Things that go bump in the night...

J and I just returned from a camping trip with our good friends, Kara and Patrizio, up at Lost Lake in the Mt. Hood National Forest. We've all camped up there together before and even have a favorite campsite (B11) - a two-bedroom site with a cozy living room and a secluded "opium den." This site is tucked back off of the road and has an incredible amount of privacy - as far as car camping is concerned, it's teh shit. Pretty much the only time we saw other campers was when we ventured out of our campsite, with the exception of about five or so who happened to walk down the road that connects our site to the rest of the world. And, with the exception of what sounded like a rockin' party a few sites down, we never really heard any of our neighboring campers either. Keep in mind that we camp on Mon/Tues/Wed typically - no guarantees of what the population there might be like on the weekend.

Besides the feeling of being secluded in the woods, we like the lake itself at Lost Lake. There are no motorized boats, jet skis or the like allowed on the lake and so the water is pristinely clear and doesn't taste nasty. The view from the middle of the lake, due to the proximity of Mt. Hood is pretty damn stunning. One of my favorite things to do at Lost Lake is to rent a row boat and take a bottle of wine and some cheese (well, and a loved one, of course) and row to the middle and just chill.

There are a few good hikes at Lost Lake: the perimeter of the lake is about 3 1/2 miles, flat, easy and in the shade (there are sometimes a lot of bugs, though); the Old Growth Trail is the sort of one mile jaunt/nature walk that might be especially enjoyable to small children or nonhikers; the Butte trail is our favorite - a moderate two-mile climb up about 1500 feet with a very rewarding view at the top (of course, the two miles back down is a cinch). Between the hike up and the hike back down, we saw fewer than ten other hikers on the trail or at the summit. I think they have some other trails there, as well, including another moderate climb, but these are the ones we like most.

On our first day, after establishing ourselves and getting our site set up, we gathered 'round the picnic table for our 'Happy Hour' (this is a tradition whenever we camp with Kara and Patrizio - I guess you could say that we're glam campers). While enjoying our martinis and appetizers, we happened to notice a plastic sign stapled to the picnic table. It was a warning about the presence of bears and that ALL food odors attract bears and that it was essential to pack all food, coolers, cooking equipment and dishes, as well as any cosmetics/shampoos, soaps, into your car at night. We all swear that this sign was not there the last time we camped at Lost Lake. Now, being experienced campers, we've always put our non-chilled food items back in the car at night (I've learned the hard way that chipmunks love trail mix and the raccoons go batty for Jet-Puffed marshmallows). But our coolers have latches (one requires a button to be pushed in while the handle is simultaneously slid down - trust me, most forest animals would not be able to figure that out) and our campstove and clean dishes have always been left out with nary a problem.

We contemplated this sign, along with the extra effort involved in reloading the car each night with almost all of our gear. We wondered if there had been some sort of incident involving a bear that had prompted this warning. Filing that one away under 'better safe than sorry,' we loaded everything that had encountered food, along with actual food and the coolers, back into the car after our delicious dinner of penne pasta with a Caponata sauce and a couple of bottles of Montepulciano. The few cracker crumbs that fell on the ground during happy hour were intentionally left for Chip and Dale, the friendly chipmunks who seemed to be our self-appointed foster pets.

Flash forward to a still night and sound sleeping being enjoyed by all when suddenly, at 3am, a loud gunshot was heard. This sound was unmistakably the sound of a gunshot and, while it didn't sound like it was actually in our campsite per se, it didn't sound like it was too terribly far away either. J and I shot up in our tents and looked at each other.

"What the fuck was that???" we pretty much said in unison.

"It sounded like a fucking gunshot."

"No, it WAS a gunshot," J clarified.

We sat there, still, contemplating the possibilities as well as our options. Perhaps we even began to doubt that what we heard was actually a gunshot and more likely just a loud noise that woke us and we were quick to chalk it up as a gunshot. The gears were turning...what other sorts of loud banging sounds might be heard in a campground at 3am? But then we heard it again. It was definitely a gunshot. We may be cityfolk, but we ain't stooopid. J began to literally shake in her shoes (although she was not wearing any...yet). I didn't know what to do or what to say to her that might seem calming, so I just sat there thinking.

