My Friend is HIGH-larious

Laura Strahan is awesome. If you dont believe me, just read her blog: http://backhandspringsthroughbridgetown.blogspot.com/ OR take a gander at the smattering of photos of the two of us I'm putting on this post. I just read the last couple posts over my morning coffee at work and nearly choked...twice...on the caffienated brew while reading her quips and anecdotes about life, love, and everything inbetween including reality television and elementary school hot lunches.

2008 - In Prague on the Charles Bridge. We spent some time abroad in college. Me in Ireland, Laura in London. We hurrahed in the Czech Republic!



2009 - Cutting our cake at our domestic partnership ceremony. Just kidding.

2007 - Tegucigalpa, Honduras. On a Habitat for Humanity trip over Spring Break.

She's also my roommate (and has been since 2006) and we've spent an inordinate amount of time together in the last about seven years of our life. Wait, really? Seven years? Did I count right? 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011...yep, that's right! Laura would understand that I couldn't fully depend on my mental math skills because one of our initial bonding moments was in our first week of our freshman year of college when we both FAILED the math placement exam. As a result, we had to take a class titled "Great Ideas in Math," where we learned about things like infinity, and mobius bands, etc. It was basically a remedial math class for students that really should never have to get within coughing distance of numbers, fractions, or anything else that requires the use of the left-side of the brain. We are more creative types, which is why for our final project, we teamed up and changed the words to "Love Shack" to talk about mobius bands and danced in class. The professor loved it, A's for us!

Senior Year - Christmas party. 'Nuff said.

Anyway, read her blog. It's friggin-awesome. And she can do backhandsprings. And she uses terms like "mega chump" in relation to Kim Kardashian's newly-minted husband, which I LOVE.

Over and out.

Plug for Brad!

I don't think Brad reads this blog...likely because I'm so manic with my posting frequency, but he's one of my best friends and a pal for life. He's also a talented artist who just graduated from U of O's Allied Arts Program this spring. Currently you can find him grilling up a mean burger and other various foods at the Rogue Brewery in the Pearl.

Last night, one of this pieces was featured at Church!, an event that happens the last Sunday of each month in Portland. It was a lovely evening of good local food (gorilla meats), good beer (Hef and a Widmer IPA), sweet beats, and awesome art. Brad was one of three artists featured. Below is a picture of his installation, which I won't take away from by trying to tell you what the greater mean was behind. But there was one, and it was awesome. You should ask him.

He'll probably be a famous very sought-after artist someday. He also makes stickers...if you ever are in need of that!

My Weekend Camping

I went camping this weekend with Chris, Celia, and Russ. Oh, what a time we had! We roasted hot dogs, drank heavily, floated on Detroit lake, slept in tents, rummaged the forest for fire wood (and sequentially made a roaring...er, pretty good fire), rented a fishing boat and boated on the lake, etc. etc.

The weather was perfect, the company was superb, and I look forward to doing it again soon!

PS- A Bota Box is a kind of boxed wine I HIGHLY recommend. It was four bottles in ONE box, is easily mobile and delicious. Beats the hell out of Franzia.

PPS- On this trip, for the first time in my young life, I killed an animal while driving. Actually, Chris killed the baby bird while driving, but it was traumatic for me nonetheless. But wait...my murderous story doesn't end there! After driving over the bird and mourning for the appropriate amount of time, which I deemed to be 3 minutes, I went on with the evening. Then, when I woke up the next morning and went to the car, I saw two tiny birdy feet and some feathers peeking out of the bottom of my license plate. Yes, my friends, the bird had gotten stuck under my license plate. It's like the universe wanted me to REALLY feel bad about the road kill we had created. Next time I'll know--3 minutes isn't long enough to mourn.

And some pictures!

Weirdos. At Mongold State Park eating lunch.

Sorry Chris, you weren't read. But I'm posting anyway!

Another Birthday--Beats the Heck Out of the Alternative!

Birthdays. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, it happens to everybody once a year. I’ve always been a fan as I think it’s nice we celebrate someone on the same day each year by showering them with presents, eating a piece (or three) of cake in their honor, and singing them a Happy Birthday song—the same song that has been sung for generations. Now that I think about it, I have no idea when the “Happy Birthday” song originated, but I’m going to say generations because I feel it evokes sense of tradition I’m trying to get at here.

Sometimes I wonder: “Hey, why am I buying you a present just because you were able to continue to live and breathe for another 365 days?” And then I remember…because it’s just what we do, and I scold myself for asking these questions, which of course have no suitable answer.

