes, we are nerds) on its first road trip, arriving in Eugene late Friday night.

Saturday began with the Bohemia Half Marathon, which included a beautiful course around a Cottage Grove Lake. I've never enjoyed 13.1 miles so much, thanks to Laurel's company and impeccable pace. Observation: Oregon runners are very, very friendly -- about 2000% friendlier than OlyWa runners. Or, maybe it's just that Laurel is about the kindest, friendliest and coolest person you'd ever hope to meet.

After the race, the four of us -- uh, five of us, including Loki -- packed up and drove over to the Oregon Dunes, where we camped Saturday and Sunday nights. On Sunday, after a 3-mile hike to the shore, we relaxed on the beach, with nary a soul in sight. Said relaxation included downing cheese and crackers and two bags of potato chips (overindulgence justified by the race the day before), flying Kevin's kite and -- my favorite -- watching a grey whale or two in the distance. (I should mention here that I have developed something of an obsession with whales.)

Then, we drove along the Oregon coast, which is breathtakingly beautiful. I won't even try to describe it. During the drive, we passed Heceta Head Lighthouse, stopped to see several stellar sea lions in their rookeries, then made our way to Cape Perpetua, where we spotted three more grey whales. (Have I mentioned my obsession with whales?)

The weekend was filled with lots of laughs and good eats, including a dinner of halibut and veggies (and s'mores, of course) cooked over the campfire. And breakfasts of blueberry pancakes, during which Laurel proved herself a champion pancake flipper.

The trip ended with a visit to REI, which yielded lots of on-sale goodies, all sales-tax-free.

Not sure what the best part of the weekend was. One minute was better than the next.

Summer drawing to an end

What could inspire a blog posting more than the arrival of Pumpkin Spice Lattes at Starbuck's? Oh yes. I love you, tasty little PSL. Thank you, Howard Schultz.

It seems strange that PSLs are here already because, to me, they have always been a harbinger of autumn. Is it autumn already? It does feel like autumn here. Though this past weekend was hot -- it probably seemed hotter because I was baking in the sun all weekend at Sand in the City -- it is quickly turning cooler. Think end-of-September weather in Cincinnati. Jeans-and-sweater weather. Long-sleeve-shirt-when-you're-running weather.

The autumn always makes me nostalgic. It is my favorite season, and it has always been the source of my best and most vivid memories: Red River Gorge, Graeter's pumpkin ice cream, Sacred Heart ravioli dinner, Detroit Half-Marathon, Columbus Marathon, Lake Walloon, etc, etc. Strange -- I will sorely miss the Midwest in the autumn. "Fall" here means the beginning of rainy season (though we are currently in the middle of a drought), and "fall colors" here means three different shades of evergreen.

Love of the season notwithstanding, autumn always brings on a sense of panic, too. I think this is rooted in the anxiety I felt as a kid when I realized that summer was ending and school (ie, nine months of self-inflicted stress and torment) was about to begin. I always wondered where the days had gone, and by age 10, I had started worrying about time passing too quickly. (Sometimes I gave myself stomachaches on Friday nights because I was afraid that the weekend was going to be over before I had the chance to enjoy it. Ah, neurotic by age 10. Is it any wonder I have about 15,000 phobias and a rapidly increasing number of grey hairs?)

So, now I ask the same question I asked twenty years ago: How can summer almost be over already? I feel like I am still waiting for summer. It just didn't seem like summer without the oppressive heat and humidity that causes people to flee from their air-conditioned offices to their air-conditioned homes.

It reached the 90's for about five consecutive days last month, and the local population was practically melting into the sidewalks. Seriously, it was like people were incapable of functioning. My boss, who came to OlyWa from Virginia, assures me that my definition of heat will gradually change, and someday soon I too will consider sunny, low 80's and 5% humidity a heatwave.

Meanwhile, the season's change is happily manifesting itself in our yard. Apples from two of our trees have come and gone (only 1 hippie showed up to pick the fruit this year). A third tree is filling up with a different kind of apples, and we are keeping our eye on the pear tree to see if its fruit is edible. We have blackberries galore in the backyard, which we are picking -- and eating -- by the bowlful.

Good grief, are we turning into hippies? No, I don't think so -- I don't think hippies support the evil Starbuck's empire by indulging in PSL bliss.

One monkey off our back

Today is the day we have been waiting for. We are no longer homeowners in Cincinnati! That is to say, we have officially sold our house! That is to say, we are no longer paying two mortgages! Saints be praised!

At first, I thought, "Oh (sniff sniff), won't it be sad to leave our home in Clifton?" But after days, weeks and finally months of cautious optimism, just waiting for the deal to go through, I've traded in the weepy sentimentalism for a healthy dose of pragmatism.

Now I must give propers to:
- My Uncle Mike, who handled the testy buyers with his typical aplomb. Does anything ever rattle this guy?
- Our tenants, Lauren & Jody and Dyani & Jeremy, who win the prize for "World's Best Tenants." In fact, I'm pretty sure that our former living space looked about 200% better after we moved out and J&L moved in. Oh, and props to their little dog Sedgewick just for being so cute.
- Our "property managers," S+J, who resigned from their position a while ago but still deserve recognition for being good friends.

It is good to have the house monkey off our backs.

Steady as she goes

Nothing like a good show to inspire me to return to the blog. And not just a good show. A mind-blowing, can't-stop-thinking-about-it-the-next-day show. As in, call your husband at work the next day to discuss the details and recount the best moments.

SMH and I drove up to Seattle the other night for the Raconteurs show at the Moore Theater. It was phenomenal. For my money, the Greenhornes were the stars of the show. OK, OK, we're a little biased. It is difficult for anybody to upstage Jack White, who dominated the show with his huge stage-presence. But we have to cast our vote with P.K. and J.L. as the superstars.

So, after the show, we think, "Oh, we'll just grab a beer and come back to see if we can say hi to Patrick and Jack." Um, riiiiiiiight, great idea...if this was the Comet! What were we thinking?! They are total rock stars, which means they had an entourage of groupies waiting for them by the tour bus. Which also means that WE looked like groupies. Decidedly old, decidedly unhip groupies. So we left.

