Snagging Seashells down in Seaside: Tuesday Sept. 11

You guys.

Today I came home to the greatest news. Apparently ULOL’s mom thinks she’s getting kind of scrawny. So what did she do? She gifted our house with nacho supplies: a quart of queso, refried beans, a 5 lb. container of sour cream and an industrial size bag of tortilla chips.

I saved this picture as "Heaven". 

I’m straddling the line between pure bliss and a queso induced coma. On that note…    

Tuesday 9/11

There’s this thing called “morning”. Usually it only happens on work days, but apparently it can rear its ugly head during vacations also. Learning all the things all the days! Lucy somehow managed to sleep past 8am, which I chalked off as miraculous. The itinerary I’d loosely put together said Tuesday was picnic-on-the-coast day. Lucy bribed me into consciousness by reminding me Better’n Butter still existed. After I consumed half the jar with a spoon, we hit the ground running. Running in approximately a hundred different directions.

Convinced that everyone should love French-Vietnamese fusion sandwiches (AKA banh mi), I made the executive decision that we’d pick up sandwiches to bring to Seaside. Turns out banh mi is best if you really enjoy cheap pork and/or spicy things. The vegetarian option, which Lu ordered…not so much. She also got an iced Thai coffee which tasted a little bit like chilled shoe polish. Obvs I ended up drinking that, because my palate is less than discerning.

Since this wasn’t my first adventure in Seaside I figured I knew where we were going. I figured wrong. We were somewhere near Tigard before I realized the ocean probably wasn’t further east. Lu used our travel time to read autowin posts out loud and speculate about who Riese is addressing when she says “you”. We listened to every 80s song ever. We also nearly ran out of gas.

We rolled into Seaside around noon, loaded my backpack and headed for the shore. We had optimistically packed books and a blanket. Here’s the thing: picnicking on the beach is easier said than done. The sun was shining in a way that made you believe in summer, but the wind warranted flannel and mittens. Also, as soon as we staked out a lunch spot and pulled out our sandwiches, the seagulls swarmed. You guys, seagulls are gnarly bastards! They make all sorts of horrible sounds, and I think maybe the entire species has some sort of mange. Not to mention the fact that they are fearless little mongrels. I gave them my meanest G-face and they just snapped their nasty little beaks. Under that sort of scrutiny I inhaled my sandwich in about five second. We were up and moving again before feathered hell broke loose.

Picture courtesy of Kate Raynes-Goldie

There’s something about the ocean that makes me act like a five-year old. The air feels so thick and gritty. It gets stuck between your fingers and all tangled up in your hair. I wanted to take off my shoes and feel the wet sand between my toes, but also the thought of things between my toes makes me squeamish. I spent the next hour or so frolicking about, chasing broken sand dollars and running away from ankle-deep waves. I was an airplane, and an adventurer and the last unicorn! Lucy spent the majority of this time sitting in the sand, watching in a (hopefully) bemused fashion. When I finally talked her into running amok, we were dizzy dervishes spinning parallel circles around each other, singing Disney songs and just being. Sometimes it’s so necessary to just be, you know?

When we couldn’t feel our fingers anymore, we wandered down the touristy drag. We walked and ate fudge-dipped pretzels. We played with gift shop trinkets; Lu bought postcards for all the people she loves. We got hot coffees and sat curbside, finally shared a jelly-filled donut.

When I was 11 years old, and too young to realize Stephen King novels weren’t written for pre-teens, I read The Green Mile. One of the characters on death row theorizes that maybe heaven isn’t a place, maybe it's a memory. Maybe heaven is returning to a perfect moment and living there indefinitely. I think if heaven meant sitting on a curb near the ocean with the sun in my face and Lucy nearby and sugary glaze eternally melting on my tongue? I’d be ok with that.  

But we’re still alive, which meant we couldn’t outstay our welcome. Eventually we had to pack back into the Biscuit, drive back to the city and Real Life. I got us back to my house with only one near-death experience. Thus began the flurry of anxiety and overwhelming feels, prelude to A-Camp. See, I still hadn’t really considered the fact that I needed to pack and clean and make sure That Cat was equipped to survive my absence. I’d also forgotten my complete inability to make decisions, which makes choosing a place to eat dinner absolute hell. We ended up in a sushi restaurant between a beauty salon and a law practice. For the record, neither of us got food poisoning.

