Yeah, Yeah, Yeah....Happy Friggin' Birthday.

So....I feel like I should write something because it's my birthday today.

I'm 41.

I'm 50-9.

I'm in my 40's.

I'm middle aged.

I could wax rhapsodic about how time is flying by and how did I get here and what am I doing with my life.  Am I happy?  Am I moving in the right direction?  Am I complete and fulfilled in my choices?

I wrote a lot about the answers to those questions last year.

Didn't you read it?  Oh, well...Don't let me stop you.  Just click here and you can....'cause I'm movin' on.

I'm tired of thinking about what I'm going to be when I grow up.

I'm 41.  I'm grown.  I don't want to think anymore.  I don't want to fight.  I don't want to assess my progress

I just want to be.  50-9 year olds have earned that right.

I've also earned the right to have the cake that I want with the ice cream that I love.

But....alas....

I have children.  Who don't like the cake that I want and the ice cream that I love.

So, I'm eating this instead.

It has party blowers and curly candles.


YYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH ME!

And Yeah, YOU for loving me.  I love you, right back!

L.

Brownies and Other Friday Tidbits....

First off, let me just say there is no football in this post. 

Well, maybe a little at the end, but nothing right now.


THE FAN

My day started at 6:30 when I got out of bed to start opening up all the doors and windows to let in the cool morning air.  If I don't do this, Whosits next to me starts to get grousy about how hot the house is and why don't we have the doors and windows open to let in the cool morning air.  We usually leave everything open until the temperature gauge on the furnace says "Arctic Circle" then we run around and close everything up to keep it cool in the house all day, which means that no one can go in or out all day without being blasted with,  

"KEEP THE DOOR CLOSED!"

Normally, we have the air conditioner on, but it's been on the fritz the past few days and the grousy-ness is really starting to set in.  Not that it's super hot or anything, but this is Seattle, so when it gets over 75 degrees, we may as well be in Africa.  Prince Charming even brought a fan home from work which we have positioned out on the deck.  And when I say fan, what I mean is gale force wind machine.  It has three speeds - Fast, Funnel Cloud, and Category 5 Tornado Advisory....all of which are fun to turn on and scream into

or, alternatively, to turn your head sideways and look like a supermodel.

Either way, I've decided it's just easier for everyone if I get up at dawn and open everything up.  Princey Boy isn't so princey when he gets hot.


THE BROWNIES

The other reason I was up at 6:30 this morning was to make brownies.  I signed up to bring something for the cake walk at my son's football pep rally tonight (no, that's not the football part), and when I asked him what he thought I should bring he said brownies, which was odd because he hates chocolate.

I know.  Freak.

Anyway, I've been banned from using the oven or stove in any capacity while the air conditioner is on the fritz, so in order to get these done, I had to make them at 6:30 in the morning, while the house was still cool.

I have three tips for you on making brownies for a football pep rally:

1. In a pinch, tin foil is not a substitute for parchment paper.  Foil sticks, even when you spray it with Pam.
2. Never leave your 5 year old choco-holic munch mouth alone in the room with the pan of brownies or you'll come back to a big finger trail through the center of the pan.
3. If it's at all possible, make them from scratch.  The box stuff from the store is just crap....but frosting and sprinkles can make anything look good.

So, if you happen to be at the Kent Knights Junior Football and Cheer 2011 Pep Rally tonight, and you decide to take a cake walk, these are my brownies:

THE PEP RALLY

I've never been to a pep rally before, but I've heard about them.  They always seem fun.  Kind of loud and spirited and full of people dressed in team colors.  I've been to a pep assembly, but I think that's different.  From what I understand, however, they are the same in that attendance is mandatory  

(All players must be in attendance!  This counts as their practice for the day!  You will be here!)  

but different in that pep assemblies don't cost money  

(In addition to the fact that you must be here, you must also buy an activity bracelet for $10 so that your kid can participate in everything we have going on, but if you want any of the food, that costs extra.)

Let's have some fun out here.  This game is fun, alright?....Fun goddammit.

