I’ve lived in the Newberg area on and off for fifteen years now (oy).  And yet, I’ve never participated in the epic event all local folks look forward to:  The Newberg Old Fashioned Festival.  Perhaps it’s because I’ve always come off of my denomination’s annual gathering the week before; perhaps it’s because the Festival pales in comparison to my experience at the Boise River Festival (may it rest in peace long enough to be resurrected if/when I ever get to move back to God’s country, er, I mean, Idaho); perhaps it’s because I’m in denial that I live in Newberg:  A Great Place to Grow (pot, if you went to the high school.  Shh:  don’t tell - it will worry my mom, even though we’ve been graduated for a while). The Festival involves things like booths in a park, eating in a park, a parade, and fireworks.  Because it’s not a festival unless stuff gets blown up for no reason.  I can’t imagine why I’ve missed out on all the quality frivolity.

However, I have now dipped my toe in the realm of One of Lives in Newberg, and I drug my family along with me.  Some wonderful friends who live on the parade route invited us over to their lovely abode for some brunch munchies, fellowship, and flying candy.  Because, see, that’s what the parade is all about:  hard candy being chucked at little peoples’ heads, and then little people running out into the street to gather the legal crack between parade floats while sifting through the mixed messages of father’s shouting, “Go!  There!  You missed one!” and mother’s hollering louder, “Careful!  Come back!  Don’t get run over!” as the sweet nectar of the gods buzzes through their veins and they bounce off each other like sticky pinballs.

Yeah, it was fun.

Of course, JJ was a top candy getter (would you expect anything less?).  The moment he heard a plastic wrapper meet the pavement, he was off in a flash.  Much to the dismay of other lesser-aware, non-sugar-sensitive children.  I “encouraged” JJ to share the candy with the other kids, knowing full well that his stash was just going to end up at his dad’s office anyway.  And soon, he was running out into the street, hunting and gathering, and then distributing equally into other kids’ bags.  He even gave candy to grownups.  Aw!  That’s SO not a trait he inherited from my side of the family (hmm:  who has a stash of powerbars that she’s hiding from prying eyes?  Seriously:  my monkeys can’t get enough of those soy protein crisps.  And one wonders why my son is diving into the street to get a peppermint).

So yes:  we came.  We paraded.  We pillaged.  And we now have a half-full gallon ziploc bag on top of the fridge getting ready to be shipped to Hubby’s work.

It was a good day.

Entertaining Evidence | 1 Comment »

When you need some happies:

Peanuts Heyya

Asian Backstreet

And of course a family favorite

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I’ve been tagged! And rudely enough, I haven’t responded timely because . . . well . . . you read this blog: you should already know.

To remain in compliance, I am posting the following:

The Meme Rules:

1. I have to post these rules before I give you the facts.
2. Each player starts with eight random facts/stories about themselves.
3. People who are tagged need to write their own blog (about their eight things) and post these rules.
4. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
5. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

Whew: I would hate to be out of compliance. Now, on with the show, or the random useless facts about me which will now clutter your screen and potentially your mind.

Fact 1: I (and my brother) have an odd association between our parents and Tom Brokaw and Jane Pauley. I don’t know if it’s because we watched too much of the Today Show as kids or what, but they seriously remind us of our parents. Down to the patent Granddaddy/Tom Brokaw wiggle when speaking in front of groups of people. And Gran/Jane Pauley having enormous amounts of hair.

Fact B: I don’t like wearing shoes when I’m at home. They generally are the first things to go when walking inside. It has nothing to do with keeping the carpets clean, but more the fact that I can’t relax while the feet are restricted. And I really don’t like wearing shoes in my bathroom - no matter the immediate pee-need, the shoes must come off beforehand.

Fact III: I’ve only driven and owned one car in my life: a 1990 black Mitsubishi Montero. It was the first new car I remember my parents buying, and in college I gratefully inherited it. Her name is Evie (E.V. = Emergency Vehicle, her designation when I worked at a ropes course one summer and we always had to have an emergency vehicle up on the course. We were a lazy group and used initials for a lot of the initiatives and protocols, hence the “e.v.”).

Fact 5-1: I have a fear of a certain episode of Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood: “Windstorm in Bubbleland“. Joe Negri is the wind and is EVIL and tries to kill Lady Elaine who is a hummingbird. I don’t know why, but Handyman as the wind TERRIFIES me, and the whole episode creeps me out to the point that the other day I saw a hummingbird outside of my window, and instead of thinking “wow, what a beautiful creation of God!”, my stomach started to churn. Yes, I know: I need a healing.