The nervous energy and big heavies started somewhere between Seaside and bedtime. Not even an hour long season finale Dance Moms extravaganza helped (although that summer sound stayed stuck in my head for days). Somewhere around midnight I regretted ever hearing about A-Camp. I didn’t want to leave Portland. I didn’t want to meet new people; I didn’t want to feel far away from Lucy or lose the weird idyllic reality we’d almost captured in Seaside.

We had to wake up at 4:30am for ULOL to drop us off at the airport, like the incredible roomie she is. Cue a lot of crying, fidgeting and worrying while Lu slept. I finally drifted off around 2:30, t-minus two hours until A-Camp. Fuck.  

California, here we come...

That’s all for now, sleepy kittens. I hope you all have big plans for Friday night!

Many miles of love.

-b

Vacation, All I Ever Wanted: Monday Sept. 10

[Welcome to the ongoing gaycation saga which you may or may not be interested in...]

Monday 9/10

Monday morning, lessons in adulthood. You see, Lucy is a teacher’s assistant. This means she wakes up in the morning and must responsibly tend the lives and well-being of very small human beings. I “wake up” in the morning, which means I’m fully functioning somewhere around noon. I understand and can even appreciate the concept of the early riser. But having one bouncing around in my bed at 8am on the first full day of vacation is another story. God bless the inventor of breakfast and the french press. After properly fueling, we attempted to plan. After a full day of mobbing around aimlessly downtown, we obvs opted into more aimless wandering downtown. Stick with what you know, right?

We took the train downtown and managed to end up in the general vicinity of Powell’s Bookstore and Buffalo Exchange, which happened to be our planned destination! You guys, after 7 months in this city I have officially mastered a single train line. Boom. After navigating the literary labyrinth of Powell’s and the used-clothes utopia of Buffalo, we decided to catch the train back home. Thus ensued the Great Donut Debacles of 2012.

Some of you have probably heard of a place called Voodoo Doughnut. Voodoo is a total tourist destination mostly because they’ve been featured on Man v. Food, but also because they do make some wicked awesome donuts. I think they’re most reputable for the bacon maple bar (fatty slabs of real bacon on a maple bar) and the voodoo doll (chocolate frosted donut with raspberry filling and your least-favorite ex’s face). Lu and I had frequented Voodoo before, and anytime she talks about Portland, donuts make the top 10 attractions list. Since we were walking right by the downtown location and the line was only one block long, we decided to grab donuts for the train ride home.

Things to note: I don’t usually like sweet snacks, but I was totally jonesing a donut, mostly because we’d been talking about them for 7+ months. Additionally, Voodoo is a cash-only establishment. Also, the ATM is inside, but you can’t enter the building until it’s your turn to order. What’s a card-toting tourist to do? Well, you could follow our plan of action. Just wait until you’re next in line, then bail because you don’t want to awkwardly fumble with the ATM while an angry, donut-hungry mob scrutinizes every move you make. Moral of the story: if you want donuts always carry cash. Just in case.

With empty bellies and broken hearts we made our way back to the train stop. To make up for the Great Donut Let-Down, Lu bought me a coffee and a cookie and I felt mostly sated. When we got back to my house, something terrible and wonderful was waiting. That’s right, my brand new credit card and its higher-than-expected credit limit. Since funds were apparently no longer an issue, we decided to play hip, young, lesbian non-couple and waddled down to Trader Joe’s for dinner supplies.

For the record, Trader Joe’s may be one of my favorite places in Portland. If I could walk down to Trader Joe’s every night for dinner supplies, I think I would. I don’t even know, you guys. The produce is individually priced and there are free coffee samples! What’s not to love? Also, we discovered this magical thing called Better’n Butter. It’s like if peanut butter and honey made a low-calorie, full-flavored baby. So far I’ve eaten it on toast, apples and mixed into granola. Lucy will probably get a case of it for her birthday. I highly recommend looking into it. I concocted a vat of vegetarian and gluten-free spaghetti (because you guys, we’re not teenagers anymore. We can’t just eat whatever we want! Also pasta creates a storm in my belly lately).