THE PICKLES

In addition to my brownies, I also had to make pickles this morning.  This is the third batch of pickles I've made this summer.  Really, this month.  Charming loves pickles.  No, I mean he LOVES pickles.  I think he'd marry a jar if he could.  I wouldn't be jealous or anything because pickles can't hold your hand or tell you how yummy your blue, blue eyes are.  So he can obsess over the pickles all he wants.  But, he doesn't love soggy pickles, so I have to make the cold batch kind which have to be kept in the refrigerator.  I've made about 147 jars of pickles and am rapidly running out of fridge space, so if you have any you can spare, I'd love ya'.

I tried out a new recipe for them this morning with red peppers, onions, jalapenos and extra garlic.  I've decided to call them "Pretty Much Guaranteeing The Fact That I'm Not Kissing You Today".  

I'll let you know how they turn out....

MY FAVORITE PICTURES OF THE WEEK

In no particular order....

That's the football part....See, I told  you it was just a little.  This is actually a recreation of a shot I took a couple of years ago of a guy on the varsity squad.  He was a nice boy who helped me out with a shot I had in mind and I loved it.  It looked like this:

So, if you know Keith, tell him his legacy lives on and will continue to every year my kid plays ball.

LAST, BUT NOT LEAST

Although, maybe it should be least.  This is what my son found to play with today.  He calls it a Skink lizard from Missisouri.  I call it wash your hands with soap and don't bring it in the house.

Alrighty.  I think that's about it.  We'll call that a week.

Have a great weekend, gang!  I love ya'!

Double L.

Project 52 ~ Week 34 {Connections}

Okay, so....funny story. 

I saw the theme last weekend and thought,

"HEY!  Finally something I can actually work into my stuff this week!"

I've been having a bit of a time the last few weeks, just kind of twisting my images (and my logic) so that they fit into the theme.  But "Connections" immediately spoke of to me of football, which I've been working on like a mad woman the past few days since Fall Camp started.

As I made my way out to the field, I told my son that I was excited to get some shots for my project this week.

"I've got to get a connection shot," I told him.  

He just kind of looked at me, so I kept talking. 

"You know...like, pads hitting together.  BAM!  Connection."

I had to clap my hands really loudly for emphasis on the "BAM!" part because he still didn't look like he was getting it.  He kept just looking at me and then he said,

"Ooooorrr...it could be like a connection of love between friends or family."

I kind of shuffled my feet and said,  

"Oh...well...yeah.  Totally.....I mean...I was going say that, too...you know....I just thought it was kind of....obvious...you know....and I just....wanted to do something different with it.  You know....but....I mean, I thought of that, too."

Forget it.  He got me.

So, for my son with the wonderful heart and the eyes that see right through me to my back collar button, I offer this connection:

Might be time for me to take a break from football....

10 Things I've Learned Shooting Football

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"Pace Yourself" doesn't work in football

Evidently, "Pace Yourself" is a mother's advice to her physically spent kid who's afraid he won't be able to run the 14 miles all the other guys are running without stopping or getting yelled at for stopping.  The proper advice in this type of situation is

"Run hard!  Balls to the wall!  All the time!  Don't stop!  EVER!  This is football!"

There's no crying in football

I thought this was just for baseball, but I guess I was wrong.  Football players aren't supposed to cry either.  Even if they're only 8 years old and they've done 25 reverse crunches in a row and now their stomach feels like it's twisted out of their body into a puddle on the turf.  

Good thing this rule doesn't apply at the gym or I'd be sunk.  

Oh, wait.  I don't go to the gym.  

No worries, then.

To those who don't speak football, the language of football can be pretty darn suggestive.

"He's got to get his body low, drive into that hole, then pop it."

"Nothing feels better then when you hit it low, hit it hard and hit it right."

I don't think I really need to draw you a picture here, do I?

Stand Cool.

As opposed to, like, a little kid, 'cause even little kids know how to stand cool. 

Skills can be taught.  Effort cannot.