My birthday is in the smack-dab middle of summer—July 16^th.  And each year on that day, my mother will tell a varied version of my day of birth 1987. She’ll regale me with the details of when she went into labor (early in the morning), not to mention our house was being re-roofed and the downstairs bathroom was being remodeled. I’ll spare you the rest of the gory details.

 This just-concluded birthday was the big 2-4. 24 years went by much quicker than I thought. This year I went home, spent time with my family, and went to Salem’s Art Fair at Bush Park. The Art Fair is an annual community event and one I hold in high regard. Though I’ve never actually bought art at the art fair, I have purchased my fair share of sno-cones, greasy noodles, and beer. 

The next weekend I celebrated the big day with my friends in Portland, where the highlight of the evening was seven women (that’d be us) went to a parking lot of an empty office building and set off fireworks.  Unfortunately, there’s some skiddish folk among us who got too concerned about a potential noise complaint and we cut off the ‘works at about 10:30pm. Call it an aftershock and/or muscle memory from high school—AKA authority is scary.

Oh! On a final note, I got a crock pot as a b-day gift. Can’t wait to make some crocky-rocky meals.

The Blog of the Living Dead

It’s been about seven months since I posted anything on this blog. Seven months is a long time…seven months ago Osama Bin Laden was still alive, the WikiLinks thing was a big deal, and Justin Bieber had not yet hooked up with Selena Gomez. I’m positive that anyone who read Notes from Phase Four has left it for dead, deserted in the hot and dusty desert of the Internets. Alas, here it is. It’s baaaaack--the undead!

I’m coining my hiatus as the “Sabbatical for Session.” Indeed, for the last 150 days or so I’ve been commuting each day to the state capitol in Salem to carry out my job as a Legislative Aide for a certain awesome State Representative during the 2011 legislative session. State politics is an interesting beast, and it's too soon to tell if I will look back on it with positive thoughts. As for session, I enjoyed the opportunity to affect change (however small it was) and to be a part of the democratic process. Plus witnessing the policy debates and conflicts between parties, chambers and legislators was never boring. I'm such a glutton for gossip.

I have one or two—-nay—a ten or twelve thoughts on what I did not enjoy. However, I’ve decided to not discuss any them in this very public space. Why, you may ask would I deprive you of my thoughts? Because I'm paranoid, that's why.

But I digress. I’m going to start blogging again, just in time for summer in the great Pacific Northwest. It's very exciting. Don’t expect too much too soon though…I’m just getting my bloggers feet under me again...

The Overrated Files

This post will be one installment of a series of things that I find to be overrated. I don’t consider myself a wholly disillusioned person--in fact, I think I have quite a rosy perspective on life a good 60% of the time. However, there are things in life that have been revered for years that I believe to be too highly valued. The first of these I’d like to discuss…New Years Eve, the Dick Clark holiday we have come to know, love, and loathe.

How many years have you spent the weeks leading up to December 31st mulling over different parties, outfits, and groups of people to spend it with so you can ring the New Year in the proper manner? This holiday has become so pressure-filled to party it up like no other night of the year that we have made it all but impossible to succeed. Each year, the anticipation of a night of popping champagne corks in some glamorous venue falls short, and I end up at a house party 15 miles outside of downtown unscrewing twist-top champagne bottles with a bunch of people I don’t know wondering “Why the hell am I ending one year and beginning another one with you people?” There are always a slew of parties that everyone wants to hit, which results in there A) needing someone to stay sober to drive the group to and fro, or B) sitting in a cab at midnight while gridlocked in New Years Eve traffic.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been to a few great New Year’s parties (ahem 2006-2007), but pretty much every year is a letdown. Furthermore, there’s the mandate that you find someone to kiss at midnight. Granted, if you have a significant other, a date for the night, or have even put the effort into scoping a certain someone out at whatever party you land on for the witching hour, it is still ridiculous that the night needs to culminate in a lip-lock. You either end up kissing your best friend or a stranger who has had a few too many vodka cranberries and decided to take some liberty with the opportunity. Either way, it’s not great.

Think about it…this holiday became so difficult to figure out that our country decided to create a giant ball of lights and confetti and then drop it on the masses Times Square in New York City. Oh, and that’s another thing…why would anyone ever want to stand in Times Square and watch the ball drop? To me, that seems like an incredibly claustrophobic experience. I’d rather watch it from inside a building looking down at everyone with a drink in my hand thinking “Suckers...”