We heard the sound of the zipper on Kara and Patrizio's tent being unzipped. J wondered aloud if "it" was trying to "get" our dear friends. I told her that it was probably Patrizio trying to figure out what the sound was. J heard the zipper again and continued worrying about the welfare of our friends. I found this sound reassuring, figuring that if our friends were out and about and we weren't hearing any sounds of alarm or panic from them, everything was probably fine. J arrived at a more ominous conclusion from hearing the sounds of footsteps in our immediate vicinity.

Thoroughly convinced that a mass-murderer or a bear was lurking outside of our tent, J put on her shoes, grabbed my pocket knife in one hand and her Maglite flashlight in the other - she was determined to do a number on anyone who dared to even think about venturing into our territory. I gave her a look which, obviously, she couldn't see, but she clearly sensed.

"I want to be able to run," she rationalized, obviously referring to the shoes.

"I think I want to go to the car," she continued. Our car? The one packed with all of our gear that we were convinced not to leave out? I wasn't following her logic here. Again, she intuited my ponderings.

"I'll feel more safe in the car," she'd decided.

"Honey," I told her, "there is no room for sleeping in the car with all of that gear and it wouldn't be comfortable to sleep sitting up." She wasn't convinced. I wasn't sure what to tell her. She was clearly terrified and, as for me, well, I was a little bit scared, but more about the gunshots and what that entailed than I was about anything being in the immediate vicinity. And, even if there had been something or someone just outside of our tent, I look at it this way: whoever/whatever it is has no idea who is inside the tent, whether they are male or female, weak or strong, old or young, crazy or not crazy, armed or not armed...you get the picture. Therefore, someone would have to be either really brave or really stupid to lurk outside someone's tent in the middle of the night. It was at this point that I recalled an adage that has been circulated by my friend Michael and that is reputed to come from an old man in Brooklyn. The old man said, with regard to fear of flying, if it's my time to go, then it's my time to go...and if it's the pilot's time to go, then it's my time to go, too. This philosophy seemed apropos. However, I still had a trembling wife on my hands.

It was at that moment that we heard a loud cough, clearly Patrizio's. I assured J that it was Patrizio and the sense that there was an immediate threat began to subside. Still not knowing what the hell the gunshots were all about, we somehow managed to get right back to sleep.

We discussed the ominous gunshot sounds with Kara and Patrizio over breakfast but, natch, nobody had any leads on what had actually happened. When J and Patrizio went to the little store by the lake to get more ice before we embarked on our hike, they asked the clerk about the two gunshots heard at 3am.

"Are you two gun activists?" the clerk - exactly what you'd picture if someone said 'big Harley Davidson guy' - retorted.

"Um, no, we aren't gun activists," Patrizio responded.

"Then how do you know it was a gunshot?" HDg challenged.

"I know what gunshots sound like," said Patrizio, still somewhat confused by why HDg seemed to imply that only a 'gun activist' might be able to identify the sound of a gun shooting. Had he meant 'gun enthusiast'?

"Well, I didn't hear anything last night and this is the first I've heard of any gunshots heard, so I don't know what to tell you."

J and Patrizio left with three bags of ice, but no info on the gunshots. Before bed that next night, we all joked about hoping we didn't hear gunshots in the middle of the night again.

We were awakened about an hour into our sleep by the loud sound of a dog yelping, as if it were hurt or afraid. It was drastically different than a howling or barking sound. For some reason, the sound of someone/something hurting or frightening a dog was not the least bit alarming to us and we went instantly back to sleep.

And we're not even dog activists.

Green means go, right? Right?

Well, I had a little accidente the other day...totally 100% my fault. I was stopped at a red light, behind a fella in a Volkswagon somethingoranother and when the light turned green he didn't go, so I hit him. Okay, I didn't hit him because he was refusing to follow protocol when the light turned green, I hit him as a result of his abeyancy.

