28 HOURS IN DAYTON

Due to some friends seeking their future in the rural back of beyonds, and my loving them in spite of it, this last weekend found me in the among the burning embers of Dayton. That would be the somewhat lesser known Dayton, WA, population 2,700.

Wildfire season is not being kind to this little agrarian corner of Washington state, so despite the peaceful nature of the quaint town (though I’ve been told it claims citydom) it felt a little more like I’d spent two days in a bar pre-ban instead of the pollution free air one comes to expect when you venture so far off the freeway.

The trip didn’t start out quite as planned, though it’s not like I didn’t expect morning to come hard when I went out to see a friends band the night before. Nursing a well earned hangover, I was rather proud of making it from consciousness to highway speeds within 30 minutes. Downtown is so peaceful at 8 am Saturday morning, it was with a slight pang I sped past it unimpeded by traffic.

It was in North Bend I made the rude discovery that one can’t get a Big Mac at 9 AM. I was tempted to debate this travesty with the squeaky voiced window boy, but as this appeared to be the most efficient McD’s I’ve every seen, they were quick to appease me with a handful of additional hash browns to keep me from tying up their system and messing with fulfillment minutes. Duly noted for the future.

While I didn’t get to see any actual blazes, and only occasional glimpses of firefighters, the sky started looking hazy by the time I reached Othello (mid way there).

The dual purpose of the trip was for my best girlfriend’s birthday/housewarming, and it seemed to be successful on both sides. I thought I was rolling in a bit late, but I was actually first to arrive and get the grand tour. I had seen their little chunk of equity a couple months ago when I signed on for a laborious weekend of ceiling painting (two story vaulted, and I just don’t want to talk about it) and they have worked absolute wonders. It is adorable, and can imagine being deliriously happy enjoying a home of one’s own, until the nagging realization that the nearest decent sushi spot was at least four hours away. The color scheme is creative and warm, and it’s a perfect space for two people.

Other party members arrived throughout the day. Snacks were everywhere, and drinks were almost magically refilled, making it an ideal way to pass a hot afternoon avoiding the sun. My eyes started tearing up from the smoke, but some drops more or less cleared that up.

For dinner we ventured all the way to Waitsburg (nine miles) to the WhoopemUp Café, and it was awesome. The mushroom soup was almost literally orgasmic. So good. If I hadn’t already ordered what turned out to be a smashing entree, I would have requested they just roll the whole pot out to me.

By Sunday morning the smoked had rolled in thickly again, and the sense that I was camping nearly a badly maintained fire was. We rolled on down to an odd A frame shaped diner for the most delightful greasy breakfast. I went with the special hash browns with gravy. It’s the ham that makes it special. So greasy, with minimal nutritional value, and hit the spot perfectly.

At 4 pm I was doing my best not speed excessively on the way home. It’s at least 4.5 hours door to door, avoiding stops, and for an activity that involves no actual activity, it’s quite a draining drive.

So my weekend consisted of a lot of driving, good friends, fun conversation, delicious food and plenty of drinks. Not a bad way to start wrapping up summer.

MAKE IT WORK

Oh my goodness! I can’t believe I’m just discovering that Tim Gunn, a genius element on Project Runway, has a blog. He is as hilarious in his write up and critiques of the designers and their work as he is on the show, only with less editing.

It appears he has a podcast as well. I am so subscribing to that.

DO YOUR OWN LAUNDRY

There was a possible bomb threat at the port today, which is close enough to my office to raise alarm. It’s good to know that there was ultimately nothing threatening and that procedure seemed to go smoothly from detection to inspection of the possible problem, but I want to know why we ever let the container into the port at all. The container was flagged due to irregularities in the reported inventory of oily rags.

Why are we importing oily rags? Do we not produce enough oily rags of our own? Is there some call for oily rags that I’m blissfully ignorant of? Do we perhaps offer an intercontinental laundry service, shipping out freshly cleaned rags?