Anyway, they played a cover of "Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)," which is still giving me goosebumps.

I cannot overemphasize how fantastic these fellows are. So, if you are in Cincinnati, make the trip to Cleveland for the show. Or better yet, to Ann Arbor, where you can stop by Zingerman's for a snack.

What's news?

It's funny to live in a city where the newspaper's lead story on the front page is "Sleater Kinney calling it quits."

I love summer

Some things I love about summer in OlyWa:

1) Local fruit: You have not tasted berries until you've eaten Spooner's strawberries. If I ever make it to heaven, St. Peter will welcome me with a giant bowl of Spooner's. And when we can't make it to the market, we have raspberry bushes in our back yard, which SMH seems to be picking and eating while I'm not around.

2) The mountain: On a summer day, Mt. Rainier is in her splendor. She is always amazing.

3) The weather: Sunny and dry, with highs in the upper 70's and low 80's. I can run whenever I want -- noon, 3 pm, 5 pm -- and not suffer heat exhaustion. The days are long -- it starts getting light around 4:45 am and stays light until almost 10pm. And the fun is just beginning. As somebody told me yesterday, "Summer doesn't start here until the Fourth of July."

4) The nights: No need for air conditioning. Just open the window.

4) Good moods: After a rain-filled winter, people are chuffed to soak in the sun. Everybody, including my boss (especially my boss), has a suggestion for their favorite place to run, bike, camp or kayak.

Take "ability to multi-task" off my resume

I used to think I was very good at multi-tasking. In fact, I once prided myself on my M-T ability. The past month, however, has proven that I am not nearly as capable as I thought I was.

In the past month, I went home to Cincinnati for a week, came back for a few days, hosted SMH's parents for a week and a half, then went to Spokane for a conference. And during all this, I haven't found time to blog once. Shame on me.

I should probably kick off this round of blog entries with a description of our visit to Cincinnati, and move chronologically from there. But I won't — I'll begin with more recent activity.

On Sunday, I went to Spokane, where the temperature was in the high 90's. Spokane is only about 30 miles away from Coeur d'Alene, so temperatures were pretty much the same there. I mention this because Sunday was the Ironman in Coeur D'Alene. So, athletes swam 2.4 miles, biked 112 and ran 26.2. In 90+ degree weather. Yikes.

One of the reasons that we were attracted to the Pacific Northwest was the weather. Apparently, this year's weather is a big, funny joke on us because there's all kinds of records being broken. In the winter, there was the record rainfall. And, now there are record high temperatures. Somewhere in the mid 90's, I think. But, I'm not complaining. Well, actually I am, but not that much. It's hot, but without the oppressive humidity a la Cincinnati, it's altogether tolerable. And, highs are supposed to get back to normal — upper 70's / low 80's — by tomorrow.

I'll sign off with a little insight into WA phonetics. The letter "a" is pronounced strangely here. Pronounce these places: Spokane, Gonzaga and Yakima. How did you do? See below:
* Spoke-ann, not Spo-kane
* Gon-zag-ah (like "zig-zag"), not Gon-zah-gah
* Yeah-kih-mah, not Yaw-kih-mah

Oh, and nobody pronounces it "Warshington" here. It's okay, Patsy — you're still welcome here :)

Back on track

Good to be back on the old blog.

I have been in hibernation the past few weeks as I have been making a "career transition" (read: new job). I am thrilled (read: euphoric).

I am now officially "Assistant Director of Communications" for a state agency. It's a far stretch from where I thought an MA in Art History would get me, but I am not complaining. On the contrary, I am giddy with excitement. Of course, I am also convinced that I am going to fail miserably and make a complete jackass of myself, but that's nothing new.

Today was my first day at the office. And oh, what a lovely, lovely office. I used to think that I could never endure a desk job, and that I would hate working with the suits and the skirts. Wrong. I love my little office, which has a door (that closes) and a window (that opens). Perhaps this is no big deal to you, dear readers. but this is a mind-blowing step up from where my professional life had been. You mean there is life beyond cubicles?!

My first day on the job was actually last Thursday, when I attended a conference at a resort on warm, sunny Lake Chelan. (Yes, I love this job.) SMH came along, and in addition to enjoying the outdoorsy stuff while I was attending sessions, he got his TV fix at the hotel. (We don't have cable right now, therefore we don't have TV. Quite a contrast to our apartment situation.)

The conference ended Friday, after which SMH and I spent a night camping on Lake Wenatchee. Our camping adventure was cut short by Loki, who was horribly sick all Friday night and woke us up every hour to let her out of the tent. Still, we got to roast s'mores over the campfire, and really, what more can you ask for?

Because our trip was cut short, we were around to watch Olympia's marathon yesterday. It's no big production like the Flying Pig, but we decided to walk up a few blocks to be one of the few spectators cheering on the runners. I tried to find inspiration in the marathoners, but I just felt happy to be on the curb in comfy jeans and a sweatshirt. I might be hitting new strides professionally, but I am woefully lacking in the running department.

Procession of the Species

Photo by Steven M. Herppich, copyright The Olympian

I love this place.

I especially loved it yesterday, when I watched my first Procession of the Species.

The Procession of the Species is held in OlyWa every April, typically (though not this year) on Earth Day. In a nutshell: It is a parade to celebrate the natural world. Sound a little hippie-ish? Well, it is (this is OlyWa, after all) -- and it isn't.

All of OlyWa is invited to participate in the Procession, and to my surprise, the entire community comes out for this event -- not just the local hippies. Everybody, young and old, takes part. Under the theme of "the natural word," people dress up as floral and fauna (or something representative of floral and fauna). Their costumes, most of which are handmade, are amazingly beautiful and clever. There were lions, wolves, fish, turtles, spiders, butterflies, trees, cacti, flowers, flamingos -- the list goes on and on.

The participants march in one of four groups: Earth, Air, Fire and Water. At the head of each group is a corp of drummers and other musicians, along with standard-bearers carrying giant batiked windsocks and banners.

