Our anniversary, apparently. For our honeymoon, we went to Aruba. Begins with an A, ends with an A (A/A), had water and sand and heat and everything tranquil. First anniversary? Arizona. A/A, heat (who picks Arizona in July, right? 117 degrees...) and fairly tranquil, but not Aruba. Second anniversary? Aruba again. Third Anniversary? Bend, Oregon. No A/A there, except for the fact that we were at... wait for it... AlissA's wedding. (Spooky, huh?) And, there was heat... and a lake....
"And, the Fourth anniversary?" you ask...
Astoria. Begins with an A, ends with an A, had sun, heat, water (not quite the same as Aruba, to say the very least). Totally weird, right?
I love Astoria. Not sure why, exactly. I think it's because it reminds me a bit of Havre de Grace... not that I have particularly fond memories from HdG, but I enjoy the concept. Also, Astoria has a nice, legit feeling to it. Not like the maturing hippie-dom of Canon Beach or the over-the-top tourist attractions of Seaside. All told, there aren't really any beaches in Astoria - just river and bridges and barges. Goonies was filmed there, as was The Ring, Free Willy, Kindergarten Cop... and let's not forget Short Circuit. Of course it's only now as I write this that I actually bothered to look up the address for the Goonies house. Who knew they'd have such information on the interwebs, when we've spent so much time simply driving around Astoria, just looking for it?
When we go to Astoria, we typically just futz around, check out the shops, look at all of the great homes and wonder how long it will take to buy one (or at least, I do... having not sold Beto on new appliances, I'm fairly certain that the Astoria deal will take a well-planned, strategic execution of persuasive technique and a significant raise), hang out at the waterfront, have a decent dinner and call it good. This time, though, we took Lucy on her first family vacation, and she did great. She even got to walk on the beach for the first time.
So, here are some pics from the big 24 hour vacay, in no particular order...
The view from our room at the Cannery Pier Hotel...
Lucy, at the Astoria Column...
Lucy, in her ride...
Lucy, chilling in the room...
Lucy in Manzanita... her first walk on sand... (dig the haircut? that's right - my next career)
So, who knows what's on the plate for the next anniversary. Maybe just Aruba again, which would be nothing short of heaven (check out the Bucuti). Alabama? Not likely. Atlanta? Only on business. Argentina? Doubtful. Alaska... that's a good one. Maybe. Oooh... Antigua... that's even better.
Under the Webster's Dictionary definition of "wrong" is the following illustration:
THAT is gray hair. THAT is MY gray hair, two weeks ago, before my 8 week dye job. The appropriate sacrifices will be made to the deities of cosmetology, tempered with the injustice of having gray hair AND the zits of a 16 year old bird-chested man-boy. Seriously... that's whacked.
One day, I woke up old. In a couple of days, I will wake up 34. I've now been 17, twice... 17 was a good age, before the loss of optimism and hope and my hometown and my dad, when I marked the passage of time by summer vacations and not mortgage payments. But in a cruel twist, being 17 twice has not been twice the fun. And all told, I'm half way to 68. Will I even make it to 68?
I have an anthem, or rather, the anthem chose me... Talking Heads' "Once in a Lifetime."
"And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack And you may find yourself in another part of the world And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful Wife And you may ask yourself-well...how did I get here?"
I remember Nancy Bickel jumping around on her dorm bed in Mary Branch, belting out the lyrics and waving her arms like she was swimming, and I remember thinking that I would never get married or own a house... and then I probably downed another Milwaukie's Beast with a bourbon chaser and stumbled blissfully out into the bustling nightlife that was Randoph-Macon in the mid-90s.
And now, the Talking Heads talk in my head - more than they probably should. Another undocumented benefit of obsessive compulsive disorder. They sing every morning, as 7:30 am turns to 8 and I accomplish mathematical feats that would have made my high school trigonometry teacher convulse in joy, and I figure out just how long I'll really need to get ready and just how much longer I can sleep in and still get to work only one hour after everyone else.
