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Category Archives: favorite
We have something in our house that my husband calls plogic. It means Pam’s logic. Or put another way, doing things my way. When my husband is feeling less than thrilled with the plogic he grumbles, “It’s Pam’s world, we just live in it.”
It’s not just that I’m bossy or control freaky. I am pathologically logical (are you allowed to put those two words together?) and am often frustrated/mystified/agog that the world does not share my vision of the best way of doing things.
I’m not this way about everything. For example, I have no input on things having to do with sports. But generally I think the best way to do things is the most efficient — I don’t like to waste my or anyone else’s time, money, or energy — so really exercising plogic is for the good of mankind.
The other day I was at the burrito cart (Fuego at 2nd and Yamhill for you locals, cheap burrito-y goodness) and an Asian woman came up and started to fill out the little sheet you use for your order. The guy always asks you wheat or flour so he can warm your tortilla while he finishes the order in front of you. When he asked her, she shook her head and said in broken English, that she didn’t understand.
Before I could even think about it I jumped right in telling the guy how to make her burrito because I had a good idea how she would probably like it, not too spicy or with too much sour cream. And then I stopped myself because, omigod, I was being That Pushy Woman Who Bosses Around Random Strangers.
In my defense, have you ever been in a situation where you weren’t clear on the customs and ways and you kind-of wished someone else would just take charge for a minute? When I was a teenager my family went to France and it was time to eat. The waiter came over and said a bunch of stuff in French, a language we unfortunately do not speak. My Dad nodded and held up 4 fingers. The waiter knew exactly what to do. He brought us 4 drinks and 4 sandwiches which we ate with great joy. “Hey, look at us, ordering food in France.”
Back in Portland, I pointed at my burrito and she ordered flour. English was not her native language, but she had a pretty good handle on it. The problem was she couldn’t hear because of the traffic.
This morning I read a post that referred to a magazine list of things to do before you’re 40.
It’s too late for me but I was curious to see if I could find the list to see what I missed because there is nothing like assigning importance to random events and circumstances and giving them an arbitrary deadline.
I plugged the phrase into a search engine and turns out there are books and all kinds of people talking about these lists.
If you’re under 40 and have a list, I’d say get on it and go for it because once I hit 40 I was too lazy to do anything. I have to be in bed by 9pm or I’m tired for a week. A hangover lasts at least three days. A weird muscle pull can annoy me for months. If I eat too much or stuff that’s too fatty or preservative laden, I spend the night in roiling pain. It takes us a week to get organized enough to do dinner and a movie.
At this point I’m enjoying making a list of things I’m never going to do and am thrilled to avoid. I’m never going to climb a mountain, sail around on a frigate like Master and Commander, wait in line all night for anything, do space travel, observe a gnarly surgical procedure, gamble away my life savings, be on reality TV, win an Olympic medal, have a threesome (possibly negotiable) or study grizzly bears in their natural habitat. Whew. So liberating.
This week feels like it’s gone on forever. I’m beat.
Wednesday’s NYT Dining In had my favorite food porn type of article: perfect pie crust. You’d think after reading and clipping every article of this kind I’ve ever seen I’d be the reigning gold medalist in both the single and double pie crust events. But no, I haven’t even been invited to try out for the team.
Pie lady made 5 pie crusts with various approaches to the fat part: 1 all butter, 1 all shortening and 3 with different amounts of both.
She said butter won hands down. Dang, I don’t like butter crust. (I’m appalled, too but I like what I like.) I use the all shortening method which she says is popular because it’s easier to handle. If that’s easiest I guess I’d better to stick to what I’m doing.
Don’t you think being a test cook would be a weird job?
Every time I read an article and they roasted 18 turkeys, or made 12 kinds of green bean salad or once it was bread pudding and I swear the article said they made 40 different kinds to find the perfect recipe, all I can think about is the stuff that didn’t work. Do they give it to homeless shelters? Do they take it home to their families? Who had to taste and report on 40 different kinds of bread pudding? Do they throw lots away? Are they so sick of bread pudding by the end that they have the perfect recipe for a food they never want to see again in their lives?
I hate wasting food and I remember how awful I felt tossing a huge pan of carrot cake that I’d royally screwed up. I think I forgot half the flour and it was a soupy mess that nothing could save. It made a hollow whump! when it hit the bottom of the garbage can. I didn’t make it again.
Last night after I finished my delicious dinner of leftover soup washed down with two glasses of my favorite $6.99 Trader Joes Tempranillo the phone rang and you know the best calls always come around dinner time.
It sounded like a recording except the recording asked me questions so I’m not sure if it was a robot blend or the lady was just so filled with family values that she spoke without inflection.
