LOL

My Garden is an Entomological Wonderland!

Baby praying mantis on pitcher plant.

I Once Was Lost, But Now I'm Found

I'm working in Medford again. On Monday I was hiking a 3-mile stretch of the Rogue River National Forest, when all of a sudden I realized that my coworker was no longer within an earshot of me. I called his phone, but it went directly to voicemail. Great. His phone was either off, out of batteries, or out of range.

How did this happen? He had been on the centerline route, and I was walking the edge of the survey corridor 200 feet off the line. Evidently, instead of going parallel to the slope, I had been slowly veering downhill.

He had the GPS, which was the only compass we had between the two of us, but I had the maps (an aerial photo and a 30-year-old topographic map with no road names). I walked for a bit and found a road.

I was faced with the obvious choice of going right or left. My gut tells me if I go left I'm sure to find the centerline that will lead me directly to my car in like, a quarter mile. I go to the left and after about 500 feet the road completely peters out. Fuck. I know that the exact wrong thing to do is try to find my way through the woods, so I turn around and walk down the road the other way.

I walk for about a half hour (maybe a mile and a half?) and I come to another road. The road has no signs on it, but I see a sign for the road that I had been on that says '200'. Where the fuck am I? I call the office in desperation and ask someone to please grab the Gazetteer and tell me where I am. "I'm somewhere SW of Robinson Butte at a 'T' in the road. The road behind me is '200'. Which road am I facing?" Stacy tells me I'm on Grizzly Creek Road and that if I go left I'll be going toward where I left my car. So I go left. It's about 2:00 pm.

After about an hour and a half (3 or 4 more miles?) there's another T in the road. This time the road is labeled '3730' with a sign that has an arrow pointing left that says 'County Rd 37 4 miles' and an arrow pointing right that says 'S Fk Little Butte Ck Rd 5 miles'. I call the office again. This time I talk to Shane, who grew up about 15 miles from here. He tells me "3730 is South Fork Little Butte Creek road." This does not help me. I tell him, "okay, I am heading in what I believe to be a westerly direction, toward South Fork Little Butte Creek Road". By now it was about 4 in the afternoon and I figured the sun was pointing west, and based where I thought I was on the map I figured I had about another 3 or 4 miles before I'd get to the road my car was on. I took a right.

Two hours later I am still walking down 3730 when I get my first clue as to where on earth I actually am. I find a tree with a small metal tag on it labeled "Section Corner." Thank god! I read the sign and learn that I am approximately 5 miles SW of where I should be. Fuck. This section corner is not even on my map. Do I walk back (uphill) and start over or continue since I at least know where I am? I continue walking west down 3730, figuring I have at least 3 or 4 hours of sunlight left before I need to worry. This was evidently my third stupid decision of the afternoon.

Walking walking walking. I have 3 cigarettes left, a granola bar, and a few sips of water in my bottle. My legs and feet are starting to ache. Reality sinks in. I need to call other people. I call Scott and let him know that if he doesn't hear from me later it's because I'm lost and that my phone might go out. I tell him what road I'm on, which direction I'm heading, and that I'm calling for help. I call the field office (read: the CLIENT) and tell them where I am and ask if anyone is in this neck of the woods. No one is nearby, but someone can come pick me up if I'm totally fucked. I laugh it off, say "it's cool" and keep walking. By now everyone except my project manager knows the situation. Then my phone rings.

"Hey Heather, have you talked to Olmsted?" Oh fuck. "Oh, hi Chris! No, we got separated a little while ago. I think his phone is turned off. " "He's back at the car and has been waiting for a few hours. Where are you?" I'm just thinking "why did he call Chris first and not me??"

So I get in touch with Olmsted and he's on his way. I just keep walking toward where I think he'll come from until I realize I've walked somewhere between 12 and 15 miles, not counting the 3 I already hiked earlier. I see a sign that says 'Now Leaving Rogue River National Forest'. I sit down on the road and tell Olmsted where I am. It's now 6:45pm and the mosquitos are coming out.

Twenty minutes later he shows up. By the time I get to the hotel it's 9:00. If I had taken a left on 3730 I would've walked only 3 miles to my car. Instead I walked nearly 20 miles that day. In steel-toed Frye biker boots. My ass, legs, ankles and feet are still killing me two day later and I have a wicked sunburn.

But I did find these little gems: Porcini (Boletus edulis)

Morel (Morchella esculenta)

Visions of Leatherface Dance In My Head

Today was a pretty interesting day.

Today I was met with my first Very Disturbing Redneck of the season. Coworker and I were parked on a gravel school bus stop unloading our gear when he pulled up in his gray minivan festooned with Army Of One stickers. He was talking to coworker for a bit and, sensing coworker's possible inexperience dealing with landowners I mosied on over just in time to hear VDR mutter, "You have to know where you stand. With Jesus." Normally Christians don't totally make me crawl out of my skin but hearing this with a Douglas County-type southern accent (why do rural Oregonians get a drawl- we're not even near the south) made me veeeeerrry nervous. I just replied, "soooooo, it's okay if we park here, right?"

He was fine with us being on his property (unusual in these parts) but kept insisting we stop by for coffee and a danish when we were done. We thanked him and went on our way.

After a surprisingly lovely 3-mile hike in the oak savannah, seeing all sorts of gorgeous wildflowers, song birds and treefrogs and whatnot (the only good part of the story), I return to my vehicle and begin to shed my field gear and get ready to make the drive back to the hotel. I notice that some of VDR's chickens are all out near the bus stop's brambled edge, pecking around. I knew I hadn't let them out, but just in case I thought I'd go alert VDR so I don't end up with a call from the project field office saying "some angry landowner just called and is suing because you let his chickens out", or somesuch. I go and knock on his door, and a chubby girl who looks about 16 or 17 answers the door.

"Hi, I just stopped by to let you know that I noticed your chickens seem to be loose. I didn't let them out, but I thought you'd like to know."

"Oh, hi! This is my wife, (insert VDR's wife's name here). Don't worry about those chickens -they're a bunch of dufuses. You sure you won't come in for a pop or somethin'?"

(okay I know he sounds really nice, but inside his creepy dark house he was sitting in a beat-down Lay-Z-Boy and there were birds EVERYWHERE. Cages and cages of them. He had an African gray parrot sitting near his shoulder, and he said something to the bird and then it just flew at me and then did a loop-de-loop in midair and returned to him. And his wife looked like she could be his daughter. And the only thing that could've made his wife any creepier is if she had Down's Syndrome. And this guys is like 6'3" and 300lbs. And there were "God Bless" this and "God Bless" that plaques everywhere. And all the curtains were drawn. And his house smelled like taxidermy and humidity. )

"Aw, no thanks sir, I've still got lots of work to do. But thank you very much for the offer! Have a great afternoon, now."

"God bless!"

So I shudder my way back to the rig and take off. Oh, by the way, when I was out on his property I accidentally stepped on a baby garter snake that I didn't know was there until I felt something small and soft under my boot. I looked down and gasped in horror to see that its little red-striped body was bleeding because of my regardless tramping about. I feel like crying just thinking about it. I sat there for a minute contritely blubbering at the poor thing, but when I realized that the only right thing to do was to put it out of its misery, I was a coward. I kept walking. After a minute I sucked it up and turned around, to force myself to pay the consequence of my misstep, but it was gone. I felt relieved that I wasn't going to have to squinch my eyes tight and stomp a baby garter snake, but I also know that it slinked off somewhere to spend its last hours suffering. I feel so ashamed. :(

But the zenith of this story comes later (a few moments ago) when I, on a hunch that I can't shake, decide to Google "(VDR's real name) Douglas County, Oregon". What, ho? A hit? On the State of Oregon's official website? Turns out that one VDR is recently paroled (April 1, 2007) for "Weapons Use, Unlawful." Thank god it's not Sodomy III or anything, but when I'm right I'm totally fucking right.