Then I wake up, and I look around, and I swear to all that is holy that just yesterday... JUST YESTERDAY... I was hanging out at the pool eating brownie batter and mayonnaise sandwiches (my culinary skills revealed themselves at an early age), or sunning on the rooftop terrace of our DC apartment, listening to Depeche Mode and avoiding eye contact with the guy in the speedo with a prosthetic leg. I stare up at the crown molding in the bedroom and remember that there was a day that a simple pair of Chuck Taylor's and my green JCrew sweater constituted the only aesthetic I craved. And I look at Lucy and begin ticking off the morning's events... suitable fancy neighborhood dog walking attire, Lucy to pee, pill for Oliver, morning treats for Lucy, brush teeth, shower, dress (iron if absolutely, positively necessary), curse my ever expanding arse, grab a granola bar and a diet coke, kiss the husband or set the alarm, drive to work through 9 lights and 5 construction projects, pull into the garage, chat with Chucky the attendant, elevate to the 20th floor, avoid bosses and start reading the day's news.
How did I get here? Adulthood. Bastion of the uninspired.
Fiona Apple is now 30. Wasn't she just 18, and providing lyrical fodder for my disdain? Jay-Z's "Can I Get A..." is now included in a VH-1 musical retrospective about the 90s. Weren't the 90s just yesterday? I'm pretty sure they were, and Joanie, Beth and I were requesting that song from the transgendered DJ at the Monte Carlo. And now... now... MOLLY RINGWALD IS PLAYING A TEENAGER'S MOTHER ON AN ABC FAMILY SHOW. And I have gray hair, wrinkles... and I swear to god, I'm getting a liver spot on my right hand.
And as I trace the blue veins making their way up my chicken-white leg, I figure it's as good a time as any for a confession: Mom, that time in my junior year of college when I called you at 9 am with leg pain from being hit with a hammer at the Habitat for Humanity jobsite? That time when you had to pay out of pocket for urgent care expenses? That injury really arose out of a drunken bathroom headstand gone bad. Sorry. The pain was real, though, as is the nerve damage that I continue to enjoy today... 14 long years later... and I haven't had vodka since.
It was with complete shock that I responded to the news on the radio this morning: George Carlin was dead. It's hard to believe. He was one of those guys you could comfortably assume would live forever.
George Carlin held the number one spot on my list of potential adoptive/supplemental grandparents. I just totally dig the guy. Other potential candidates for would-be grandparental units include Johnny Cash for his obvious appeal (aided by his advertisement giving the finger to the country music folks), and Sir Ian McKellan, who played Gandalf, Magneto, Sir Leigh Teabing and a ton of other memorable roles, none of which I remember at the moment. Genetically speaking, Sir Ian is probably the closest match, as it appears he could be my father's mother's brother, were it not for his English birth. On the other hand, if we were speaking about fashion sense, JC would be the natch match.
But neither of those two beat George Carlin in the genius/irreverence category. Beto and I were lucky enough to see his act at the Schnitz, in the front row. I can't recall how many years ago that was, but I do recall that the person next to Beto had body odor that was so piercing that had the government bottled it, it would have been on the non-proliferation list and slated for destruction in the chemical demilitarization program. I remember figuring that Carlin could probably smell it, but assumed - much to my dismay - that he'd never call the person out. I also remember some assjacket wearing a giant Dr. Seuss hat, presumably hoping to get some love from the big GC. No luck. Dude just looked like a moron and I took some satisfaction in knowing that he was likely one of those "love me, hate me, but don't ignore me" types who was stone-cold disregarded. After the show, it was my impression that said GC really didn't care who was in the audience. He didn't care about the audience at all. It's not that he wasn't there to entertain and not that he didn't wasn't a ridiculously fantastic performer, but unlike Chris Rock, Jerry Seinfeld and some of the other comedians we have seen, he didn't pander. He could have been in Anytown USA, reciting the alphabet backwards while measuring blades of grass, and the audience would have adored him.