She identified herself as being from the Dove Foundation which I had never heard of before. Then she started with something about families, kids, and concerned parents and grandparents. I almost cut her off right there because I have no children and was anxious to be excused from the call. But I let her go on because she was talking about how don’t I think that measures for monitoring violence and adult content in entertainment aren’t doing enough? (Note: I’m totally paraphrasing here, especially in favor of my side of the story.)
No, I said.
She went on into a longer speech making statements like, “We’re not about censorship,” and “Sure parents can be doing something in the home but that’s not enough,” and “We all know Hollywood won’t make movies with our family values, don’t you think we should do something about that?”
I behaved poorly because I laughed and said, You’re crazy.
She told me her message was intended for concerned parents and grandparents and thanked me for my input.
I wish I’d had my act more together and could have stated my opinion more intelligently. If people want to get together and promote family entertainment, I have no problem with that. I have a big problem with someone calling my home and telling what to think and feel about a particular subject while making untrue statements and projecting a particular set of values on me. I’d love to write 10 more screens on this except, it’s of limited interest and my writing time for today has long expired.
A week ago Sunday we went to Dillon Creek for kayaking. Just kidding. Check the link: those pictures blow my mind. I didn’t even know you could do stuff like that at Dillon Creek. We were around the campground. Here’s a link to the Forest Service website. And could someone help the Forest Service, please? That website could use a little pretty-ing up.
We went to Dillon Creek for Book Club. The book was A Woman in Berlin by Anonymous. Mom must have missed my post about how I didn’t want to read any heavy books in August and insisted I read it for book club. Turns out it’s fantastic. Hard to put down. Lots of food for thought and discussion. Really excellent not just as a book but as a piece of history.
But that’s not what this story is about.
We got there early and we decided to check out this swimming hole we’d heard about. We parked in the day use area and as we pulled in, we ran into Martha who’s married to Sonny, who’s a cousin. Or something like that. You get the idea.
Martha was also going to the swimming hole and was kind enough to point out the trail to us and off we went. As soon as I took my first step, I was concerned because I was wearing these clodhopper shoes I use for Orleans. This isn’t a good link because we weren’t there camping, we were at a big family gathering, some visiting like us and many who live there.
(ASIDE: omigod. I just put “Orleans, California” into a search engine so I could give a link to Orleans for the 3 people who might chance by this site and not know what I’m talking about and this was the first link that came up: American Singles. Classic! The second link is a splog that has to do with collection agencies. We need to improve Orleans search rankings.)
I decided not to take the trail but Martha said, “Oh, I’m sure it looks a lot harder than it is.” So I pressed on. But not because I believed her, but because she’s a relative and I knew if I wussed out that the entire town would know about it before the sun went down and for the next 40 years I would have to hear tales of Pam, the big fat ch-ch-chicken who couldn’t do the trail down to the swimming hole at Dillon Creek.
Except that the “trail” was a goat path scratched out of a vertical mountainside and covered with poison oak and a few wisps of tree root that you could hang onto for dear life as you slid down the rocks and dirt.
We were about two thirds of the way down when a friendly grey haired guy holding a beer and watching us slide down the mountain said, “That’s not the trail.”
Well, no shit. What are we going to do at that point? When we finally hit bottom you could see the actual trail, a smooth, clear path back up to the campground.
“A freeway!” Martha exclaimed when she saw it. Then she said she’d never been to that swimming hole before.
I got a scratch of poison oak on one leg and a mosquito sized patch on my foot plus a couple of dots here and there.
Lesson learned: don’t let Martha point out the trail.
I think to myself, there has got to be something to write about besides complaining about the weather, the traffic or my woes with hair care products. But I have nothing so I avoid this place.
Today I’m going to complain that both FoodDay (Oregonian) AND Dining Out (NYT) sucked mighty cheese this week. The Food section is the best part of the papers. Whenever I’m freaking out about the piles of newspaper in the dining room (generous word for what is essentially a nook between the kitchen and living room) I realize that if we got rid of the papers, I would not have my regular food section fix.
The Oregonian’s two main articles this week were on (1) cooking with kids (the kids help you cook, you don’t cook the kids) and (2) throwing together a quick meal when you happen to bump into your neighbor at the mailbox and begin visiting and decide to have them over to dinner. (Like that would ever happen to me.)
They sell the whole kids in the kitchen thing as an alternative to watching TV and go on about how the kid can learn math, science and hand-eye coordination. Who wants someone without hand-eye coordination in the kitchen? And they have helpful hints like giving the kids age-appropriate tasks. Really? You mean I shouldn’t hand Luis the electric knife and tell him to go to town on the roast chicken? Or toss Josa a blow torch and instruct her to finish off the CrÃ¨me brÃ»lÃ©e?