Fact 25/5: I hate it when foods touch on my plate. I’ve been reading “Your Spirited Child” (can’t imagine why), and the first chapter mentioned something about “when your jello touches your mashed potatoes and you fall to pieces,” and I seriously got a chill. Bleck. Food, not people, mind you (leave that up to my dead Southern relatives), but food *should* be sectioned off: quarantined: segregated. [And to help me, and my brother, out with our phobia, my dad used to drink orange juice or grape juice or sode with ice, and then refill the glass with water - using the same ice cubes which retained some of the initial beverage - and then drink it right in front us us: ACK!!!].

Fact Seis: I do not iron clothes. Mom was talking about the loads of ironing she had to do, and I mentioned that that’s one chore I never do. How do I get around it? I don’t buy clothes that need ironing. Because my dislike for working on a garment with an steaming hot instrument in my spare time outweighs my desire for a garment that requires such attention, no matter how cute it is. There is a reason “wrinkle-resistant” clothes were created: don’t let all that research and hard work go to waste, people!

Fact The Perfect Number: If you show me a car that is registered in Idaho, I can tell you what county it’s registered in. Sounds boring, doesn’t it? But it can be very entertaining when you’ve been driving for some time and have used all the interesting conversation topics such as “if you could drive any full-sized truck, what would it be?” and “what was the worst road trip you ever took?” and “have you ever peed while driving?”. Those will only get you so far, but the Idaho license plate game is forever.

Fact Ate: My ears are different shapes. One has a nice full curve on top; the other side looks like I had an encounter with Mike Tyson (but not so ragged). I never noticed until I decided to pierce the top of one of my ears and had to choose which side. At first, folks asked which side I talked on the phone as the indicator. Then I started looking closer: they weren’t the same! And it’s a genetic thing. The first thing I said about Little A: “he has funny looking ears.” A few minutes later: “Wait: he has *MY* ears!” Same missing part on the same side. Oy.

To Tag:
Hubby
Shara
Michelle
Alan
Marta
Gregg
Uncle Kyle
Hannah (who should start blogging again)

I would link to y’all, but Little A is wailing, so just know who you are and do the work, people.

Entertaining Evidence | 4 Comments »

You scored as Obi-Wan Kenobi. One of the last jedi knights. People find you to be a bit aloof, but you know you travel the honorable path and that is all that matters. Now if only you could get your padawans to listen to you. Obi-Wan Kenobi 94% Yoda 81% Leia Organa 69% Han Solo 63% Darth Maul 63% Anakin Skywalker/Darth Vader 56% Luke Skywalker 56% Padme Amidala 56% Palpatine 38% Boba Fett 31% Which Star Wars character would you be? (pics) created with QuizFarm.com

Entertaining Evidence | 4 Comments »

When I was in college, one *crazy* year I agreed to live with twelve other girls.  Yes:  one roof.  Yes:  all together.  No:  we did not have Nightly Pajama Parties.  But some crazy things did happen, as are bound to whenever that much estrogen is placed under one roof (for the love of God, there’s a reason we’re created Male and Female - we needs the testosterone!).

Because it was college, and because it was a Christian liberal arts college (a.k.a. a step away from home, but nowhere close to the Real World, MTV or not), we found it necessary to have Bonding Time.  Sometimes this would be a scheduled event:  a group date (which I “happened” to always have to work during - yes, we needed testosterone, but do you know how much higher the estrogen levels got in situations like that?  It took weeks before the shrieking and giggling stopped), a house outing.  Sometimes it was spontaneous:  driving in our pajama pants and sweatshirts to the drive-thru donut store, sliding down the stairs in laundry baskets (thanks for the idea, Joetta).

And every once in a while, when the stars lined up right, we would venture out in a massive movie viewing:  and by stars, I mean Hollywood actors, of course.  See, girls have very distinct tastes.  Some want to watch chick flicks - get out the Meg Ryan box set.  Others want to see things blow up - they say they “just really like movies like this,” but more often than not, you’ll find a guy standing around to hear them say it.  Some, like me, will watch the four-hour correct filming of Hamlet four times in the theatre.

But, every once in a while, we agreed on a movie to watch together.  And for some strange reason, Meet Joe Black was one of those.  I’m not a huge Brad Pitt fan:  he’s from Montana - enough said.  And Anthony Hopkins - I can take him, I can leave him.  Most likely I simply wanted to avoid the piles of homework, laundry, and other crap lying in my room (we could barely walk in there).