Any coach worth his salt can teach a guy how to run, how to block, how to hit, how to catch.  But the desire to put on all that gear and run around for 3 hours when it's 147 degrees out, then take a five minute water break so you can come back and do it all again?  That cannot be taught.  You've gotta' bring that with ya'.  You've just gotta' love this game.

In football, your number is everything.

"What number are you thinking about, son?"

"I don't know.  I don't really care."

"Whoa!  Whoa!  Whoa!  Stop right there.  Put down the football and step away from the field.  You don't really care?  Don't you know what your number means, boy?  It's how everyone, including yourself, will identify you from now until the end of time.  On the field.  Off the field.  At the grocery store.  At your 20 year high school reunion.  IT'S WHO YOU ARE.  Without a good number, what is your poor mother going to write on Xerox paper with Magic Marker and hold up during the game?  Without a good number, you're gonna' be stuck with that stupid, generic voice mail code whenever you get a new cell phone.  Without a good number, YOU'RE NOTHING!"

"Ummmm....how about 21?"

"Hey!  That was my number!"

"I know."

"Here.  I'll let you wear my old jersey.  Good job, son.  I always knew you had it in ya'!"

Football means never having to say you're sorry.

Unless the mom/team photographer is standing up field, just a tad too close to the sideline, and you're moving so fast and she's just standing there like a deer in headlights rather than getting the hell out of the way, and you can't stop or redirect yourself quick enough and you crash right into her.

In that case, by all means, say you're sorry...and she'll call you a nice boy and put your picture on her blog.

Football means never having to say you're sorry ~ Part 2

Barring any encroaching photographers who have their head up their lens, you don't ever have to apologize for taking someone out.  You're just doing your job.  Offer your hand to help them up, but don't offer an apology.  And if your mother advises you to do so because she wants you to be a nice boy, gently walk her to the edge of the stadium, kiss her cheek and show her where she can kabitz with all the other ladies who don't really get this game.  Because if your father ever hears you apologize, he'll take you out himself.

Gear is good.  Bruises are battle scars.

"Oh my....Honey!  What happened to your leg!?!"

"It's from football!  Doesn't it look awesome?"

OR

"Hey, how'd you get that teeny, tiny scar across your thumb?"

"Yeah, that's where Marques Tuiasosopo stepped on my hand 15 years ago.  Cool, huh?"

Friday Night Lights are still just about the coolest thing around.

And I, for one, can't wait!

It's The Chicken

For those of you who have ever wondered which came first, I'm here to tell you.

It's the chicken.

By about 5 months.

Project 52 ~ Week 33 {Slow Down and Look Back}

School starts in 14 days.  Seems like just yesterday it was 15 days. 

We were supposed to spend a good deal of this summer at the beach.  That was the plan.  All of July and every weekend in August was the plan, but family and football kind of redirected our attention.  We've spent more time in a motor home and on the sidelines than walking the shore these past eight weeks.

We did get there last weekend and we will again next weekend.

But, then we'll be back in our fall routine, full of football and school and football and school.

And the lazy, beachy, sand throwing, agate hunting, seagull flying, wave crashing days of summer will be behind us once more. 

But...did I mention that school starts in 14 days? 

School.  Starts.  14 Days.

That's two weeks. 

Two. Weeks.  School.  Starts.

Tomorrow it will be 13 days.

I'm just saying.....

A Rooster Named Daisy {or How Prince Farming Made Me A Vegetarian}

I blame the chicks.  It all started when they moved in.

No.  It all started when one of them became a rooster.  And "became" really isn't the right word because it was a rooster all along.  We just didn't know it until 5:58 a.m. on Tuesday, July 26th when it started crowing.  Or cock-a-doodle-dooing.  Or roostering.  Or whatever it is you call it when those birds pierce the quiet, peacefulness of dreamland sleep with squawking at decibels matched only by those at a Bon Jovi concert.

Farming sat bolt right up in bed.  "OH MY GOD!"

We'd had our suspicions.  This particular bird was bigger than the others.  But, you know.  Chicks grow at different rates.  Like kids, right?  Yeah.  Sure.

