It is a quiet day in Yamhill, clouds hanging low in the morning sky, heaving with unspilled rain. The weather Nazis in Portland promise sun -- no, they promise warmth -- and are liars. It remains cold and May is tomorrow. Mayday. Our anniversary. 13. The number that dare not speak its name.
Yesterday we clammed at Longbeach, Washington. It is a damned long beach. 26 miles. An okay beach, but I know Seaside. I know, for example, that year to year there is a small shifting tidal creek that burrows a trench in the sand and makes for deeper water. At Longbeach, it caught me off-guard. I almost fell off the edge and into the surf. It wouldn't be the first time, but like I said, it isn't warm out. I'd heard tell of the huge razor clams from the Ilwaco and Longbeach area. To me, they seem pretty much like Oregon clams. I mean, they are clams. There just isn't that much variation. I was not impressed but I don't think the clams cared. Traffic was hideous. I guess Washington is conservative about how often they open the beaches for this sort of thing, and everyone from Oregon was up there, cramming their vehicles across that long bridge from Astoria to Washington, and the first stop across the border -- to pee, to get a day-license, was slammed. And only a single outhouse. Seriously. I stood in line: men, women and children ahead of me, and waited my turn. This is no longer easy for me.
Work is work. With my business office manager (BOM) off on maternity leave, I am responsible for portions of the work better left to the mathematically-inclined. I spent Friday afternoon trouble-shooting my first bank deposit with a machine that wouldn't recognize my computer. It doesn't make for interesting blogging, but bless the folks at our Home Office who have this stuff down. It isn't that I've never done payroll or deposits or paid bills -- just the supporting technology has changed a lot since I've done it all. I can add.
The dogs are outside and too quiet. Kurt is napping. All is well.
Sunday, April 30, 2017
Saturday, April 01, 2017
and if that wasn't bad enough
Kurt took me out to dinner after the late afternoon cold sun broke through the gloom. We took the bike to Margaritas. We've given this new Mexican restaurant in Carlton three tries. Three. No more. This really has been a fool's day. Fajitas should not be made with bbq sauce. This is written down somewhere, I'm certain. My pal Nikki says it takes a certain kind of fuck it to ruin Mexican food.
side show
I'm not that nice of a person. We all know this. I am pretty nice to the people I love, but generally have disdain for the public. Except at work. At work I am good at people.
This morning, this Saturday, it was supposed to be a bit dreary in the morning, then, for the first time in a year, give way to a mostly sunny weekend. That's what they said. They promised, therefore I am entitled. I would work in the sun until my shoulders were pink, I'd have rings around my eyes from sunglasses, I'd be happy. And warm. Oh, and dry. I'd made a hair appointment to cover the wet part of the day, then was free to enjoy the remainder, playing in my yard.
I thought I'd run into Mac early, McMinnville, our "closest town of any size" to get some cheap wire fencing to keep the dogs out of the strawberry patch. Walmart has that sort of thing. So I got ready, drove into town before my hair appointment, and pulled into Walmart. I'm wearing my overalls and bogs for the gardening part of the day. The sunny part.
It seemed like everyone was moving in slow motion, limping like zombies, only doughy and white, dragging one foot or the other through the parking lot. Then, too suddenly, the neon lights of Walmarche, ablaze in the morning gloom. Greeting me as I entered was an exceptionally fat woman with green and purple hair sticking out in pigtails, wearing a neon-yellow Walmart safety vest. Beside her was a tiny midget with hair dyed as yellow as his own little tiny safety vest. The size contrast was impossible to ignore as the morning zombies milled around, flailing canes and carts and baskets and walkers. I know it is bad of me to be afraid of midgets, but there it is: part and parcel of my fragile psyche.
I found the fencing, loaded more than I needed in the cart, and, head-down-not-making-eye-contact, made my way back through the store to the checkout. I was hurrying, I'll admit it. With side show clowns still watching the door, I rushed out the nearest exit. People were chasing me. I sped up, then heard some guy yelling at me. Apparently I'd left my 60.00 cashback at the register. I had to make my sheepish way back through the fat lady and her circus monkey, get my money and leave through the proper door. The midget called out as I left, "Goodbye, Sir." It took all of my self control not to tell him to fuck off. Really. All. ew.
I got to my hair appointment only to find I was an hour early. I cancelled. Fuck it. I want to go home. It is truly April Fool's Day. And the sun still hasn't come out. Not one single warm day this year and it is April. I am enraged. I am entitled. I am cold. I'd settle happily for a false spring.
This morning, this Saturday, it was supposed to be a bit dreary in the morning, then, for the first time in a year, give way to a mostly sunny weekend. That's what they said. They promised, therefore I am entitled. I would work in the sun until my shoulders were pink, I'd have rings around my eyes from sunglasses, I'd be happy. And warm. Oh, and dry. I'd made a hair appointment to cover the wet part of the day, then was free to enjoy the remainder, playing in my yard.
I thought I'd run into Mac early, McMinnville, our "closest town of any size" to get some cheap wire fencing to keep the dogs out of the strawberry patch. Walmart has that sort of thing. So I got ready, drove into town before my hair appointment, and pulled into Walmart. I'm wearing my overalls and bogs for the gardening part of the day. The sunny part.
It seemed like everyone was moving in slow motion, limping like zombies, only doughy and white, dragging one foot or the other through the parking lot. Then, too suddenly, the neon lights of Walmarche, ablaze in the morning gloom. Greeting me as I entered was an exceptionally fat woman with green and purple hair sticking out in pigtails, wearing a neon-yellow Walmart safety vest. Beside her was a tiny midget with hair dyed as yellow as his own little tiny safety vest. The size contrast was impossible to ignore as the morning zombies milled around, flailing canes and carts and baskets and walkers. I know it is bad of me to be afraid of midgets, but there it is: part and parcel of my fragile psyche.
I found the fencing, loaded more than I needed in the cart, and, head-down-not-making-eye-contact, made my way back through the store to the checkout. I was hurrying, I'll admit it. With side show clowns still watching the door, I rushed out the nearest exit. People were chasing me. I sped up, then heard some guy yelling at me. Apparently I'd left my 60.00 cashback at the register. I had to make my sheepish way back through the fat lady and her circus monkey, get my money and leave through the proper door. The midget called out as I left, "Goodbye, Sir." It took all of my self control not to tell him to fuck off. Really. All. ew.
I got to my hair appointment only to find I was an hour early. I cancelled. Fuck it. I want to go home. It is truly April Fool's Day. And the sun still hasn't come out. Not one single warm day this year and it is April. I am enraged. I am entitled. I am cold. I'd settle happily for a false spring.
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