Further Complaints on Being in the Field

I've been stuck out in the boondocks since Sunday night, and will be here until next Monday night. I intermittently entertain thoughts on how I would handle an intruder, should one happen upon my room. Since this place is only $58/night, the rooms all face out to the parking lot, and anyone can just drive in from the (immediately adjacent) freeway and waltz right up to your door. Last night I opted for leaving the window open while I showered because I figured the fork next to the sink by the bathroom door could gouge out an eye pretty easily. Usually I just think about channeling my freakish upper body strength to throw someone over the 2nd-story banister outside my room's door, but other scenarios include throat-kicking a dude with my steel-toed Frye boots or tearing out a trachea with my rock-hard talons.

Besides the obvious annoyance of living out of Shittown hotels (which is underscored by missing Scott terribly and the general isolation), the work is grueling and the food options are limited. Whenever I get home from the field I'm bloated, sunburned and my face is broken out.

My "healthy meal" options are usually limited to a microwavable Lean Cuisine or the odd bag o' salad (though fitting a bottle of low-fat ranch in the 1-cubic-foot fridge is a challenge), and if I'm hungry and out in the middle of nowhere, my penchant for Deli-Mart corndogs and jo-jos always wins. I'm not made of stone, y'know.

You'd think that I'd get enough exercise to burn off all the calories, but most of my day is spent driving terrifying dirt logging roads up in the mountains and I only end up walking about a mile or two a day. Today I had to hike through thick brush up a 20% slope (that's a gain of 1000 feet in elevation over only a mile of hike) in sleet and hail, and I slipped on a muddy slope and fell on an exposed root right on my hip bone so now I have a huge bruise up the side of my ass.

I always manage to put on enough sunscreen to clog my pores, but never enough to prevent sunburns.

Tonight I plan to get hammered and watch America's Next Top Model. I invented a drinking game for the show. It's called "Whenever a Bitch Cry, Drink". I can plow through a whole Maker's & Diet Coke in like, half an episode.

Oregon Trail 2000, the RPG

These days I am playing my own sordid version of Oregon Trail, wherein I battle ticks, solar radiation poisoning and dehydration, and try to avoid unfriendly locals who want to shoot me off their property unless I flirt or cry. My cowboy hat usually functions as +1 Stealth versus Rednecks, but sometimes those fuckers roll a 20, and the red tail hawk feather in my hat gives me away as some liberal biologist-type.

I also sometimes end up with the ailment of "some spiny thing in my boot", "some wet squishy thing in my boot" or hafta dirt-ski down a 45-degree slope to save myself an extra half mile of hiking, which often results in said ailments. Fortunately, I have immunity to poison oak and bee stings, and I'm only like 100 xp away from another ding. My next quest is "Navigating Through Douglas County With An Aerial Photo & 30-Year Old Topo Map".

* * * *

I'm in Roseburg again. I ate granola and yogurt for dinner in attempt to horde my paltry $110 per diem. Maker's Mark isn't covered by my per diem.

Learned something new today!

The Maillard reaction, commonly known among chefs for creating delicious flavors on seared meats (although usually not scientifically, uneducated lot) is also responsible for the browning effects in self-tanning products. Thank you, Wikipedia!

Hey, so today is Zombie Jesus Day (aka Easter) but it's also the 2-year anniversary of my mom's death. Do I go all Jew on that shit and burn a Yahrzeit candle (not that I'm Jewish, but what the hell, it's Passover), or go with my white-trash roots and drink? Oh, too late. Cheers! I pour out a bit for my fallen negro. Mom, we hardly knew ye.

We Are Homeowners!

We are Homeowners! Pretend you are reading this last week. It has been a crazy week and I didn't have time to post this, even though I wrote it in Word a week ago.

I haven’t blogged in awhile. That is because for the last month and half we have been busy buying and moving into our first house. What a harrowing experience! It rained the entire moving day, we didn’t get any food in us until 4 in the afternoon (our nice new neighbs brought a lasagne), and Scott fucked up his knee! And I ended up with so many sweet bruises I look like someone gave me a boot party.

Project Plans for House:

1) Get hot tub serviced and such. I cleaned it real good (triple-scrubbed and mopped) to get the decomposing bugs and strangers’ pubes/dead skin cells out, but then the jets won’t work and I can’t brominate the water. Build trough to grow bamboo as privacy screen next to hot tub.

2) Build raised beds for veggie garden. Heirloom tomatoes, peppers, and various alliums will be good, and maybe some squash and eggplant. I really want to grow fava beans, but it’s a bit late for those now. Maybe some other pole bean would be good?

3) Build shelves/cabinets into weird attic crawlspace in spare bedroom for blankets and linens, etc.

4) Have housewarming party, Scandinavian-style. I tried my hand at making my own aquavit but it tastes nasty so I’m going to make an aquavit-style syrup and make vodka martinis with it instead. We will have Swedish meatballs and I will also prepare gravlax and maybe some blini or sommat.

UPDATES AND RANDOM GOINGS-ON: Okay, I’ve made three attempts to write and publish this “We Are Homeowners” blog post, but every time I revisit it, I see that more items have been checked off my list. Now we have the bamboo trough planted, way too many veggie seeds started and I have constructed a bioswale in the backyard to catch rainfall and grow carnivorous plants and exotic wetland species that I will never be allowed to spec in a mitigation site.

Our bathroom is currently being remodeled and won’t be finished until Thursday so I have to shower at work (which seems like an HR issue) or else Scott and I sneak into the gym like hobos to get a shower without actually working out and earning it. I mean, we do pay membership to have access to their facilities, but I feel a little guilty about it for some reason.

I have had a sinus infection for the past week and a half and finally got antibiotics for it today. Yesterday I blew a tumor out my right nostril that weighed at least 2 oz. It was like the frightening loogy I had last year, with the bits of sinus tissue and blood embedded in it. I almost saved it in a specimen jar it was so mind-blowing.

I leave for Yakima at 5:45 am tomorrow morning (Jesus fucking Christ that is early) and will be gone for three days which gives me about ten hours plus Saturday to prepare for ill-planned housewarming party. This time I will avoid the bullshit “Tuscan” restaurant. In fact, if I see the guy that runs that joint I will kick him in the dick and tell him it’s pappa al pomodoro.

Friday is the TV On The Radio show, which will kick ass. It pleases me that some random black dudes from Brooklyn can fully bring it on the indie-emo tip, thus proving that black people really are just better than white people at pretty much everything.

I have decided that my blog should just stick to food, especially now that the desktop is un-broken and I can continue working on my cookbook. That is, if I actually had time to wipe my ass.

UPDATE AGAIN, SINCE THIS POST IS OLD NOW:

TVotR was awesome, we were deaf for two days after. We saw the guys in the bar and they didn't have a crowd so I nodded at them and raised my drink. They reciprocated and it felt nice to be acknowledged.

The bathroom looks great. It's good to shower at home again. My sinus infection is gone. Yakima was not terrible.

The party went well - I ditched the Scandinavian thing and did what I know best (and what less than an hour allowed): cheese/fruit plate, crudites, and tapas. After the crowd thinned out a bit, like after 11 or so, I busted out the bag o' prawns and did a quick satay with lemongrass, chili, lime, cilantro and garlic and a quickblender peanut sauce. The prawns disappeared in two minutes (a whole bag's worth!) so I busted out the boneless leg of lamb and quickly cubed it while toasting cumin, coriander, peppercorns and allspice. Ground the spices, rubbed the meat and quick fire in the grill pan. Greta had given me some lavender jelly awhile back, so I nuked it to melty nectar and it was a good dip. The lamb was gone in under five minutes. This is all worth mentioning because as I worked I had a small audience of people gathered around the stove and I felt like Molto Mario or something and it really made me feel like a rock star.

I'm playing Cooking Mama for the Wii and that kicks ass. Also, I've picked my cookbook back up and will be working on it whenever I get time until it's finished. It's fun to see how many new things I've learned since starting it in Fall '05.

Careful What You Ask For, or Duck, Duck, Goose

Friday night Scott and I were at a wedding, talking to my cousin Nathan about bird hunting and whatnot. Since the wedding had a no-host bar¹, I was taking frequent nips off my flask of fine Kentucky bourbon with great aplomb. It should be noted that anything I do with aplomb gets me in trouble.

