Free Write: Trailing off and Back Again

The clouds are gray and heavy. The ground is drowning in a endless rainfall. The house is dark and quiet, except for the tick tock ticking of the clock on the wall. I'm trying to start my day, but I feel like it is already night. I am not entirely sure how I'm feeling at this moment- content? Drained? Lonely? Rested? Calm? Tired? My heart is slowly beating, my lids are heavy, my breath is deep and steady. Peaceful. Not ecstatic. The rain is soothing, needed, and welcomed, but it's working too well. I am becoming lethargic, indolent, slow-moving. I am a sloth. I like sloths. Sloths are cute. There is a tea house I like to frequent, and the welcome sign has a painting of a sloth, and he's enjoying tea with his other animal friends. I like that painting. My cat has been letting out a whining meow every forty-seven seconds for the last two hours. I am at my breaking point with him...I don't know what that means. He is breaking the calm, the meow is piercing this silent home, and drowning out the methodical tick tock ticking of my old clock. I like my clock. I like the painting of the sloth more.

(Almost) Success

Last night was my first night of cooking dinner in the new house.

There were few catastrophes.

The meal consisted of lemon pepper and herb chicken atop a bed of orzo and sauteed mushrooms, with an heirloom tomato and cucumber salad. The salad turned out great. The chicken was tasty, but a little dry (I always worry about under cooking chicken), and the orzo - which should have been the easiest part- was salvageable.

I guess I don't read directions well. I looked at the package of orzo (yes, I needed to read the package to see how to cook pasta), and saw: In a large pot, add four cups of water and heat to a rolling boil". Well, I added four cups of water and a little broth for added flavor, allowed it to hit a rolling boil, added the orzo, and waited for the water to return to a boil. Seems simple enough. But no, not for my poor misguided brain. As the orzo cooked, I noticed less and less liquid seemed to be in the pot. Now, I've made spaghetti, penne, and many other more common pastas plenty of times- I know what it's supposed to look like- and this looked wrong.

Just plain wrong.

I reached for the empty package and re-read the directions: Add four QUARTS of water to a large pot.

Dammit!

I quickly heated more liquid in a separate container, and then added that liquid to the already heated pasta. In the end, it tasted all right, but there was a good amount of orzo charred on the bottom of the pot. Pot ruined. Small oopsie, but it did make me a little discouraged. Well, I guess discouraged is the wrong word. I'll say, rather, it made me realize that I need to pay better attention to directions. When it comes to making my way around a kitchen, I am the man who constantly gets lost and refuses to ask for directions. Lesson learned.

Baby Steps

I am setting a small goal for myself. Very small. Teeny tiny, but for me, it's a good step in self-improvement. Are you ready for it? Are your inner drum rolls a-rolling?

I am going to cook a meal once a week.

Insert "oohs" and "ahhs" here.

I know, I know. For many people, perhaps everyone, this is not a feat that deems much recognition. For me, it is an accomplishment I can be happy with. I don't cook. I don't think I've cooked a real meal in my new house- ever. Tonight my dinner consisted of Flaming Hot Cheetos and a couple glasses of water, and a meal of this caliber is a normal occurrence. NOT something to be happy with. I'm not talking gourmet here (maybe gourmet every now and then, but let's not get ahead of ourselves), just a meal that involves more than piercing film with a fork and a microwave. So I will plan. I will try. I will cook. I will shine.

Baby steps, people. Baby steps.

Out on Holiday

Life is too short to sit inside and blog. Well, maybe that's a little too dramatic. Let me try again...

Portland summers are too short to sit inside and blog.

That's better.

I've been under the sun, soaking up rays, floating in rivers, strolling through street festivals, and just admiring the beauty that is an Oregon summer.

My brain is too focused on "WEEEEEE! SUMMER!" to try and put fluid thoughts onto the screen.

I'll be back when the weather cools, the sky becomes gray, and everything feels damp and depressing- so goth. I do my best work when I'm feeling goth.