What better way to end a day than with Meryl Streep? After dinner Lucy and I caught a showing of “Hope Springs”. Have you seen it? I’m a sucker for a Meryl rom-com. Also this movie made me cry three times, but two of them were happy tears so I think that’s an ok thing.

Lucy: Tommy Lee Jones reminds me so much of my grandpa...
Me: Yeah... He mostly reminds me of you.

Seriously though, Lucy might be Tommy Lee Jones character. Only prettier, obviously.

I bet I could put Better'n Butter on that...

Goodbye for now, weirdos! Next post: adventures in Seaside.

-b

Vacation, All I Ever Wanted: Sunday Sept. 9

Hello you magnificent bunch of weirdos. I’ve finally organized my headspace. After so many days of having all the feelings I needed a mental vacation. But now I’m back from outer space and stronger than yesterday and all that other colloquial, euphemistic shit. First of all: hi! I’ve missed you. Second: you guys. I don’t even know. If I mysteriously disappear, never to be heard from again, don’t even trip. I’ll be living in A-Town. Just follow your tingling unicorn senses, you’ll find me.

To facilitate the ADD readers (AKA to facilitate my inability to write for more than an hour at a time), I’m splitting my adventure chronologically into possibly one billion little pieces. Are you ready? Let’s go.

Sunday 9/9

This is how I imagine public transportation...

Saturday night I alternated between anxious over-sleeping dreams and delirious Lucy texts. From her recounting I’ve deduced the train is either a social experiment or a front for time-space continuum alteration. Being in a closed space for long periods of time spawns strange alliances and adversaries. People sprawled on every horizontal surface like refugees. To escape her angry, Mid-Western seatmate Lucy used a 2-year old child as a pillow. Somewhere around Spokane, time as a concept ceased to exist. Between 3am and 9:30am every text message sent or received contained at least four exclamation points.

I still managed to wake up too early, eat toast and change my shirt four times. I pulled into the train station forty minutes too early. Instead of doing anything productive with my time, I bought a gigantic Americano from an Asian grandmother and sat in my car waiting. Occasionally the homeless man across the street would salute me. I think he was eating beef stew. Around arrival time I waddled back into the station, clutching my coffee. I set up in the receiving bay, leaning against a wall with the other hopefuls, keeping an eye on the tracks even though the announcer had just told us the train would be another 10 minutes. We awkwardly shuffled, fidgeted and avoided eye contact.

There are times when you’re forced into strangely intimate contact with strangers. Most involve waiting. Standing in line for the bathroom, hospital waiting rooms, airports and train stations. These are people you’ll probably never see again, but you see them at their most vulnerable. Waiting can be fucking terrifying.

Lucy was one of the last people off the train. I saw her and smiled so big I thought I might die, smiled so big an old man patted my arm and smiled for me, like the force of my happy might be too much, like I needed help holding all of it. I don’t know how to describe what it feels like to come home when you’re still standing in the same place you were five minutes ago. Or maybe it didn’t feel like coming home at all. Maybe it felt the way coming home is supposed to feel but never actually does. All I know is I was there, in that train station, hugging her and feeling like that would be enough. If nothing else came of this trip, that moment would be worth all the hassle.

After lugging her bag to the Biscuit, we set out to find Le Happy.

http://www.lehappy.com  

Le Happy is a mythical creperie in Northwest Portland. I decided a few months ago that eating there would be the pinnacle of my Portlandian accomplishments. Seriously you guys, look up the menu. This place looks epic. Turns out it’s also closed on Sunday. Along with nearly every other café in downtown Portland. Apparently Sunday morning breakfast is not a big thing in Portland? Around lunchtime when Lucy was terminally under-caffeinated and I was sure my stomach would digest itself, we found the Morning Star Café. After wolfing down sourdough flapjacks and some sort of veggie scramble, we mobbed back to the house for a nap.