Obviously, nothing catastrophic in the grand scheme of car crashes - I was probably going about 1 mile per hour and, since I started out about 5-7 feet away from him, the impact was pretty minimal. I've been the hittee before, but never the hitter - I have yet to decide which position is the more challenging one to be in...check back in with me after I pay out on the claim.

Despite the apparent triviality that was this accident, I was pretty shaken up over the whole thing - my hands were trembly and my heart rate was racing. Yet, somehow, it didn't seem like it would be a very good idea to sit there and pop an Ativan at that exact moment. I followed Mr. Volkswagon over to the Walgreen's parking lot to exchange infos.

When I got out of my car, I began to apologize - very sincerely. I asked him if he was alright. Mr. Volkswagon stood there, with a disgruntled expression, looking at his dented rubber bumper and shaking his head back and forth. I told him that I was fully insured and that we needed to exchange information.

He just continued shaking his head back and forth.

"Sir," I said to him, "I've apologized and I've told you that I'm fully insured."

He said nothing - just grunted and glared at me.

"Sir," I continued, "There's no reason to be so angry - it was an accident and those happen. I've apologized, I've told you that I'm fully insured, and the damages appear to be pretty minimal. What more do you want from me?" After a short pause, I continued, "Is it alright with you if we exchange information now?"

"No. You give me your information and I'll send you an estimate," he told me.

"No," I told him, "absolutely not. Our insurance companies will handle this." (Did I look stupid to him?)

"But I did not do any damage, so you don't need my information."

"But we were both involved in the accident, so I do need your information. I will give you my information when you give me yours."

At this point, I was beginning to think that he was pretty lucky that I wasn't some asshat chewing him out for just sitting there when the light turned green.

He proceeded to walk over to the front of my car, where we both learned that there was absolutely no damage to my vehicle. This made him irate.

"See, you don't even have a scratch on your car!" Was he envious? "You drive a nice car and you get away with no damage and you have put a dent in my car!

This really seemed to piss him off. I decided not to take this bait, as I could see no good coming out of an argument over whose car was the nicest and how unfair that was. I told him again that I'd give him my information when he gave me his.

He grunted again and produced a driver's license and a copy of his registration with his insurance information below it. He then told me to write "I hit you" and sign it on the piece of paper where he'd written my infos.

"No way," I told him, "I'm not comfortable with that. I will tell my insurance company that I hit you and it's quite clear by the damage done that I was at fault, but there's no way I'm writing that down for you."

He wasn't happy about that, but that was too bad. What the hell was he trying to do? It was a really minor accident - was he going to try and take me to small claims court or something? Clearly this guy watches way too much daytime television. After the exchange, he just stood there. He really seemed to want to prolong this. I told him that I'd be phoning my insurance company either later that day or the next morning and that they would take it from there. He stood there looking at me and I told him that if there was nothing else he needed from me, then I needed to go.

I then popped an Ativan and headed off to work.

oooh, baby, baby

As I've mentioned before, J and I are trying to have a baby. J will be the bearer of said child and I will be in charge of all that pertains to the day-to-day maintenance of a pregnant lady. Having been on the pregnant lady end of things, I'm not sure which job is more difficult - I'll let you know.

Anyway, we're coming along rather nicely in this process. We've selected a donor - a tall fellow of Jamaican descent. His profile indicated that he has things in common with both J and I - he's a reader and a soccer player and J, being of Puerto Rican descent, liked the idea of a fellow islander. And not that race/ethnicity matter to us, it must be a deal-breaker for some folks, as it was amazing (creepy? weird? sad?) how rapidly the white-boy sperm gets snatched up.

So here's how the whole artificial insemination thing works: after you fill out a shitload of paperwork for the sperm bank, as well as for the doctor's office and you've selected a donor, you begin tracking your ovulation. This requires the mother-to-be to pee on a stick every morning until the telltale sign of the pending ovulation inidcates that action must be taken! Immediately!

We obtained a positive ovulation result on our third try. But ovulation is the easy part. The getting preggers part is a little bit more difficult, despite what sexually-eager teenage girls are told. Upon receiving a positive ovulation test, we needed to phone the sperm bank and alert them that we're ready to pick up a sample. We also needed to page the fertility nurse to schedule an insemination appointment with her for the following day. These both needed to happen by noon.