I’m just saying, I would have flagged that cargo as suspect well before the x-ray.

NORMAL I TELL YOU

Slim or lithe have never been words one might describe me with. Despite my tendency to bruise easily, I’ll never be mistaken for a delicate flower. I’ve accepted, and even attempt to embrace, my plight as a voluptuous gal, though the media’s evil scheme to undermine women’s body confidence isn’t entirely unsuccessful.

In actuality I fall pretty solidly across the national averages. Average height, weight, shoe size and hair color. Unfortunately, as has been a common theme in recent press, these averages aren’t exactly healthy. Despite my mediocre physical make up, it has been alarming to refer to national institutes of health charts putting me in the obese category. While feelings about body image might fluctuate, that’s a term I’ve never imposed on my psyche.

And today I shall celebrate another measure of my normalcy. A good health program within the office has brought a barrage of diet and exercise literature, the occasional healthy snacks and weight measurements for both personal information and study data. It has been satisfying to find out that my diet and exercise routine of late is within acceptable levels, but even better than that, I have a NORMAL body fat percentage! I am normal! The little, digital machiney thing says so, and for that, I do a little dance of joy. I guess I’ll even keep going to the gym.

COMPULSORY OR OPTIONAL

A recent Salon article looks into the fact that apparently American’s have fewer friends. This of course raises the issues what constitutes a friend, what’s keeping us from them and is the new rise in solitary lifestyles a choice or circumstances.

I don’t feel I suffer from a shortage of friends, though some of my best confidants have scattered across distances and life situations, leaving a bit of a void in my localized social circle. While I value having quality time to myself, such time has been in abundance of late. It seems comforting to know I’m not alone in my situation even if it isn’t entirely by conscious choice.

TIS THE SEASON

I must admit that over the years I have absorbed more than one interest from the boys in my life. The first boyfriend was obsessed w/ Alice in Chains, and could mimic them well enough to impress my moody college freshman sensibilities. Another taught me all I know of colloquial Spanish and left me with a wistful fondness of muted cigarette smoke covered in breath mints. The latest hobby achieved by osmosis is football. To be fair, that one had several seasons to imbed in my psyche, but now I find myself actually counting down to even preseason games and tracking Seahawks injury status. Though I refuse to be sucked into the stat madness that is fantasy football. I just feel like it takes one out of the game.

Exposure to sports is not new to me, since my dad was an avid fan of every season’s offerings and I got to tag along to a multitude of intramural activities w/ him about town as a tot, so I don’t have to play the dumb girl role in figuring out what’s happening, most of the time. I’ve also watched enough pro sports to know which ones I like, and which I will only watch when bored in a bar. Football is in, hockey has moments but is much better live, baseball and basketball are mind numbing, and I refuse to recognize golf as a legitimate sport.

Then there’s soccer. I can probably draw my earliest appreciation of the sport to the perpetually secretly smoking Spaniard, who took me to my first pro soccer match in Valencia. It was an awesome game, with fans going crazy before players even hit the field and he let me keep his team scarf that I wear to this day. However, this summer’s World Cup combined with an exhibition game between Real Madrid and DC United coming to town opened a whole new passion for me. Add in a number of incredibly hot players, and there are few sports I find more enjoyable over a nice cold hard cider backed by the din of hooligans gathered in mass.

With school well behind me, there has been little left to mark the passing from summer to fall beyond the weather. Now, Seahawk’s preseason starts in August and the Euro pro leagues get rolling in September. I’ll miss the sun, but bar time just got a lot more entertaining.

SOLA, YET SUFFICIENT

I like to go out at night when the four walls of my apartment begin to fold in on me. I refuse to stay in solely because I lack companions to go out with, so over time I’ve developed a report at with my local bar of choice. It’s practically around the corner, so it makes venturing out at will easy as pie. It didn’t take long to be recognized at my pub of choice, but it is only recently the staff actively interact on my behalf. I hardly have to order a drink when I role in on weekend evenings, and I’ve even been bailed out from a few over eager suitors by the bar staff, earning my undying affections.