Aside from the actual celebration aspect of New Years Eve and how it never seems to quite live up to the expectations in your head, another overrated aspect of this holiday is the New Year’s Resolutions. These resolutions are created, usually written down, and inevitably broken within four weeks. Nothing makes you feel more like a failure that giving up on the resolutions you were so committed to a few weeks prior. Some of the tried and true resolutions of course are: “I’m going to lose 10 pounds,” “I’m going to quit drinking,” “I’m going to help the needy.” Well folks, you might lose 10 pounds, you probably won’t quit drinking, and it’s possible you could end up volunteering as one of those bell ringers next Christmas for the Salvation Army. But let’s face it…none of that will have much to do with the fact that you resolved yourself to do it last December 31st.

In conclusion, New Years Eve is overrated. Suggested Remedy: This year, go to bed at 8pm and wake up on January 1st with the feeling that you ended your 2010 correctly…in a REM cycle.

How to Lose Friends in a 24 Hour Fitness

This is a post is about a situation I found myself in today. Please stop reading now if you love old people, because I may throw around some disparaging words at their expense tonight. Don’t get me wrong, I fully support AARP, pay into Social Security, and call my grandma on her birthday. I also know that my elders are supposed to be ripe with wisdom, ready to enlighten the generations that come after them. And most days, I’m all for this. But today is not that day. In fact, today is the day that old people take the Jello-mold Bundt cake for being generally obnoxious in my life. Specifically, the nutty old man at 24 Hour Fitness. He is likely hovering around 75-years-old and clad in royal blue spandex and the thinnest white tank top you ever did see.

Let me set the scene for you: I am upstairs next to the free weights rack stretching outside of one of the rooms that the gym holds classes in (classes like Zumba, Step, Yoga, Pilates, etc.). Let me repeat for clarity’s sake that ALL I AM DOING IS STRETCHING. I’m not lifting weights, I’m not using a machine, I’m not jump roping, and no there is no balance ball in sight. I am simply stretching after my run minding my own business. I’m likely 5 feet from the entrance of the room a Step class is going on in. I am bending over stretching my hamstrings and all of a sudden I see a stranger’s face. Not just a stranger’s face, a creepy/wrinkly old man face!

Then, to make matters even worse I hear a voice that says, “Excuse me, Miss?” I am startled and jump a little bit, but I figure, hey look at this very old grandpa of a man, I’m sure he just has a question about where he can find a defibrillator or a vending machine that dispenses Ensure, so I smile at him and ask how I can be of assistance.

This...was a huge mistake.

“Well, you should never stand so close to a door way,” Grandpa said, “because it’s very dangerous and people could come along and smack you in the head with the door.”

Libby’s Inner Dialogue: Oh…Ok…well, that’s really not very likely, sir.

“I mean, this club could get fined by the Fire Marshall for having something blocking the entrance…” he continues to lecture me.

Libby’s Inner Dialogue: Um…really? I mean I know I’m not the tiniest person in the world, but I really don’t think that I could ever be considered a hazard or an object blocking an entire exit. And furthermore, couldn’t I just TAKE 3 STEPS TO THE LEFT if there was a sudden fire, flood, or some other disaster that would warrant a mass evacuation of 24 Hour Fitness?

But he was incessant…

“You should really know better, you are putting your life in danger, or your child’s life…” he said, so close to me I could smell is old person stench covered in Step Class sweat.

This was where he crossed a line and I nearly lost my shit right there next to the rowing machine.

Libby’s Inner Dialogue: Uh…excuse me, ya geezer, but did you just tell me that I am endangering the life of my unborn child?! Two reasons I am offended:

1) He just insinuated that I am an unfit parent. Though this assertion might be true I find it ludicrous that he thinks I would actually put my baby, IF I EVEN HAD ONE, on the floor so it he could whapped by people, doors, or anything else.

2) I consider Mr. Rogers an asshole for saying I look like I could have a kid AT ALL.

After these comments I just stare at him….

“Ok, thanks for the heads up,” I said.

He stared back at me, looking completely unsatisfied by my lackluster response. He shook his head, pivoted on his left heel and walked back into his Step class, which had been going on without him for the last 5 minutes while he has this conversation with me. What the hell did he expect me response to be, anyway? Did he want me to create a PSA about the dangers of stretching too close to a doorway? Give me a break (and not of a Kit Kat bar).

Normally I don’t talk back to people in situations such as this, but I was so enraged that he even had the gall to come out and lecture me in the first place. It was the most ridiculous, senile thing that has ever happened to me in 24 Hour Fitness. After he went back inside to his step class on his high horse, I took 2 steps forward, closer to the doors, and did a few more stretches. The whole time looking right in his royal-blue-spandex-covered-saggy-old-man-ass direction.

Revenge. Is. Sweet.