Dying of hot

It's been outrageously hot and humid in Portland for the past few days. On Monday it got up to 103. Yesterday hit 106. Today is supposed to be 107 or even a record-breaking 108. Not only do we not have air conditioning in our new apartment, we are without fans as well.

Yesterday morning I handed the manf $20 and told him to buy me something windy. He came home after a multiple-hour search to deliver the tragic news that Portland had sold out of every wind-maker. We were relegated to fanning each other with a number my little brother got me in Japan. It didn't help.

Sleeping is miserable because it only cools down to about 80 degrees. I've taken to spraying myself with a hose and dousing myself in a cold shower before bed, but it just evaporates and makes me even stickier than I was before.

To top it all off, our freezer isn't working. All of our lovely ice cream and popsicles turn to goo within hours.

I'm seriously considering sleeping at work/in the river/at a movie theater/inside a walk-in freezer tonight.

Prince Charming Makes His Move

It is 11:00 on a sweltering Sunday morning. Neenuh is waiting at a bus stop to go downtown for her birthday massage. She has not bathed, and the heat is making her glow far more than usual. She is wearing an unremarkable gray cotton dress, as she is wont to do is such temperatures. There is a man nearby using a pressure hose to cleanse the sidewalk. Its noise is deafening. Nevertheless, another man approaches Neenuh and attempts to talk over it.

Prince Charming: HAVE YOU SEEN THE NO. 4 GO BY?
Neenuh: It went by a few minutes ago.
Prince Charming: WHAT?
Neenuh: IT WENT BY A FEW MINUTES AGO.
Prince Charming: THAT'S A CUTE DRESS.
Neenuh: Thanks.
Prince Charming: MY GIRLFRIEND HAS ONE IN THE SAME COLOR.
Neenuh: Oh.
Prince Charming: WHERE'D YOU GET IT?
Neenuh: San Diego.
Prince Charming: IS THAT WHERE YOU'RE FROM?
Neenuh: No.
Prince Charming: ARE YOU GOING TO WORK?
Neenuh: No.
Prince Charming: WHERE ARE YOU GOING?
Neenuh: Downtown.
Prince Charming: YOU GOT A MAN?
Neenuh: Yes.
Prince Charming: WELL IT'S STILL A CUTE DRESS.
Neenuh: Thanks.

The only other times I've been hit on by randos in Portland are when I've been gross and sweaty on my way home from the gym. Moral of the story: Portland men like their wimmins dirty.

Horrifying sight found at Lake of the Isles.

My niece.

At one week old she smiles...even in the face of danger.

Found objects

There's something about finding things just lying around in the great outdoors and taking them home that makes me feel so resourceful, like I'm one of the Boxcar Children. And I think you'll understand completely when I say aspiring to be like Henry, Jessie, Violet and Benny is one of my chief goals in life. Especially because my own siblings and I go boy, girl, girl, boy in birth order JUST LIKE THEM. Fate.

Yesterday I went to the movies to see another group of kiddies I'd very much like to emulate. Sectumsempra! Except not. More like Wingardium Leviosa. Semantics. Anyway. I snarfed way too much popcorn with melted golden topping and cherry cola and was feeling woozy from all the sodium and sugar I'd ingested. I required approximately 1 million salads to counteract the effects, stat, but in a pinch decided I could make do with the blackberry bramble in my alleyway. The bramble may have its roots in someone's yard, but the plant itself leans wantonly into the alley, making its fruit The People's Berries, I speck.

Nevertheless, I was very sureptitious as I pulled one juicy fruit after the other from its be-thorned lair. As soon as I had filled my little plastic container, I raced home with my illegal berries and admired they way they glistened in the sunshine.


I gobbled them up straightaway, and let me tell you. Blackberries never tasted so sweet. So tart. So delicious.

***

My Portland bosom buddy invited me to a homewares party hosted by her former coworker. The brand was Demarle, a line of French cookery that's all floppy and nonstick and stuff. I was very intrigued, especially by the mini tartlet pan and the mold that would make your baked goods look like a bear. I was close to buying their famous pan, weirdly called a "silpat" for no good reason, until I learned that it would cost about a million dollars. Plus if you're going to be baking things like meat or fish that would "throw their juices," you would need to get the special pan that costs about two million dollars.