Meet Joe Black is a movie about death.  Falling in love with Anthony Hopkins’ daughter.  Nothing to get too excited over.  Nice soundtrack.  Really slow dialog.  Lots of eye candy.  But there’s this one scene:  you know it, don’t you.  Brad Pitt and Claire Forlani have randomly met in a diner and had a really nice, connecting conversation.  They shared; they flirted; they created ambiance.  And then they had to leave.  So they turn to walk different directions, continuing to look over their shoulders at each other, but missing the fact that they are staring at each other.  It happens for a looooooong time.  And just when you’re in a nice, sappy place hoping that they’ll connect, this happens.

In case that was too short of a clip, here’s a more thorough one.

Oh, the reactions of the girls I was with.  Most gasped.  My friend Erin inhaled most of the air in the theater (yes, I’ve spelled theatre/er two different ways:  one was a Hamlet/Kenneth way, and one was not.  Deal.).  Me?  I laughed.  Out loud.  REALLY loud.  That’s what I do in stressful situations of surprise.  On space mountain?  I laughed.  When I was in labor (after the Happy Man gave me the Happy Machine), I giggled like a little girl . . . on a Happy Machine.  It’s just my natural response:  HA!

Today when JJ woke up from his nap, he was all grumpylike:  lots of weeping and needing to cuddle.  I turned on the tv to see if we could find something entertaining to make the crankies go away.  Guess what was on?  And it was the beginning:  sweet.  So I left it on until That Scene came on.  What did JJ do?  He giggled.  And looked at me.  And very clearly said, “He fell down.”

Yes, son, yes he did.  That’s my boy.

Entertaining Evidence, JJ Jawings | 1 Comment »

This has got to be one of the COOLEST things I’ve seen in a while.

I don’t know who I’d be:  crazy floofy mama?  Long-legged one-man band?  The woman who is practically perfect in every way?  The manic high-flying uncle?
Actually, I do know who I’d be:  just gotta find me some crazy pants.

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Many many moons ago when the Hubby and I were lacking a JJ and a few extra pounds, I worked at a library and he played in a band.  That’s how we met, really:  I came home for Thanksgiving, and some friends of mine from high school were playing a show.  I spotted a cute bass player, and well, the rest is history.

BUT if I hadn’t been so focused on said bass player, I would’ve noticed that there were other members of the band, one being a drummer with crazy blonde locks and a smile that charmed so many girls that he had his own fan club.  As it usually happens with bands, things shifted - folks came and went, and the drummer moved into the keyboardist arena.  Not a shabby thing considering he played his own show with just him, his lovely locks and vocals, and the piano.

Finally the hubby’s band . . . “took a break.”  The keyboardist kept pursuing writing and performing his own music, and because he knows a good bass player when he hears one, he’s occassionally asks the Hubby to accompany him on his solo gigs.

Life’s changed.  Hubs has a steady job; I do as well, though it doesn’t seem to bring in the ka-ching.  A little man with the bass player’s dimples and skin tone (oh, the beautiful skin tone!) has made an appearance.  And the keyboardist has gone on to make some cds, tour, and rangle up some more kiddies for the fan club.

The other night while listening to 94.7, the *best* radio station EVER, a show called “Get Local” came on, spotlighting a P-town artist.  The piano.  The voice.

HEY!  That’s Bryan Free!  Our friend, on the radio, all famous-like!!!  Great song!  JJ jammed out the entire time, first bopping his head, and then dancing:  it was precious.  Another junkie for the fan club.

You can find out more about Bryan here and here and you can listen to stuff here.

Dude, we know that guy on the radio:  sweet.

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You know it’s time to turn off Season 2 of Arrested Development when:

• Your son could care less about “Bob the Builder” (can we fix it?!!?) but will sit still for “Motherboy XXX“.

• The theme song comes on (plinkie plinkie plinkie plinkie - to be specific), and both you and your son immediately start doing the Wiggledance (which consists of sitting down and moving your upperbody back and forth like a sideways Bobble Doll). In fact, at the first notes, your son immediately looks at you for approval of “We get to wiggle now, yes?”

• You are walking down the cereal isle, and all of a sudden you are crippled from walking upright and must instead flounce around because “The Final Countdown” is playing on the Safeway Music Channel

• Due to recent “The Final Countdown” incident, when paying for your groceries, you try to make exact change by spraying pennies from your sleeves, and are really sad when you can’t.

