Jitterbug's Beat

Because sometimes, you just have to punch a turkey leg.

So JW and I are addicted to Man vs. Food.  Ever watch that show?  Between the Travel Channel and the Food Network, I get to experience everything I can't [afford to] do: (a) jet off to Europe on a whim (b) eat all the gourmet food I want to and never gain weight (thank YOU Giada) and (c) work for Charm City Cakes.  On M vs. F Adam travels all around the U.S., eats food at all sorts of places and engages in eating contests. Every guy I know is thinking, why don't I have this job?  It's right up there with the guys who test Madden Football for a living.  Recently we watched Adam attempt to take down 15 milkshakes in a half-hour.  Just as I was asking JW, "What happens if he actually get si--"  and all of a sudden the screen read "CENSORED" and when it came back on, he was cradling a bucket.  Oh Adam.  15 shakes is too many.

Recently we watched the Portland and Seattle episodes  of the show - did you know you can get married at Voodoo Donuts?  That's right ladies, step on in, they pull one of those homeless fellows off the street and BLAM, you're married.  There also seem to be a lot of pirates that dine out in Portland.  In Seattle, Adam went to Red Mill Burgers.  World-famous onion rings.  Burgers so good they look like they're dripping burgery goodness right out of your TV screen.   That's bu-R-gery goodness you sickos.   So in JW's travels for work, he was lucky enough to stop at the Red Mill for lunch!  Check it out.  I missed out on this one.  And is that a SHAKE?  Oh I was so jealous!  Aren't you?!

Correction.

The "white van" in the post below apparently was not a white van at all.  It was some other type of car.  I could have sworn, as the story unfolded, that I had at least five confirmations of a white van.  But, as it stands, that's the only constructive criticism I got. Say it with me people:  Not. A. White.  Van.  Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

What to do with a long weekend.

Camping is fun.  Camping in LaPine is more fun.  Camping in LaPine on the motorcycles with 16 of your most entertaining friends is the mostest fun.  That's what I did over Memorial Day weekend.  We took off Friday morning 'round 10-ish after loading up the bikes in JW's front yard, and it was a mustache kind of morning.  My gloriously, ridiculously mustachioed man woke me by pouncing on the bed on all fours, like a kid at Christmas.  Do all men do that?  We managed to get packed up with nary a fight - extremely unusual in high-pressure-time situations - and on our way.  

I got about 114 miles into the trip before things started to feel not so great - you take a sunburn on the face, and then blow dust, rocks and bugs into it at 70 mph.  It's involuntary dermabrasion.  Anyway, I was fortunate enough to have another rider to take over for me the rest of the way to the camp site, and I cooled off in the car with my friend A.  

We'd been worried while riding into town - there were SO many cars - we were thinking the campsite would be packed, but we completely lucked out and found enough space for everyone to be together.  I would NOT say that was lucky for anyone camping probably within a 50-mile radius of us... yes, we're grownups, but we're loud.  Some of us burp, others swear, and all of us laugh, LOUDLY... and what can I say?  Except sorry, folks, who came out there for peace and quiet and nature over the long weekend... I want you to know I felt guilty, but not enough to stop having a blast.  Really especially sorry about that day we all roared off on the bikes at 2 in the afternoon, lulled you all into a false sense of serenity, then blasted back into camp around 2 in the morning just as raucous as ever... yeah, my apologies.  

Anyhoo, camping involved a rousting game of Apples to Apples - poor Tongo for having brought it, being teased mercilessly about having brought a "board game" to camp... "Aw what the hell Tongo?  Board games?  That's so stupid..." et cetera, et cetera... few dozen beers later... "This game is SO COOL..."   Breakfast at the truck stop, where our waitress was great, but all the rest of the locals (?) looked at us as if we were ... well dirty bikers dressed in black and leather... which we were, but still, we're harmless!  And quite nice.  We rode into town to take over the local Karaoke bar where we sang rousting renditions of such classics as "Push It," "Ice Ice Baby," "Islands In the Stream," "Looks like we made it,"  and many, many more.  On the way, M ran into some relatively fresh roadkill and arrived at the bar with (seriously) meat on his face.  His poor wife's pantleg was covered with what used to be deer.  And his bike fared even worse, as we discovered in the morning when we picked it up.   There's actual deer jerky in that picture there.  Poor thing.