It had a pretty big comb and chin waddle.  Bigger than the others had.  But, you know......Actually, I have no idea.  I don't know how big a chin waddle is supposed to be.  Unless, it's a double chin.  That I know.  Anyway....

It had, and this should really have been the defining clue, teal tail feathers.  Yes, I said teal.  Much greener than turquoise, but not blue enough to be cobalt.  Teal.  Tail feathers.  Pretty.

Prince Farming loved this bird.  It was his favorite.  We called it Daisy.  It was Daisy, the Body Walking Chicken.

So when Daisy began roostering at 5:58 in the morning, Farming was visibly distressed.

"COME HERE!  GET OVER HERE!  YOU'RE GONNA' BE DINNER!"

And he chased it around the yard with a box, finally trapping it behind the coop with my red muck bucket, where it continued to screech and scream for the rest of the day until Farming came back with a giant cage and forced me to help him get the bird from the bucket to the cage to the back of the truck.

"Just pick up the cage."

"I'm trying.  I'm afraid it's going to get my fingers."

"Just pick up the cage!"

And the bird slides down the bottom of the cage until it's pressed up against the bars and we're eye to eye and it's looking at me like it wants my face for dinner and I freak out and trip over the edge of the coop and almost drop the cage and it screeches and screams some more.  Farming, not the rooster.

"Come on!  Just pick it up!"

Now, I have never been the chicks' biggest fan.  I've never been the chicks' smallest fan.  I've never been the chicks' fan at all, but I don't think that they should die just because they turn out to be boys.  I like boys.  Boys are cool.  Boys are not food.

"It's a bird," he said.

"Yeah, but you love that bird."

"It's a rooster.  I loved it when it was a hen."

"So, just because it's a boy, you don't love it anymore.  That's a little sexist, don't you think?"

"No."

"You can't kill it just because it's a boy.  We have a boy.  I wouldn't want someone to eat him just because he's got a Y chromosome and doesn't like sparkle shoes."

"It's not our son.  It's a bird.  I'm getting it out of here."

"I won't eat it."

"Whatever."

That's how it started.  With that ridiculous rooster. 

In our household, the wife makes the list and the husband goes to the store.  Wandering through the aisles of the Grocery Outlet calms him down when he's stressed about work.    I mainline chocolate, but...to each his own.  I digress.

After this unfortunate rooster incident, I was terrified to eat any chicken that he brought home for fear that it was Daisy.  I just didn't want to do it.  Didn't want to take the chance.  Even if it said Foster Farms on it.  Even if it was stamped by the USDA.  That can all be faked, you know.  Little plastic wrap.  Little sticker making machine.  Bam.  You're in business to fool your wife into eating the rooster that used to walk on your head.

Well, I was not born yesterday.  Nor, do I come from a place that discusses where dinner comes from.

"A gourmet chef at a 5 star restaurant made this?  Good enough for me." is where I come from.  Okay?  So, I don't want to think about eating food that I know has a face...or a mother.

"What about steak?" he asked me.  Kind of snarky, too.

"I don't know that cow."

"Fish?"

"I've never looked a salmon in the eye."

"Turkey?"

"Okay...you know what, Mr. Sexist Farmer Guy?  I'm done.  I'm done eating meat.  So there."

"Yeah, right."

I'm not kidding.  I'm done.  I've gone Veg.  I tried to go Vegan but it was a little extreme for me.  I need cream for my coffee, and maybe some cheese every now and then.  Eggs I can give up, but I need cream and cheese.

And you know what? It's been two weeks and I feel fantastic!  Everything's fresh fruits and vegetables and whole grains and nuts.  I'm down five pounds doing nothing but sitting on my ass editing pictures.  Woot woot!

And then he says, "I'm thinking about getting a lasagna to take to the beach this weekend."

Forget the fact that I'm Italian and make killer lasagna and that any lasagna you get frozen from a store is just crap.  I just looked at him.

"...............Ummmm....okay....."

"What?  No good?"

"Well, I probably won't eat it."

"Why?"

"It's got meat in it."