Throw their juices? That has to be the funniest/best phrase I have ever heard coming out of a very put-together plastic surgeon wife's mouth while she conducts a live informercial, like, ever. You could use it for expressions of rage ("You'd best step off or I swear I'll throw my juices!") or joy ("I was so psyched I threw my juices!"). But I digress.

By the grace of Moses I was able to get out of there without parting with my dearly-beloved moolala. And I'm so glad I did, because look what I found lying on the sidewalk yesterday:


It's Flexipan, not Demarle, but it's still french! And floppy! I soaked it in soapy water for a good long time last night, but it still has a filmy green tint on top. What think? Should I risk self-poisoning and make some delicious blackberry muffins in this baby? I'm pretty sure that's what Jessie and Violet would do.

And now, as your reward for reading this far, I give you another found object: Mt. Hood, as viewed from Mt. Tabor at sunset:

Baby-crazy auntie.

As you'll recall, I've been waiting a long time for my sister's baby to be born. But as of exactly one week ago she's finally here!

Just look at her. Little Maya will cute the pants off anyone trying to be cute. Just look at that little tree hugger. She's an infant and she already loves the environment.

So as her favorite aunt, I definitely have responsibilities. I'm flying to see her tonight and I have a suitcase stocked full of things for her that I am now going to force you to oooo and aaah over. But each of these things has a reason behind them because it's my master plan to shape her into a perfect being. Observe.

1. Pretty pink girl dresses. My sister is a huge tom boy, and so is my brother-in-law, obviously. Someone's got to help the little lassie look like the pretty princess that she is.



2. A boy tank top of an alien flying to mars. Did I tell you Maya is going to grow up to be an astronaut? Well, she is. Because of me. And because of this shirt.



3. An actual infant-sized rash guard. You know, a rash guard, to prevent surfers from getting board rash. They're normally made for adults. But Maya will pretty much be a surfer by next year knowing her parents.


4. This stuffed animal, so that she may appreciate people of all different forms of beauty, and learn that even though she's really pretty herself, uggos can be fun too.

5. The world's cutest onsie.










6. And then, of course, I want her to be brilliant and love books like her auntie and uncles and mom and dad, so I picked her out these, which perfectly suit the personalities of her mom and dad.


7. And every baby needs a blanket. I dropped the ball on my plan for knitting something for her so instead I got her the softest, monkiest blanket I could find.

I hope she loves me.

Tilt shift from Afghanistan!

I've been lucky enough to communicate lots with my friend who is stationed in Kandahar as an engineer in the Air Force right now. For some reason I kind of expected him to drop off the face of the earth until he comes back in October, but awesomely enough he has been totally present - sending us pictures, responding to emails within hours, and facebooking like a fiend.

His philosophy on taking pictures is that if he takes enough, there will be a few good ones here and there.Maybe I'm way behind the curve on this one, but sometimes he puts a tilt shift effect on his photos that makes everything look like a miniature model. It makes me feel like he's really in the Mr. Rogers Air Force, not, you know, the American one.

The pictures are of downtown Kabul, my friend says. Typical mud, brick, and mortar construction.


So I am now inspired to show you my street, if it were made of toys.


Aaaaaaaaaaaand a tilt shift photo of Falcor highly enjoying his back rub, just for you.

#ouch #cantwalk #ouch #neverdoinglungesagain

I've been trying to make up from my total deviance from the Get Healthy Plan while I was in Seattle (I worked out once the whole week and ate many Things That Are Bad). This week I'm back on my Don't Eat Crap diet-- I even refused a cupcake from Cupcake Jones two days ago--and my quice-weekly workout regime.

Yesterday I decided to kick it up a notch at the gym. I've been doing mostly the same machines when I go, so I asked my personal trainer (who happens to live with me) for ideas for some moves with the free weights. He had me grasp 10-pounders whilst slowly lunging all the way across the gym floor, with my knee almost touching the ground on each dip. I could only handle four lengths of the gym before I felt like I was going to collapse.

