G is weird. I know I have hinted at that before, but I’m not sure I have adequately conveyed just how weird she is. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll be able to explain this idea now, either, since words fail me when it comes to communicating this aspect of the G. I can only tell you that she is not normal. Funny, smart, charming, determined, compassionate- yes. But normal? Not so much.

Because of her innate weirdness, you can imagine how eager I was to go to Fort Myers and meet G’s mom. Almost immediately, though, I realized that while she is definitely weird, she is weird in a way that is exactly opposite of G. This caused a short-circuit in my brain that I just now feel like I am recovering from.

The one (and maybe only) similar feature that they share is they are both very tiny. And by tiny I don’t mean short, I mean stick-like. By contrast, I am not tiny and do not in any way resemble a stick. I knew that already, but just to drive the point home I got to witness the following conversation:

G’s Mom (GM): Kabluey, I have some belts that you might like. Why don’t you take them home with you?
G: Thanks mom.
GM: You should definitely take them because I have several others.
G: I would, but rhinestone studded belts are not really my thing.
GM: Are you sure? I think you would look nice with a little bling.
G: I’ll pass, but maybe K8 wants them. (Insert devilish grin)
GM: (glancing over at K8) Well, her waist isn’t as small as yours.

You know what else isn’t as small as G’s waist? My middle finger. Do you want to see it, GM?

So, they don’t have the same fashion sense. And they don’t look alike. G looks like whatever this world intended her to look like, and her mom looks like whatever the world intended her to look like as long as that intent included hair dye, assorted cosmetic procedures and lots of sun. Which is not to say she doesn’t look good. She is a very attractive woman, but she looks nothing like G. And really, she doesn’t even look like any of G’s three brothers, leaving me to wonder if one day she picked up the wrong kids from school and just never got around to sorting out her error. Exchanges can be a bitch.

She also acts nothing like G. G is easy going and doesn’t stress about basic decisions like what to do for dinner. On two separate occasions, that very question turned into a full-blown battle. The first time, we were trying to find a restaurant to go to. G’s mom threw out several suggestions, but somehow became obsessed with an all-you-can-eat fish buffet that didn’t have a liquor license so people were encouraged to bring their own booze. This doesn’t even seem legal to me, but I learned that things in Florida are a little different than here in the Pacific Northwest. Plus, low-quality fish sitting out endlessly on banquet tables seemed like an invitation for food poisoning, a possibility that occurred to everyone except Kabluey’s mom. The second dinner fiasco, which I shall refer to as The Great Fajita Debate of 2010, involved G’s mom calling her children one by one (from some undisclosed location. For whatever reason, that woman sure did disappear a lot) and talking to them until they reached maximum frustration and hung up on her, at which point she just dialed the next offspring down the line.

G’s grandma, I will say, does exhibit some similar characteristics as G. For one thing, she has an awesome sense of humor, and she didn’t get worked into a frenzy about where we were going to go for lunch. On the other hand, she tricked us into going to a Walmart by referring to it vaguely as “the yarn store”, and I spent the better part of twenty minutes helping her shuffle through the city-block sized mega store until she finally managed to commandeer a motorized cart from an unsuspecting and equally elderly customer, an accomplishment that simultaneously impressed and horrified me.

In the end, I’m not sure anything that I witnessed in Fort Myers really gets to the root of why G is so weird. But it does make me appreciate even more the exact brand of weirdness that she has made her own, and that is something I am thankful for.

I’m back from Fort Myers and am still trying to process all that I saw in the land that brought us G. Let’s start with the easy stuff first.

It was hot. I was happy that when packing for the trip I was able to dig through my drawer and pull out the shorts that were crumpled up in the back, wedged behind seemingly obsolete items like tank tops. The good news is that it wasn’t very humid. The bad news is that it was still hot enough that both G and I got heat rashes after we went for an afternoon run. This was pretty humiliating for G since she grew up in Florida, but it was also rather shameful for me as a California native.

I also got to see some amazing Fort Myers sites. For example, G kept her promise and took me to the Prawn Broker, where I was able to purchase a souvenir t-shirt. I think I may be the only one in the world to actually buy such a shirt, as the fish monger had to dig around in the back for quite some time before returning with a green shirt that said AhBeCrabby and Fish on the front, and smelled heavily of crustaceans.

We also got to go to Chili’s, which as avid watchers of The Office, was very exciting for us (There are no Chili’s in Portland. In fact, the only one in the state of Oregon is down in Eugene). We learned that “skillet of cheese” is an actual menu item (we’d heard this appetizer mentioned on an episode of The Office, but assumed it was a joke). We were so excited about our trip to Chili’s that we had actually called down to Fort Myers while still in Portland to inquire about their Happy Hour schedule and specials. It was then that we learned that their happy hour is “all day, every day”. Their beer special is a two for one deal, and for unknown reasons, they insist on bringing you both of your beers at the same time. Chili’s is the best.