"Oh, right.  The meat thing.  Well, why don't you just make a turkey one then."

"...............................  Meat."

"Fine.  Let's just not go then.  I mean, what am I supposed to eat if you're not eating meat?  You're the one who cooks everything."

And that's why I'm the queen.  But, I'm a nice queen who doesn't impose her own eating lifestyle on others.

"Just because I'm not eating meat, doesn't mean you can't.  Eat what you want."

"I want pot roast."

"I'm not making that."

And while he did survive zuchinni lasagna at the beach, he also made Buffalo wings.  Then came home and made Carne Asada and burritos.  He's down 7 pounds.

I had a salad and some vegi pizza and gained one and a half pounds.

Shut up.  You and your stupid fast metabolism and your stupid rooster.

Where's the chocolate?

That doesn't have meat in it, right?

Good.  'Cause I'd have to punch someone in the junk if it did.

Stupid rooster.

Love,

Lisa

Do You Speak Pom Pom?.....

My son played soccer three seasons in a row.  I've never liked soccer.  Way too much running.  Way too much chasing after a ball that I really don't care about.  I just don't like it.  But, when he started to play, all of the sudden it was exciting.  It was fun.  I cheered.  I took pictures.  I became a....soccer mom.

As much as I enjoyed it, I knew he was just killing time until he could put on some shoulder pads and hit the crap out of someone.  Alas, that day has finally arrived. 

Now, I'm no stranger to football.  Both of my brothers played from the time they were little.  I photograph a varsity high school team.  I love College Football Saturday.  I know all the words to the Sunday Night Football song.  And, my beloved was an all star player for, what we used to affectionately refer to as, the Pay n' Save Team because their colors were the same as the old Pay n' Save store....if you remember that.  If not, they were blue and green.  Pay n' Save.  Anyway....

Football's in the blood, but the second my son wants to get out there, all the sudden, I realized just how lethal and dangerous it can be.

I tried to reason with him.  "Are you sure you don't just want to play soccer?  Chase the ball around.  Kick someone in the shins.  Not get carried out on a stretcher."

"No.  Football.  I want to hit."

So there we were last week, getting ready for our first practice "in gear".  We brought home the equipment the night before and played fashion show.  I don't think they call it that in football, but that's what I call it.  Put on all the stuff and walk around.  Try it out.  See how you feel.  You know how he felt?

"Hey look, I have butt pads."  *Giggle*  *Snicker*

Lovely. 

When it came time to actually put on the gear and head to practice, I helped him put the pads over his head and strapped them on.

"Wait.  What are you doing?" I was asked.

"Strapping the shoulder pads on," I replied, as I clicked the straps around his shoulders.

"He's not going to be able to move his arms.  The straps go under his arms.  Not around them."

"Okay, Mr. All-American Star.  You know what?  When he's putting on a cute sweater and a matching skirt that zips up the side, and slipping his hands into some pom poms, I can help with that.  I don't speak this language.  Why don't you do it?"

Snap.  Click.  Pads.  Helmet.  Go.

Whatever.

His coach runs this drill called "The Gauntlet".  10 guys line up single file, while the other 24 pair up in a line opposite them.  Then the first guy holds a ball and tries to run through the 12 pairs of guys, while the 12 pairs of guys crash in on the runner as hard as they can.  It's supposed to be a Running Back exercise to see if they can get through the line with out dropping the ball.   

At first, my son wanted nothing more than to be Running Back, but after a few days, he flipped and decided that defense was where it's at, going back to his original statement of "I want to hit people", so I was a little confused when he voluntarily asked to give up his spot in the crashing line, and grabbed a place in the Running Back line.  I covered my eyes.  I almost couldn't watch.  A move that didn't go unnoticed, by the way.

"I saw you with your eyes closed, Mom."

He starts going through.  And he's getting knocked.  Down on his butt.  Over on his side.  Crashing through.  Crashing over.  Ohhhh, come on! 

Finally it was over and they moved on to a different drill.  Kids lined up on either side of the field, running at each other like rams.  Crushing each other.  Grabbing a jersey.  Grabbing a face mask (I guess they haven't learned that rule yet).  Taking the other one down and sitting on his neck.