Upon phoning the sperm bank, J encountered a voicemail on the other end. This wasn't what she was expecting, but she left a message anyway. After hanging up, she told me that it seemed weird that she got a voicemail when she was expecting to reach a lab and give them time-sensitive information. She double checked the number we had written down versus the number she'd dialed. Sure enough, she'd just left a voicemail for someone with her name, phone number and telling the poor voicemail recipient that she was "ready for her sperm."

In the meantime, we waited for the fertility nurse to return our page. About fifteen minutes later, the phone rings. J practically trips over what appears to be air to get to the phone and check the caller ID.

"Hello?" J says, as if she has no idea who is on the other end of the line.

"Hi, this is Joanna, the fertility nurse - I was just paged?"

"I'm ovulating!!!!!" J exclaims excitedly.

"That's great!" Joanna replied, "but let's start with your name. Tell me who you are."

J became suddenly shy and embarrassed, but Joanna turned out to be a good egg and was very kind and understanding with regard to J's outburst. She must deal with this sort of thing all the time.

The next morning at the crack of dawn, we had to head to the sperm bank to pick up our sample (yes, we called again - this time with the correct phone number). After forking over a lot of money, we were handed a tank similar to the sort of thing one might use to inflate helium balloons. It was only about one third to half as tall as a helium tank and weighed around 25 pounds.

We carried our "man in a can" to the car to head over to the doctor's office for the insemination. Upon starting up the car, J and I suddenly exchanged surprised expressions. The radio was playing Bob Marley's "Lively up Yourself" - a minor coincidence that we were hoping was a good omen.

Later, however, when we were in the waiting room at the doctor's office, J nudged me and said, "are you seeing this???"

I look over just in time to see a very pregnant woman walking down the hallway.

What was so remarkable about her?

She was wearing a bright yellow t-shirt with a large green, black and yellow flag emblazoned across the front and the word "Jamaica" across the top.

Coincidences?

So we won't know for about another week whether or not we're knocked up (cross your fingers for us!), but if J's behaviors, sensitivities and food cravings ('let's dip these Fritos in dark chocolate!", "I wonder what peanut butter and cheese mixed together would taste like") are any indication, then it's a no-brainer. That or she's just somaticising every symptom in the book. I'll keep you posted.

Confiscation, confiscation, what's your function?

Early this morning, J and I drove K to the airport so that she could fly off to attend a national conference. Always the activist, K will be presenting a workshop and then she'll be speaking as part of the closing day panel. Isn't this what all 15 year olds do during their summer break?

Although K is a frequent flier, she can be a little bit absent-minded at times. While she was gathering her belongings to load into the car, we asked her if she had anything in her carry-on bag that could potentially be confiscated at the airport security.

"I don't know. Like what?" You'd think this kid had taken a siesta with Rip van Winkle or something.

"K, you know what sorts of things...sharp objects/tweezers/corkscrews/knives, etc., water bottles, other liquid things - basically anything a terrorist might think to use to fuck things up...and then some."

"Oh." She reaches into her bag and pulls out a book of matches and hands them to J. After digging around some more, she pulls out some tweezers. And then another book of matches and then another.

"Sheesh! For a nonsmoker, that's a hella lotta matches." We weren't really concerned, but found it odd that someone who often spoke up to others about the damages of smoking would carry so many books of matches on her. We asked her why so many.

"Oh, it just seems like there's always someone who needs a light." Apparently she doesn't mind facilitating the smoking. She then continues to dig around in her bag and pulls out a switchblade knife. We both look at her.

"It's for cutting fruit," she tells us. Knowing K, there is no doubt in my mind that this is what she uses this knife for. Her braces make it very difficult for her to bite into things like apples. Luckily, she attends a school where the rules are viewed a little differently than at some high schools. The "think outside the box" approach at her school would prevent her from being suspended for carrying a weapon to school with her. In fact, she claims that when she was helping to create the design and execution of the set for her school's Winter Solstice program (no Christmas programs here, folks), the faculty advisor was delighted when K pulled her switchblade out of her bag after much time had been spent searching for an exacto knife that could not be located.