For this evening's adventures I did find was a collection of people who have also made connections with this bar due to living in the area. Sometimes the appeal of Cheers becomes all to clear in the draw of the bar one can call home. All in all, a fun evening, well worth the venturing out in the first place. Can’t really ask for more as a single girl on the town these days.

SANS PLANS

The air smells fishy tonight. It has for the last couple of days. Not the alley behind a seafood restaurant fishy, but that faint seashore smell you find near docks or beaches when the seaweed is drying. Considering it’s a port city, the seaside scent isn’t unusual, but I only notice it occasionally. I’m not sure if it’s when the air is still or if the wind is just blowing from a certain direction, but I do like it. I’m not much of a water person, but I enjoy the effects of living on the sound. The weather, the relaxed pace and the occasional smells.

It’s another Friday night of me trying to figure out what to do and lamenting my non-existent phone-a-friend list. Started the evening getting most of the way through a library book that I find myself identifying with a bit much. The unsettling oddity being that it’s borderline Lad Lit and the lead character is quite moody and depressed, despite signs of measurable success, going through the clichéd ‘what have I been doing with my life’ shtick. Could be just my current mood, but it’s disturbing how much I’m identifying with the many intentions to call people that go unrealized and the overall loss of connection with one’s own life.

I’m tempted to just whole up w/ a couple of movies for the rest of the night, but I think I might venture at least as far as the local. Since I ran into some of the bar staff on my contemplative stroll back from the coffee shop, and they’re my primary neighborhood acquaintances, I might as well close out the night in my customary location. Might as well maintain the connections I do have.

ON THE PROWL

I’ve been ‘the single girl’ for well over a year now. Since I was ‘the girl whose boyfriend never went anywhere with her’ for far longer than recommended, it didn’t seem to affect interactions within my social circle. However, maintaining a year plus of solitary status is starting to show wear.

There are many occasions where one is expected to be paired, like dinner parties, weddings and Sunday morning breakfasts. It seems evenings out sans date are acceptable as long as one is accompanied by a circle of friends. (A current lacking in localized pals leads to my pathetically holding down a barstool trying to not look morose, but that’s another post all together.) As I’ve no intention shutting myself off from the world just because of my shameful singlehood, and I’ve proven entirely inept at rustling up casual dates thus far, I’ve been flaunting the two-by-two requirements with abandon. In addition to serving as the third, fifth or eleventh wheel about town, I’ve become the highly suspect, single vamp lurking dangerously around the fringes of the wedding party.

I swear I’m just happy to take part in the couple’s happy day and honored to be considered among their intimate friends and family. I do not have designs on any tenuously available groomsmen, and it’s truly OK if I leave the reception as solo as I arrived. My penchant for daring necklines is not to be taken as a sign of aggression. They are just very flattering, and I wouldn’t be opposed to meeting new, handsome people, while looking my best.

37/38

I qualified to donate blood again!

It was a close call in the Bloodmobile today. After the drop didn’t sink on the first run, the spin test spit out the results of 37 in one and 38 in the other. I very little idea of what these numbers mean beyond qualifying me to give up a pint and reminding me that I should get back to regularly taking my multivitamin. I believe the minimum is 38, so I totally squeaked by.

Then there was the trouble with me being a slow bleeder again. Not nearly the man handling and poking around of the last draw, but we’ll have to wait and see what kind of bruising occurs. It took over 20 minutes to squeeze out a pint, but I shall not be denied my success.

It seemed pretty crowded in there today, with a wait to get a bench, so I hope it’s a good collection day over all. I still don’t know what my blood type is. I’m pretty sure I should have received a card in the mail, so maybe I need to sort through the mountain of mail on my table more thoroughly this week.