valley girl

every time someone lets me out of Goldsboro, i get lifestyle envy. all of the people eating at sidewalk cafes after hot yoga and before valet parking at the tapas bar for dinner...oh, why isn't any of that stuff in my town?

but southern california is a bit of a stretch - it's nice and shiny and full of (suddenly dead) celebrities (RIP W.H.), but it is way out of my normal.

Goldsboro: parking as far away from other cars as possible to avoid idiot drivers when shopping at Carlie's IGA for multiple types of pork products (rinds, chitlins, souse, skins, bacon, chops, etc.)
Southern California: sitting on the patio at Whole Foods watching two matching white Range Rovers fight over a parking space while eating an organic banana and reading the Jewish Journal

Goldsboro: a recent hepatitis B outbreak at Tootie Frootie, a sketchy new frozen yogurt establishment next to a Mexican restaurant that doesn't serve Corona (blasphemy!)
Southern California: eating a lavender-lemon gourmet popsicle at a popsicle-only establishment called "Suck It" in a town called "Studio City."

Goldsboro: hoping my dog doesn't eat a dead turtle in the backyard and get sick on my Turkish carpet (again)
Southern California: driving down a single street with two doggie day cares, a 24-hour veterinarian, a U-Wash-Doggie laundropet, two organic dog food stores, and a hound hotel (four diamonds, i'm sure)

Goldsboro: Wal-Marts - 2
Southern California: Wal-Marts - 0

Goldsboro: normal house price - $180K
Southern California (for same house): $1.8 million

nice for a visit, but not sure i could swing it long-term. but, if it gets me out of G-boro, I could give it a try.

Lifestyle envy: The painful and resentful awareness that others, outside of one's current geographic location, enjoy life advantages that may include Wal-mart free grocery shopping, sidewalks/cycling paths (possibly with cafes/other cyclists), non-Jesus-based bookstores, and cultural events not centered solely around the cooking of pork products. This awareness is joined with a strong desire to possess the advantages of those others.

daddy complex

i hate Dan's jeep.

it's a bit out of character since i do love a big engine. pretty sure my soft spot for high horsepower originated with trips to the city dump alongside D in his 1960-something black Chevy when I was too little to see over the dash. or it could be those visits to the railroad yard to visit D on those rare occasions that he could take time from conducting the train to show us around. a soft rumble, hinting of danger and courage and smelling like metal and oil, there is nothing quite like a string of idling 3,000-horsepower diesel locomotives in the morning.

it seems fitting, then, that Dan is cruising around the skies in his own twin-engine war machine. i've lost that loving feeling? get me within 100-yards of a fired-up strike eagle and I'm practically sliding off my chair. whoop!

but I still hate the damn jeep. it's a paycheck guzzling petrol-aholic with a mess of mechanical issues and inexplicable rattling noises that rival the mini for their frequency and mystery. not only that, but it spent the entire summer at Randy's Good-Ol-Boy Garage getting wrenched and greased to the tune of you-don't-even-want-to-know.

thanks to Randy, i didn't even get to enjoy the summer jeep-owner perk of looking cool while riding around Goldsboro topless (the jeep, not me) in my daisy dukes catching the eye of the locals. (on second thought, i live in Goldsboro and no one over 21 should be wearing daisy dukes, especially me. you get my point.)

my distaste of the big, loud 1984 CJ-7 with a rebuilt Chevy 350 is reminiscent of my own mom's dislike of D's 1972 Chevy K5 Blazer with its 350. she was constantly nagging D to sell the thing after it diverted funds from the family budget or sat idle for a winter or more. as I neared my Sweet 16, I joined the nag-fest because I began to see the Blaze King as the only thing standing between me and something silver and zippy with a big red bow (and we all know how that dream turned out).

but history does repeat itself.

Dan took a page out of D's old playbook to alter my position.

It's so simple: They just let me drive.

This season, Renegade is the new black.

here's hoping...again

I graduated from the University of Oregon in 2002. It was an epic football year marred by a single loss to Stanford at home at the very end of the season. (Sound familiar to anyone?) It was made even better because I was a marketing intern for the athletic department and on the sidelines for every home game - cueing the team on the field, getting run over in the end zone, rubbing elbows with the coaches at the after party.

Gang Green. It got in my blood.

Oregon went on to win the Fiesta Bowl decisively that year - it was before the stupid BCS had its own championship game, and those assholes were hogging the Rose Bowl. (Oh, and WE should have been in the championship that year anyway. Ugh. BCS.) I digress.

Since the the 2002 Fiesta Bowl, the Ducks have played in eight bowl games. And they've only won two of them, including a 13-point loss to Auburn in last year's national championship - a game I never thought any Oregon team would ever be in. Ever.

In fact, the Ducks are just 9-15 in the postseason, and our record against big-time, non-conference opponents is dismal as well. See also: LSU (2011), a 1-6 all-time performance vs. the Sooners, and an embarrassing o-8 record facing the Buckeyes. I could go on.

It seems like every year I get excited for the football season, only to have it end in the extinguishing of my candle of hope by the cruel fate of college football. The Ducks reeled me in before I was aware of the breadth and depth of their crushing historical performance. Sadly, it's too late.