So I’m talking to Nathan about hunting as I’m wont to do (since he’s only 25 and wildlife is a topic we have in common) and I tell him why doesn’t he bring some duck over on Sunday and I’ll cook him dinner. A fair trade, right? Note I said “bring over some duck” not “bring over some ducks”. Last night at 7:45pm he shows up on my doorstep with six dead ducks, sodden with blood and wetland, heads dangling limply from the firm grip he has on their spindly necks.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with these?!” I ask, perfectly honest about the trepidation I’m feeling about the task before me. “I’m feeling daunted, Nathan. Daunted.”

He tells me I can “either breast ‘em out or if you want to pluck ‘em dunk ‘em in boiling water first to loosen up the feathers but I usually just breast ‘em out and dump the rest. If you’re gonna try to cut ‘em up just cut around the asshole first. You’ll figure it out. You said you wanted to do this!²” I had obviously pictured neatly plucked ducks arriving in a freezer bag, all clean and bumpy little skin waiting for score marks from knife and maybe a little light disassembly before going into the roasting pan. This was not what I asked for.

But I’m a fucking trooper, right? If I can’t even clean a dead bird how do I suppose I’ll ever take up hunting³? So I go pour myself a stiff drink and ready the front porch with spotlight and bucket. Leonard graciously helped pluck the birds (I think it may have been more exciting for him than it should have, but I’m not complaining), bare-handed, even. Scott helped pluck, too, but more importantly, he refreshed drinks and manned the camera to shoot a little video.

How to deal with a dead duck:

1. Tie duck up by feet under spotlight so your vegan hippie neighbors will know that they should never come talk to you, not ever.

2. Pluck fistfuls of feathers out, working tail to head. Careful not to tear the skin off in the process. Rub down off body (this task is made easier by wearing those yellow rubber kitchen gloves). Begin to regret that you started doing this so late on a work night.

3. Have your buddy grasp the head while you chop it off with garden loppers. Similar treatment of wings and feet. Drop extremities into bucket and watch blood drip all over the damn place.

4. Wash birds off in cold water. Take smoke break. Pace around muttering “I can’t believe I’m fucking doing this at 11 on a work night.”

5. Cut out breast meat using approach similar to that for dispatching a chicken or turkey. If feeling ambitious, remove legs as well. If duck was shot by your cousin, i.e., did not come from a farm, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO GUT THE BIRD BEFORE ROLLING A CONSTITUTION CHECK. The guts will be a bloody shred and full of buckshot and the smell is garishly acrid and biotic.

6. Take a moment and come to terms with the fact that there will be no terrine of duck liver in your near future.

7. Dump carcasses into garbage. Ask husband to please, please take this away right now for the love of god. An ashen pallor will emphasize that you are as serious as a fucking heart attack.

8. Awaken at 4am in a cold sweat and the smell of duck blood still in your nose. Don’t get back to sleep for at least an hour. Go to work bleary-eyed and brag to co-workers about what a fucking trooper you are.

The front porch still smells like a killing floor, even after having been hosed down and despite being in the open air. Feathers are matted with blood in little clumps all over the lawn. The legs are too small to confit. I don’t even want to think about cooking the 12 breasts.

…But tonight I think we’ll have some seared duck breast with a molasses-juniper jus and parsnip puree, with a wilted endive and anchovy salad. Oh! Here it is already:

1No offense, but very bad form to make your guests pay for their own drinks, particularly when the “hors d’oeuvres reception” literally consisted of some bags of Doritos and Ruffles (with onion and ranch dips that may have been from dry mix packets or Nalley’s tubs, I couldn’t discern) and some type of sandwich-y pinwheels, the recipe for which was likely found in some Impress your guests with these easy finger foods!! page of Family Circle magazine. You just cannot expect people to bring you a gift and sit through a sermon for like 20 minutes and then make them buy their own drinks and serve them this dreck. That’s just bad etiquette.

2 Nathan talks like he has a chaw in his mouth, even though he hasn’t chewed since high school.

3I had been tossing the idea around last summer when I was seeing flocks of delicious-looking turkey families and coveys of quail running around all over the place while out in the field. Yeah, that’s pretty much over for me now.

Correction!

My BMI is actually only 22.7 according to http://www.nutritiondata.com.

Best leftover turkey usage: Jambalaya-style risotto. Heat 1 tbsp olive oil over medium heat in pan with minced shallot, chopped celery and onion (I used leeks because I had leftover from my stuffing mise en place). When slightly softened, add chopped red and green bell pepper. Add arborio rice and saute until rice gets slightly shiny, with that white dot in the middle of each grain. Add 1 cup of tomato juice and 1 cup halved grape tomatoes. Toss in a sprig of thyme. Add 1/2 tsp. paprika, 1/4 tsp of celery salt, couple cracks of black pepper, fat pinch of chili flake, and a few fat drops of liquid smoke. Stir. Add 1 cup of hot chicken or turkey stock, stirring nearly always. When stock is absorbed, add another cup of hot stock. Keep doing this until rice is almost done. Add cooked, chunked turkey to risotto and stir in. Add fat pinch of kosher salt (to taste; my homemade stocks are never salted). When risotto is just shy of done (I like it a skosh softer than al dente), add final cup of stock, a handful of peeled prawns, and a handful of frozen chopped okra. Shoot a few dashed of Tabasco in there. Plate; top with grated sharp cheddar and chopped parsley.

Sassafras

God, has it already been a month? I feel kinda sassy today. And by sassy I mean cunty. No reason, really, I just have hit my "dealing with bullshit" threshold. I yelled at a chick from freecreditreport.com when she kept aggressively trying to talk me out of cancelling my membership. There are only so many no-thank-yous I can mutter before I have to tersely say "are you gonna let me quit or not?"

Scott and I joined 24 Hour Fitness a couple of weeks ago. Evidently, to reach my weight loss goal (of only 10 pounds) I should be shooting for 1580 calories a day, plus cardio and resistance training 3 times a week. Are you fucking kidding me?! I have a BMI of like, 25. I just want to get a little girl-cush off my middle so I can start a maintenance program and not put on more weight in my third year with Scott. I've been fastidiously keeping a food journal and hitting 1800-2000 calories a day which is probably a decrease of 500+ of my daily intake. Did you know that one chicken breast is actually two servings? Neither did I, until the Nutrition Facts Desk Reference became the Bible. I'm hitting about 150% of my RDA for fiber, which is great, and about 30g of fat fewer than the 65g recommended. But this topic is tired. After my hour-long workout, what I really wanna talk about is what I'm cooking for Thanksgiving:

• Turkey two ways (I feel like such a whore saying "two ways" - what is this, Top Chef?): legs confit (I bought a pound of duck fat to accomodate this Dyonesian dream I've been having) and roasted breast (brined overnight in white wine with oranges, for that perfect juicy tenderness)
  
• Mashed Yukon gold/roasted garlic potatoes with mushroom-shallot gravy
  
• Bruleed sweet potatoes with sage (I'm preparing a sage custard to pour over the sweet potatoes and will brulee the top with some brown sugar when they're done)
• Savory bread pudding (made from scraps of jalapeno cornbread and nutty artisanal bread heels that I've been stashing up in the freezer) with celery, mushrooms and lots of thyme
  
• Haricots verts au gratin (a fancy way of saying green bean casserole, made with homemade bechamel instead of canned cream of mushroom soup, and topped with toasted shallots and asiago instead of Funyons)
• Wilted spinach with bacon and orange zest
• Cranberry-ginger chutney made with triple-sec
• No room for dessert. We'll just have vodka and cran with a cigarette.

Oh, yeah, we got up at 5am on Sunday to get in line for a Wii. I was #17 in line for the only 18 units the store received. Needless to say, we got one! It has been hell of fun to create Miis for all our friends, and we even made a downie (Downie Sue) and a Chinaman (ChingChong) just for shits and giggles. Now we have a complete baseball team! Hooray!

Taco pizza, ants in my pants and a thorn in my side - adventures in Yakima

I just got back from more adventures in the field. This time, it was a proposed aggregate mine in Yakima, Washington. Yakima is a shitty, shitty town. The first night after Greta arrived, we decided to try a Tuscan restaurant on Yakima Ave (the Main Street of Yakima). This place was to Italy what the Rheinlander is to Germany - garish and a gross (albeit hopefully unintentional) parody on a culture. The interior had been festooned with plaster-of-Paris false fronts that were intended to evoke dining al fresca on the streets of a Tuscan village. This wasn't even the really the problem, though. The first red flag was that all of their servers are apparently 19 years old. None of them could recommend a wine, because they aren't even old enough to drink. And they all just stood in the kitchen gossiping instead of doing their jobs, which angered me.