We made her hand the knife over and she gave us a lighter, as well. I began to wonder what would have happened if we hadn't prompted her to check her back for confiscatables. Natch, her switchblade, tweezers and maybe the lighter would have been seized...but then what? What exactly happens to all of the items separated from their owners at the security check point?

Someone once told me that, when an item that is not permitted on a flight is confiscated, one may mail the item to themselves from the airport rather than forfeit the item altogether. I have been extra extra careful, when I fly, to purge my carry-on baggage of my eleventy spare corkscrews that I carry on me. Way back in the day, I took a flight from Los Angeles to San Francisco about two weeks after 9/11 occurred. Ironically, security was over-the-top rigid and SLOW SLOW SLOW to process the peeps (we had to arrive 3 hours before our flight), yet it was probably the safest time to fly - ever. This was when the repertoire of what could possibly be confiscated grew exponentially to include things like tweezers, corkscrews, knitting needles, etc.

Having been a bartender/wine snob for many years, I have always carried a corkscrew on my for as long as I can remember. On numerous occasions, I've been very grateful about this quirk until Sam the Security Guy at the Burbank Airport deemed my most fabulous Dean and Deluca corkscrew a national threat.

"Oh crap. Nooooo!" I said as Sam the SG bored holes through me with his glare. Clearly, he was fed up with all the extra work he had to do and, quite likely, without additional compensation. I could see that he knew nothing about Dean and Deluca.

"It's my favorite corkscrew! I just bought it last year in New York."

Sam the SG's expression remained unchanged.

"Please don't take it," I pled. He said nothing and tossed it into this amazing and ginormous barrel containing all kinds of great stuff. I then began to wonder what happens to all of these seized treasures. Are they thrown away? (what a waste!) Do the employees in security get to choose which ones they want and take them home? (totally unfair) Are they sold on eBay for a profit? (sleazy) Are they sold on eBay and the resulting income given to charity? (a little thoughtful, still unfair) or???

"Wait! What do you do with this stuff?" Sam the SG just looked at me (he is mute?). "What if we do this: could you turn that in to lost and found and then I will pick it up when I return from San Francisco?" Brillz, I told myself, totally brillz.

"No can do." Ah, so he DOES talk.

"Well how can I get it back?" I asked as he was completing his full-body cavity search of my bag.

"Sorry, lady. You should have thought about it before you packed it."

Suffice to say, I never did see that Dean and Deluca corkscrew again. But I'll bet somebody did! But who? And under what circumstances? And did they pay for it (and, if so, how much?) or was it gratis? And so now, today, after rescuing K's switchblade at the last minute from a most certain doom, I again wonder about the fate of the seized treasures. Is Sam the SG kicking back and laughing while he opens a bottle of Chateau Margeaux with my Dean and Deluca corkscrew?

Nah, probably not.

Feast on this.

Everyone who knows me, knows that I love to cook. Most have also been on the receiving end of my more successful culinary extravaganzas, as well as some of my more horrifying creations. Lucky for me (and for everyone I feed), the fabulousness far outweighs the suckage.

For my dad's 60th birthday this last weekend, I opted for an Indian Feast. His wife (my wonderful stepmom), Jen, hates to cook. She wants nothing to do with it. I've cut a deal with her - when we come to their home in central Oregon, I will do the cooking if she picks up the groceries before I arrive. She doesn't mind the grocery shopping and can afford to buy anything in the store I could possibly ask for (although I do try to stay reasonable - even on special occasions). I can even keep a fairly accurate inventory of her pantry in my memory so that I can be sure an alter my grocery store requests accordingly. Everyone wins with this plan.