After a particularly embarrassing loss to BYU in the 2006 Las Vegas Bowl, I was crying into my beer at the local pub in Boise and ran into another Duck.

He told me this heartwarming story:

I graduated from Oregon in 1994. It was a great football season and the campus was alive with Rose Bowl dreams. One day before one of the last home games of the season, when we knew we could make it to Pasadena, my friends and I ended up in a seedy bar in Springfield. It was dark and smoky, and there were just a few old men at the bar drinking together. My buddies and I somehow got started on the Ducks, and one of the old men said, "I graduated from Oregon in 1957, the last time we made it to the Rose Bowl. We lost to the Buckeyes that year. I've been a fan my whole life, and there's one thing you always have to remember: The Ducks are always gonna let you down."

Ever since Idaho Duck told me that story, it has haunted me. The old alum had almost a half century of Duck fandom under his belt at the time, and these were his inspirational words on the eve of the '95 Rose Bowl? (Of course they lost the '95 Rose Bowl to Penn State.) So, that's it? Is my own fandom futile? Should I have defected to Florida when i had the chance?

Now we face another try at the big stage. It's not the natty, but it is the granddaddy of them all, once again.

We are healthy. We are fast. We have LaMichael and Black Mamba. We aren't prone to punching opponents in the face anymore. We have plenty of options for outfits. We won't have the unnaturally large and dazzling teeth of the opponent's quarterback blinding our defense (we only lost by two scores, BTW). We are in our home territory.

Could THIS be our year for the big bi-decade bowl victory?

Oh, old class of '57 Duck fan of wisdom and experience, my candle of hope is again burning for the Ducks and an end to their complete self-destruction on the big stage. As I know yours is, too.

Despite our better judgement, we remain hopeful....again.

Go Ducks. Win the damn Rose Bowl.

an education

Saturday didn't go so well for me. As soon as the captain switched off the fasten seatbelt sign on the ground in Reno, I had dug the iPhone out of its case, jonesing for a hit of the Ducks vs. USC score.

Holy, train wreck. I think the F-bomb hasn't been dropped that many times on an airplane after a safe landing ever.

As I attempted to curl up into a ball of depression in our hotel room, Dan stood me on my feet and pushed me toward the elevator. Food and drink. I was too depressed to drink and refused to sit within 20 yards of SportsCenter. It was time for a distraction.

Craps. Real money craps.

It was my first time playing in an actual casino, but with my $60 and a basic understanding of the game provided by years of coaching by my father, I made some great bets - and had a hot roll - leading us to triple up our cash and walk away happy. The free gin helped.

I began thinking about how damn cool my dad, or D as generally referred to, was/is to teach me the importance of craps. "You go into the casino with the mindset of winning, not having a certain amount to lose. Craps has the best odds. Put money on the pass line. Buy the odds. Start there. Read a book" and most recently, "Get the App," he said.

Damn he's cool. Which brings me to the top five practical things I've learned from D:

1. The rules of American Football. For me, it started at age nine with a feigned interest in whether the blue shirts were beating the white shirts as an attempt to dodge Sunday service. If I could entrench myself on the couch with D, then maybe mom would leave me home. On those rare occasions that I won the battle, I began driving D crazy with questions about this pointless tacklefest. He obliged, leading me to a real interest in the long bomb, Joe Montana's physique (ca. 1991), a series of college and career choices, and today, an unhealthy emotional reaction to the W-L record of a certain Oregon team.

2. Basics of casino gambling. See above, re: craps, but it doesn't stop there. When you roll out the Chutes and Ladders in our house, D runs for the hills. However, his "life is too serious for games" mantra doesn't apply to serious games. As soon as I'd mastered solitaire, I was ready for family blackjack night. Christmas Eve? Real money poker. I am definitely not high-stakes, but I've killed even the cockiest of the husband's buddies in many a friendly round of Texas Hold' em.

3. Practical applications of semi-automatic weapons. All good dads teach their kids the basics of gun safety. I'm not a huge shooter, but am glad to know how to safely not shoot myself and others. My learning went slightly beyond basic one day as my teenage angst threatened to destroy me, and possibly cause my family to go insane. D, tired of my whining, decided that it was time to experience the theraputic benefits of rapid-fire destruction at close range. I gripped the gun, extended it out, and squeezed one into a coffee can about 10 feet away. "Again!" Pop. "Again!" Pop. "Again, again, again, again!" Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop. And zen. Relief. Don't fu*k with me.

4. (Big) Safe driving. When I turned 16, I didn't get the big red bow on the little silver car. I got the keys to the 1985 Ford F-350 XLT. Stylish in black and primer grey, this beauty was geared for towing trailers. Start out in second, after a long engine warm up, and if it doesn't start flood it and pray. My 100-lb. self climbed into my giant ride and could handle even the nastiest snowstorms, after properly turning in the hubs and shifting into first. I tried driving mom's Honda, end ended up upside down in a ditch. I think keeping me behind the wheel of something large until late 2006 helped me become the (grandma-ish) driver I am today. It was a graduation from D's driving school last summer when he said (after a successful trans-continental journey in my Ford Escape pulling a 20 ft. Bayliner) that, "I told my friends about your trip with the boat. I don't know if any of us would have done that. You're awesome, H." Magna cum laude.