Side note: a general problem with Florida, and one of probably several reasons why I could never live there, is that their beer selection is deplorable. When Sam Adams is the best thing on tap (and the only thing I even considered drinking), there is a serious, serious issue.

Probably the best (or at least the most vacation-like) part of the trip was staying for two nights at the La Playa resort where G’s brother works. He hooked us up with a very inexpensive rate, which is good because at full price those 2 nights would have cost more than my mortgage. We sat at a fire pit at the beach (drinking Sam Adams…), swam in the (3!!) lagoon-like pools, ate fancy food (for free!) and enjoyed an amazing view of the gulf from our furnished balcony. It was interesting to hobnob with wealthy families that were staying at the resort, not that they acknowledged our existence. It kind of reminded me of growing up around rich people, who also didn’t acknowledge my existence. Some things never change, I guess.

There is much, much more to say about the trip. The most interesting things relate to G and her family, and how they interact (or don’t) with each other. G’s mom… wow… I don’t even know where to start. I will definitely share thoughts about the woman who spawned G, but for some reason when I try to write about it my eye starts to twitch, making it very difficult to see the screen when I am typing. I am taking this as an indication that I need more time to gather my thoughts before I dive into this (truly fascinating!) topic.

G and I get job offers at the same time. It’s how we demonstrate that our lives are somehow fused together. Gays must do this, you see. Some couples start dressing alike, or get similar haircuts, or develop the same speech patterns, or maybe, in instances of extremely poor judgment, get matching piercings. G and I land new jobs at the same time. That’s our “thing”.

Based on this trend, when G accepted her job offer last week, I knew I had to step up and get a new job too. So I did. And not just any job. I am pretty sure I found a really awesome one. This feeling of excitement toward work is a strange and unfamiliar thing.

The only potential issue that I see with my new job is that I think I’ll be in way over my head, making it a very real possibility that I am about to travel down a path destined for shame, embarrassment, self-doubt and eventually the Multnomah County unemployment office.

But if that doesn’t happen, it could be really, really cool.

Maybe it’s because it is supposed to be Spring, but the weather is still wet and cold and horrible. Maybe it’s because it is so very far away from any major holiday or day-off-triggering event. More likely it’s because this month has historically contained some of the more upsetting times of my life. Whatever the reason, March kinda sucks.

This is the first time since I started this blog that I don’t really feel like writing. It’s not like there is a lack of things to write about. Stuff has been happening (not particularly exciting stuff, but one could argue that nothing I’ve written about has been earth-shattering). I’ve made some strides in my attempt to change jobs. I’ve been plugging away at training for my athletic endeavors. I’ve even been batting around some ideas for a book I may write. All good stuff. But I feel blah and generally I think it’s best to keep to myself when this mood takes over.

The good news is that at the end of this month I’ll be going to Florida with G to see her family. There will be sun, which I desperately need. (And according to Weather Underground, there will also be 96% humidity, which will likely result in my hair reaching a level of curliness never before seen in nature). I’m excited to see where G grew up, and visit all the places she used to go when she was a tiny weirdo (like the The Prawn Broker, where she used to go on Christmas Eve and where she promised we could go for dinner one night). I will also get to meet G’s mom, and from all accounts this will be an experience I will not soon forget. So whatever funk I’m in right now will surely be over soon.

One of my life’s dreams was fulfilled yesterday- I finally got to try Russian River Brewing Co’s Pliny the Younger triple IPA. Kabluey and I went to the special tasting at Belmont Station and we were able to try Pliny the Younger and Pliny the Elder side by side.

The Younger was tasty. It was a tiny bit too sweet for my liking, but it had a pretty dry finish and the vast amount of hops dutifully made their presence known. And at 11% ABV, you could definitely taste the alcohol. While I’m glad I finally got to try this beer, I can confidently say I prefer The Elder, which is convenient because that beer is brewed year round and is definitely easier to get my hands on.

As with every single beer event that I attend in this town, I saw Ken The Taplister Guy. He told me about some new features they are working on for Taplister, and in a rare but amazing bit of social perfection, my beer glass ran dry right about the time our conversation topics dwindled. Some days are just awesome like that.

To balance out the exclusiveness of the Pliny tasting yesterday, today I joined millions of people for a time-honored, Green Dye No. 3-filled tradition. St Paddy’s day wouldn’t be complete without it.

