on the tenth day of christmas, there was no room at the inns

After the most raucous shopping trip in recent memory, during which Reilly smuggled Bella into the store and Quinn popped into Figaro's and picked up a large pizza on his debit card and ate it in the car, Debe and I realized we had never eaten in our lives. Starving on a Sunday night in Salem = death, and the lower the blood sugar gets, the more complicated simple things become. First we hit Venti's, a favourite haunt, where the atmosphere was unusually casual, as was the food, which was all set out buffet-style. Todd and I have known Dino for eons and I was a little taken aback by the presentation. That's when a small, friendly, and hella drunk girl announced that it was the staff christmas dinner, omg omg omg. We laughed so hard. They were pointing to ham-ish things and rolls, but we accidentally left in and drove away in 7.5 seconds.

Next up, Los Arcos, where I've been known to dine six nights in a row, possibly as recently as last week. It was 8:31pm, and the sign said they closed at 8:30, but I decided it would be so incredibly charming to walk in, oblivious to their signage, and ask for some food in Spanish that we would have our enchiladas pronto. But the charm was lost on them entirely and they replied by saying there was no food anywhere in West Salem. Hay caramba!

Suddenly I was struck by all sorts of genius and suggested we watch some shit movie at Northern Lights strictly for the food. Debe has never been. I told her to pull in so I could peruse the flicks, and she literally pulled right up to the handle of the door, prompting two security tweens to rush out. They were somewhat worried, I was nonchalant. They explained the last time someone pulled up like that it was to jack the register. (Um, hello, all for $90.00?) "No," I said, "She's not robbing you, she's from California," and we left, laughing again, but closer to death. Finally, just as I began to think of the Donner Party, I remembered Thompson's...DUH! It's no longer the crown jewel of my culinary circuit, but damn that fish was good, and we met some great people, from whom we were seated a centimeter away, so we're obviously family now.

So after an hour of inn-hopping, we finally found our dimly-lit manger. Oh shit, did I just liken the Baby Jesus to some cod? I'm going to post this really fast so I don't know.

on the ninth day of christmas, i just have to know...

Has anyone ever tried to rush through World Market?



If you haven't, here's a hint: Seven minutes equals approximately $461.00, sweet Jesus.

on the eighth day of christmas, these are the people in my neighbourhood

Today my to-do list apparently took steroids. I kept staring at it hoping I was drunk, rabid, or in Wonderland, but it only grew and grew. The worst is dreaded returns. Christ. After waiting in line for almost a half an hour at Fred Meyer because the darling tween ahead of me paid for a $400-something money order in ... and this is not hyperbole, pre-counted pennies, I made my swift return, fought off mean thoughts, and set out to get last minute things for Reilly and my mom. Only, when I turned around, I saw this little Who head staring up at me, with an even littler face staring out of her coat. Yep, it was Reilly. She and Todd were shopping. I asked her if she was supposed to have Bella in the store, and she shrugged mischievously. I told her to say she was in training to be a seeing eye dog if anyone asked, lol. She decided to come with me, so my plans to finish up her shopping were dashed. No worries, we'd just round out my ma's loot right? Right. Until my mom came around the corner. She wasn't holiday shopping. No. She just needed some Benadryl, one random item, to slay my plans and render me with an un-crossed-off list. It was totally surreal. I kept expecting to see Quinn, who was home alone, pop around the corner, having hopped a bus, just in time to see the horrific rubber chicken with a squeezable prolapsed rectum Mom and
Reilly insisted on getting for his stocking. So with Fred Meyer being of no use to me, we went to dinner. With Bella. She stayed in Rei's coat but then I got slack in my sneakery and asked Rei to go to up and order something to take something home for Quinn. That's when we got the boot. We were only halfway through our dinner, so that was totally awkward. Thankfully, they were slammed so we just stayed put and finished eating, which I realize is not the holiest of virtues to teach my daughter, who got a wicked case of the giggles, but neither is commemorating the Baby Jesus with a rubber chicken whose innards you squeeze out.