After dining about an hour or so later than originally anticipated (that's the part I really suck at), the dinner was declared a success! Here's what we had:


Vambotu Curry (Sri Lankan Eggplant Curry) (I know, not Indian, but it's an amazing dish and a nice compliment to the other dishes we made)
Chukandar Dahi (Beets with Mint and Yogurt)*
Vatana Bhaji (Green Peas with Coconut and Cilantro)
Chickpea Salad with Ginger
Chicken Tikka
Basmati Rice
Paratha (Whole Wheat Flatbread)
Mint Chutney with Yogurt
Dry Peanut Chutney


And, for dessert, K made Chai Tea cupcakes with Cinnamon Cream Cheese frosting. The wine we served with dinner was Toluca Lane Pinot Noir 2003 which, admittedly, is not the ideal choice for Indian food with so many different spices and flavors, but dad likes pinot noir and it was his birthday.

Some of the dishes came from Madhur Jaffrey's World Vegetarian and others came from Mark Bittman's The Best Recipes in the World. My experience, so far, with both cookbooks is that the World Vegetarian recipes are a bit more challenging, time consuming and labor intensive, but all that I have made from that book have been tasty and worth my while. Bittman is awesome because he gives a ballpark idea of how long the dish will take to make, which is very helpful.

On the heels of this feast (i.e. last night) was a different feast in celebration of our friend Elizabeth's 50th birthday. The theme was "Itlee" (this is how Elizabeth says "Italy," being from New Orleans, er N'awlins, and all) and here is what we served:


appetizers:

Puree of Cannelini Beans with Garlic and Rosemary and Whole Wheat flatbread for dipping
Steamed Artichokes
Italian Black Truffle Cheese with Crackers and Figs
beverage: Pastis (I know, not Italian - I didn't have Campari or Limoncello on hand and didn't have time to go to the liquor store)


salads:

Caprese
Roasted Beets with Mint and a Balsamic Reduction*
Panzanella (Garlic Bread Salad with Tomatoes and Basil)


main course:

Saffron Risotto two ways:
one with Scallops, Prawns and Tomatoes
one with Asparagus, Peas and Roasted Red & Yellow Bell Peppers (K is vegan and J may or may not be pregnant and is not eating shellfish as a result)
beverage: BV Napa Cabernet 2004, sparkling water

dessert:

Lemon Tart (this is the most amazing lemon tart - perfect consistency and wonderful balance of sweet and tart with just the right amount of lemon and a flavorful crust; it's from the May 2002 issue of Bon Appetit and I highly recommend it)

Elizabeth and her boyfriend, Michael, were beyond happy with the full tummy and leftovers they had when they left our home. There are still more leftovers - anyone?

* Please note: Not sure if peeps know this or not, but I think it's valuable info for anyone who doesn't know. When you consume roasted beets, it has a very colorful impact when it exits your body (well, unless it exits via vomit, in which case I have no idea what color it would be - maybe ruby reddish). Seriously - the shits are a sort of reddish burgandy and it can be rather alarming if you aren't expecting it.

__________________________________

So, I realize that this isn't the thought provoking !kablammo! post that might come with a month + absence, but it's what was on my mind today. Worry not, there are some bonafide stories in the making and I'll do my best to do them justice.

Please excuse Bad Kitty from her tardiness...

Every now and then, I take an unplanned and unanticipated vacation from blogging. It just happens. It's inevitable. And, frankly, I feel less grounded when I'm not blogging - partly because I see stories everywhere I go and I want to sit down and retell them and it clogs me up to hold all of those stories inside.

Fear not, I didn't go on some sort of bipolar depressive bender and what I'm hoping and thinking will be a barrage of stories in the near future is not a bipolar manic bender. For realz.

I've had a lot going on and it's hard to believe that I've somehow been busier since school has ended than when I was in school. Here's a sampling of some of the topics that may appear here in the near future: my in-laws visiting for ten days, my pending job search, my mother, the fabulous Indian feast that I'm preparing for my father's 60th birthday this weekend, random happenings, my travels, a medical scare that I'm hoping is just a scare, my next tattoo, a project I'm working on that is taking much longer than anticipated, the continuing saga of The IncrediblyTrue and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup, books I've been reading, concerts I've been to, etc., etc. and, oh yeah: J and I are trying to have a baby.

So, without further ado, I hereby declare myself...BACK ON!!!!