I, along with 20,999 of my fellow Portlanders, participated in the city’s annual Shamrock Run yesterday. I thought the 8k run would serve as a good check point for my 1/2 marathon training.

These are the take-aways that should have come from the event:

1. I need to run more than 1 day a week if I plan to make it through a half marathon
2. Running on a track does nothing to prepare me for uneven surfaces, large crowds of people, or even the tiniest of inclines
3. One should stretch before a race, and maybe drink a glass of water or two in the days leading up to a run

These are the actual take-aways:

1. My new running hat is ok, but the one Riley ate was way better
2. I don’t want to do a half marathon

Hopefully I’ll get over point #2. Once the race was over and I was back home in my warm house drinking coffee in bed, I was happy that I did the Shamrock run. And my time was about 3.5 minutes faster than last year, which is encouraging. At the end of the day, though, I am probably just not cut out to be a runner. Ms O’Rourke, my elementary school principal, always told me I walked like duck. Which probably means I run like a duck. Which probably explains why I think this sport, in general, kind of sucks. But that is ok. It’s just a few short months of misery and then when it’s over, if I pull it off, I can gloat. And gloating rules.

As I typed the title of this post, it occurred to me that it could actually be the name of an ongoing series. I’m somewhat shameless when it comes to leaving the house in my PJs. This basic lack of dignity hit an all-time low during the year-and-a-half that I worked from home, when it eventually deteriorated to Things I’ll Do Without Pants On. But this entry isn’t about my long history of public pajama wearing. It’s about one specific incident that occurred tonight.

I had just settled down on the couch with my laptop and opened up my email. My co-worker had sent me an instructional document that was going to teach me how to program iPhone Apps. It seems a little far-fetched, but in the absence of anything else even remotely meaningful on the employment horizon, we suddenly felt mobile application development was our best bet for new careers. Clearly, I can be talked into anything at this point. But in addition to the message from my co-worker, I also received an email with the following subject: Important Draft Beer Notice.

Obviously, I opened the beer email immediately and that is when I found out that Belmont Station had announced a special event featuring two Russian River Brewing Company beers- Pliny the Elder and Pliny the Younger. Pliny the Elder is one of my very favorite beers. It’s available on draft and in 22oz bottles in Portland, but it can be hard to find regularly. Pliny the Younger is a limited release beer that is distributed in small batches in February and early March. I have been waiting over a year to try it, and next Tuesday I’ll get my chance.

There was a keg of Pliny the Younger available at the Horse Brass over the weekend, and it ran out in 25 minutes. Belmont Station is getting a keg next Tuesday, and in order to allow as many people as possible to try it, they are pre-selling tickets to a special tasting. I was in my car within 15 seconds of reading the email, sporting pajama bottoms, a dog-fur-covered bright green fleece, and my slippers. I suppose I could have taken two minutes to throw on a pair of jeans and some sneakers, but at the time I really felt like I couldn’t take any chances. There was a brief moment in the bier cafe at Belmont Station when I was surrounded by people who apparently don’t get ready for bed at 8:30pm and I felt a little sheepish. But, I got my tickets, and I know it will be worth it.

The main bathroom of my house has had issues for months. I had a window taken out of the shower in September, which left a giant wood-framed gap in the interior wall. Then about a month later I discovered a leaky pipe. I had a plumber take a look, and he was able to confidently identify the part of the shower pipe that was leaking. He quoted me a price of $700 to make the repair, so I thanked him for his time and have been showering in the basement ever since.

With my tax refund and home refinance money, I am finally ready to fix the bathroom. Still, the $700 plumbing repair was a bit out of my budget, so I asked my very handy uncle if he could help me out with that part of the project. Because he is a glutton for punishment, he said yes.

I spent a few nights last week chiseling tile off the walls and inhaling toxic grout/cement dust in preparation for my uncle’s arrival. When he got to the house, I took him into the bathroom and explained to him where the plumber said the leak most likely was. He carefully cut a small section out of the drywall and we ran the water to see if we could identify the leak. Nothing. So then he removed a whole panel of drywall to expose the entire pipe and again we ran water. Still nothing.

It turns out, I do not have a leaky pipe. In fact, all I evidently needed to do was re-caulk the bathtub. Pity, since instead of that simple fix, I did this:

In some ways, the fact that I didn’t have to do a major plumbing repair is good news. But in other ways, like the ways involving wasting the most beautiful Saturday we’ve had in months laboring in a 3×5 foot bathroom, and creating (then patching) unnecessary holes in the wall, and driving to various hardware stores with my uncle, who prides himself on knowing many gas and time saving “short cuts”, this development can pretty much be classified as rage-inducing waste of time.