There were hundreds of people in the parade, and hundreds of people lining the streets to watch the parade. No politicians handing out stickers, no firetrucks, no Shriners in tiny cars, no floats, even. Just people in costumes or hand-built contraptions, dancing, playing instruments and having a dandy time.

It was like one giant, unprententious piece of performance art. People work on their costumes and batik banner for weeks -- sometimes months -- in a public studio right down the street from our house. They take it seriously. Last weekend, we drove past a group of people "practicing" for the parade in the street. They were drumming and dancing, getting their routine down pat.

SMH shot the Procession, and I accompanied him as the "lens assistant." I almost backed out because it was cold, grey and rainy. But, I braved the elements and by the time we got to the staging area, the sky was clearing and the sun was beginning to shine. And by the time the parade started, the sun was bursting through blue skies, making the colors glow.

Photo by Steven M. Herppich, copyright The Olympian

There was really something magical about this event. The adults seemed to love it as much as the kids (maybe more), and everybody was in the best of spirits.

Check out The Olympian for more pics.

Cartoon coworkers

This is my last week at the Visitor and Convention Bureau. Sniff, sniff. It has been a great job. I love my boss, and I wish I could fold her up, stick her in my pocket and take her with me to my future jobs. (She is so tiny, I could almost do that. Slender-tiny, not midget-tiny.)

I am going to miss a lot about this job. But you know what I'll miss most? Two coworkers who have unknowingly entertained me on a daily basis. Until a few weeks ago, their identities were a mystery to me. They were nothing but disembodied voices.

These voices belong to two ladies who work on the other side of my cubicle. Together they run the operation of a big summer festival in town.

My "relationship" with the women began one morning, when I was the first person to arrive in the office -- or so I thought, until I flipped on the lightswitch. In doing so, I accidentally hit the wrong switch and turned off one row of lights. From the other side of the office, a gravelly voice erupted: "HEY WAIT A MINUTE! TURN THAT ON!"

Not only was I startled and embarrassed by this outburst (being a new employee), I was extremely alarmed by the voice, which sounded like it was the product of several thousand cartons of cigarettes. I continued to hear this voice everyday, engaged in abrasive phone conversations, office banter, etc. I grew to fear that gravelly, disembodied voice.

A few weeks after the lightswitch incident, a new voice came on the scene. This one was even more gravelly, with mannerisms just as abrasive. But my fear turned to a peculiar fondness as I came to look forward to daily conversations like this (for the full effect, must be spoken outloud, in a deep, hoarse voice):

"Hey Jan, you know what time it is?"
"No, what time?"
"PUFF TIME!"
"Let's go!"

Seems I had been working next to Marge Simpson's twin sisters for well over a month. I became convinced that if I peeked over the cubicle wall, I'd see two cartoon characters, Patty and Selma Bouvier, smoking, side by side.

It's only been in the past few weeks that I've actually seen the bodies that match the voices. They are not cartoon characters at all. But one of them does bear a striking resemblance to a certain boss I once had at the CAM, who was a little cartoonish herself. (Incidentally, she was not small enough to fit in my pocket.)

Easter in the Pacific NW

SMH spent last Saturday shooting some Easter goings-on in the area. From his photos, I learned two things:

In OlyWa, the Easter Bunny is much more frightening, and he arrives by parachute. (Did this rabbit step out of my nightmares? If I were a kid, I'd be heading for the hills.)

Most kids collect eggs. In OlyWa, children fill their Easter baskets with tiny little babies holding bottles.

We spent Easter in beautiful, beautiful (and sunny, sunny) Port Townsend. After spending a ridiculous amount of time looking for a restaurant, we settled on the The Landfall. Mmm-mmm, right choice! SMH has a keen sense - he always spots the good places. My baked blueberry French toast was superb (though it was no J+P brunch item, I'm afraid).

Port Townsend is filled with lovely Victorian homes. One particularly remarkable B+B was for sale for $1.7 million. I would really, really like to own this B+B. I am going to have to get the money job. Oh, that's right, I work in non-profit. I am going to have to win the lottery.

Port Townsend, we decided, is a flawless combination of Traverse City and Mackinac Island (because, in the end, it all comes back to the Midwest, doesn't it?). Wonderful old architecture, quaint shops, vibrant main street, and right on the water. It was a great place to spend our Easter afternoon.

Easter memories, good and bad

For the past week, I have been on a mission: To find the best Easter Brunch in OlyWa. After the first couple days on the case, I revised the mission a bit: To find an Easter Brunch in OlyWa.

Actually, they do exist here. I've gotten a couple leads, one of which we'll choose today. The problem, you see, stems from my aunt and uncle, who every year create an Easter Brunch that is simply unbeatable. They have made it impossible to find a passable brunch by setting the bar much too high.

So, this year, we'll be missing their annual culinary masterpiece: honey-glazed ham (for years, this was the only day I ate ham), cheesy potatoes, asparagus, spinach-and-feta quiche, raspberry(?)-and-cream-cheese jello mold, deviled eggs, rolls and pineapple muffins. Then, to finish the meal: Graeter's ice cream and Bonbonerie cookies. Then, after pure, shameless gluttony, everyone retires to the beautiful parlor (for conversation about 700WLW, the Archdiocese of Cincinnati and the latest funerals). Every year, my aunt offers me leftovers, and every year, I greedily accept. Not this year. I weep for our epicurean loss.

Easter evokes a string of childhood memories, the strongest of which are tied to my grandmother (my dad's mother). Why? First, my grandma died eleven years ago in April, right before Easter; this was the only time I have ever witnessed a person literally take their last breath, so it made an impact. Second, when we were kids, my grandparents always hosted an Easter Egg Hunt for all the grandchildren in their backyard. The coveted grand prize, hidden in a gold L'eggs egg, was a 50-cent piece. That amount of money blew our little minds. And third, my grandma always celebrated Easter by making an elaborate lamb cake.