Several hours later when we woke up it was time for the highlight of the evening: attending an Ira Glass reading with Friend. For those of you who don’t know, Ira Glass is the host and executive producer for This American Life. Also he’s absolutely brilliant. Also also, this was the point where all the feelings began. Expect to hear more about said “feelings” and their impact.

I’m sitting in a coffee shop right now, putting off the writing I’m actually supposed to be doing. You know, the writing that pays me cash dollas. You guys! There are 7 days of vacation left to cover… Tune in next time for more downtown ambling, the Great Donut Debacle and Meryl Streep.

I love you all.

-b

So long, farewell, Auf wiedersehen, good night!

Hello friends! Sorry I have been so neglectful this month. I’ve been running crazy getting ready for A-Camp. I use the term “running crazy” pretty loosely… and also “getting ready”. You know when you have so many things to do you feel overwhelmed and just don’t do any of them? That’s where I’ve been. So replace “getting ready for” with “mulling over” and you’ve got my week in a nutshell. But! The plane tickets are purchased, shuttles arranged, post-camp hotel book and sundry supplies are glaring at me in the corner of my room. Anticipating Lucy’s arrival tomorrow morning I even managed to scrub floors, wash laundry and clean at least two surfaces.

This week our camp coordinators e-mailed the A-Camp schedule so we could begin plotting our activities. You guys, there is so much. I’m definitely planning on the slam poetry workshop. Out of 70+ activities that’s what I’ve got so far. I’ve got plans to sit down with Lucy over coffee and make some hard decisions. Like friendship bracelets or the spooning workshop? Morning hike or chapstick making? Sometimes you have to make decisions that will deeply impact the rest of your life. What if I go to the social dance and never learn how to make a postcard? I don’t want to live a life with no homemade postcards.

This is what camp will look like.  http://fuckyeahautostraddle.tumblr.com

Ok. Let’s face it, I’ve got camp anxiety. I haven’t exactly been a social butterfly lately. I’ve spent the last two months either at work, the gym or in my bed. The thought of more than 300 people I’ve never met all in one place scares me. Even if those 300 people are also nervous about the introvert meet-up, or worried their friendship bracelets won’t turn out.

Above and beyond the sheer number of lesbians in one place, I suffer from something I refer to as “Food Court Anxiety”. When faced with a decision involving too many options I freeze. How should I know whether I want sushi rolls or the verde burrito? I haven’t tried either! Cue my last food court experience: Seattle Pride circa 2008. We decided the food court in the mall would be cheap, quick and everybody could find something they’d like. After 20 minutes of increasingly desperate laps around the food court, I retreated to a dark, quiet Starbucks on the floor below the food court. I ended up drinking a mocha for lunch while my friends ate. Seriously, there are pictures and my eyes are still all swollen and weird from the mental meltdown I had in the bathroom.

A 6-inch turkey with a side of pad thai please.

So this is a big step for me. I know everything will be alright. We’re grown-ups now, and nobody can force me to do anything. Or not do anything. My biggest problem in life has always been worrying there is something better going on without me. Food court anxiety isn’t just about food; obviously anything I eat will fill my stomach. It’s about the quality of my experiences and the nagging idea that I’m missing out on something better. I’m the toddler who fights and fights to stay awake. I’m terrified by the thought that life continues even when I’m not there to experience it. Even though the reality of existence can be so damn tedious.

So! My goals for this week: make decisions and live with them. I’m committing to fully existing in each decision I make rather than wondering whether it was the right decision. Also, I’m going to maybe meet some people. People living in this city. People I could theoretically contact once we all go back to our real lives.

Lucy is hurtling my direction now, tomorrow is fast approaching and my adventure is set to begin any minute now. So, I am saying goodnight to you weirdos! You won’t be hearing from me until after the 17^th when I get back home. My god that’s a long ways away. Know that I love you all, and I’ll have many a story to tell once I’m back!

-b

The Art of Tuning Out.

Happy Labor Day, kittens! Did you know Labor Day was created in 1882 to celebrate the working class? That means you and me, I’m pretty sure. Thanks, federal government and the Labor Movement, for giving us another chance to get our drunk camping/floating/marauding done before summer ends. I hope you all took advantage of the long weekend. I mean, I hope you got a long weekend. I worked Saturday, so my weekend was normal-sized. Also I spent 75% of it sleeping. Remember how last week it was finally summer? I think we've officially slipped into fall.