The second red flag was that there were no Tuscan items on the menu. The Tuscans have been nicknamed by their countrymen as 'mangiafagioli', or the bean-eaters, for their love of the canellini. It's what they're famous for. Not one item on the menu had beans. There were no cippoline onions, no bread salad, nothing Tuscan! They did, however, have taco pizza. WTF?! This also angered me. For $18-25/plate for an entree, I expect to see some fucking Tuscan food!

Okay, so we finally order, and I go for the halibut. Your choices for the sides are spaghetti or fettucini. I figure it'll come just tossed in olive oil with maybe some herbs, so I decide on spaghetti to compliment the delicate texture of the fish. I get my meal and the spaghetti is covered in marinara! With halibut served with lemon pepper and white wine sauce??!! What the fuck were they thinking? If there even was any wine sauce it had been completely buried by the marinara that was so cloyingly sweet that it made my teeth hurt. It was as if these stupid motherfuckers spent a trip in the Tuscan region and decided, "Hey, why not open a restaurant? I know how to boil pasta!" They don't even seem to know that 'spaghetti' is a pasta shape, and not "thin noodles covered in red sauce". Greta's fettucini came swimming in heavy alfredo sauce. If you're going to try to charge big-city prices then you need to HIRE A FUCKING CHEF. The saddest part of the ordeal is that they seriously blew a great opportunity to showcase some of the Yakima Valley's delicious wines. They just totally shit the bed on this one. I never thought I'd hear myself say it, but we should've just gone to the Olive Garden.

* * *

Oh, so the field work wasn't bad. The area where we were working is comprised of a complex of large ponds with adjacent emergent, scrub-shrub and forested wetlands, with little sloughs that flow between them. Beaver activity has created nice open marsh areas, and there were lots of great blue herons and great egrets flying and squawking about. Whenever I see those large wading birds I like to shake my fist and yell "Go back to the Pleistocene!" and that always make me chuckle because I am a nerd.

Greta and I decided that, due to the spatial scope of the site (~200 acres), we should split up and flag the wetland boundaries working in opposite directions. So I'm merrily flagging along, tying fluorescent pink tape to the willows and teasel, and I decide to take a look behind me to see if my line makes sense. Then I notice this huge herbaceous wetland on the opposite side of the willow thicket, and realize that I need to backtrack a bit to pull the adjacent wetlands into my wetland boundary. I see that the quickest way is to cut through a patch of young cottonwoods that were growing on top of a berm, so off I go, pushing my way through the brush.

I get to the other side, and sniff sniff "...do you smell vinegar? Huh, that's weird uh-oh wait I remember something about formicine ants on a David Attenborough show once..." and I look down to see that I am COVERED in these frighteningly large, red and black ants.


They were practically turning themselves inside out trying to bite me and inject me with formic acid (which is similar to in molecular structure vinegar, or acetic acid). Fortunately, I was wearing so many layers that they couldn't get to my skin, but they were moving fast so I whipped off my field vest and dropped it, then started stripping down and brushing them off as fast as I could. I get them off me and am shaking my hoodie to ensure that there will be no hitchhikers, and whew! I got them all off. Then I look at my hoodie and realize that I have been shaking it into a patch of devil's beggar's-tick (Bidens frondosa), a lovely herb common in wetlands that bears yellow flowers which mature into very spiny seeds. My jacket was now covered in tenacious burrs, and I am, once again, angered.


I spent nearly thirty minutes picking these things out of my jacket, still shaking from the ant experience, nervously glancing about to make sure they're not marching back toward me. I decided that it would be best to keep moving, so I just double-checked my hoodie for ants, stuffed it into my vest and kept cruising through the brush. Then a rustling sound in the thatch, out bursts a rabbit and I almost dropped dead of a heart attack. I can't remember the last time I had such a jarring experience in the field.

For the following three days, the work was pretty free from nature drama. I kept seeing those ants, which I realized were protecting their herds of aphids that feed on the sweet cambium of cottonwood saplings. On the second or third day, as I was tying a flag on one, I realized I had squished some aphids and when I turned to look at my flag it was literally writhing with furious ants. I just shuddered and kept moving.

Okay, here's the thing.

I haven't been blogging a lot because since the main computer died all we have is the laptop. Il intolterating everything I've poured my soul hate the laptop because the stupid finger mouse pad thingy is so sensitive that whenver I am blithley typing along, all of a sudden the cursor jumps to the top of the page, adu

You see what happens? This is what I'm talking about.

I want to share pictures, then later I'll get back to the normal business of life stuff.


This one is for Signe.





















I feel as though I look alright in a bikini, so long as I'm tan and up a Vese tree, obscured by epiphytic ferns. I rapidly clambered out of that tree once I discovered an army of ants marching tenaciously toward me. I haven't climbed out of a tree that fast since 1995 (that was the time I drank a cup of Psilocybe tea that hit me all of a sudden in the top of an ash tree growing at swamp's edge, and in a moment of clarity I knew that "up a tree" was no place for a person having a psychedelic experience -well not that time, anyways).








The view from the bure was spectacular. I swam in that very stretch of ocean every day, drinking in all that saline bathwater with my bare skin, only coming out when I craved nicotine and rum. I do love Portland in the autumn, but damn.

File this one under "What the Fuck?"

Oh shit I am married!

Holy shit I am married! Scott and I are killing time in the Westin LAX before our flight to Fiji, so I blog.

Here are photos of the bachelorette party.

A Day in the Office, Part Deux

The video looks a lot cleaner on my little digicam. I do not actually have a huge pixel head in real life. And despite appearances, I'm not on chemo, I just hafta wear a do-rag to keep the twigs off my head and spiders and ticks out of my hair. I clean up real nice, I swear!

This was shot in the Obenchain Mountains near Medford, OR, where I worked 80.75 hours last week. Here are some nice shots of the area:








The manzanita up there is so gorgeous!

I drove home after a full day yesterday, and am happy to have my regular life back for two days before I go back out for 6 more days.

Dang but it is hot.

On the drive home from work the bank by my house said it was 104 degrees out. I got home and drank some tequila, then moved on to vodka. I watered the garden, and sprayed myself a bunch. It felt so good! It felt so good, in fact, that I ordered Scott to put on "Feel So Good" by Chuck Mangione (yes, I own that record) and we rocked it while we played in the sprinkler. It feel so good!

The birthday party last week was hell of fun. yay, I'm 30! My girlhood dreams have come to fruition. Houxy made it up from LA, and the party was lively and such. The karaoke machine rental paid for itself, a $150 value! Not a whole lot of people sang, but the few karaoke whores I know (Patrick, Houx, Danno and myself) made it a worthwhile endeavor. Even painfully shy Joe sang a few! Yes, Joe, I'm talking about you on my blog! You are shy, yet you sang!

Scott gave me a sweet digicam for my brthday. Here is a pic of me at Germanytown (the Rheinlander) on my birthday proper:


Update 7/28/06: it took me over a week to figure out why I couldn't upload my pictures, and during said heatwave I literally couldn't stand being not-in-the-basement. Now it is lovely out, and I am back.

I bought some new CDs today: Muse - Black Holes and Revelations; Deltron - 3030; Girl Talk - Night Ripper; Blackalicious - Nia; and J. Zone - Experienced. The last one is some guy who mixes beats for some folks and has a thing, but he made a Hendrix tribute album that is decent. Muse is the new Thom Yorke-cum-Emerson, Lake and Palmer and is hell of good. Deltron is, of course, Del the Funky Homo Sapien all rapping about some sci-fi and such. The Blackalicious is old (2000), but shit, I'm driving to Medford tomorrow and need some tunes. Same goes for Girl Talk, which miraculously and seamlessly mixes Rush, James Taylor, Paula Abdul and 2 Live Crew (among myriad others) into their own flow. Good stuff.

Tonight I'm making rock fish fillets with pink prawns and mango-habanero salsa, grilled polenta and wilted spinach.

Some more pictures for posterity:


Me and Scott at Germanytown. East SIDE (Scott messed up but it's okay)!