This lamb cake was her magnum opus. It was a three-dimensional, lamb in-the-round, complete with white coconut for its white fleece. I can imagine the cake perfectly, sitting on my grandparents' buffet, right below the huge, creepy painting of the Last Supper (which was there for my careful study year-round, not just for the Easter season).

One might think that the memories of this lamb cake would be charming - the stuff of warm holiday sentiment. Unfortunately, the lamb-cake memories are a bit tainted.

I always felt a certain revulsion about my grandparents' food. I am not being mean-spirited when I say this. Aside from the fact that the snacks they fished out of the pantry were always stale, there are two experiences that spawned this revulsion:

1) One time, when I was about five years old, I witnessed my grandmother stuff a turkey. It was the most vile thing I had ever seen, and I remember self-consciously suppressing a gag. I couldn't believe she was sticking her hand in the turkey. And, worse, I couldn't believe the horrible, wet, squishing that sound this act seemed to generate. Today, I'll try almost anything in the kitchen, but you will never catch me stuffing a bird.

2) Another time, my sister and I snuck into a bag of chocolate at my grandma's house. All the adults were in the living room, probably watching Lawrence Welk, giving us the perfect opportunity to snoop around the office. We hit the jackpot: A brown paper bag filled with Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and Rolos. No sooner had we made the discovery than we began quietly tearing into the wrappers and biting into the chocolate. The moment that followed is seared into my memory forever. Before biting down, I was stopped short by the sight of little white worms poking through the chocolate. My sister was not so lucky. She had already bit into -- and ingested -- the worm-riddled Rolos. I can't even bring myself to write anymore about it.

Now, back to the lamb cake. I have a clear memory of eating the cake and thinking it tasted alarmingly like soap. I even thought to myself, Does Grandma scrape little bits of soap off the bar and think it will pass for coconut? (She was senile for most of the years I remember her.) But to this day, I am not sure if this is an actual memory or one that I conjured up in response to my previous experiences. If that's the case, that poor lamb cake has gotten a bad rap.

On this note, I'll turn my thoughts back to more pleasant Easter memories: Brunch at J+P's, jellybeans, Papas eggs and chocolate bunnies. Just no worms with my chocolate, thanks.

The faith of a child

Perhaps our distance from home has made me a little sentimental. Or maybe it's the Easter holiday -- holidays always rattle my cage of memories. Whatever the reason, I've been experiencing an overload of childhood flashbacks lately.

I was thinking about Good Friday yesterday, and remembered this incident:

When I was a fourth-grader at St. Clare School, the students were given a special task. Each grade had to select one student to accompany the parish priest as he made the Stations of the Cross. (I associate this incident with Good Friday, but come to think of it, we were usually off school on Good Friday -- so this must have been just a general Lenten activity.)

I was selected to be my class's representative, having been voted by the students as "The Most Holy." I swear to God, it's true. Of course, in fourth grade, I wouldn't have sworn to God, on account of my holiness. My classmates' decision was not unwarranted; I collected holy cards, I knew all the decades of the rosary, I made the St. Anthony Novena with my parents every year, and I seriously considered "nun" as a career option. My faith was strong.

But the vote put me in awkward position. Because I was terribly shy, I was nervous about having to stand before the entire school. Also, I came to discover that "Most Holy" was a dubious honor, as it became grounds for merciless teasing at the hands of one Matthew Reynolds. (Matthew, who made my life miserable in grade school, died when we were 18. At his funeral, our friend Pete revealed a truth that every young tormented girl should know: He only teases you because he likes you.)

To make matters worse, the teachers had warned us countless times about the priest, who was serving as a temporary fill-in until they could secure the "real" parish priest. "Father is stern and strict. He does not fool around. One time at an all-school Mass, he made a little joke during the homily, and one of the students laughed too long -- and he YELLED at the student in FRONT OF THE WHOLE SCHOOL. So mind yourself around him." This sent me spiraling into unbridled anxiety, and forced me to seriously consider my behaviour. How was I to act? Surely, Father wouldn't make any jokes during the stations, so I wouldn't have to worry about laughing...right?, I thought. Was I to act ultra-serious? Ultra-pious? How would I act appropriately, and yet not bring teasing upon myself?

By the time the day of the Stations rolled around, I was a nervous wreck.

I don't remember much except having a severe stomachache from nerves. And standing at each Station, getting increasingly tired, and shifting my weight from one leg to the other. And staring only at the priest, so as to avoid eye contact with anybody else.

I thought I got through the ordeal sucessfully. But that night, my sister laid into me: "I can't believe you. You were up there, with your hand on your hip and then your arms crossed, acting like you were too cool for the Stations of the Cross. It was like you didn't even care. You didn't deserve to be chosen."

I was horrified. I had not intended to act like that, but maybe I had put off an air of disaffection. It's funny now to think about how much weight I gave my sister's opinion. She was in fifth grade at the time, which means that she was well into the nascence of her hellion stage (which would last until about age 20). After reprimanding me, she probably went off for a smoke with her friends.

I'm sure I prayed especially hard for forgiveness as I made my way up the steps of Immaculata that year.

A few years later, I lost my "Most Holy" status when I developed new interests: teenage angst and Camel cigarettes. At that point, Matthew Reynolds wasn't teasing me as much. He too had developed other interests, like stealing cars. And Camels, too.

Today, I heard a story on the radio that included the comment: "It would be wonderful to go back and have the faith you had as a child." Clearly, this person didn't suffer from faith-inflicted stomachaches when he was growing up.

House hiatus over

After a couple weeks without a computer, we are finally back online. I feel like a junkie getting her long-awaited fix.

Time has flown--it's hard to believe that it's been two weeks since we moved. We are slowly getting settled in. The house is still littered with boxes yet to be unpacked, but we are making progress. The two most important rooms--the kitchen and the bathroom--are in good shape, having been scrubbed from top to bottom.

The biggest drama of our move has been the "oil tank episode." Luckily, it's not nearly as dramatic as it could've been--I should say, not nearly as dramatic as our recent luck with moving would indicate--but dramatic enough. A huge, old oil tank, which was buried deep in our side yard, was removed as we were completing the move. Removal required all kinds of heavy machinery, like diggers and backhoes, which completely destroyed our front lawn (and our neighbor's side lawn) as well as our front walkway. But the walkway was replaced Friday, and the lawn will be reseeded this week...so, aside from the very muddy lawn, we should be in good shape.

