girl at large

dog day road trip

at last

Look Ruby,....sunshine!

International Rose Test Garden

there are no accidents?

The Dining Table Bowl, pushed aside to accommodate componants of the previously mentioned Granny Blanket in Need of Assembly.

I swear I didn't do this on purpose. Mom, a few years ago: "I don't know how you do it, you're always co-ordinated." It's a gift.

me talk funny.

I've been the point of amusement, and frequent outright laughter, for my verbal use of language. Distict speech patterns and local colloquisms from the varied places I've lived have randomly taken hold in my daily spoken word bank. I can't help it, I just pick these things up.

A few minutes on the phone with a friend from the homestate, and I'm channeling characters from Fargo. An evening of a PBS travel show and my laugh is frenchie-nasal for a day. Never mind the six months I spent with an affected British sing-song tone--Mom and Peg had a riot with that. I can't help it, it just happens!

Yesterday, on the radio, I heard a distinguished classical actress say "and I gave him the what-for"! You hear that? Giving someone "what for" is a commonly, if not frequently, used phrase! I'm not a weirdo. Ok, I am a weirdo but not for this. Take note snickering co-workers, because the next time you snicker, you're getting the What For!

You want I should post more?

Life in Chevron Heights

Portland has very distinct neighborhoods, and residents are firm about the boundary lines. When asked where I live, I used to say "NorthWest", a semi-trendy area known for one street of high-end shops, and one street of restaurants. 1930's brick apartment buildings shoulder up to huge Queen Annes, some still intact as single-family homes. It reminds me of Chicago's Lincoln Park. My little flat is across the street from this area.

"Across the street" is key. To locals, this is unforgivable leniency with the boundary lines. Apparently, though I can walk to this area in less than 500 foot steps, I cannot claim to live there. Technically, across the street does change the physical address to "SouthWest" as well. Ok, but I don't live in the "SouthWest" neighborhood either--that starts past the top of the hill. According to PortlandMaps.com, my building is located in "Goose Hollow"; a residential area sandwiched between two main thoroughfares, where mid-century boxy communistique apartment towers hover over even larger historic single family homes. But, I'm only half a block into that area...you see my dilema. How to describe that I ALMOST live in GooseHollow and I ALMOST live in NorthWest. Oh, and there's King's Hill to consider, but that's getting just too much. As far as I can tell, King's Hill is a three block area up the hill dotted with condos, near the fancy grocery store, but I only hear that name used in real estate ads. I think I've talked about this before.

Some time ago, I started calling my block after the closest (and it's very close, hello, wave to it from the balcony!) landmark: Chevron Heights.

Which brings me to my point... Chevron Heights has a shortage of parking. Close to PGE Park, ballgame nights are a nightmare. What good is using the car to haul more groceries when you still have to park five blocks away and lug the bags up the hill? I regularly forget where I've parked it. I've lost a wing mirror to someone's bad parallel parking attempt. I'm terrified of forgetting the parking brake and waking to see her at the bottom of the hill. (Though I am the parking Master---backwards, uphill, oncoming traffic, 6 inches of clearance? You betcha I can do it).

A few weeks ago, the heart of Chevron Heights, the actual Chevron Station, went under a major renovation. A new multi-level building designed to blend in with existing classic architecture, complete with extensive wine selection and requisite coffee shop, went up overnight. Down came the previous low-rent structure, freeing up ...you guessed it...PARKING SPACES FOR RENT.

I got the last one yesterday. Woo-hoo! It's directly across the street, on the far end of their lot, closest to my building. And it's mine, all mine!

The first step is admitting...

I have a problem. I'm addicted to yarn.

Kristan, lovely willowy Kristan, was in town a few weeks ago. She has spent the last year teaching highschool English/Creative Writing (forgive me if I have that wrong) and mentioned that one of her favorite submissions for a creative nonfiction essay was from a girl admitting her yarn addiction in just that 12-step manner. For the afflicted, like myself, it's a perfect descriptive match. I'm stealing it from a 14 year old.

I've been adherring to a new yarn-buying rule: I cannot purchase new yarn until all UFO's (UnFinished Projects) are completed. Including the ones I was bored with months ago. Including the gauge mistakes. Including the bad ideas.

My list of UFO's includes a set of pillows intended as a house warming gift for a friend who has since moved again. An armless baby sweater that will no longer fit that particular baby (soon to enter middle school??) is at the bottom of the pile. A granny-square blanket, all squares complete, awaits my still unfound patience to piece together 40 pieces. In a plastic bag, in the back of a cold dark drawer, are the sad componants of a teddy bear...one leg laying near his little disembodied head.

I've made some progress...last night, I completed the '"In exactly what light did THIS color combination look good?" Toddler Spring Sweater. I'll keep you posted.

quote of the day

Someone I have to see nearly everyday: "You look nice today, Kate...". Compliment, good. Wait for it, here comes the insult-disguised-as-expanded-compliment: "...you have your own special little style, don't you? And somehow you make it work". Nice, well done. Excellent stealth-attack, admirable use of the non-compliment, I never saw it coming.

It's all so sophisticated.

"Sorry, this seat's taken."

It's commonly understood that most dogs will eat most anything. Garbage, grass, their own poop, etc.

Yesterday, Ruby was not occupying her usual spot next to me on the sofa, where I was lounging and watching tv. "Come on Rubes, you're missing Law & Order SVU". I actually said this to my dog.

She was in the bedroom, the doorway of which is in view (heck, it's within arms length) of the sofa. In response to my call, Ruby poked her head around the door frame, blinked once and turned back to whatever was occupying her out of sight. Like a child being TOO quiet, something was up. Curiousity got me off the couch...what was so special in the bedroom? Had she squirreled away a chewy treat? A snack from the garbage can?

Nope...she was eating her own barf.

Untapped Talent

I have difficulity with gardening. Overcoming my fear of houseplants wasn't easy, but I've done it (as long as they are smaller than the dog). But I still can't get the hanging fuschias to last longer than a month. Currently, I have two hanging Dead Things. I do however, have a way with growing other things...

I have a small patch of grey hairs at my temple, under the bangs. I'll be wearing bangs into perpetuity of course. Seemingly manageable, these little white devils have been until recently restricted to this small garden patch of aging. Until recently. Until last week, when under Law and Order style lighting, tweezers in hand, I saw in the magnifiying mirror to my horror that I had escapees! There, on the other side of my part..a long white hair! The more I looked, the more I saw. Like day workers crossing the border, white hairs have jumped the fence of my colic and been spotted in all areas of the Cute Hairdo.

I'm grateful that they are pristine white as opposed to dull grey. I like that these new residents maintain the same part-curl texture of the previous tenants, lazy as it is (either curl or not, you know? why this half-ass effort?). But to be so migratory? To set up camp in so many locales? To be so, so ...visible!

There are many things I planned to have before I had white hair...a degree, a kiddie or two, a serious relationship, a house...heck, I don't even have a full-size refrigerator yet!