5. The handling of large animals. I am not a farm girl. More of a hobby farm girl. I grew up on eight acres with my own horse, an affinity for mud pies, and the requirement of participating in 4-H. D hated equine, but was happy to help me raise a few bovine. It's a crazy program: you give a fifth grader a 900-pound cow, wild, and angry that you've cut off his balls. You tie him up and brush him and feed him until he's lulled into passivity, gentle and kind, and a healthy 1,300 pounds. Then you tell the kid to go out there and sell Buddy for burgers. Cue crying. Early in the wild and angry phase, D did most of the work, until he introduced me to the nose ring. The lesson: When you're dealing with a large wild animal, feed him until he's fat and happy to do whatever you want, or grab him in a very sensitive place and drag him where you want him to go. P.S. I'm still talking about cattle.

So, thanks D. I'm certain there are another million paragraphs out there waiting to be written on your wisdom and experience, but let's just start with these.

Love, H

unacceptable

i think i mentioned more than a year ago that when i'm busy using my words for good (i.e. income generating wordsmithing), i often don't bother with the using-the-words-for-evil. and, i may have also mentioned that my life now consists of telling anyone who will listen stories about my pets (sigh - but they have been sleeping together on the same bed at night, so cute. they're sharing a bed and lizzie just growls herself to sleep. wanna see the photo? ugh. i'm doing it again.). boring.

here are some news briefs that are a tad too long for Facebook, but i would still like to remember them:

Redneck Underwater Yacht Club

Against my will, Dan signed me up for scuba class in August.

"It's only one weekend..."

False.

It was two full high-value summer weekends with faulty equipment, a man dressed as the Fruit of the Loom apple as our instructor (wetsuit: TMI), a trip out to sea in a boat that smelled of fish guts ("Sorry, guys, the dive boat is in the shop"), and, on par with the charm of North Carolina, a day trip to Fantasy Lake Scuba Park. I don't know whose fantasy it is to sink a bus, some trucks, and an airplane that reminded me of my 5th grade viewing of Hatchet into an old rock quarry and then go "tour" them underwater, but it's f*ed up. I'd rather risk my life with the sheels (half-shark, half-eel. they're real.) in the Atlantic than ever go back there. but, now i'm certified to scuba. sort of.

from hero to zero

i like to boast about my experience in airports - i used to know exactly how early to leave the house to be there on time (Stansted, Luton, Heathrow, AND Gatwick, b*tches!), where to park, where to get coffee, where to get cash, where to get booze, and knew how to pack as to never (ever) have my luggage pass the weight limit to the point where RyanAir tried to rip out my gold fillings to pay the excess baggage fee (they needed the money to tape up their windows). EB and i even stocked our carry on with Polish pottery and dreams of Yarek to the tune of 30 lbs. and were able to skirt our way past the Poland security system. the trip of legends.

so, after a year long hiatus from the friendly skies, i had to make a business trip to Madison, WI.

the result: i looked and felt like a complete douchebag.

1) almost panicked at check-in because i "forgot my passport." really?

2) my bag was 8 full pounds over the limit, so i had to shuffle all my goods around in front of the rapidly growing, and impatient, queue behind me so i could still smuggle two bottles of Italian wine to AT. everyone saw my undies.

3) i wore difficult shoes, a belt, and a watch. everyone saw my hideous blue and black polka-dot socks.

4) i was one of those people with a suitcase and 11 plastic bins (one for the items above), and one for each my jacket, my laptop, my camera, my purse, and my humiliation.

5) i had liquid in my carry on. EFF! with all of that baggage shuffle, i dropped my makeup bag in my wheelie bag and suddenly my eye makeup remover was being confiscated. luckily i'd been too cheap to visit Clinique, so it was only a minor blow.

i was off balance, to say the least. but i made it to madison. and, despite an annoying cancelled flight on the return, i also made it home a little more composed.

opposite land
earlier this summer, i wrote about my black thumb and my $500 salad. as a bit of an update, i am not sure it has so much to do with me, as it has to do with the fact that the land i occupy is in a vortex of some sort. after everything died, i sort of gave up. (i did get a bountiful harvest of tomatoes and my dreams of pesto definitely came true. otherwise, i stuck to flower pots and flipping my garden boxes the bird when i passed by.)

lo-and-behold - it's OCT-effing-TOBER and i've recently harvested three giant eggplants, a bowlful of okra, three salads worth of rocket (arugula), hot peppers, enough basil to make a pesto smoothie, and now my bell peppers, watermelon, cucumber, cabbage, and zucchini all have tiny fruit on them.

WTF?? we're about t-minus seven days from the first freeze of the year, and my garden is acting like Rip Van Winkle, "Oh, good morning, is it time for the summer harvest?"

no. it's not. now i just get to watch my 2-inch bell peppers and 6 ounce watermelon freeze on the vine.

stupid garden.

here's that picture of my pets.