(Disclaimer: I'm no pro, so for now, video footage posts wherever the hell it wants to post, regardless of how I set it.)

on the seventh day of christmas, i dig chicks

So I love these shriveled, borderline disgusting upper-echelon Circus Peanuts, which dress up as chicks and rabbits for easter, and are called, coincidentally, Chicks & Rabbits. I take a lot of heat for this, but there are the occasional converts which make all the heckling worthwhile. But I only love the yellow ones. The blue and orange ones are bitter and they can suck it. I buy the bags that have the most yellows and don't reduce myself to the lowly colours until the tremors kick in. Some people claim there is no difference in taste, and they are obviously impaired. Yellow Chicks & Rabbits rock my world, for a few weeks each year.

The other night I stopped by Jacob's to deliver his birthday gift and was ushered inside by his uber-friendly, hospitable mom, and promptly served half a Costco cake. I hadn't been there in some time, and it was really nice to catch up with Jacob and Jen. Suddenly talk turned to my notorious lust for the Chicks and before I knew it, Jen appeared with this santa bag of yellow ones. I was so afraid I was dreaming. Last year she bought like 25 bags after easter for five cents at some Bi-Mart in Newport or something, and as the year wore on and they shared with others, they confiscated the yellow ones pour moi. I was so touched. I mean, love see no colour, but my taste buds don't have eyes, they just know yellows when they get them.

Thank you guys so much, and no, no fistfuls, I'm savouring them. Nonetheless, if this goose is going to get fat(ter), what better way to pack it on than these glorious Chicks. Jacob and Jen, you rock.

on the sixth day of christmas, i went coastal

Amidst the merriment and mania of the holiday, a swell of nostalgia has been pulling me to my old hometown, Newport, earlier this week. I spent two days there, peering deep beneath all the superficial changes to reacquaint myself with the city that changed my life a hundred times over.

Upon pulling into town around 9pm, I went straight to my high school. It's been 14 years since I was a Newport Cub (holy shit), and I was surprised by the emotion it stirred. Once upon a time the campus quad was the epicenter of my life, and now it feels like a wrinkle in time.

When we moved to Oregon in 1990, we planned to live in Monmouth, but a day trip to the ocean led us to Newport, a chapter of our lives that spanned 13 years.

I failed to anticipate that our most viable eating options late at night would be to knock on someone's door, but thankfully, we went down to the Bayfront and ended up at the Rogue, which was utterly surreal. Our host, a Quaker named Reuben, was also the manager and he welcomed us warmly and announced us that he's not capable of making most of what was on the menu. It was great like that. I asked for the turkey sandwich and he winced. Upon further perusal, we looked quizzically at the macaroni and cheese. That, he said, he could make. Probably. It took almost an hour and a half, and he had to read directions, and we were nervous. Meanwhile, our Sprites were running low and well, someone had to keep this place running:



La Quinta, Newport's finest:


My first Newport sunrise in 11 years:


Breakfast at the legendary Georgie's Beachside Grill with my fellow NHS classmate Dawna and two of her kids, Cody and Savannah:


Our first house in Newport, in Nye Beach, where we lived just long enough to meet Mesina across the street before moving into something bigger. This house has been renovated, as long as we're being honest:


Who knew that in this humble abode lived a 12 year old who would prove to be one of my eternal heartstrings. Can you believe this Mes?