    

We went to dinner at this great old-fashioned honest-to-god cowboy ranch called the Cowboy Dinner Tree.  It's a big sit-down few-course meal consisting of salad, homemade biscuits, giant glasses of either iced tea or pink lemonade, either steak - and I mean STEAK - or a chicken, yes an entire chicken, dessert and the best cup of coffee I've ever had in my life - just so happens they boil it in a never-washed-out copper pot that's been aged for about 40 years or so.  The cream actually mooed at me.  Note to self: I simply must start aging a copper pot.  And get a cow.

We left dinner, and got a little ways down the road before one of our bikes inevitably ran out of gas.  Ask the two wives and one girlfriend sitting on the side of the road here, which one of them asked which one of the men at the gas station if they needed gas.  Now try to figure out which one of the men said "Oh of course not, I'm fine on gas."  Then ask yourself, how many men does it take to figure out how to siphon gas from one motorcycle into another?

 

And one more adventure on the way home with a very angry old man in a white van, deadlocked traffic and motorcycles - my gallant friends took off after this uber-pissed old man swerving around in a white van who cut them off and swiped a fellow motorcyclist's bike, then refused to pull over and exchange information. The van took off through a parking lot going about 25 mph - a CROWDED parking lot, trying to get away from the bikes, but the bikes kept up and stopped him in a dead end.  The boys "gently" albiet loudly and forcefully emphasized that he'd hit this man's bike, and he needed to exchange information.  And he did.  And away they went.  We arrived home dirty, dusty and tired on Monday night - and after sleeping on the ground for four days, wouldn't you know I couldn't sleep a wink in that comfy bed?  Oh and a side note, JW and I can't sing duets.  But it never keeps us from doing it.

 

Nothing in particular.

I've been reminded as of late how neglectful I've been here on my blog - as it is, I have a lot of other internet ventures on my plate, and felt like I haven't had much to say.  But that not having much to say certainly backfires from time to time, and then you wind up spilling all sorts of things to a bewildered mailman who only asked you directions to first and main.  Not that I did that.  What?  I didn't. 

So let's see.  I just realized I've been saying something wrong for years.  It's not "for all intensive purposes."  It's "for all intents and purposes."  Who woulda thunk it.

Earlier this week I was plagued by something I haven't had since I was a teenager having what I'm sure was way too much sex... a bladder infection.  The first thing my doctor said to me when I got there was, "You're getting older, it's going to happen a lot more."  Seriously?  Do you like getting punched in the mouth by a girl who only slept half-an-hour the night before while precariously balanced on the toilet?  Then it's your lucky day! 

And there may be something in the water at the office, but everybody seems to be pregnant.  My good friend has just found out she's pregnant and she's 38 and totally excited - both of us exclaimed that the dog was going to be so happy to have a baby in the house.  I've also decided that she will be the cutest pregnant person on the face of the planet.  It seems to go one of two ways - either you're glowing and adorable, or you've just been run down by a truck.  Were I ever to have children, which I don't think I were, I'm betting I'd be the truck way.  Besides, every time I even think about kids, my boyfriend starts gravitating towards the nearest flight of stairs. 

Pedicures.  I've discovered I really just don't like them.  As many times as I've tried, they tickle, then they start stabbing and digging with those damn tiny sharp instruments that look like they only belong on a dentist's tray ... and sure my toes look pretty, but are they supposed to burn like that? 

Valentines Day.  Normally sucks - mother of all non-holidays, but I got a REALLY cool PBR shirt - a nice, tight, girlie one, from the boy, and we took the coolest drive I've ever been on since I moved to Oregon - up to Stonehenge!  It was beautiful - a great day, finished off with dinner in Hood River at the Full Sail Brewery.  I'm a happy girl.  Had a serious Stand By Me moment when we were walking along the train tracks to better view an old mining transport shute up alongside the highway.  We'd seen a LOT of trains already that day - I was already on high alert.  You'd be amazed how quiet those damn things are when they're a lot closer then they seem.  JW confirmed my horrified expression with a casual "Yep, that's a train," and I practically climbed a tree.  THEN get this - when we were leaving Stonehenge, we were driving by this huge field of cows, and we flew past... then JW and I both kind of looked at each other like... did we just see that?  He threw the car in reverse and we backed up to this big, enormously pregnant cow who had... well ... something hanging out of her backside that looked like a grocery bag filled with ... well ... red liquid.  It was really, really strange.  There were a lot of calves out in the field - including one who was still totally all wet and wobbly and being nudged by its mama.  We watched this cow oddity for about half-an-hour - having no idea what that sack-thing was, but watching the cow pace increasingly around, pawing the ground, laying down then getting back up to pace.  She kept staring at us.  We finally left and upon returning home, googled "cow sack" - so it would seem she was in stage two of cow labor!  Anyway, I finish my post tonight hoping she is safe and sound with her new cublet.  Kid. Baby.  Cowling.  Cowlick. 