I’ve entered an intense isolation phase. I’m attributing my recent anti-social inclinations to a handful of sources. First of all, my job is fucking socially exhausting. When we’re busy, I socialize with clients. The ol’ smile-and-nod gets wearing by the ninth hour of the business day. [Note: pet owners are particularly candid about sharing their stories and experiences. I would be much wealthier if I got a dollar every time I heard a detailed recounting of a dog’s bowel movements.]

On the other hand, when we’re not busy I have my co-workers to contend with. You guys. I work with some serious talkers. Perfunctory nodding and ambiguous grunting only gets you so far with them. They’re relentless. For example, most mornings I eat breakfast and read in the breakroom before my shift. Apparently a mouthful of oatmeal plus an open book in my hand screams “Talk to me about your recent colonoscopy, please”… Who knew?

So there’s that, being over-socialized 45 hours a week. I’ve started sitting in my car during lunch for an hour of quiet. Reason number two for my hermitage: my recent bout with death. Ok, that’s an exaggeration. But I don’t think I’ve fully recovered from last Sunday. I’m just tired lately. Sore eyes, heavy limbs, achy body tired. My nose keeps threatening to be stuffy without fully committing, my appetite has been shaky and I can’t seem to stay awake more than three hours at a time. I recently joked about being struck down by some horrendous disease as retribution for turning down my company’s insurance. Apparently that’s not something you joke about.

Regardless of the reasons, I’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time alone in my bedroom. Therefore, the highlight of my Labor Day weekend: the Romanian Fall Festival. Tuesday, after Dance Moms, Friend mentioned this potentially momentous occasion. There were rumors of an entire roast pig, homemade alcohols and general merriment. Obviously all things I’m deeply invested in. Friend, Lil’ Friend and I decided to attend Sunday afternoon. I spent the rest of the week imagining a heaping plateful of roasted meat.

We opted to miss the singing of the Romanian national anthem, and rolled up to the church on 135^th and Stark around 4pm. Cue music. 

Me: Is that Celine Dion playing?

Friend: I think so. Is she Romanian?

Me: Worse. Canadian.

First of all, Portland has a huge Romanian population. There was no parking in a three block radius. Second, I realized right away I have no concept of this “Romania”, or what exactly the culture entails. Additionally, the “whole roast pig” was a bit of an exaggeration.

Expectation

Reality

Apparently polenta (AKA reconstituted corn meal) is a thing, and Romanian people eat it. Since there was no roast pig, and the available meats were expensive, I opted for the “Romanian stew”. I’m not entirely sure what was in said stew… definitely some sort of shredded animal and possibly mushrooms. They served it with mashed polenta and sour cream, and I chased it with a $5 glass of homemade pinot grigio. Friend and Lil’ Friend opted for the cabbage rolls, which took me right back to holidays at my grandparents’ house. Thanksgiving? Turkey, mashed potatoes and tabouleh salad. Christmas? Prime rib with stuffed grape leaves and kibbeh. You guys, holidays at the Johns' residence are a cultural smorgasbord.

After watching the traditional Romanian two-step and some intense violin, we splurged on a mixed pastry plate. Cramming onto a deceptively large looking bench, we sampled desserts. The favorite was a little cake composed of phyllo dough, cream cheese and apricot jelly.

All in all, this was definitely an experience. The sense of community and cultural pride was amazing. Kids were running around in tunics and hand-stitched dresses. Everybody knew the songs and the dances. What’s more important, it seemed like everybody knew each other. Seriously you guys, I’m a little jealous. I don’t expect Portland to host an Ambiguously Caucasian Fall Festival any time soon. I’m intrigued by this idea of shared culture. Parents dragging their kids into the circle dance the way their parents probably dragged them into the circle dance the way people have been dragged into circle dancing since the beginning of dances. It's all a little mind-boggling if you think about it. 

Anyways, I suppose that’s enough babbling for one night. Only four work days until my grand adventure begins! Are you excited? I’m excited.

I love you all dearly.

-b