Yesterday, our next-door neighbor came over to introduce herself, bearing a bottle of wine. This gesture was incredibly kind, considering the havoc we have wreaked upon her yard. And last week, we met some other neighbors--hippies who live behind us. Now, when you live in OlyWa, the fact that your neighbors are hippies is not even worth observing. Saying that you live next to a hippie here is like saying that you live next to a Catholic in Vatican City. They're a dime a dozen.

What caught our attention about these hippie neighbors is the fact that there seems to be some kind of hippie commune behind us. No, no, not like a Jonestown compound. It's just a little house where a bunch of earth mamas and papas live. In fact, we never would have even noticed, had we not met several of them in one day.

A few days after we moved in, another one of the hippie fellas introduced himself to SMH and told him that Rose, the previous owner of the house, had let them come and harvest the fruit trees in the yard and he hoped we would do the same. Ummmm, hmmmm, wellll...

Yes, we do have quite a few fruit trees in the backyard, and hey, I'm not selfish. I'm willing to share the fruit...but do I really want people "harvesting" our fruit? Not sure. On top of that, the house has a hot tub built into the deck, and I can't help it but have nightmarish visions of the hippies treating themselves to a nice hot "bath" after a day of harvesting under the sun. Eeek.

The neighbors on either side told us that they have seen coyotes in our yard. (Yes, we live in a relatively urban area, despite the images that "fruit trees" and "coyotes" may conjure up.) Oh, and deer, too, who apparently like to take their own share of the harvest from our trees. So, between the coyotes, the deer and the hippies, I think there are some wild times ahead in our backyard.

Lots more to tell, but so many e-mails to get through...two weeks without Internet is a long time!

Oh my aching muscles

One time, I ran a marathon. And the day after, I was probably the most sore I had ever been in my life.

Today, I would give anything to be only as sore as that.

SMH and I just moved ourselves to *a new house*. Yep, just me, him and a moving van. And a hell of a lot of stuff. I really don't recommend this. (Of course, I also don't recommend hiring Ma and Pa Kettle, er, I mean Berger/Allied movers, to help transport your stuff—which is what we did for our move out West.)

Oh, sweet Jesus, it is really difficult to move without the help of friends and family. And even though Ma and Pa Kettle sent us spiraling into insanity last October, I would have gladly accepted their help today.

I guess I haven't really said anything about the new house, have I? We are wildly excited to have found a sweet new home, but at the moment, I can't write anymore. Every single fiber of me hurts...even my fingertips...and I am obscenely tired.

So, I'll fill you in later.

Alumni updates

Oh, alumni magazines. Do you love them as much as I do?

I cut out of work early today (one luxury of a PT job) to catch the XU-Gonzaga game, and low and behold, waiting in my mailbox was the spring issue of the Xavier Alumni Magazine.

This publication is always a source of angst for me. In the back section of the magazine, there is a listing of alumni, ordered by year of graduation, and their accomplishments. Even though I know I shouldn't, the first thing I do is flip to the back and see how I compare to my classmates. It's always grim.

The little blurbs herald great news about the alums.

They start off something like:
"After traveling to Central America and building a village hospital, feeding starving children, going on a hunger strike for workers' rights, emancipating young women from a sex trade operation, and closing down sweat shops, Cindy McGillycuddy has returned to the United States, where she has developed her own line of organic food, the proceeds of which go directly to charity."

And then they begin to read:
"Daniel Doolittle recently became a super-duper, high-profile, highly sought-after economic expert. He doesn't mean to brag, but he has just been been recognized as the world's smartest man."

And then you read between the lines:
"Two months after graduating, Jane Jones received her M.R.S. degree, summa cum laude, when she married Dr. Charles Phillip Arthur George. She loves being a stay-at-home mom to her adorable children--Sloan, Brayden, Tanner, Xander, Mikayla, Madison and Bailey--for those two hours each night after Lupe, the nanny, goes home. Jane is now pregnant with her eighth child, but don't worry--Dr. Z has worked wonders on her, and she still has the dynamite body of a 16-year-old."

And then you see a name that rings a bell, and you really read between the lines, this time with a sense of triumph:
"Remember Joe Smith? The smart, geeky kid in your freshman statistics class, whom the muscle-headed guy sitting behind you made fun of relentlessly and called "faggot" every single day?* Yeah, that kid is living in California, working in computers, and making more money than God. Joe is wondering what that muscle-head is doing these days."
*Note: That really happened, and the obnoxious, name-calling guy, who seriously addressed the smart kid as "faggot" and much worse, was the son of my high school principal.

And then there's always:
"Jody Joseph, class of '96, got married to Larry Miller. Jody really has no identity other than being married to this guy, so we'll just tell you about him, even though he's never stepped foot on XU's campus. He graduated with honors from Harvard and is currently Chief Resident at Cedars Sinai Hospital. His goal is to provide medical care to the underpriveleged children in the inner city. But frankly, Jody is a little nervous about that, because you know how those people can be."

Oh, but wait, let's not forget mine:
"JGF lives in Oly, WA, where she currently holds 15 part-time jobs, none of which are remotely related to her degree. But then again, just how far did she think she would get on a Fine Arts degree? With JGF's remarkable ability to remain a "jack of all trades, master of none," she is a shining example of mediocrity. Or would that be a mediocre example of mediocrity?"

Well, we all can't have exciting lives.

After reading the magazine, SMH and I went to a bar (same bar as Saturday) to watch the game. My fellow game-watchers at the bar were very nice to me, and seemed genuinely interested in the fact that I was a Xavier alum. So, maybe this could make it into the next issue:

"JGF lives in Oly, WA, where she has made several friends at the neighborhood bar. In serving as a representative of the university, she has educated the local population on the correct pronunciation of the name (Zay-vier, not Eggs-zay-vier) and the correct geographical location (Cincinnati, not Philadelphia) of the school."