Patrick is warming up the mic.

My dad bought a fucking Harley with the money he made from selling his house.

Greta is painfully shy, but is no match for the Houx. We tried varied mustards that night.

Adventures in Klamath Falls

OMG I had so much fun tonight. I ate at a sketchy Vietnamese place that was located on the highway, the only Vietnamese joint in town. They had like 175 kinds of beer proudly displayed in the fridge case immediately at the entrance, and you just grab one and they open it for you and put it on your tab. The decor was like bad Jamaican-tropical (think fake palm trees draped in plastic flowers) with Bruce Lee posters and these tapestries that could only be construed as Japanese Patrick Nagel - graphically hot chicks with neck-to-ass Yakuza tats all demurely looking over their shoulders and shit. Their menu was dauntingly large, so I just asked for the waitress to bring me whatever it is her favorite thing to eat. I ended up with a seafood combo that was pretty decent. Then I went and pranced around in front of Klamath Falls' web cam for fifteen minutes.

Later I went to the trucker bar Mollie's and instead of karaoke they had an okay blues band. Then all of a sudden the most awesome old timer came into the bar. He was 85 if he was a day. He was wearing the cowboy shirt with the embroidered flowers on the breast, huge-ass belt buckle, suspenders and a dark blue kerchief tied smartly at the neck, the greased-up pompadour and little black loafers with white socks (a fashion don't, but give the guy a fucking break. He's like 85!). Be still my beating heart!

As soon as he walked in and sidled up to the bar, I ran over and told the bartender that his drink was on me. (His beer is delivered in his own fucking personal stein that the bar keeps for him - this crusty old dude is hell of punk rock!) After receiving such information from the bartender, he looks around the place all confused. A burly dude to his right points me out, and Bob comes over and asks, "Do I know you?" I said, "No, but I thought you looked like a guy who should have a drink bought for him." He shrugs his shoulders and goes to his table where a woman probably in her 60s gives him a "you got some splainin' to do" look.

After awhile of wondering if I could ask to have my picture taken with this Johnny Cash's dad, Bob all of a sudden comes up and asks me to dance. Dude's still got it! How could I say no? So I go up and dance with him, gettin' a little freaky when his back is turned, and finally the song is over after what seems like a million years.



He then has the elephantine stones to ask me "Who're you here with?" I point to Greta and say "my coworker". He asks if there's a man, and I just thrust the bling in his face. "Oh, you're engaged." I gave him a hug, thanked him for the dance, and returned to my table.

Then he returns to the table after a few songs and asks Greta if she'd like to dance. She politely refuses, but he won't take no for an answer. She admits that she's not the dancing type and so he offers to teach her. This dude is so hardcore that he should be teaching classes on how to be a badass ladies' man.

And that was my awesomely fun night.

Nerdcore Hiphop Will Reign Supreme

I haven't talked about anything lately except work or getting married. But I still gotta be me! Through it all, I have been hell of rocking some nerdcore hiphop. This is another one of those things that I talk about too late after I've been into it, but oh well.

Nerdcore includes, but is not limited to, MC Frontalot (as mixed and remixed by BadddSpellah), MC Hawking, and MC Chris. And while goofing off trying to find links to these guys I discovered other delights! Such as Optimus Rhyme. And did you know (I'm sure you did, but whatevs) that Del the Funky Homo Sapien does this Deltron 3030 thing? I already liked him (and, embarrassingly, I just figured out that he's in Gorillaz. Color my face red) !

It's so nice that the Droppin' Science movement of yore is experiencing a much-deserved comeback. But if metal is more your speed, try a little Minibosses. Their rendition of the theme from Super Mario 2 is sure to please. And you can listen to any number of songs by the NESkimos here.

I guess that's all. Please comment if I've forgotten anyone. Oh, and props to Chris Onstad (Achewood creator) for his awesome art above that begs to be a t-shirt.

A Day in the Office

More Adventures East of the Cascades

On Highway 19, near Kimberly. This was outside our study area, but was still worth a quick stop.



This is the White River, where I ate lunch on Tuesday. We bought groceries before we left Portland, so we were able to have baguette and brie with sopressata (I know, I know - Italian salami with French cheese? I'm just a little CrAzY!!).



West side niggaz represent. (Okay, this is a really bad picture of me, since it was the third day on the road and I'd been in the car for like 9 hours that day. And the sun was in my eyes. And I had bug bites and a sunburn.)




We stopped and snooped around about a dozen old abandoned houses. They'd all been since colonized by barn swallows and owls, and had rusty empty cans in the basements. I kept wondering what goes wrong in a person's life where they just pick up and leave a house behind to fade in the desert sun and get shot up by bored rednecks. /shrug

Rednecks and My Menses

Two great tastes that do NOT taste great together. Fortunately, I was already home before I really started bleeding, or there'd be a coupla dead rednecks in Roseburg.

Last week was what it was, but at least I came away from the adventure with four cow skulls, and I only got called "bitch" about a dozen times. Here's the thing: unlike me, Coworker grew up in a stable, loving household with people with whom she is very close and enjoys spending time. Ergo, she finds rednecks fascinating and sexy, whereas I'm happy I don't still have to live with them or let them raise me. Fucking ig'nunt boys from Roseburg is her adorable version of "slumming". Anyway, while we were down there we hung out with one of her friends-with-bennies, Jerry (can you believe his name is Jerry? That is SO on the nose!), who is the fag-hatin'est, Bush-votin'est, hard-working-'cuz-his-alcoholic-daddy-may-have-beat-him-
but-taught-him-the-value-of-a-dollarest good ol' boy you could imagine. For hating fags so much, he was actually one of the biggest divas I've ever met - the man would not stop talking about himself and his awesomeness.

Anyway, yeah we (and the other two rednecks he brought with him) got into it a bit about "where we came from" (yes, THAT old debate). Coworker, the mediator, kept trying to change the subject, but dudes like him are so much like my dad that it was like taking candy from a fucking baby. I've had this argument so many times that I could do it in my sleep. However, I did let them get the best of me when, in my shock at their audacity/stupidity, finally shouted "You are so fucking ignorant!" That, in my honest opinion, was when I lost that fight. They don't know that they're stupid, and certainly can't help it. It was a fool's battle indeed, and besides, one must never engage in a battle of wits with an unarmed man. Besides, I already knew I was the victor when I had them hiding in their hats at the bar after I told my litany of filthy pedophilia jokes (Q: What's the best thing about getting a hand job from a five year-old? A: Your dick looks huge in the Polaroids). Anyhoo, I did win a loogie-hocking contest with Jerry, and that really skeeved him good. And I was told (complimented?) that I belch like a man. I am woman, hear me roar.

Oh, and my cooter is still bleeding, after like ten days or something. The thing is, I don't menstruate. It's one of the delights of being on birth control: I have a wee bit of spotting every three months, when my shot's due. But never an actual period. Every once in awhile, though, my uterus, having evidently stored up years' worth of periods, decides to just open the fucking floodgates. "Wheee!" my uterus says. "How ya like me now?" I'm cruising through tampons every three hours. Today I had to take a dump and squished my tampon out by accident whilst attempting to nudge the poo along. It did not make me feel in alignment with the tides and the moon.

Next week it's back to Dufur and Mt. Vernon to finish up the plant surveys, then I'm home for a day (enough time to get my fucking birth control shot and stop this nonsense), then I'm off to Klamath Falls to start 6 straight days of hacking through brush in search of the elusive desert wetland. Yay (psyche).

Big Sky Country

Here are a couple of photographs of where I was doing field work last week. Jealous much?


This is near the City of Dufur, Oregon, where I surveyed for Astragalus tyghensis (a cream-colored member of the pea family) and Ranunculus reconditus (a tiny buttercup). A thunderstorm flushed us out, and we had to drive through it on our way to Umatilla, another two hours' drive away. 50 mph winds and intense rain made for a very sketchy drive, particularly since we were driving on a flat tire unawares, going 80 to try to get out of the storm as quickly as possible, and I was fishtailing all over the fucking lane. Very scary indeed.