I Want to Illustrate a Moment From This

Last night I dreamt I attended a reunion with all of my theater friends. The event was held under a moonlit sky in the middle of a corporate building's parking lot. Everyone was there, and everyone looked the same, just taller.

Shortly after arriving, little gnomes started to appear from nowhere. After a moment's time there were hundreds of them. The party guests were not worried from this, nor were they excited. It seemed as if I was the only one who actually noticed them. One, two, three, three hundred stout and pudgy gnomes, all wearing identical yellow long-sleeved shirts, blue trousers and pointy red hats. Their faces were also identical to one another- rosy cheeks, bulbous nose, gray hair, yet a somewhat youthful face. I looked to the tables set up near the corner of the parking lot- gnomes were popping up like a game of whack-a-mole. I turned to look at some of my friends- gnomes were darting past their knees, swift and unnoticed by all but me. I lifted my gaze to the rooftop of the corporate building- a chorus line of gnomes, all in silence, their painted smiles and glossy eyes staring at me, and their bodies swaying in unison- left, right, left right. I watched the rooftop gnomes for a while, half wondering if they were the paid entertainment, and half wondering if they would offer me a hat.

They never gave me a hat.

To Say the Least...

Let me tell you about a recent embarrassing moment....

Greg and I spent a lovely Friday afternoon hiking at Oneonta Gorge. We waded through clear streams, admired waterfalls, and had a grand ol' time with Mother Nature. At one point on our hike, the path forked into two paths. One let you continue on the main trail, while the other led you down to a beautiful cliff that allowed a great view of Triple Falls (three waterfalls in one- clever.). Greg and I decided to take a breather and head down to the viewing spot. As we headed down the path, a nice older gentleman was heading up. We smiled and said our polite hellos and continued on our merry way. It was a great spot.



I sat down to rest my legs for a few minutes. Soon after sitting, I felt a little tickle on my left leg. I looked down and saw a creepy looking copper colored bug crawling up my thigh. I quickly swatted my hand across my thigh, hoping to get it off me. It fell off my leg, but it looked (and felt) like it fell right into my skirt, and onto my ::ahem:: lady part.

I freaked out.

I jumped up and started running in small circles, screaming over and over "Oh my God, it went in my crotch! IT'S IN MY VAGINA!!" I then lifted my skirt over my waist, skivvies in full view, and continued to scream and flail my limbs wildly, hoping that this desperate act would ensure my body being bug free. It was in the middle of this dance that Greg tapped me on my shoulder and said, "Hey....Krisha?"

"What?!"

Greg then pointed behind me. I turned around, and to my surprise, saw the nice old man, camera in hand (but not to his eye. He wasn't a pervert.) and a look of shock on his face. He had seen the whole thing.

Instantly, I lowered my skirt, turned back around and buried my embarrassed face in my hands. Greg laughed and took pictures.

What I Should Be Doing

My sister-in-law is coming to town! Although the visit will be short, I'm really looking forward to the time we will have.

Greg and I have been getting the guest bedroom all set up. Currently it has been used as our giant walk-in closet. Since we had decided to fix up the master bedroom first, all of our clothes and any extras were thrown into that spare room. Well, now we have to put a person in it, so we actually have to be productive and create a room that's more of an enjoyment than a punishment to stay in. I swear, if we didn't have guests coming over, we'd probably never get motivated to fix that room up. So earlier today, I started hauling our storage containers back up to the master bedroom, and about five minutes into working, I tripped on the stairs and twisted my ankle. Don't worry, it's not serious. It just hurts like a bitch, and now it's really difficult to carry things up and down the stairs. Now, Greg is doing all the work, and I feel like dead weight. Although it hurts my ankle to put too much weight on it, I can't help but feel guilty for not being able to help out more. What I should be doing, rather than typing away, is sucking it up and helping out. What hurts more, feeling guilty or walking up and down stairs? I'm not sure.