So, it's sad to see his passing (a euphemism he loved). He was a social barometer, made even the most confident humble, and took control of the English language in a way that no one has since... and by all appearances, he was perfectly suited to be my fill-in Grandpa.
"The very existence of flame-throwers proves that some time, somewhere, someone said to themselves, You know, I want to set those people over there on fire, but I'm just not close enough to get the job done."
In the category of "careful what you wish for" comes an event from this Saturday. In all of my chatter about using these skin care products to look like Cate Blanchett, Beto busts out with this little gem as we started watching Indiana Jones IV:
"You DO look just like her!"
Um. Nice. Apparently, I look like a pre-apocalyptic, sado-masochistic Suri Cruise.
Scene: Master Bedroom. Beto is reclined on bed with surgically-enhanced knee propped up on pillow. Catherine enters hurriedly, plops down FedEx box on bed and grabs scissors to open it.
Catherine: I'm so excited! My new facial treatment stuff just arrived. Desperately in need, as you can tell. [Points to constellation of zits on forehead.]
Beto: What about the Kiehl's stuff you've been using for years?
Catherine: It stopped working. Remember, I told you about this stuff. This is the stuff Cate Blanchett uses. I ordered it online because I didn't feel like dealing with the snotty retail clerks at Saks.
Beto: How much did this one set us back?
Catherine: $X.
Beto: [Outwardly suppresses urge to strangle Catherine.] I thought you said it was 1/2 $X.
Catherine: No, I told you it was 3/4 $X. But that was just an estimate. Seriously, this stuff is so slick that the English translation is on the last page!
[Catherine admires pretty, shiny - downright luminous - red packaging. Oooooh, shiny. Shiny and new.]
Beto: Oh, I see.
Catherine: No, tomorrow you will see, when I wake up three inches taller, blonde, skinny, with an Oscar, a new wardrobe and a killer Australian/British accent. You will see, when tomorrow I wake up as Cate Blanchett.
1. When your husband goes in for knee surgery, and all you can do is joke about how tragic it would be if the surgeon mixed him up with the sex change operation.
2. When your husband gets out of knee surgery, and all you can do is stare at the bizarre, creepy part of his leg that is shaved and pray for speedy regrowth.
3. When your husband recovers from knee surgery, and all you can do is give him your latest respiratory illness in a long, long lifetime of respiratory illnesses that has earned you top dog on the CDC Hot Spot list ... the kind of viral infestation with high fevers and post nasal drip... so that he has to choose between pain medication and cold medication. It's almost like SAW XVI.
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Four Latest Obsessions
1. Hollywould Ballet Flats 2. Reading (novel, eh? .... badda bing) 3. Alchemy on MSN Zone Games (nerd) 4. Raisin Bran (which requires milk, which requires a grocery store run, which rarely ever happens, which means this obsession is not long for this world.)
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Top 3 Violations of Human Etiquette
1. The guy toting the Starbucks who just waited in line for 15 minutes for a cup of coffee but insists on sticking his hand between the closing elevator doors so that he doesn't have to wait another 10 seconds for the next elevator, leaving you to wait another 15 seconds for the door to close again.
2. The lady who enters a six-stall public bathroom when you are the only occupant, and who insists in on using the stall right next to yours rather than the other five that span the grand expanse of toilet land. She is the same lady who finishes quickly, but then spends 25 minutes staring into the mirror, adjusting her lipstick, when all you really, truly, deeply want is just a little bit of privacy. (That's "privissy" - pronounced like the bloody Brits. Tally ho.)
3. The dude in the minivan (sorry, Joanie!) who insists on darting out in front of you notwithstanding the mile between you and the car behind you, and who then proceeds to travel at 7 miles under the speed limit even though he just risked his life to get in front of you. His kid might be an honor student, but he's a class A chowderhead in need of a serious ass whoopin'.