I had already done the leg press, leg extension, calf extension and seated leg curl. My stems started feeling as they have never felt before-- as if the muscles were atrophying on the spot, as if they were disintegrating into sawdust. I usually feel a bit tender after a workout, but don't get full-on sore until two days after the fact. That I was already feeling as if I had been body slammed did not bode well.

After our nightly episode of Big Love, I told my personal trainer I didn't even want to THINK about moving. "Why are you worrying about moving?" he asked. "We have another nine and a half months until our lease is up."

"I meant off this couch. I don't think I can do it."

Sure enough, I stayed put all night, adding a backache to my list of ailments. This morning, I've been hobbling around like an old biddy with a bum hip and a bad case of the gout, grunting as the strain of walking hits each muscle group. Le ouch.

Welcome to my hood

Please join me on a tour of the delights and wonders of my new hood.


Art. I just love this little guy. He puts a smile on my face every time I walk by. A heart balloon? For me? Why thank you!


Nature.


The wares of my new favorite store, which sells a mash of twee rolls of wrapping paper, vintage jewelry and wedding dresses with bird remains stuck to the bustle. It was closed by the time I stopped by so I could only take a snap through the window.


Do you need wine, chocolate, gourmet salts and flowers and nothing else? This store is for you.


Can't be a hipster enclave without a bike repair shop. It's Article 4 of the Hipster Bylaws.


Bulbs. All shapes, all sizes, all colors.

Pure glee.

There are no words.

Well, maybe two: You're welcome.

Don't die Mark!

Oh my gosh you guys. You'll never believe what's happened to Mark.

You remember Mark, my hosta? Here is a picture of him when he was born. But now, he's down to 3 leaves. THREE. LEAVES. At first I thought he perhaps had Hosta Virus X or Tobacco Rattle Virus, but why would he get those? He lives in my apartment.

Then, I did a little research through the extension service and it turns out he is sunscalded! In a stupid effort to try to revive the little guy back into life this week I moved him from my bookshelf to right in front of the window so he could soak up more rays. But strangely, all of the leaves moved to the edge of the pot furthest away from the window by this morning, and I didn't think anything of it. Turns out the leaves are trying to run away! They, like me, need total shade to survive. I mean if I have to wear sweatproof 70+ SPF sunscreen if I'm near the slightest bit of sunshine, these little guys must be getting completely fried.

Don't worry I will rescue him tonight. I will hide him under the bed or something. He will live. Mark must survive!

Therapy dog trading cards.

One of the best presents I've ever gotten was stealthily slipped into the front pocket my audio equipment bag. You can imagine the joy I felt when I reached my hand into the pocket and pulled out these gems.

Sasha is a working dog from Siberia, and this is her trading card. When you pet, touch, and talk to her, it helps reduce your blood pressure, relieve stress, and ease your depression.

Additionally, Sasha is a quiet lover who enjoys a great pet and long walks. Winter is her time, as she loves a good blizzard.



Therapy dogs don't just grow on trees. I obviously have a secret admirer!

Two new pets!

This is a little fellow that my dad caught this weekend. Let's call him Todd. He was only our pet for about a minute and a half though, about the length of time that it took me to take 500 good pictures of him. Then we let him go because it seemed like he was having breathing troubles. Crazy fish and their tendency to hate air!

This is Tiny Tim, my newest plant. He is a cactus, and will be Mark and Bedilia's new brother. He was rescued from the throngs of two vicious kitties* that bit chunks off of his other half. He is now split into two pots and I have the little chub half. I will nurse him back to life. But I have to admit to you, Mark isn't doing so hot these days. His once-thriving 14 leaves are now a measly 3. I think he has Hosta Virus X.

*my friend's actual two kitties that tried to destroy Tiny Tim.

Home again, home again, jiggety jaw

I'm coming up on my year anniversary of the Great Move West, and the feeling that dear old Porty Pants (as Anna calls it) is really my home became clear during my travels in the past week.