It was brought to my attention recently that the end of February marked my 5 year anniversary of moving to Oregon. To commemorate this occasion, I thought I’d list out a few of my very favorite things about Portland.

The assortment of beer that is available in this town is amazing. Oregon has some of the best microbreweries (Hopworks, Ninkasi, Double Mountain), some of the best stores for buying beer (Belmont Station, Hawthorne Fred Meyer Horse Brass, Concordia Ale House). It also has some great home brew supply stores, which is awesome because brewing beer is one of my very favorite things to do (except of course for drinking beer, which trumps pretty much everything).

Stumptown Coffee makes some of my favorite coffee. Their beans can be found all over town, but there is no better place to enjoy it than First Cup Coffeehouse. It’s close to my house, so Riley and I walk there most mornings. In fact, if Ry ever escaped from the house (which would require an uncharacteristic display of effort), I am 95% sure he would walk himself down to First Cup and wait on the side deck until someone came out and gave him a dog biscuit.

The cherry blossom trees were one of the first things I noticed upon moving here. The trees lined NW Lovejoy St., where I briefly lived before buying my house, and every year when they bloom they remind me of my first weeks in Portland.

In many ways, the weather in Portland completely blows. I do try to be accepting of this because I think anything that isn’t 75 degrees and sunny blows, and I realize that may not be entirely fair. There are good things about rain, and clouds, and sub-freezing weather. At least, I assume there must be even though at this precise moment I can’t think of a single benefit. What I do like about Portland weather, though, is the one random snow storm that we seem to get each year. The city shuts down, so I don’t have to go to work and can instead spend time with G and the pups, which automatically puts those days in a magical category along with unicorns and rainbows and Pat Benatar. Riley loves it too. He fights me tooth and nail when he has to go outside in the rain (making for a rather annoying 9.5 months a year), but at the first sign of snow he begs to go outside and frolic in the yard. He also likes when I make tiny snow men, which he later eats when I am not looking.

I should state for the record that I do miss things about San Francisco (good Mexican food, living near my brother and sister, going to Giants games, and… wait, that might be it), but moving up to Portland was definitely one of my better life decisions.

I had been making progress with my half marathon training. At least it felt like I was making progress. Kabluey is playing in an outdoor soccer tournament near PGE Park, so I have been going to her weekly games and running at the track. As of Sunday, I am up to five miles. I’m happy about this because it’s about two miles more than I typically run at any one time, and it also puts me in good shape to do the 8k course at the Shamrock Run in two weeks (which I am doing primarily because the t-shirt is cool).

On Monday, however, my sense of satisfaction took a couple of hits. During a routinely boring morning meeting I asked my co-worker, who is doing her first half marathon around the same time as me, how far she has been running. She told me that she is up to nine miles. Fine. She is an over-achiever. I, quite possibly, am not. I can accept this. But then she said that according the training schedule, I should be up to seven miles for my long run.

A couple things jumped out at me in that statement, starting with “training schedule”. I know that there are a ton of training schedules out there, but I consciously decided I didn’t need one since it seems to be pretty obvious that in order to finish the race I just need to keep running more and more each week. It’s not exactly rocket science. But if I did have a training schedule, evidently I would know about things like “long runs”. Notice the use of the plural form of “run”. This implies that I should be running more than one day a week. Hmmm. As of right now, I execute one lone run a week. This got me thinking that I need to retool my regimen. Maybe there is something to these training schedules after all.

Unfortunately, any new-found enthusiasm for an increase in weekly running was immediately squashed upon entering the house on Monday night. I opened the front door and instantly my eyes were drawn to the living room floor, where I found this:

My sister gave me that hat not long after I moved to Oregon. It’s a great hat- nice long bill to keep the sun off my skin-cancer-prone face, mesh back so my head doesn’t get too hot, and it’s made up of my favorite orange and gray color combination. I’ve left that hat lying around for years, and never once has Riley even noticed it (I know it was Riley that did this. He of course has a long history of destroying my personal belongings. Plus, had Sigh done it, she would have meticulously chewed the hat into identically sized symmetrical pieces, then placed them all in a neat pile on my side of the bed with a handwritten note next to them that said “Give me back my mom or there will be others”). I can only assume that the reason Riley went for the hat on this particular day is because he overheard me the night before going on at some length about how much I loved wearing that hat while I run, and he thought to himself, if my mom loves it so much, it must be delicious.

So to sum up my Monday, I learned that I need to run longer, and more often, and with a sub-standard hat. This may be more than I can bear, but I will do my best to soldier on.