It is 45 degrees, I have a cold which necessitates kleenex shoved up my nose and a healthy slathering of Vick's Vap-o-Rub, and there is no sun. The least I could ask for? Christmas presents. Seriously. Are you reading this, Beto?
I was checking my camera equipment for a shoot tomorrow night and our favorite furry assailant just HAD to pose... barked at me until I took some photos, then refused to be photographed as if he was just too important.
If you look closely enough, you can still see pieces of my neck on his crooked-ass toofs.
From time to time, I've thought about how people use blogs to offer unsolicited social commentary or political opinions, or just profound, philosophical thoughts about existence, its meaning, and perhaps the reasons why "daughter" and "laughter" are not pronounced the same way.
Sometimes I consider that approach. And recently while reading John Mayer's blog, I was almost inspired to do it. (He's a pretty decent guy, it seems.)
But the truth is, I'm too farking tired. And my days of philosophizing about the inherent cruelty in existence went by the wayside when I took on a crushing student loan debt that required my attention to be focused on all things capitalist.
There certainly was a time when I was overwhelmed with greater existential questions - mostly in the five years after my dad died (thanks to all who refrained from informing me about what a total buzz kill I must have been). And the ranch gave me the solitude and peace to work on discerning the greater meaning and the priorities I'd like to govern my life. But you know what? That was exhausting too. And in the words of the great and honorable Bono, one has to be careful not to be pickled in one's own juices.
I don't have the time or energy for profound meditations (and who the hell cares what I think, anyway) and I no longer have a need for the dramatic. All I want to do is sleep. And not pickle in my own juices. And laugh at SouthPark.
I wonder if there will be a time when the bills are paid and the meetings are met and the expectations are satisfied, when life's demands are less practical and more ethereal, and I will return to the deep reflections and worldly observations. But for now, if you're reading this, I'm afraid you're stuck with stories of dog bites, cat pee, vacations gone awry and tales of how my poor, poor husband - a newly anointed vice president (yay Beto!) - married beneath him.
As an aside, if you do know why "laughter" and "daughter" are not pronounced the same, please drop me a note. It's killing me.
This morning I stumbled on to a hilarious website: www.postcardsfromyomomma.com. Maturing Gen Xers and Ys who repost from their mothers' emails.
This is the funniest one I have found so far:
Friday I’m doing something fun as well. Joan and I are starting a club called The Grown-Ass Woman’s Club. Our mascot is Gert Boyle (One Tough Mother) from Columbia Wear. Your stepfather is making fun of us but I think he’s just petty and jealous. I finally told him to shut up. That’s what GAW do when they are confronted with negativity. One of our field trips is going to be on a Saturday and we’re going to find those Red Hat Ladies and shove them down. They’re ridiculous and need to be eliminated.
Beth and I met in the fall of 96, when we both worked for the same law firm. Although we've shared many hilarious times, I don't get to see her much anymore (um, at all!). So, I have to stalk her. Through Google. I just found this truly amazing little gem... she's a superstar!
You know that pessimism has buried itself deep in your DNA, when on the highway you pass both a hazardous waste carrier and a gas tanker at the same time and your very first thought is "Oh great, time to meet the maker."
The optimist proclaims that we live in the best of all possible worlds, and the pessimist fears this is true. -- James Branch Cabell
Beto and I miss all the fun stuff including Obama's record-breaking stop through Portland. I think these pictures are ridiculously cool. Beto is on Team Hillary, and while I wouldn't object to membership on that team, I'm sticking with Obama... not that it matters, since I'm a registered Independent and can't vote in primaries anyway.
While in Oregon, Obama said ""We can't drive our SUVs and eat as much as we want and keep our homes on 72 degrees at all times ... and then just expect that other countries are going to say OK," Obama said."
Obama apparently hasn't spoken to our X5, my expanded-backside, or our thermostat, which is currently set at a comfortable 70 degrees.