 

Martha Stewart, eat your heart out.

So I just returned from what was a most wonderful Thanksgiving trip home - Texas-home, that is.  Mom and I got to hang out and do our thing - which is really a lot of nothing - and is our absolute favorite thing to do.  We hung out, chatted, watched movies and BAKED.  Last year it was occasion for Penuchi Fudge Cake and cabbage buns.  This year we baked sugar cookies and made peanut butter balls!  In fact I'm eating some right now.  Mmmmm, balls.   

But check this out - I get a little ... nutty when it comes to my Christmas cookies.  See for yourself.

   

OH and I caught up on some jewelry work before my show coming up...

I got to have my fill of Christmas goodies and then run it all off on Thanksgiving morning during the 41st annual (2nd annual for me) Dallas YMCA Turkey Trot.  In short - or LONG I suppose I should say - damn eight miles - it was... oh fine, it was fun.  But my brother and niece are now marathon runners so a mere eight miles barely phased them.  It phased the hell outta me.  But the good news was I got home in time to watch a lot of really, really bad football.  Hm.  Okay all in all that sounds bad - but if you need a summary of how much fun I had, that smiling countenance below pretty much sums it up. My momma.  She's awesome.  I'm lucky.

Goin' down to Cali'.

If any of you out there have been following football this season, you'll know that my team Seahawks have not been having a great ... haven't been doing very ... can't quite get their groove... okay we're just flat out sucking this season.  So when there is a win, it's a pretty big deal.  And a win at an away game is an even BIGGER deal!  We were in San Fran for this win.

Beautiful day!

 

Hearty breakfast of McD's - technically Irish Cream and Buttershots with a splash of coffee...

  

LOTS of fans from home...

Mere mortal, meet Patrick Kerney.  Patrick Kerney, mere mortal.

 

Game day socks.

San Fran Fan - like ALL OUT.  She was there until the very end, still flying her freak flag.

 

GAME ON

AND GAME OVER!  WOO!

 

So for the rest of this trying football season, we'll have our memory of our smashing victory at San Fran.  Loving a team is like loving a partner - you gotta stick it out through the good and the bad, and just hang in there and support 'em!  Wait up there - I am divorced.  Hm.  Well I do like the Giants...

Deep fried, beer-soaked weekend.

Finally football season has begun and the spirit is alive and well ... despite the Seahawkscoming in at 0 and 2 right now, I'm convinced that they can come back and take back their season!  Convinced!  And I joined fantasy football this year too - the title is misleading.  Maybe more of an appropriate title would be "what-would-have-been-your-real-fantasy-team-if-nobody-else-in-the-league-took-all-the-good-players -before-you-got-your-turn-football."  Even that said, I've got GREAT players.  Great!  Payton Manning.  Joseph Addai.  Felix Jones.  Donald Driver.  But even with my great players, I keep on losing games.  I believe, like the dear Seahawks, that my current fantasy record 0 and 2 will also be left in the dust as I labor on, winning the rest of the season.  But if it can only happen for one of us, please lord that watches over sports teams, let it be the Seahawks.  Walking out of the stadium last night after our loss, reminded me of beating San Fran last year, and JW and I walking out of the stadium in our Hawks jerseys, high-fiving other Hawk fans in the stadium, reveling in the downtrodden looks on all those San Fran faces... last night it was the same thing in reverse.  I have absolutely no voice today from screaming myself hoarse.  So sad for our boys!  But they're nothing if not resilient, and Holmgren's got to know what he's doing.  They'll be all right. 

