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.

Paper or Plastic?

There are a lot of ways to earn a buck in this world. Some do it honestly, logging man-hours behind a desk, behind the wheel of a tractor, or behind a cash register. Others do it dishonestly, deciding to ditch the timesheet and opt for selling drugs, hawking loot on the black market, or kickin’ it old school and just stealing from others.  Whichever way one decides to come by their livelihood really is none of my business (unless, of course, they are stealing from me). What is my business, however, is deciding what I wanted to make MY career out of. As a kiddo, there were just two professions I desperately wanted my turn at: a grocer, and a taxi driver.

Normally, when a kid ponders the jobs they might like to have in the future, their dreams are fraught with extravagance, money, and fame…an astronaut, a professional athlete, a famous actress, or the President of the United States to name a few of the most popular. But what fun is this blog entry if my dream job as a child were any of those boring things?

Uh, let me answer that question for you—it wouldn’t be any fun.

In the interest of your attention span I’m just going to discuss my dream to be a grocer in this post and a taxi driver in a separate one. Oh, and let me make a quick disclaimer for any grocers or taxi drivers that may be reading this: Even though I don’t want to be your colleague anymore, I beg of you to please not take a offense to my change of heart and start putting my eggs on the bottom of my grocery bag or taking me the longest route home possible from a night out at the bars. DON’T be a douche.

My dream of being the check stand lady at Fred Meyer began at the tender age of 6 years old.  And boy, did that dream it hit me hard and did it hit me fast. I have always had a thing about keyboards—I’m not sure if it’s the clicking noise the keys make, or if I just like pushing buttons, but it satisfies an inexplicable urge in me. For example, whenever I go to an establishment like Best Buy or Office Depot, I immediately scoot myself on over to the computer section upon entering and type mindlessly on all the keyboards to figure out which one has the best clicking noises. It’s fantastic, even if no one else can understand it. Another symptom of this OCD tendency is that I type unnecessarily hard on keyboards. On more than one occasion the following conversation has ensued:

“Libby, are you mad at the keyboard or something?”

“Excuse me?”
“You’re just slamming on those keys…”

“I just like the way it sounds slash feels, alright?! You’ll never understand me. Friendship over.”

End Scene.

As a result, I have totally glorified the machine known as the cash register. I so badly wanted to be able to glide the items through the scanner, clicking those buttons, and flipping up those little levers that hold the cash down.

Furthermore, I think that cashiers at grocery stores are given a unique glimpse into the lives of the American public. The food that people buy probably reveals a lot about them. Because folks, let’s be real…when the woman in line ahead of me at Freddy’s is buying (I kid you not) 20-25 frozen meals and 7 boxes of Ding Dongs with a side of cheesy bread and a 2-liter of Mountain Dew to wash it all down, you can infer a hell of a lot more about her lifestyle than simply that she prefers not to ingest artificial sweeteners. I’m not going to make those inferences for you because I don’t want to be completely rude, and I’m also going to assume my audience is intelligent enough to figure this one out. But that’s neither here nor there. 

Let’s fast forward to the day that my dream died. The happy façade of being a grocer came to a crashing halt upon my first experience in the checkout line at Winco. I had never been to a supermarket establishment where you bagged your own groceries (though I had always dreamed such a day would come). So when I saw that we got to bag our purchases ourselves, I was overwhelmed with both anticipation and excitement….

Cut to 5 minutes later and I realized that bagging groceries TOTALLY SUCKS. After that, my love affair with a any sort of profession in the food service industry died a quiet (but permanent) death. So thank you, Winco. Thank you for not only your cheap groceries and delicious bulk candy that I sometimes steal a piece or two of, but thank you for turning me off to being a grocer forever, because I don’t think I would have liked it.

This post is about backpacks.

Big in the 90s? Found on almost every adolescent in the country? Ring a bell? If you thought “backpacks” (or if you looked at the title of this post…come on people) then ding, ding, ding! You’d be correct. If you think backpacks are a mundane subject, then you sir or madam, are mistaken.  Full of nostalgia and old school charm, backpacks are making a comeback...or so claimed by InStyle.com.

My Mom, sister, and I ALL wearing backpacks on a trip to Europe. 

Please note I'm ding the One-Shoulder Sling!!!

But, uh…did they ever really go away?  As far as I’m concerned the backpack never lost its value because it provides an unmatched purpose and practicality. I donned this awesomely functional style throughout my formidable elementary and middle school years, throughout my days at South Salem High School, and even during most of my college career at Linfield (a backpack was a must when I ventured the few miles out the Nicholson library for a cram sesh). But these soft shells you carry on your back didn’t come in handy just when you wanted to carry a few books around. Oh no, backpacks were a fashion statement.  And that’s what I’m going to tell you about. Hold on tight.

Like lots of kids in my generation, I was branded a Jansport backpack consumer at a young age. Jansport is like the Apple, Inc. of the backpack world. Circa the early 1990s Jansport was the shit—unparalleled by its competitors. However, as the years went on it became outdated and other companies outpaced it (enter North Face and the Microsoft). Although Jansport will never be the phenomenon that Apple is today or have the “cool” factor that Apple so mastered so well, Jansport will always be the original backpack creator in my mind.

Jansport packs were the basic and classic. They originals came in a few colors and only had two pouches. Everyone who was anyone had a Jansport backpack in my 4^th grade class, and if you were the luckiest of kids, Mom would buy you the matching Jansport pencil organizer.

Elementary and middle school came and went, and as I entered high school I quickly realized that Jansport was out, and the North Face was in. I didn’t attend the local middle school that most of the other kids did, and therefore I knew that if I had any chance of climbing the social ladder and surviving the next four years of hormones and cliques, I would need to get me a North Face backpacks in a big, big way. North Face backpacks had multiple pouches with tons of zippers and cool hidden pockets. Some of them even had water bottle holders on the side of them and had buckles that went around your waist and across your chest….just in case those 3 books you needed were TOO heavy for all those pre-pubescent shoulders. Rest assured folks, my parents did not smite me and I did end up getting a NorthFace backpack. I don’t EVEN want to think about what would have transpired if I hadn’t have gotten my hot little hands on that thing. But I digress.

Sidebar: One backpack trend I never understood was the roller backpack. Rolling bags should be kept strictly to airport travel. Just sayin.

Not only was it the kind of backpack that one owned, but it was also the way that you wore your backpack that decided your coolness factor. There was the one-shoulder sling (this one-shoulder look was also popular at the time with overalls). Another “cool” way to wear a backpack is what I like to call the “Pack Sag.” I never really understood this (but God forbid I didn’t buy into it). The Pack Sag is when you loosen the backpack straps as far as they will go, and then let it swing in the air behind you. Why, I think to myself, would we do this? I have no idea. We looked like a bunch of assholes with our backpacks hanging below our butts. Then again—guys used to wear their pants below their butts, which is also completely idiotic. Not sure what it was about the early 2000s but apparently sagging was the word. Let me just say this: The older I get, the less I want things to sag. So boys, pull up those trousers, and ladies, buy some SPANX.

Finally remember the “Tiny Pack Trend?” Those tiny packs made fashionable and popular by cult teen hits a la like 10 Things I Hate About You: 

“See there’s a difference between ‘like’ and ‘love,’ because like my Sketchers, but I love my Prada backpack.”

“But I love my Sketchers…”

“That’s because you don’t have a Prada backpack!”