The “drop by” dinner article is equally educational. Either you can throw together a dinner from what you have on hand or you can’t. A recipe like smoked oyster spread is not going to save you (or really make much of a meal). The spread is made with: cream cheese, mayo, garlic, soy sauce, fresh parsley and a can of smoked oysters. There are only 2 ingredients on that list that I have on hand: garlic and soy sauce. That’s not going to get me far. Another recipe calls for a pound of bacon, another anchovy fillets. Raise your hand if these are the kinds of items you always have on hand to whip up a quick dinner for company.
Dining Out was equally worthless this week. The Minimalist, which I cut out almost every single week, was talking about some sort of tuna burger. Gross. I hate tuna. I hate how it smells. I hate how it tastes. My spouse has to turn on every fan in the house and eat quickly by the window if he wants tuna — even if I’m not around.
But the item that really had my head spinning was the article about a personal chef for babies. Yes, you read that correctly. Apparently babies are turning their noses up at those jarred baby foods and their mothers are too busy with their glamorous lives to fix something themselves, so they can get vacuum-packed and/or frozen baby foods from a personal chef. A black and white photo that accompanies the article, shows frozen lumps and tells us that designer baby food includes spices like coriander. yah-fuking-hoo Doesn’t this make you fear for the future of America? At least a little bit?
Does anyone else remember reading The Time Machine by H.G. Wells in 7th grade? It’s been awhile so my details may be a bit off but as I recall in the future world there was a race of fragile, pampered worthless “people” who floated around doing nothing and another race of big tough “people” who had to do all the work and were pissed off. Doesn’t this seem like it could be happening?
Shortly after you cross the Interstate Bridge there is a large landscaped area that includes an outline of the state of Washington in plants. It also includes the letters ALKI in flowers.
I drive by this almost every day and for the life of me couldn’t think of what ALKI could stand for.
This morning Bob and I drove past it together and I said, “What’s ALKI?”
Bob: It’s a Ferry. There’s going to be a big celebration this year.
Me, completely agog: They’re having a celebration for a Fairy?
Bob: Yeah! A big one.
Me, still completely agog, my pea brain wheels spinning like mad trying to figure out why the state would be celebrating a big Fairy and why I’d never heard about it before. I actually said outloud: Have I just fallen into a parallel universe or are we talking about the state celebrating a Fairy?
Bob, perplexed why I’m having such a hard time with this: Yeah, it’s a really big deal. It’s like 50 years old.
Me, still agog: And we’re talking about a little creature like Tinkerbell with wings?
Bob: A Ferry Boat.
This is absolutely a true conversation. I don’t know where my head was at. I was completely sober, not hungover, although I have a lingering chest cough and hadn’t had breakfast yet.
I did a bit of research and turns out ALKI is the Washington State Motto and it roughly translates to “by and by” in the Chinook Indian language. I didn’t see anything about a Washington Ferry Vessel called ALKI but I only investigated for about 3 minutes because I’m not in the mood for a major online project right now.
I also found reference to an Alki Transportation company, an Alki Point and an Alki beach.
I found nothing about Alki the Fairy.
I hear a lot of Styx on the radio which doesn’t bother me as much as hearing Billy Idol or Duran Duran. Most of the time I like it. But not as much as I like hearing ELO
Styx was one of my favorite bands in high school. (Go ahead, laugh. I’ve never pretended that I have remotely hip taste in music.) I remember crying bitter tears into my pillow to the soaring keyboard melody of Babe because some random 15 year old loser guy rejected me. Or that weird dance I went to at a neighboring school where they played Renegade over and over. In the beginning slow part you’d sort of wiggle around like some goofball modern interpretive dance and slowly bend your knees until you were wiggling and squatting on the floor. Then when “The jig is up, the news is out” part started we all jumped up and started dancing.
Of all the albums in my collection, Paradise Theater is one of the few that I can distinctly remember buying and listening to for the first time.
I got it in Westlake at the record store next to the grocery store where my Mom was buying food. Those were the days when there were little record stores owned by regular people who liked music and wanted to make a living selling it and music came in big cardboard envelopes with black shiny disks inside. The disks were wrapped in paper that often including lyrics, photos or interesting information about the band. These were called: liner notes.
When I got home I took it over to Sheila McCusker’s house on Timberlane Street in Fountainwood and we peeled off the shrink wrap and put it on the entertainment system in the living room and we sat there and talked and looked at the liner notes while we listened to it.
Oh, it says that Paradise Theater came out in 1981 which makes sense because “Best of Times” was our graduating class song. I was friends with Sheila in 8th grade. Maybe I’m confused with The Grand Illusion. So much for my vivid memory.
One of the songs I heard recently was Mr. Roboto and it’s hard to believe this was ever a good idea for a song. It sounds like someone accidentally swallowed a keyboard and then shat the song out the next morning. It’s fun to say: Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto. Domo. Domo.
But the lyrics are super dumb and, like the joke about Caesar, I never understood it.
It says stuff like:
I've got a secret I've been hiding under my skin
My heart is human, my blood is boiling, my brain I.B.M.