No more half-day at Army; back to the Banana Stand.

Entertaining Evidence | 1 Comment »

*WARNING*: If you haven’t watched last night’s episode of “24” - a) don’t read this and 2) WHAT WERE YOU DOING?!!?

Today is a very sad day: it marks the potential passing of a beloved family member for the past five years - Tony Almeida of CTU. His car exploded, his wife (the lovely Michelle) died, he was burned and in a half-day coma, he was in a building that had nerve gas pumped into the ventilation system, and he tried to kill the guy who was involved in the killing of his wife - but that dude ended up killing him and not in a pain-free way (well, we assume Tony’s dead; unfortunately the hour passed before we got the results, but with his words of “she’s gone” to Jack, one can assume). So Tony’s bad days are finally over.

So today is a day of wearing black, particularly since Tony did not get the honor of the silent clock like Lispy McGee (Edgar) did. Here are a few gems as we all say “thanks for the memories.”
Milo: What do you think they’re going to do to Jack?
Tony Almeida: Not going to name a street after him, that’s for sure.

Tony Almeida: You mind telling me what’s going on around here tonight?
Jack Bauer: What’s going on? You mean besides a 747 falling out of the sky and a threat on a presidential candidate’s life?
Tony Almeida: Yeah, besides that.

Tony Almeida: So, uh, what are we saying here? If we save LA from a nuclear bomb, then you and I can get together for dinner and a movie?

Ryan Chappelle: So what’s up, my friend?
Tony Almeida: Well, it’s like this, Ryan: Either fire me, or get out of my chair.

Tony Almeida: Chloe, I’m getting real tired of your personality.

Henry Powell: Who are you guys? Police? FBI?
Tony Almeida: Actually, I’m currently unemployed.

Tony Almeida: Some people feel more comfortable in hell.

Michelle Dessler: I’ll go anywhere with you… as long as I don’t have to cook.
Tony Almeida: [laughing] Sweetheart, if you promise not to cook I will take you with me anywhere.

Entertaining Evidence | 1 Comment »

• Warning: Not for those who blush and are offended by mention of girly bits

So I’ve mentioned that on Sunday nights my hubby and I play “Monday’s not really coming” by staying up late and watching whatever happens to be on TV. Which for us is Grey’s Anatomy. There’s one character we watch it for: Dr. Bailey, who I guess is some kind of supervisor. She’s this spunky woman who smacks down whoever - doctors, interns, etc. - any chance she gets.  I guess she was pregnant because one episode we tuned into she was giving birth.

I didn’t really pay attention, obviously since it’s a “let’s just leave the TV on and deny life starts again soon” show, until one point when she was being examined. She was already very cranky (something about her husband got hurt on the way to the hospital so he was in surgery and she was denying the forces of labor because he wasn’t there), and her a very shy intern/doctor/resident/whoever they are was trying to convince her to be examined.  She gave in, they probably had a touching moment, and then out of the blue she barked: “O’Malley: stop looking at my vajayjay!” (See, Gran and Uncle Bubba: you didn’t really want to read this). I laughed. A lot.

Then today, laying on the couch with a weather-changing-induced headache (storm’s coming in: I have a better barometer than Mary Poppins), I had the tv on and at some point was dozing to Dr. 90210, that horrible Hollywood plastic surgeon “reality” show. He was fat-sucking one of his receptionists - this teeny tiny woman who had no fat but felt “flabby and had low self-esteem” after having a baby: whatever. Even he commented that he couldn’t get any fat out of her.

He didn’t just take the two ounces of flab off of her body. He also engaged in a very important, life-giving procedure - his favorite in fact.  He gave her a vajayjay tuck. Yes, you heard me right. And so did my grandparents who are rolling in their graves and probably blaming my Yankee upbringing for watching such things (and my mother would say that she raised me better than this.  Which she did.  But i was transfixed:  I mean, EW).  The most disturbing part? At the end of the surgery he leaned back, examined his work, and deemed it “adorable.” ADORABLE!  Words fail me at this point.
Dr. Ray then went to some special event to earn his black belt, a process which has taken him over seven years (twice as long as medical school: I don’t know which fact is scarier). Yeah, earning your black belt will take away the memory of what you said and establish our confidence in your manhood. Oy.

Daily Drivel, Entertaining Evidence | 3 Comments »