Here's the site in Umatilla where we conducted wetland delineations. "Wetlands in the desert?" you ask. The site was peppered with ephemeral, seasonal wetlands that were actually pretty easy to delineate. However, in 90+ degree heat I can't say it was a lot of fun. But first time doing fieldwork in a bikini, and I didn't get a single tick on me!

In the distance you can see the Mighty Columbia. I picked a lot of sage that day. Greta walked around GPSing the ditch that bisects the property until she started seeing stars. She got three ticks on her that day, but luckily found each of them as they were crawling around and didn't get the Lyme Disease.

Tomorrow I'm off to Roseburg to chip away at the hard clay soils and try to finish delineating the future quarry that I haven't been to since March, when there was actually hydrology. At least there's a McMenamin's down there.

Nigga You Are My Cornbread

So I have Sitemeter to see from where people have found my blog. That way I can add a stratum of vanity to this whole blogging thing, and it's more reliable than just obsessively checking to see if I have comments. What I particularly enjoy is seeing the random and fucked-up shit that people have Googled to have been accidentally directed to my site. The following is a list of some of the more hilarious search engine entries that brought you to me (and the order in which I was listed):

• "nigga you are my cornbread" (3rd) This is the funniest, yet most "whaaaa.....?" thing I have ever heard, and I am going to start saying it ALL THE TIME.
  
• "shellacked bones" (2nd)
• "cat shit on carpet" (two hits - 1st and 2nd. I'm #1, bitches! I'm #1 of cat shit on carpet! FACE!)
• "stare hard retard" (1st and 2nd)
• "fwumpus" (2nd and 4th. I seriously thought I made this word up, but I guess it's catchy)
• "ancient bulgarian tattoos" (3rd)
• "you can have my husband but please don't mess with my man" (1st)
• "castlevania curse of darkness pumpkin" (1st; probably not helpful to who I assume was some kid who wanted to find a cheat for the game, but I did write a review of it for f13.net)
  

There were a surprising number of referrals from France (I have a friend there, but she already knows my url) and a couple from England. I am hell of cosmopolitan.

Anyhoo, other news: mason bees have decided to set up camp in our bamboo windchimes. They are such cute and industrious little fuckers that I just let 'em. The interesting thing is that they've created egg galleries in only three of the six chimes, alternating with one empty chime in between a nested chime. I'm no apiarist, so I haven't a clue why they'd do that (even though I know what an apiarist is, and that it is the mason bee that creates a hive in a narrow tube).

Spent two days in Umatilla doing field work this week. I like to call it "OOM-uh-TEE-uh" so it sounds like an exotic Latin-American locale instead of just a shitty, phoenetically-spelled desert town in NE Oregon. Didn't see any snakes or bones, leading me to ask myself "what the fuck" several times. Our GPS unit crapped out on us, so Greta and I couldn't finish delineating our site and had to leave. The shittiest part is that we would've finished two days early and come home anyway if the GPS hadn't crashed, but now we have an additional 8-hour round trip for three or four hours' work. Pretty drive, though.

The "luxury" hotel we stayed in was jank. And the 'Desert River' sounded so lovely, too. The food was like something you'd send back if you lived in an old folks' home. I suppose if you live in the adjacent trailer park that place qualifies as the fucking Ritz, but I guess I'm just a high-falutin' city slicker that thinks marinara is not supposed to be fizzy. And the waiter kept telling all the customers (all four of them) that the "soup de jour" (sic) was gazpacho. When obligatorally asked "what's that?" he would tell them that gazpacho is a Mexican tomato soup, which made my blood boil. When he got to our table I gently corrected his mistake (that it is from Spain, not Mexico, and that yes, even though Mexicans speak Spanish, Spain and Mexico are in fact two very different places). Get this: he says "how do you know?" Well, there are a lot of Latinos in Umatilla, so touche, I guess. Touche, kid.

Tomorrow is another fun 12-hour day in Willamette Valley agricultural wetland mosaic hell, but I might actually finish two sites and have only, uh.... the rest of the summer to dread.

I Am So Fucking Exhausted - a preemptive strike at my summer.

It's only mid April, and the field season is already destroying me. It's too early to be this sunburned, this blackberry-scratched, this near-attacked-by-a-skunk, and this tired. But I guess my job sorta rocks. Call me a masochist, but I wear my scars with the pride of someone who knows that Scott's coworkers are jealous when they hear what I do for a living, even though I make only a fraction of what they do. People go into my field for the love, not the money.

I've been conducting wetland delineations on a landfill for the last week. Landfills are always hell of sketchy, especially pre-1987 (Section 404 of the Clean Water Act) landfills. This one has a DEQ Solid Waste Permit dating from the 1970s, which pretty much means thay have license to dump leachate directly into a tributary to the South Yamhill River. It's already kinda icky getting your hands muddy, but when you know there's every sort of biological and chemical contaminant in the water and soil, it renders the works downright frightening. Heavy metal is supposed to be an ironic musical genre, not something I have to worry about accidentally ingesting while having a cigarette.

So today I was hacking through blackberry thickets to flag the ordinary high water level on the aforementioned trib to the South Yamhill River and I hear this quiet hissing noise. My mind scans through the various possibilities: Rattlesnake? Naw, too far west and too early for those. Small rodent? Maybe a little too loud, and usually rodents aren't that brazen. I actually thought for a moment it might be some Madagascan hissing cockroaches - I was at the landfill, after all. I decide to ignore the hisses and keep working. They get louder, and are accompanied by some rustling in the reed canarygrass thatch that is ubiquitous in wetland areas in the Pacific Northwest. I decide to try to flush the little fucker out, so I huck a stick in the direction of the noise. More hissing. I yell at the thing, and up pops this little black and white head. It took a few milliseconds for me to process "oh how cute what is that thing a weasel or a mink or something oh holy shit a fucking skunk!" and I fucking ran like a bat out of hell, grabbing my shovel along the way for good measure. I stopped running when I was about 50 feet away (I figure a skunk wasn't gonna chase an animal 20 times its body weight to spray), and just stopped and laughed for a minute. That's the closest brush with wildlife that could potentially ruin my day that I've ever had, and it was invigorating, even if it was just a cute lil' skunk.

My summer will not likely be filled with such friendly wildlife. I'll be working on a pipeline project that spans 4 counties - big ones, too. From Coos County at the coast to Klamath-git-off-mah-propertah-County (cue sound of shotgun cocking) at the California border in central Oregon, I'll be trudging my way through the back country, surveying for wetlands, wildlife habitat and potential rare plant populations. We're talking no roads. We're talking 100 degrees. Lyme disease. Poison oak. Blackberry thorns. Rattlesnakes. Slopes of greater than 50%. We're only expected to cover 1.5 miles a day, if we're really kicking ass. No Nintendo, Tivo, or Scott, no front porch cocktails and garden, no 5 minute walks to sushi. A corridor 150 miles long and 400 feet wide will be walked and surveyed, hacking through brush along the way, and I'll be in dispose from May until the week before my wedding.

On the plus side, I won't have to diet or tan before the wedding, but on the down side, my dress will not look cute on a girl with bloody gashes all over her arms and bruises all over her legs.

Wedding Part Deux

Okay, so check out how awesome it is that I still live in the city I grew up in. I know where everything is, and can make phone calls and such. We ARE getting a croquembouche, and it IS from Pix Patisserie! Hooray! And I got in touch with Sarracenia Northwest, who is growing my bouquet and centerpieces. I will be holding a bouquet of Sarracenia leucophylla, as pictured below (these are carnivorous plants, for you novices):

I am going to be the most awesome bride EVER.

We got our registry done, our invitations are being printed as we speak, and now all I hafta do is wait for Holly to finish the dress (later this month) so we can add accoutrement in the form of shards of lace and strips of feathers. I will NOT, mind you, be a parody of a Vegas showgirl or anything crazy like that, but think more like this (except with a red head and no nekked hot guy in the hay):

...except instead of sleeves, I'll be wearing an feathered armband to hide my tattoo. The skirt will be all lacy and shreddy. And instead of a veil (not pictured), my headpiece will be a clip with exotic pheasant and rooster feathers trailing behind the back of my head. I'm still on the lookout for a vintage fox stole to drape over my shoulders for the reception. A tricky find, particularly since I'm insistant on wearing one with the head attached.

Again, I will be a rad bride.