Earlier this weekend, Friday night, we rode the motorcycles out to Oktoberfest in Mt. Angel.  It was great fun - our friends acquired camping spots right on the edge of all of the fun and food, and we made a late night of it Friday and a lazy day of it Saturday.  The main clock tower rings, and these big, carved figurines spin to music, telling the story of Mt. Angel.  It's a giant, slightly racist cu-cu-clock.  Pretty sure Native Americans never dressed like Tarzan.  But, food, food, food - OH the food.  Deep fried Twinkies covered with ice cream.  Gross but accurate, quoting Nate, "It's like an angel pooped in my mouth."  Giant corn on the cobs sitting in a crockpot full of butter.  Cabbage rolls.  Pulled pork sandwiches.  Ice cream.  Elephant ears.  Spiced pork sandwiches.  Meatballs with sauerkraut.  Emergency ice.  The god of all good German food smiled on Oktoberfest.  Oh if only Molly had been able to join us!  I would love to see her take on everything - my camera went dead after two pictures!  And neither of those pictures were of food.  Sigh.  We will damn sure be going again next year. 

More tales from the road.

So 'round about the end of July each year falls the motorcycle campout, Run 21, sponsored by the southeast chapter of A.B.A.T.E of Oregon.  This campout is the third largest in the northwest, is for 21-and-older, no kids, no pets, and oodles and oodles of fun.  And this year, this campout, was my very first on my own bike!  Much to the shagrin of my traveling companions, however, as I learn the in's and out's of negotiating winding back highways at speed... I still have to ride with a babysitter, sorry JW.  My worst motorcycle experience of the weekend was clipping my skin into my helmet as we took off from the bar in Vernonia - now THAT smarts.  I still have a scar.  It's a cool scar.

 

This year, as opposed to last, we had oodles of our friends there - made for a lot more drunken revelry, lots more fun - some more conflicts, but still was well worth the gathering.  The first trip down to the main gathering stage yeilded the temporary loss of Mr. J.J., who we found on the stage, shirtless, in the tattoo competition, being cheered on by Mrs. J.J.

Our site rapidly became the place where other campers dumped their motorcycles - much to our delight - it sounds dangerous, but really it's just good entertainment.  Especially when you've been drinking.  The first stopped to gawk at Byron's custom chopper, and his girlfriend went a-flying.  The second, a giant Goldwing stopped to blare its radio, and while the rider departed to chat up a campsite nearby, his inebriated girlfriend's eyes rolled back into her sockets, and over she went, taking the bike with her. 

There was shotgunning... (yes, people, who are not me, in their 30's, still do it - I was as surprised as you!)

Ang won the first round (girls rule) - then there was the infamous double-shotgun, thanks to the always-clever JW, and that second PBR just didn't sit right with our Nate.  That little incident began the spew jokes - we were careful to put caution tape around Nate's chuck (which was later picked up by some idiot drunk woman - we WARNED her that tape was laying in puke, but hey, drunks will be drunks).  While we sat around the campsite, JW was looking a little green, rubbing his stomach, turned to me and fake-heaved into my lap.  Funny guy!  Then M. took a swig of red gatorade and spit that over in my direction, like a bubbling fountain, complete with sputtering, puking noises.  Nowhere was safe.  Later at the stage, someone had dumped a huge pile of noodles, over which Nate bent, heaving and wiping his mouth - I was (momentarilly) convinced he'd just chucked noodles in a pile worthy of oh I don't know - maybe if Chuck Norris ever puked, that's what it would be worthy of. 

The first night at the campsite, we actually got "shooshed" by fellow campers.  I believe at that particular time we were singing a fabulous drinking song "...he's happy, he's jolly, he's fucked up by golly..." and toasting (i.e. drinking) to everything everybody said "She wears tennis shoes, YAAAAAAYYYY!"  "Beer bellies, YAAAAAYYYY!"  "M drives a beamer, YAAAAAAYYYY!"  I tell you what.  I may be a small, slight girl, and I may ride a "Hardley" (thanks, Kirra, for that joke) but if you've just arrived at a motorcycle rally in your CAMPER, with your bikes in TOW, and you're bitching about the noise at 9 PM, then it seems to me you need to have a big group un-bunching of your panties, and shut the hell up.  You think a biker rally is loud?!?  Try camping at a KOA! 