Next up, Sand Castle Toys, specialty store for some christmas shopping:


It took everything I had not to buy this, sweet Jesus:


Our house in Makai, where Mom and Chris lived for 13 years:


The first apartment Todd and I ever had, with three month old Quinn. Ours was bottom front, #1:


The view from our apartment, I used to walk my Quinny along this road:


The cottage on Cottage Street Mom into which Mom moved once the nest was mostly empty:


Newport's Performing Arts Center, where my bff Zach and I were cast in A Company of Wayward Saints our senior year (I will never post pictures of that, lol):


Pizza Cucina, Newport's finest pizza parlour, where Todd and I met in 1994:


The world's loooooooooooooooongest Stephen King corridor, especially amusing when one is sopping wet just out of the hot tub, wearing a hotel towel (a.k.a. washcloth):


Wi-Fi rocks, but tracking down the grave site of an old friend who committed suicide sucks, especially when you discover he's all the way in Union. Worse still is having enough friends who have taken their lives as to warrant a day of visiting sites:


Visiting the grave of my dear friend from high school, Brian. My heart will never fully mend from this loss. Brian confided his intent in me the day before he took his life. I was 16, and terrified to reach out for him. I was afraid of seeming dramatic. I decided I would force him to join me in speaking to someone the next day but he shot himself that night, just as he said. Having just lost Jon, and spending the evening trying to find Stefan, was overwhelming. I have never driven faster to see my kids:

I took a rose to his grave on the 3rd of every month for almost five years, but it has been so long it was like realizing it for the first time:


This was a much-needed trip, seeing old friends, old teachers, old haunts, our homes, and reminiscence that was at times astonishing, dismal, foreign, thrilling, and sad. If we hadn't come here for the day back in the spring of 1990, Quinn and Reilly wouldn't exist. So it was all worth it.

on the fifth day of christmas, gone too soon

It is with great pain that I say goodbye to one of my oldest, funniest, sweetest friends, Jon. We were close since we were 12, and like several other young men I knew from middle/high school, Jon has taken his life. I'm sitting in Newport, equadistant from the graves of Brian and Stefan, friends who also succumbed to the seduction of suicide, in the city brimming with nostalgia, and I am stricken with grief. (I had to post this grainy obituary picture because my yearbooks and photographs are at home.) Jon was bombastic just like me, and he had a tender heart, which he denied, just like I did. I never would have survived the hour-long morning bus rides without him, in his seemingly hundreds of #22 jerseys. And he was the first boy I ever kissed.

The last time I saw him was in Newport just after the birth of his son, and he was so proud, so emotional, so tall. He loved Clyde Drexler, I liked Kevin Duckworth (if I had to pick a Trailblazer, that is), but we agreed, when our babies were born, that they in fact, were the most magnificent things on earth.

He died the day before his birthday. He left his cherished son and daughter, their mama, and a small class of 105 Newport High School alumni, who are now down nine.

It's too late for words. There aren't any. There are memories, what ifs, and gravestones at which to stare. I was going to visit Brian's tomorrow, but yours won't even be in the ground yet Jon, and you shouldn't be either. Fuck.

Jonathan Damon Strickland: 1976--2009.

on the fourth day of christmas omg bridgeport

Surprise surprise, iPhones are not all they're cracked up to be, hence our trip to Bridgeport. But waiting in line with geekery wafting so thick through the air as to make me feel like I rode in on a Dilophosaurus wasn't a total loss, for serious, like, Olympic-caliber shopping awaited us. Somehow these architectural outdoor malls feel like towns, so aesthetically pleasing as to convince me that their Borders is inarguably superior to ours. And the trolleys? What could possibly be more charming than a trolley?

I scored big time here, and it's killing me that I can't post what I got.

Um, iPhone cover options anyone? They should ban libras from the store, as a health hazard, since a libra would surely die here:


I suddenly hate my white Shuffle and require a rainbow of them. Immediately:

A phenomenon of babyhood. How can a baby who can't even reach his feet get his boot off? I resisted the urge to point this out to his mama because she was tan, didn't smile, and was wearing UGGs, as was he. I figured it would be easier for her to replace them than for me to feel fat and stupid speaking to her. That is, of course, assuming she was the bitch I suspected. She may have been wonderful. But I was overstimulated and opted not to risk it:


It only takes a 17 foot horse to make me feel small:


Oh shit:

The Borders, lol, and a sliver of a trolley:


Next we got sucked into this ridiculous, surreal red caboose candy shoppe wherein they peddle the same shit as Candy Tyme (which we occasionally patronize despite the painful spelling), but it was a caboose! I took the grand tour, by spinning around, and was going to leave, but I spied these candies that Quinn lerves. He buys them at the downtown mall, and I've never seen them in Salem, though I have never looked either. Suddenly the aggressive mustachioed sales lady thrust bags into all our hands and it was understood we were not leaving without candy. She said we could mix-and-match, that they were all $2-something...so I got Quinn a few of these sweets for his stocking. Seriously, like nine of them. Or seven. I went to pay, and it was $5.69! What? I decided my size and incredulity were formidable matches for her brute manner and heavy Slavic accent. "No," she explained, "I say de candies was $2-(whatever) per korta-pound. Dat is what I say." "Um, no you didn't, you said they were all $2-(something). Who prices things in quarter pounds?" "I do." I expected wrought iron bars to slam down or something. I was incensed, more at the obvious trickery than the price, though $5.69 for seven or nine pieces of candy made me want to steal the Roast Beast and all the Who Hash. I repeated that her deceit had not gone unnoticed but ultimately I was stuck because ethically I could not just leave the bag. Now I'm stressed because I've never caught whether or not he has a favourite colour of these, forgot to call Reilly, and spent $1,000.00 on them.

But Urban Outfitters makes everything better. And I mean everything. We weren't in the door five seconds before I had twelve books in my hand, was laughing my ass off at the novelty flasks, and expecting Jack McFarland to spring out from any corner. I also found the most thrilling, unexpected gift in the world for my boy. I'm so excited I can't stand it.

It was freezing as a motherfucker, and I got fleeced at the candy shoppe, but I always prefer the days wherein I love this season to the ones in which I hate it. I definitely loved this, the fourth day of christmas.

on the third day of christmas, i had a date with quinny

One of my favourite christmas traditions is my children taking it upon themselves to shop for our entire family, including (gasp!) each other. They've been doing this since they were about four and five. Saving their own dough, arranging rides, buying their own wrapping paper, not to be revealed until christmas, and having their own wrap-session in their room.

Quinn has been saving his moolah for a big-ticket item, the cost of which could save an impoverished nation. I've had mixed feelings about it, but he has worked hard, and we allowed him to save for it. As such, I was slightly surprised when he asked me if I could take him shopping.

"I thought you were saving for (the ridiculous item)?"

"Oh I am, but obviously I set aside money for christmas Mom." Swoon.


My kids have remarkably good ideas--often better than my own--and it is so much fun to see them emerge with bags, especially the ones for each other.
We went to the mall, had lunch at Quinn's favourite restaurant, Young's, and then pretty much zig-zagged in the least fuel-efficient manner possible, all over the rest of the town to complete his list. Then he joined me for some of my shopping, because we were having too much fun to go home. This kid, he's incredible. He is closer to manhood than childhood, and while this evokes feelings of melancholy, I am so proud of him. And he still kisses his mama in public.

on the second day of christmas, my true loves were inked on me

I've wanted this tattoo forever, and tonight I just couldn't wait another second. Some people are suckers for random images, patterns, or colours, I'm a sucker for my kids. I love you Quinn and Reilly.

The sound grates after like 2.5 seconds:

Voila!

You guys have made me the happiest mama, I am proud to wear your names.

on the first day of christmas, where the hell did this puppy come from?

This is Bella:


She is the newest member of our family. Reilly has wanted every animal in the universe since she was born, and has been asking for all of them since she could speak. Specifically, she has wanted a dog. Todd and I have long told her we wouldn't even consider such a preposterous request until we bought a bigger house with more than a smidge of property.

Cut to real life. Our family has experienced a considerable loss recently and Todd and I decided that it would benefit the kids greatly to focus on this teeny tiny creature who makes them so happy. Reilly calls her "my Bella button."

Epic win!
(Except for the part where, despite brand new cameras and iPhones, the only thing available in this moment was the much-maligned house phone I'm pretty sure we bought from a brontosaurus.)