Wedding Wedding Wedding

Plans are still under way - we've hired a photographer and are looking at places to have our invitations printed, taking baby steps in picking registries, etc. "I WANT lime-green Le Creuset mini-casseroles, but don't want to seem greedy. Wusthoff or Henckel? That tacky china pattern is HOW MUCH??!!?" These are typical thoughts running through my head.

I looked at JaCiva's website and was pretty unimpressed (particularly because I spotted a glaring punctuation error on the "icings" section and that kind of thing just makes my skin crawl). Maybe I'll see if we can afford Pix. HA! Unlikely.

I really like the idea of a croquembouche, but that might just be crazy talk in this town. The thought of flowery fondant with a bride n' groom cake topper makes me want to blow my brains out, so any good baker that isn't trying to squeeze more blood from the stone that is the wedding racket would be appreciated. Scott's mom is making a black forest groom's cake (bless her fucking heart!), but I want something atypical, slightly show-stopping, yet somewhat minimalist for the main dessert. What's a Francophilic food snob to do?

The dress is gonna be amazing. Holly from Seaplane is a fucking genius. I'll be creeping out of the forest like some ethereal silver bird on My Special Day. Haven't decided if I want to walk to Polegnala e Todora (an ancient Bulgarian love song that makes me cry my eyes out every time I hear it, even after the nearly ten years it's been in my musical repertoire) tenderly rendered by the Bulgarian Women's Choir or the cinematic score from Wong Kar Wei's In the Mood for Love. Scott and I like the idea of having the theme from Ico play during the pre-Heather-on-the-catwalk part (precessional?). I can think of only about one guest who would get the reference, and it'd be kinda funny to hear Pete giggling "No way!!" while Scott waits at the altar.

The word 'altar' kinda freaks me out. Isn't that where animal and/or human sacrifices are made?

Anyway, as details get ironed out I'll be more mellow about it, but the date is actually approaching. I'm so excited!

My Bedazzled DS!

You can have my husband...

...but please don't mess with my man.

Today was my first day at the new job. It's good; I hit the ground running, and didn't feel like I had any catching up to do after six months off. My new supervisor plays World of Warcraft, and it gladdens my heart to no longer be the sole geek of the office. But the day got better: when I got home there were stargazer lilies and peche lambic waiting for me. That's because I have the best man in the world.

Christmas was a delight. Scott's mom stayed with us for a few days, most of which were spent in a debaucherous state of intoxication. One night we got home from the bar at 1:30, and I thought it'd be fun to listen to some Desmond Dekker and dance while the buzz was on. Linda (the mom-in-law) danced right along with me and then we moved the party to the front porch where we chain-smoked and consumed an additional three bottles of wine and I funked my ass off 'til four in the morning in front of god and everybody. I love that lady. Her son is rad.

I'm not a huge fan of the top 40-type hits

So why can't I stop listening to Gold Digger? Would Kanye West have even been on my radar if he hadn't made the most important political statement of the 21st century? Probably not. But he did, and in doing so earned a permanent soft spot in my heart. And his album is very good. Yes, this is a past-due assertion, but its truancy is not for lack of truth. The album is good.

Birds are so crazy!

Today when I was standing on the porch having a smoke I almost got beaned in the head by a ruby-throated hummingbird! Birds are so crazy!

Man I am in such a good mood today!

Last night I dreamt that I was roller skating in the children's section of the library and Scott had a little black kitten wearing one of those hats that French-Canadian lumberjacks wear sitting in his breast pocket. It was awesome. I giggled in my sleep so loud that I woke myself up!

Last night I made us a bunch of delicious ginger-pear vodka martinis. Scott is so cute when he's a little buzzed. Since we had two of 'em before we even ate dinner, we were both a little shwilly and got all snuggly on the couch and watched Primer after dinner. Films like Primer make me feel a little stupid, but I guess "the thinking man's art film" has confused quite a few people, so I don't really feel that bad.

It's a wonderful, sunny day, and it's Friday. I feel very happy today. Maybe tonight Scott and I will go on a dinner-and-a-movie date. That'd be fun.

Road Trip

Unfortunately, not the fun kind. Tomorrow Scott and I will be driving to Eureka, CA at breakneck speed to attend the memorial service of my Aunt Tammy (my mom's younger sister). We have to leave at around 5am to make it to the 1pm service.

She got diagnosed with leukemia about two weeks after my mom died. They found a tumor on her spine, and upon operation found a couple more embedded in the spinal cord. The first surgery left her paralyzed from the waist down, so they gave her radiation to kill the other two. But she went into kidney failure last Thursday and didn't make it. I can't imagine what my grandparents must be going through, having lost two daughters within six months.

She was only in her early 40s.

Finally!

That little cunt Jayla got eliminated last night. Hooray! Her gums were too big. Porn star in t-minus 10 seconds.

Thanksgiving redux

Yeah, so it's been a few days and the story has well-nigh rendered itself obsolete, but Thanksgiving was a far more depressing ordeal than imagined in my wildest dreams. You know how I thought it was gonna be awkward with my grandpa and dad in the same room, since they're all of a sudden estranged from one another? Well this is even better! My grandpa called my sister-in-law at the last minute and told her to tell me he wouldn't be coming. She asks him if he wants my number to tell me himself, and he says "no" and hangs up. I was actually relieved to hear this, since I don't really care for the old coot. I was just trying to make up for the fact that I never go visit him, even though he only lives about a mile away from me. An atheist can only so take so much sermon from an old man (particularly one who evidently thinks you're retarded and needs to explain everything he says) before an atheist wants to peel the skin off her face. So yay, no preachy old grandpa.

"How could Thankgiving have been worse, then, and not better?" you might be asking yourself. Well it could, and here's how: Remember how my mom died last April? Well this is the first (non-Hallmark-invented) holiday since her death, and my dad looked like he wanted to fucking blow his brains out. He felt like a fifth wheel (unsurprising, since it was Scott and me with my bro and his wife). I tried to distract him from his misery by asking how the job search is going. Yeah, he has no job. After the meal he just sat on the couch, his head hanging very low over his cup of coffee. After he left I talked to Jeremy and Sandy about things, and it doesn't sound so good.

After my mom died I knew my dad would be completely fucked, not just because he lost the only person in this universe who would tolerate him, but because theirs was a household absolutely dependent on two incomes. My family's broke, pretty much always has been. A month after mom died, the Blazer or Bronco or whatever got repossessed because he missed some payments. I ended up paying for her funeral and everything so he wouldn't hafta worry about it, but I knew he needed more help than that.

So I pressured Jeremy and Sandy into moving in with him. The house is plenty big enough, I figured, and the baby would lift his spirits a little bit. They'd pay a little less than what they were paying in rent for their apartment, and everyone wins, right? Not so much. My dad ended up quitting his job a couple of months ago and according to Jeremy he sleeps in 'til noon every day, drinks coffee for about three hours, goes out for awhile returning with a stack of DVDs that no one can figure out how he's affording, and hasn't been following up on job leads. He's not getting unemployment (since he quit), and even though I made him a resume and Jeremy faxes them off for him, he's not really trying to find a job. It sounds like he's just given up on life, and I'm worried that he's gonna end up homeless or something. The man is an island, and no one can seem to reach him. He needs to finish mourning so he can begin his life again, but he's just so miserable. Jeremy and Sandy are getting fed up with him jumping in on their arguments (they've only been married a year), and they don't have much privacy.

Anyway, after everyone left on Thursday Scott and I cleaned up, while I went through my usual mental broken record-loop, "what can I do to fix this? what can I do to fix this?" I know that I can't save my dad from himself. I just don't know how to make this better. I can't help feeling like I should take the situation into my own hands, because frankly, no one else will. But it's not my job to keep bailing my dad out, he's an adult. On the other hand, he's also a motherless child who's never not had a woman to tend to him. And at 53 years old, he just needs to grow up. I just hope things don't have to get any worse for him before he realizes that.

Dinner was good though. White bean turkey chili last night was even better.

Castlevania - Curse of Darkness

My review can be read here. A very fun game indeed.

Yay! Two days 'til Thanksgiving. I'm already getting my prep started: I have cranberries in tripel sec on the stove and stock fixings roasting in the oven.