And it just wouldn't be a blog entry if I didn't mention all the boobs.  If I had a book entitled "One thousand ways you hope your breasts will never end up looking," it would have been based on the sites of the motorcycle campout.  "Was THAT a boob?"  "No, that's a back."  "I may never eat again."   

What a great weekend.  And once the last of the PBR finally leaves your dehydrated, wrung-out system, you can count yourself as recovered and start planning for next year.  Can't wait.

 

A little catsup. Ketchup. Catch up.

I did let my birthday go by with nary a mention on this blog – shame on me!  Because the night of my birthday was the night of the Eddie Izzard performance, which was brilliant, and hilarious, and the great, epic giggle-fest of a show I expected, and JW had a great time as well, which meant a lot to me.  We capped off the night with the best grilled cheese sandwiches I’ve ever had, and beer, and got to sleep in the next morning.  A great way to spend a birthday.  We camped the weekend before (see this post) and gamboled around ...

Fort Stevens

and the Peter Iredale ...

 

 

And this strangely phallic Lewis & Clark monument...

 

And so on the 14th I turned 31, entering into my 32nd year of life, as my dear friends are so eager to point out ... at least my older friends, I should mention.  I received oodles of books, gift certificates for more, and I get to go spend some moolah at Victorias Secret and perchance might find a bra that isn't coming apart at the seams.  Seriously if you've ever watched a Victorias Secret commercial, you know that we girls go about clad in only bra and panties while we do things like ... lounge on the porch, ride horses, vaccuum (wait I've never seen a Victorias Secret model vaccuum - so scratch that last one) go to broadway shows, ski ... so really it shouldn't be any wonder that our underoos wear out so fast.  Also, making its appearance in a very sneaky ring box (hardy har har) was a key to my boyfriend's house on a Seahawks keychain.  Very sweet, and I think every boyfriend out there should get to play the ring-box trick, but, and this is important, only once.  I definitely didn't have the wrong idea - really more confusion than anything else - but I think that was a big step for him, so I'm not looking the gift key in the mouth.  It was great.  My birthday starts off a string of 31-turners in my group of friends, and I'm realizing now how much of a shift it's been since I used to be the baby of the group.  Hell, I may still be the baby of the group, it's just that now I'm no longer the youngest.  Har.

KOA, A-OK?

Last weekend I experienced camping at a KOA.  That's Kampgrounds of America to those lay-people, such as myself.  We were desperate to get out of town, and the boys wanted to surf, but some big ol' tree had to go and crash it's 11-foot-diameter-trunked-self through the Short Sands campground.  So the usual haunt was out of commission.  My crafty boyfriend Jason found us a site by Fort Stevens- at a KOA.  Being from Alaska, I'd never heard of such a thing.  Luxury camping?  Indoor pool?  Showers?  Hot tubs?  Sorry, but in my book, it's called a hotel.  Still, better than not camping at all, and off we went.  I'm sad to say, my initial impression didn't come off very adult-like - I took one look around at all the PEOPLE, and I mean people everywhere, and thought Oh Dear God No.  Screaming children.  The hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end.  Poor Jason.  I was nose-diving fast looking around - our "camp site" was in a block in the middle of the grounds sliced like a pie, in five sections separated by a wood fence.  Children to the left of us.  Children to the right of us.  Angry parents, fussy babies, random idiot teens.  Oh the humanity - and that's literal.  But a funny thing happened.  First night, once we got the tent pitched, I had exhausted myself to the point where I actually slept all through the night.  Then in the morning?  Free pancake breakfast!  Wow.  Okay, maybe not so bad after all.  We went to the beach where the rest of the guys met up with us, then stocked up the firewood and beer and headed back to the KOA.  We subsequently got our vengeance by drinking heavily and getting in an extremely loud and animated debate over bicycle commuters on Oregon highways.  I mean sidewalks.  All of a sudden the family reunion across the way singing Take Me Home, Country Roadby guitar accompaniment didn't sound so bad - especially when they finished up and Mark yelled, "DO FREE BIRD!"  And although I woke to the sound of the screaming baby, it was the cacophonous snoring harmonies by Nate, Byron and Mark that lulled me back to sleep.  Good times had by all.  Oh, and thanks JW, for my title.  You're a trooper.