Wrapping up an eventful week

What a week. It has been so hectic, and I feel like I'm falling behind in everything in my life.

Happily, our house-hunting situation may be drawing to a close—but I have vowed not to write anything about that subject, lest I jinx us. We'll see what happens...

My job situation has taken an interesting turn, as I've picked up a few hours at the Visitor & Convention Bureau. This is more or less the scenario: People call and request a visitor's guide, then I send it out to them. Sometimes, they'll ask me something like, "I'm getting married there. Can you suggest a good venue?" or "I'm looking for a good place to eat. Any suggestions?" or "When is the best time to visit?" And then, because I've only lived here a short time and I really don't know the area, I have to reply, "Oh, um, I'm going to have to get back to you on that one." Luckily, many of the requests come via e-mail, so I don't have to stumble over words and flaunt my idiocy, which, incidentally, I am very, very good at.

So, this week has been a transitional one for me. But, this week was also a remarkable one because it featured *two* social events! On Tuesday, we had drinks with a coworker and her beau (or ex-beau? I'm not 100% sure), both of whom elicited quite a few belly-laughs. What a good feeling. Then, last night, I attended a baby shower and was treated to all kinds of crazy childbirth stories, with "The Most Horrifying" prize going to Julianna, who went natural for the birth of her 11.5-pound baby boy. Yikes.

Today, Steve and I went to a bar in neighboring Lacey to watch the XU-St. Joe's game. We stuck out as the odd couple rooting for a team nobody was particularly interested in. But the bartender indulged us and asked us a few questions about XU, including "Did you go there for the law school?" Apparently, he associates XU with law school. When I gently broke it to him that XU doesn't have a law school, he asked me what XU is known for. I didn't know how to answer. Is XU known for anything in particular?

Anyhow, yes, if you don't know, I am a big basketball nerd and I love the sport. I was, however, nearly sick at the end of the game. I don't have the stomach for down-to-the-wire games like that. But hurrah! They won! Then, I came home and logged on to the "Musketeer Madness" chatroom, and I discovered that I am not nearly as big a nerd as I thought I was. That's because those chatroom folks are BIG nerds. I know, I know, who am I to judge?...but seriously, these folks are total weirdos. I'm sorry, but they are.

Late night musings

It is 2:15 in the morning, and I cannot sleep. So, I've spent the last hour or so catching up on online gossip. Thank you, Gawker.com. I'm thoroughly sated.

Here are two tidbits I just discovered during the last hour:

1. Drew Lachey hails from College Hill. I have to admit I didn't even know who Drew Lachey was until last week, when my mom told me excitedly that he was doing well in the "Superstar Dance Off," or whatever it's called (I'm too lazy to Google it right now). Who knew, aside from a few St. Clare alumni, that College Hill was such the cradle of civilization?

2. Funnyman Dave Chappelle was in his hometown for the Block Party premiere. I'm so jealous! You couldn't beg, borrow or steal a ticket to his show in Seattle, where he kicked off his mini-tour. Wish I could've gone, but it's okay; all you have to do is say the words "Dave Chappelle," and I'm in hysterics.

Here is something else I realized during my online quest for news:

I was looking forward to watching the Oscars on Sunday, but instead of being in front of my TV, I will be at a skating party. I am not kidding. We are going to a museum staff skating party. Being a new employee, I didn't want to send a negative, non-cooperative message, so I agreed to join in. But, because I am still thinking in terms of Eastern Standard Time, I didn't realize that the Oscars start at 5pm out here, which is just about the time SMH and I will be starting our first pass around the roller rink. There's nothing like roller-skating for the first time in 20 years to make you look like a jackass in front of your coworkers.

Dust in the wind

Speaking of Mass, today is Ash Wednesday. This day always makes me think of one thing: McAuley High School.

Every year on Ash Wednesday, the student body went to Mass. And every year, during the Communion Meditation, they played "Dust in the Wind" by Kansas. If you don't know what the Communion Meditation is, well, it's supposed to be a really serious time when you contemplate the meaning of the Mass. But to hear "Dust in the Wind" always made me crack up, which pretty much undermined the profundity of the moment.

In and of itself, the song "Dust in the Wind" was fine. But in the context of Mass, it sent me into a fit of giggles (the kind that only happen at the most inappropriate times) because this song was the school's way of saying, "Hey, we're hip, we're cool. See, we incorporate your crazy rock-n-roll music into the Mass. That's so you can relate to it." But Kansas, 1978? Come on!

Then again, going to McAuley was like living in a time warp. They did always play "Come Sail Away" and "You Shook Me All Night Long" at the student dances, like they were the hottest hits of the day. (They would've been had we been attending high school ten years prior to that.)

Anyway, I suppose "Dust in the Wind" has that existential quality that appeals to angst-ridden teenagers. And, it does offer a connection to the "ash" in Ash Wednesday.

But, what should have been a reflective moment was always a silly one, and that has stuck with me long after that joyous day that I left the halls of MCA.

This is what happens when you don't attend Mass regularly

This morning we got it into our minds that we should go to church. So, we made our way to 9:30 Mass at St. Michael's, the only Catholic church here in Oly.

This Church is decidedly post-Vatican II. I never realized how deep-rooted my Catholic upbringing was until we entered the church and I immediately started panicking because I saw neither a tabernacle nor a crucifix on the altar. Should I genuflect or not??? (I didn't.)

The Mass was pretty uneventful, other than lots of singing, with groovy guitar- and tambourine-accompaniment. I didn't recognize any of the songs, except the last one. Actually, I didn't recognize it; the melody just sounded a lot like Dave Brubeck's "Take Five."

There were many participatory activities, too. Like introducing yourself to your neighbors and raising your hands to bless kids, Catholics-in-training, etc. We are generally uncomfortable with that kind of participation. It puts us outside of our comfort zone, which, within the perimeters of Catholic worship, is pretty much limited to the memorized responses and the standard sit-stand-kneel calisthenics. (Did I mention there were no kneelers, either?)