I'm not a hero, I'm not a saviour, forget what you know
I'm just a man whose circumstances went beyond his control
I am the modren man, who hides behind a mask
So no one else can see my true identity
And then the great reveal:
The time has come at last
To throw away this mask
So everyone can see
My true identity...
I'm Kilroy! Kilroy! Kilroy! Kilroy!
What does that mean?
According to Wikipedia: The album's storyline (set in the future) centered around a has-been rock star, living through a disguise of his own, "Mr. Roboto" (according to the album's lead-off song), and caught in a world where music itself has been outlawed.
I still don’t get it.
Remember on Sesame Street they had this segment (probably still, sadly I’ve had no reason to watch Sesame Street since the early seventies, so I can only guess) that went “one of these things is not like the other, one of these things doesn’t belong” and then they’d show 3 blue socks and a red sock. Or for a harder one: an apple, an orange, grapes and a German Shepard.
Doesn’t the SAT have questions like that, too? Which one of these things doesn’t go in the sequence: equilateral, obtuse, isosceles, scalene or Nile, Amazon, Yangtze, Rhine?
“What doesn’t belong” is barely related to my point today, which is that people will say absolutely anything on the radio.
One of my stations does a bit during my drive home where a person will call in with an issue, say: toilet seat up or down? Then other people call in with their stories of dealing with the same issue.
Yesterday, a woman called who had hooked up with this guy who had come to her house and cleaned her carpet (In this context, not a euphemism. He actually shampooed the carpet.) but he was 10 years younger and she wanted to know what experiences women had with dating younger men. Or younger men dating older women.
So this woman phones in and starts to tell about how when she was 21, her dad, then 48 was dating a 19 year old. This is a red sock. It has nothing to do with anything.
Other radio caller goofballs: people who call in with long drawn out stories with all their personal business and lying brother-in-law and klepto Aunt who ran off with Grandma’s china and their bladder surgery complications and the tail they have growing out of the base of their spine. And callers that get all excited telling a long, detailed story that goes nowhere and has zero payoff whatsoever.
Back to the lady with her carpet cleaner â€“ when the radio people played back the listener comments, one guy said, “If he’s a good kisser and she doesn’t outclass him, I think she should give him a chance.” The woman said that was him. He’d heard the show and called in. I think she should give him a chance, too.
Back in those days it was called a personal page before all this blogging business started.
Sadly, I didn’t do any sort of archive keeping in the beginning and I’m not 100% what the debut page looked like although I have some ideas which I will hopefully post this weekend.
Since insomnia seems to be the theme of the week, I bring to you this PamPage historical nugget (which I edited slightly for spelling):
Insomnia: February 1, 1998
It is 2:15am and I am wide awake. I can recall going through most of my life (so far) and never being awake at this hour except for writing college papers and going to wild rock n’ roll clubs. Now it’s getting to be a disturbingly regular occurrence. It’s like the most minute blip on my regular life radar results in indigestion and insomnia. Is this a getting older thing or am I evolving in some strange and undesired direction?
Sometimes, I simply can’t fall asleep. I will usually toss and turn and do a variety of relaxing and breathing exercises before I will get up. Other times I wake up, sometimes as little as 30 minutes after I’ve gone to bed. I actually don’t mind not being able to sleep half as much as I mind being very tired the following day.
My methods of dealing with it usually involve one or any combination of the following: alka seltzer, ginger tea, mineral water, Hyland’s Calming tablets (homeopathic remedy which I highly recommend). I sit on the futon and usually read or sometimes channel surf which is always interesting at this hour. Last night I read for over an hour. Tonight I’ve already drank 2 big cups of tea which is herbal, but nonetheless, I suspect it isn’t helping my cause.
We are in the process of buying our first home which I suspect is at the root of this latest wave of sleeplessness. We found the house last weekend. The worst part was the time between when we knew it was what we wanted and the time we actually signed the offer, which lasted about 24 hours and resulted in one um, spirited discussion. On Friday we brought a stack of paper to the mortgage broker and saw what we were in for with the bank and signed those papers.
It’s especially hard doing this for the first time because the whole homebuying thing is this maze of complicated paperwork, agreements, inspections and even though there are a lot of safeguards in there, and you can do your homework and ask questions, the process is totally mystifying and terrifying. At every turn I’m wondering if we’re just getting suckered, or if we’ve naively paid too much or blindly agreed to some fee or certification that’s completely bogus.
But I’m also thrilled about the house and with the idea that there will be actual places to put things. Our place now is so small. The house has a shop built on. Great, I am thinking. A whole shop where we can put our wrench, 2 screwdrivers and ball of twine. A utility room: hand wash can be dried in a separate room instead of being an obstacle course in the living room and dining area. It’s a good change, it’s just overwhelming at times.
I think I might be able to sleep now.