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02.24.2003 - 10:27 a.m.

Monday

Home again home again jiggety jig, from the wine festival in Newport where I ate like a pig. And now it's Monday where I'm taking the day off, because of the roto-shitting that has left me full sloth.

Wow, I just literally cannot believe Hallmark hasn't snapped me up. I mean, wow.

Friday we got up bright and early and packed everything including Dog and drove drove drove down the interstate, past Portland where I used to live, through Corvallis where we both used to live, and finally the enjoyable last hour through woods and farmland to the coast.

[Random: When we lived in Las Vegas for a year together, I would get this occasional sharp pang for the damp greenness of the NW. I had this very visceral image of kneeling alongside a coastal woods trail, and simply digging my fingers into the ground, feeling the moist loamy earth and crumbled leaves and moss. It was probably a gut reaction to my lips constantly unfurling in great chapped peels from the desert air.]

When we got settled in our cottage, the first thing we had to do was run to Fred Meyer's for…I am so ashamed…a PONCHO for me. I had forgotten my Columbia repels-all-that-is-wet rain jacket. What am I, visiting from California? Once I was clad in a giant ugly green poncho that would have comfortably fit Biggie Smalls, we took Dog down to the beach.

You want to see sheer, unadulterated joy? The Love That Knows No Boundaries? That is Dog with the ocean. She can't get enough. She runs straight out into the waves and splashes around, with absolutely no indication of ever wanting to come back in. Other dogs like to run on the beach, our dog just wants to swim out to sea.


Farewell, stupid humans! I must be with my kind, the sea-swellers!

This I will try and remember, next time she whimpers when I put her out in the morning. I will sternly tell myself, this dog enjoys subzero temperatures and crashing waves that shove her underwater. The drizzle will not kill her.

We finally got Dog back to the cottage, where we swabbed her with towels and a slow but unmistakable eau de chien mouillé filled the rooms (I just translated that to sound cool, I don't know any goddamn french). We then stood outside for almost an hour to catch the shuttle bus to the wine festival.

Once there, it was much as it always is, except going on a Friday seems to mean there are a lot less people, which rocked. No standing in line. No line for the porta-potties. Basically no lines anywhere, just drifts of people with happy, drunken expressions. We ate and drank everything in sight for hours, and wrapped up with a glass of port each accompanied by two chocolate covered potato chips. I know. Daruma-san is going to kill me.


Hello, I am sufficiently buzzed enough to ask a stranger to take our photo.

We rode the same shuttle bus back to the cottage, only this time it was magically transformed into the Motherfucking Loud-Ass Drunk Bus, which was hilarious. Grown women and men were shouting at the tops of their lungs, singing, and alternately berating/praising the driver. It's all the funnier that these shuttle buses are actually school buses, because everyone was behaving like they were on the field trip of their lives.

Back to the cottage, and back to the beach with Dog. JB and I walked slowly along the water, which was pulled back by the tide like a giant inhale, and pools of moonlight lay everywhere we could see.


The cottage where we left a metric ton of dog hair and sand.
Also, those stairs? A major bitch.

Saturday we tried to enjoy a leisurely breakfast, but I am telling you, Dog was having none of it. She could see the beach from the living room window, and I have never heard such pathetic sounds coming from an animal. Moans, groans, whimpers, giant shuddering sighs, more moans, a deep gutteral chuff, more whimpers. So because we both have the word "Sucker" tattooed on our foreheads when it comes to the dog, we traipsed back down to the beach yet again.


I yearn. How is it that you torture me so, by separating us?

After that, we did some window shopping, and then visited the aquarium, which was wonderful. They have some beautiful exhibits there, and they have transformed the giant tank that Keiko was housed in to a 360 degree exhibit where fish swim on all sides of you. There was a particularly cool moment when a diver, cleaning the tank, slowly drifted over the tops of our heads and I don't know how to explain it - it felt just like a 3-D movie where you helplessly reach out your hand, because you are positive you can touch what you see.

Saturday night we soaked up the beer and atmosphere of the loud Rogue brewpub, then back to the cottage to collapse in the ever-increasing pile of dog fur. And Sunday morning found us back in the 4Runner on the way home.

Now, if this were the end of my weekend story, all would be great. However.

So we're driving driving driving coming home, and my stomach starts feeling queasy. I chalk this up to trying to read while in a moving car, and try to ignore it. It gets worse and worse, until I am exercising the sort of will that top military personnel are trained to harness during times of enemy torture.

Somehow, I make it home and crawl into bed. I lie there hoping it really was car sickness, but then -

Um. Ok, let's just say my body decided to eject ballast from both ends. Repeatedly. For hours. I mean, have you ever been so damn sick you crawl out from underneath the covers, shivering, race to the bathroom, and you aren't sure what you need to do first? Oh, it was no good.

And a mini-rant, if you please. Pepto Bismol, it's got exactly two things going for it: it tastes fucking horrible when it's going down, and it tastes even worse when it comes back up. Go Pepto Bismol! It rocks! Except, you know, not.

Anyway, I'm staying home today. I feel much better, but I have a deep mistrust that is causing me to peer suspiciously at my midsection every now and then. "Everything under control today beeyotch? No more assplosions or chats with Ralph? Ok then."


Here, keeping with the bodily grossness theme, is a picture of JB
making a giant fart sound with some kelp.

Weird stomach things happened to us last year after the wine festival, too. Bad oysters much?

JB left this morning for another week-long trip to China. I managed to have a wee heart attack when I checked the news sites earlier and saw there had been a huge earthquake there. I calmed down when I saw it was in a different part of the country, but damn. I feel a lot more paranoid about him traveling these days. He bought a shirt at the Rogue that has an American flag motif, and I made him promise not to wear it on this trip.

Yes, I know that has nothing to do with an earthquake. I'm just trying to make this the longest fucking entry I've ever written.

Ok, now to catch up on journals. And thank you, Weetabix, for the linking and the nice words and all. Also, I think I have a crush on your hooters. Dayum!

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