Anyhow, we decided to forego the post-Mass coffee-and-doughnut fellowship and the new-member orientation tour. So, we had exited the church and were returning to our car when this woman walking in front of us just collapses and kind of crumples onto the sidewalk.

It was strange; she was walking with a little girl when she collapsed, but the child just looked at the lady lying on the ground, then disappeared after that. Was it her daughter? I don't know. I never saw her again.

Well, there weren't many other people around, and those that were around just watched with curiosity.

So, I kicked into my newly acquired CPR-training mode: "Are you OK? Are you OK? Somebody call 911!" I thought I yelled it, but SMH told me later, all he heard me say was, "Steve???!" Which, luckily, he read as, "Call 911!"

And, literally, as I was mentally reviewing my First Aid to-do list (Check breathing. Check pulse...), I thought to myself:

This is most certainly my punishment for:
a) Making light of my CPR training a few weeks ago, and
b) Not actively participating in Mass today (or, um, not going to Mass at all since we've been here).

And then I thought, "Please God, don't punish her for my being an a**hole." And immediately after that, I thought, "Also, God, please don't punish her for my use of bad language."

The lady had a pulse and was breathing, but she was not conscious. For a few minutes, I was the only one "helping" her, though a small crowd quickly gathered around us. ("Helping" is a stretch; I just kept talking to her and holding her hand). She eventually regained consciousness and squeezed my hand, but she was unable to speak more than a few words and was really out of it. Oh, and her English was not very good at all, so that kind of put a wrench in our communications.

Luckily, a doctor (St. Mike parishioner) came on the scene, followed by an EMT (another St. Mike parishioner). And shortly after SMH made the call, firefighters and EMT arrived and took over.

The whole thing took probably 10 or 15 minutes, but it seemed like an eternity. And it really shook me to the core because it made me think, if I had really had to perform CPR, would I have been able to do it? Would I have been able to keep a clear head? I'm not sure. It is weighing heavily on my a**hole mind.

Noteworthy events

This week was a particularly uninspiring one for blog activity.

Our house-hunting adventure continues in full-force (now with a new level of stoicism), but I don't want to bore you with the details, nor do I want to jinx what appears to be stroke of good luck.

Instead, I'll just note that yesterday was a very special day back in Cincinnati for two reasons:

1) It was the birthday of good friend Sha. Happy Birthday! Hope this year is filled with many Zingermans surprises!

2) It was the last day of work for Karla, my partner-in-crime at Freaks+Weirdos. This talented designer is taking off for life in the big city! Cincinnati is losing a shining star, and NYC is gaining one. Sigh. Good luck, Karla. We'll always have "Destination Bride."

Staying positive

Last night we went to a bowl-o-rama going-away party for Barry, one of SMH's coworkers. Barry is leaving the paper and ditching OlyWa, which is a crying shame because he is a very cool guy. It may be presumptuous to say this, because maybe he hated my guts, but had we known each other longer, I think Barry would've been a great friend and an awesome running partner.

The party was fun, but a surreal experience: being surrounded by people (and friendly people, at that), but feeling like the loneliest person in the world. Everybody has experienced that to some degree...right? Um, right?

This weekend was a tough one. We both felt exhausted by Sunday, not having done much of anything. It just seems we're constantly living for what will be instead of what is. Somehow, we are convinced that things will get better when: we move into a "real" home; I secure a "real" full-time job; I make more money; I have a car; we meet more friends; I am able to run regularly injury-free; I can sleep through the night on a regular basis...the list goes on and on.

But in reality,
- the apartment, though nowhere near the 700 sq. ft. they claimed it was, is dirt- cheap and offers a great view of the city.
- I have a job that I enjoy.
- I am not making much money, but we're getting by just fine.
- I don't need a car; I live within walking distance of my job and a grocery store. (And, for crying out loud, I lived the first 28 years of my life without a car!)
- we're still new here, and it takes a while to build a social system from scratch.
- I haven't had a major injury since the fracture of my "alarmingly thin bones."
- Sominex works wonders for getting a good night's sleep.

I think I'm just being overly dramatic about adjusting to life as an OlyWa newbie. It does seem like a roller coaster ride, though.

So, I have to stayed grounded by focusing on the positive things. And, this weekend, that positive thing was receiving a return e-mail from Peter, one of my oldest friends. Pete and I attended grade school together, and then we remained good friends through high school. We kind of lost touch through the later college years, though we would occasionally see each other and chat from time to time.

Isn't it fantastic to hear from somebody who has drifted to the back of your mind, and be reminded of how lucky you have been to have that person in your life? Pete is one of those people. He has an amazing life story, and I'm sure if he wrote it down on paper, it would make it into Oprah's Book Club. (I assure you, it would all be true.)

Pete is full of anecdotes, most of them beyond hilarious. He has the refreshing quality of not taking himself too seriously. And in being able to laugh at himself, he has never failed to crack me up.

One summer—I think it was the summer after our freshman year in college?—Pete interviewed for some amazing job. The rest of us had typical, boring summer jobs, but Pete somehow landed this fabulous interview. Of course, one of the interview questions was, "What is your greatest weakness?".

You know the drill. You ponder this question ahead of time, then carefully craft your answer to reflect a positive quality. And finally, you add a little polish to impress the interviewer, only to have it sound like a rote reply. "I'm a perfectionist..." "I'm a workaholic..."

Pete's answer: "I'm kind of a slacker."

HA!!!!!!

I totally love him for giving that answer. And, apparently the employer did too, because he got the job.

The phone rang and...

Nope. They didn't accept our offer, which makes us 0 for 3. Utter frustration has set in, so I'll just cut this short; otherwise a litany of expletives is sure to follow.

Waiting for the phone to ring

It's Saturday night, and we're both at home working. Clearly this move to OlyWa has not done much for our social life.

In fact, we had considered going to a movie tonight, but instead, we are anxiously awaiting a phone call from for our real estate agent, Rich. He is supposed to ring us in about a half-hour to let us know if our offer on yet another house has been accepted.

In the mean time, I'll just fill the time with some idle chatter.