In honor of that blessed event known as my birthday, my dear benefactress aunt and my new unk swooped into town like a battalion of angels and spoiled me with such plunder as a cast iron skillet and dutch oven, a cookbook stand and, most importantly, a set of crumpet rings. After a few days of gallavanting in the hood, we were off to Seattle to visit another dear auntie.

Before I moved here I saw Seattle and Portland as interchangeable: both were drizzly, cultured cities near the coast that in my mind's eye were overrun with apple orchards (why? I don't know). My first jaunt up to Seattle proved me wrong. There's just something about big cities with lots of tall buildings that make me uncomfortable. My favorite cities that I've spent more than a few weeks in--Portland, DC, Paris--all have a shorter skyline that makes me feel like I can breathe better or something.


See? Just too durn big fer leetle old me.

Less than a day after I returned from Seattle the manf and I took off again, this time for the Oregon Coast. We've often been to northern coastal cities Astoria and Seaside, each about an hour and a half from Portland, so this time we decided to go to Newport on the central coast. It felt a heckuva a lot like Canal Park in my hometown Duluth with its kitschy shops selling nautical wares and huge masses of fat tourists. There's even an iconic bridge.


I had very delicious crab soup and playing on the beaches was very fun. But I found myself longing for my humble little abode.

Have I even told you about my new apartment yet? Since I've been a very neglectful blogger and all-around horrible person, I think not. I blame this jewel of a place for keeping me from you. You see, when we were in the shoebox, I had nothing to do but sit in my cave and troll the Internets. There was nothing to do nearby and I lived so far off the beaten path that going to the places where there were things to do was always a chore.

Now I live mere blocks away from a brewery; a pizza pub; a store that only sells wine, flowers, chocolate and salt; a store that only sells lightbulbs; several boutiques, including one that sells refurbished wedding dresses with stuffed owls on the bustle; antique stores; cafes; music venues; a bakery; a local independent video store; and much, much more. Now people actually want to come over to hang out in my hood, and my apartment is big enough for me to return to my chief joy: entertaining.

So, a year after I first set foot on this fertile soil, I feel like I not only belong here but that I want to stick around for a good long while.

Fat kid in a lady-sized body.

I LOVE LUNCH!

Did you know I love lunch? I loooove lunch. It's my favorite meal of the day. I know people say they love breakfast, but if you take that love and apply it to lunch, that would be my love. I love making delicious lunches, eating delicious lunches, and flaunting them at work for everyone to see. Sometimes if I really love my lunch, I take a picture of it in order to someday annoy you on my blog. And that day, my friends, is today.

Tuna, cheese, avocado sandwich on cracked wheat bread with spinach, romain, avocado and feta salad. Simple. Perf.

Rotisserie chicken, fresh grapes, string cheese, and my brother's homemade banana chocolate chip bread. Meeeeep!

You saw this one. Salad with farmers market blueberries, strawberries, spinach, romain, pea pods, kiwi, avocado, fresh baked chicken, and feta - the salad dressing of champions. Mhmm.

This was one of my favorite lunches. I was off early one day and took myself to one of my most beloved coffee shops and delighted in this bagel with pesto cream cheese. Have you had pesto cream cheese? If you haven't, you should. You really should soon. Geeeeeee!

You also probably saw this one. Sometimes I eat like a little kid, and that was one of the days. It was warm enough to eat outside on the balcony so I hopped up there and enjoyed a salami and pepperjack sandwich on country white bread with a spot of applesauce and some strawberries. Yammers!

Ooo. This was a good day. Wheat toast with homemade jam adopted from my jam-hatin' roommate, summer sausage and cheese, pretzels, hummus and fresh green beans. Yes please!

I know what you're thinking. What is this sloppy, disgusting mess? Well bite your tongue, you heathen! This was my first attempt at mom-style hommemade hamburger pizza. It was a little soupier than I would have liked (or than mom would have ever served) but it tasted just as awesomely delicious. And, as you'll note, it's garnished with some green beans and a crunchy Honeycrisp apple. Gleeeep!

And don't worry, I have prepared a dessert for you. Chocolate cake with cream cheese frosting and fresh strawberries on top. Birthday style. Eat it up, blog faces!

I LOVE LUNCH!