This year will be interesting, as I've been informed that my father and grandpa aren't speaking to each other. Unfortunately, I'd invited my grandpa over weeks before the altercation. What happened is evidently my grandpa accused my dad of being "too angry." What next, is he gonna accuse the sky of being blue? Sheesh, old people. Nothing pisses off a dude with anger management issues worse than being told to calm down, so things have escalated much further than they should've. Oh well.

What'll probably happen is I'll stay busy in the kitchen to remain as oblivious to the rift as possible, while Scott insists on helping so he can stay the hell out of there too. My dad and grandpa will be silent to each other during the meal and then my grandpa will announce that it's time to go home 5 minutes after eating. I'll secretly wish that my dad would leave too, but will be a polite hostess. My dad will stay and rant about his father until he decides he's due for a bong hit, says he's "got to go take his pain medication" and wants to leave. Then Scott and I will breathe a sigh of relief, pour ourselves a couple of stiff ones, and sit on the porch chainsmoking while we decompress.

I'm gonna be such an awesome mother

I'm clacking away at the keys, when I smell something. It's that familiar smell that something terrible has happened. It's so strong that I check the floors, assuming it's coming from the room I'm sitting in. Nothing. I go to the living room and the stench could peel the fucking paint off the walls. There, on the freshly shampooed area rug, is a steaming pile of cat shit. But this time, unlike as it's been for the last week or so, it's not just a mound of cute little tootsie-rolls. This time it comes with gravy.

"Awesome!" I think to myself. Today, instead of merely sopping up vomit from the rug, as is my seemingly daily chore, or waiting for shit to cool down from that 105-degree cat-intestine temperature, I have the joy of both plucking turds and trying to blot special sauce from the carpet. I go to the under-the-kitchen-sink cabinet where cleaning products are kept, and discover that we are out of Kids 'n Pets. Awesome. I dump half a bottle of Resolve carpet cleaner on the mess, spray the entire house with orange spray and return to the computer.

I just know that I'll be an awesome mother because I, with a saint's restraint, calmly resisted the urge to grab the crow bar from the coat closet and bludgeon Caesar to a bloody pulp. I mean, that's just good parenting. Besides, if you think diarrhea is hard to get out of a carpet, well, you've never eviscerated a cat in your living room.

(Edit: it should be noted that I did clean up the shit before dumping carpet cleaner on the spot. I didn't just pour a bunch of cleaner on top of a pile of shit and wish it well.)

More adventures in my nether regions

I'm hungry. But it's not my stomach that's growling, it's my right ovary. Huh.

It's already November?

What the fuck? Time flies when you're having fun (or are an unemployed board whore that plays too many video games). This year we're doing Thanksgiving at our house again. What with my mom being in an ash can and my new sister-in-law being inept in the kitchen, how else will my dad get to eat turkey? I really want to do a southwest-themed dinner, but sadly, my dad has the palate of a five-year old. If I were gonna do it, this is what I'd make:

Roasted turkey with sweet orange-tequila glaze
Cornbread-jalapeno stuffing
Chipotle-sweet potato souffle, topped with sharp cheddar
Roasted corn and red bell pepper risotto
Warm carrot and red onion salad with escabeche chiffonade for kick
Mole negro with roasted pumpkin seeds (instead of gravy)
Fluffy, soft flour tortillas (instead of dinner rolls or brioche)
Espresso flan with Dagoba Xocolatl ganache for dessert

Sigh. It would be so good! And I've been saving my cornbread scraps in the freezer for months! Oh, well. I'll just make this stuff for a dinner party sometime.

I like cake!

My review of Hello Kitty Roller Rescue got published on f13.net. Here it is for your viewing plezh.

I also have an awesome head cold that has me pretty incapacitated. I'm gonna eat some baked beans and watch I Love the 80s 3D.

2, 4, 6, 8, 10!

Last night was so much fun! The Go! Team fucking rocked. I haven't shaken my ass that hard since I was like, 18.

Here I am looking retarded next to Ninja. I swear I'm not fat in real life.

The pictures with the guitarists didn't come out that great. Oh wells.

You may be asking yourself, "since when is Heather such a huge starfucker?" To which I'd reply: "One doesn't have many opportunities to be a rabid fangirl in Portland, so when one does, one must strike while the iron is hot." And I've learned that if you ask nicely, you can get almost anything you want. And I never forget to say thank you.

Today is the day after, and I'm not sore yet. That little delight is usually saved for the second day after. I think I may have overdone it in kickboxing last night. I know I overdid it at the show, jumping up and down like a 16 year old black cheerleader from the Bronx for two hours. My ankles hurt a little and my ears are still pretty fuzzy. What'll inevitably happen is I'll wake up for my job interview tomorrow and be completely fucking hobbled and they'll think they hafta hire me because they don't have any disabled people in the office.

Oh, if you haven't listened to the Go! Team yet, do. They sound like what little black girls are singing when they double-dutch.

Alton Brown Has a Very Hairy Chest

Noticeably so.

Scott and I met him yesterday at Wild About Game, a food event that included a wild game cookoff of which Mr. Brown was a judge. I kept asking people working the event, "when do we get to meet Alton Brown?" And since no one knew, I just followed a waiter to the judges' room and peeked in. There he was! He had a shitload of food to taste, so Scott and I took off for awhile and got back just when the last dish was being presented. We waited outside the room and when he stood up I ran over to the door and pounced on him! He was visibly startled by my sudden presence.

I nervously asked, "would it be totally inappropriate if I asked you to sign this?" and presented my old copy of On Food and Cooking, an early food science tome by Harold McGee. He looked at the book, looked at me, and said, "You want me to sign this? Are you sure?" He sort of oohed and aahed over it for a minute, and I joked he could sign it "McGee" if he wanted. He sat down and started writing:

Then he glanced at my tattoo and said he'd never seen a girl with DNA on her arm before. I was really nervous and shaky, which is strange because he seems pretty normal. I felt that I'd already bugged him enough so I didn't bother asking for a picture with him. Then I thanked him, shook his hand and giddily ran back to my table. Yay!

I wanted to send him another thank you, but it seems that people have been sending him rude things on his site, so he's disabled the contact part of his page. Oh, well.

Now I just have a figure out a way to meet Tony Bourdain....

Disaster averted!

This morning in pilates we were doing some move where you're on your back, kinda on your shoulders, and with your legs slightly spread and your arms on the floor, you lift your legs up so they're pointing up in the air. When I did this I sucked so much air into my vagina that I knew, I just *knew* I would have the hugest pussy-fart if I tried the rest of the move. I quickly got up and ran to the bathroom where I swear I queefed for like, 5 minutes.

Oh, don't look at me like that. You know you've been there.

I love on some buffalo wings, all dressed in delectable sauce.

Well said, Roast Beef. Well said.

A Letter to the Fiery Furnaces

Dear Fiery Furnaces,
How are you? You guys rocked last night. I appreciate the artistry and showmanship of playing your old stuff totally different. Eleanor seems to have lost some weight and now resembles a young Patti Smith with a cuter face. Love the haircut. Did you notice the dude in front? He looked like he learned to dance by playing DDR. Way to live up to white stereotypes, Acid Trip! And then that Ally McBeal girl who was doing the generic 80s thrash-the-shoulders-shake-the-head-back-and-forth dance threw a flower onstage, clearly wishing for validation from Eleanor. But Eleanor was enamored of Go-Go Boots, the hopeless fangirl who impressed the band with her knowledge of every song lyric (as evidenced by her singing along to every tune). She was to you what Houx is to Metric. Lucky girl got the playlist and props from Eleanor, but if Houx had been there, an onstage hug would surely have ensued.

Oh, hey, do you know who else was at your show last night? The fucking SHINS! That's who! Scott and I bumped into them outside, casually talking amongst themselves. Actually, Scott recognized them and I sauntered up and asked them if I could please have my picture taken with them. They said yes and I, embarassed that I had interrupted and possibly outed them, said thanks and strolled away quickly. Unfortunately, every time I try to post that picture I get an error message from blogger. Oh wells. I'll try again later.

So, in addition to seeing a stellar show in a venue small enough to accomodate my need to be 5 feet from the stage, I got to say "sup" to my favorite band. Yay.

Your friend,
Heather