Brrrrrr, it's very chilly here in Oly. I understand it is pretty cold in Cincinnati, too. Last night, the wind kicked up and knocked out our power around 8pm. It was actually a nice excuse to light some candles, open a bottle of wine and chat. Of course, our chat consisted of obsessive, speculative rambling about our chances with this latest house...so, it really wasn't all the calming. But, by 10pm, we had each settled in with a nice book (and camping headlamps), and, 11pm, we were asleep. (Oh, allright, now the obvious state of our social life is just downright embarrassing.) But, with no power, there was no heat; and with no heat, there was no choice except to burrow under as many blankets as possible.

The one great thing about this move has been the opportunity to read to my heart's content (few friends + part-time job + rain = lots of time on my hands). I started our cross-country trip by reading In Cold Blood, which came in handy when I went to see Capote a few months later. After I saw the movie, I read Other Voices, Other Rooms. I sure wish I belonged to a book group so I could discuss the ins and outs of that one.

My favorite has been Under A Cruel Star: A Life in Prague 1941-1968, by Heda Margolius Kovaly, previously published under the title The Victors and the Vanquished. If you haven't read this one, I urge you to do so. It is sobering, but it is one of the best books I have ever read. I don't want to say that it is a testament to the human spirit, because that is far too cliche. Plus, that would be an oversimplification because it is also a testament to the darker side of human nature. SMH's boss gave this book to all the employees, and I have to give her credit for the selection. In many ways, it resonates with what we are seeing and experiencing in our world today.

I am currently reading Mike Lapinski's Death in the Grizzly Maze: The Timothy Treadwell Story. A few weeks ago, we saw the movie Grizzly Man. We were pretty intrigued, so I bought the book as a Valentine's gift for SMH. OK, like the chocolate, I had ulterior motives for buying the book and ended up starting it before he could. It paints a far different portrait of Treadwell than the film does. If you saw the movie, read the book.

If you have any book recommendations, send them my way. I am eager for the next good read.

Rich said he'd call at 8:00, and it is now 8:15. There's nothing left to do but obsess. Come on, phone, ring.

A brief tour

Hello friends,

Today I will be your guide as I take you through a very brief tour of OlyWa. A couple weeks ago, while we were out enjoying a rare spell of sunshine, we snapped a few shots to show friends and family our new home.


The Port of Oly

This is the Port of Olympia, a relatively small and quiet port on Budd Inlet, the southernmost point of Puget Sound. On a clear day, you would see the Olympic Mountains where the clouds are.













The Kiss

This is "The Kiss," a landmark sculpture on OlyWa's Percival Landing.


















Marathon Park at Capitol Lake

This is the entrance to Marathon Park, so named because OlyWa was the site of the Olympic Trials for the first women's marathon (as an Olympic event) in 1984. The first three finishers made it to the Olympics, and they were: Joan Benoit (who, 17 days before the trials had had knee surgery!), Julie Brown and Julie Isphording (heard of her?). By the entrance to the running path, there is a photo of the pack of runners, which includes a picture of Isphording. So, I feel a funny little local connection everytime I run by it. Benoit went on to win the Olympic Marathon. To celebrate the 20th anniversary of the inaugural OlyWa Trials, Benoit came back to run the Capital City Half Marathon in 2004. Apparently, people were pretty darn excited to have her as a guest of honor.


Capitol Lake

This is Capitol Lake, which sits at the foot of the state capitol building. The lake is actually formed by a dam; at the dam, the Deschutes River (fresh water) empties into Puget Sound's Budd Inlet (salt water). Though in an urban setting, it is a good place to see wildlife, including the occasional heron and otter. In the autumn, during spawning season, salmon make their way upstream and through the lake.


Taking a call on Capitol Lake

This sunny day followed our record-setting spell of rain, during which Capitol Lake had flooded. Here, you can see how the lake had flooded the picnic area. As I took this picture, SMH was on his phone, talking to — who else — our real estate agent about — what else — our next house-hunting expedition.


So, that wraps up your tour around the South Sound area of OlyWa. Percival Landing and Capitol Lake are located downtown, but there's lots more of downtown to show you...including about 5,000 tattoo and piercing parlors. But we'll go down that road another day.

For those who fall short

Have you been watching the Olympics? Though we're not big winter sports fans (we haven't been skiing or snow-shoeing here yet), we've been keeping tabs on the Games with a relatively high level of interest.

Not to sound pollyanna-ish (losing my cynicism...sounding like a pollyanna...OlyWa must be making me soft), but I think that the athletes that really deserve a medal are those who fall, then pick themselves up and keep going. I just can't get over the speed skaters and ice skaters who continue with their race or program after taking a tumble. How do they do it?

It's one thing to train like hell, then go out and race the best race of your life and win. Or even to race the best race of your life and lose. But to train your entire life for this big moment, then fall painfully short--just because it wasn't your day? Or you caught a cold a few days before the event? Or your skate got caught in another athlete's skate? What a blow. And then to have the camera on you as you finish, when you probably just want to be alone and scream into a pillow? Ugh. Seriously, there should be a medal.

A good friend of mine has a great story about doing her first triathalon. In the final leg of the race, she was literally in last place. But, she continued running, even as the sagwagon followed close behind her, announcing over the bullhorn: "Last runner! Pack it up! Last runner! Last runner!" Despite the constant, grating reminder of her last place status, she kept running (if memory serves, her then-boyfriend had at that point deserted as a spectator to have breakfast at McDonalds) and finished. No "DNF" for her.

Not only did she finish the race, but she tells the story to this day with great humor. I remember liking her even more as a friend when she recounted the experience.

Maybe it is pollyanna-ish. Or, maybe it is just the voice of someone who is always passed in the last .10mi of a race. Maybe it is a desire to be considered a victor even when you come in dead last.

Did you know that the 2010 Winter Olympics are in Vancouver? We are currently assessing the Games to determine which events we're going to try to attend. I say speed-skating, bobsled, luge; SMH says hockey. Interested? 2010 might be a good time for our friends to plan a trip to OlyWa...