"It is kinda' fun to watch him, isn't it?" I asked my husband.

"Yeah....he needs to go in low, drive to the hole then pop it."

"Are you hitting on me?"

"What?" he said.

"Well, that's a little suggestive for little league football, don't you think?"

"No.  He needs to get his body low, then drive into that hole, then pop."

....................................."Okay....All I heard was blah, blah, blahdie blah...pop.  And I'm lookin' around for a Diet Coke."

Blank stare.  "What?"

"I mean, if you want to talk right flank, military face, wheel the line, I'm there for ya', Cheech."

"What are you talking about?"

"I don't understand you, Jock Boy.  I speak pom pom."

"You're not making any sense."

"Exactly my point."

We've got 4 1/2 weeks until our first game.  There are no Killer Drillers in little league, so I'm trying to get my cheer on.

"K-N.......K-N-I........K-N-I-G-H-T-S.......KNIGHTS!"

"Mom, stop."

"Knights don't mess arooouuund.
Knights don't mess arooouuund.
Knights don't mess arooouuund.
They just get down.  
Uh huh."

"MOM....STOP!"

It's gonna' be a great season.

Project 52 ~ Week 32 {My Favorite Time Of Day}

My favorite time of day is....

...just after I've had my enormous mental breakdown

during which I used the phrase, "Loser Weak Pansy"

which wasn't a reference to myself or my flower garden,

followed by a storm out, a door slam and a mad car drive to pick up my library book,

because there was really no where else to go,

then a reading of the first chapter in the car in the parking lot,

then home to make a calm down cocktail,

which I drank on the deck, trying to ignore EVERYONE waiting for it to take effect,

while my husband said things like, "Whatever you want..." and "That's perfectly okay...." and "Please don't point that at me...."

Yeah, that time of day always gets me.....

A Week In The Life 2K11 {What I've Learned}

6 Things I Love and 3 Things I Don't About A 2000 Mile Road Trip

1.  I love seeing the different parts of the country.

Screw Europe and Asia and Africa.  I just want to see more of where we live.  Wouldn't mind Australia, though.

2.  Vineyards are my favorite.

I don't actually have a picture of a vineyard since NO ONE WOULD DRIVE OVER OR SLOW DOWN SO I COULD SEE THEM!!!  And my son informed me that he has no intention of ever living on a "Vine Yard."

3.  Farm land is peaceful and makes me want to bake pie.

Mountain Huckleberry pie that I'll make from scratch, with perfectly flaky crust that will melt in your mouth, while the sweet juicy berries that I hand picked from the edges of my ranch burst with deliciousnes, but that first has to cool on my windowsill while I make the vanilla ice cream from scratch with the cream I got from my cow that lives in the barn....

I want a farm.

4.  Everything looks better in the sunshine

Fog is cool and mysterious, but sunshine is happy and, you know...warm.
Sunshine rules.
Sunshine for President!

5.  After a long hot day on the road, a cold beer tastes pretty damn good.

And I hate beer.

6.  Oregon is still the worst state to drive through

Boring.
Yawn.
Snooze.....
How does anyone live here?  Why does anyone live here?
I mean, Washington is a blink away.  Get a real state.
Except for the Quack Attack....'cause I love that!

7.  I hate living out of a suitcase.

Space is very important to me.  Knowing where my space is and occupying it fully.  Spreading out and enjoying the feel of the great expanse that surrounds me.  None of which can be felt while living out of a suitcase.  Unless that suitcase is on a lovely suitcase stand at the Waldorf Astoria, and then I could totally be on board with it.

8.  Elbow room is very important to me.

See #7 and then add the back seat of a pick up truck, two kids with no desire to read books or play puzzle games, but needed to bring every one they have along with blankets, pillow pets, and 14 pairs of shoes, and an average of 9 hours a day on the road.  I reiterate....Elbow room is.  Very. Important. To. Me.

9.  Knowing where you're going is comforting, but unexpected turns can take you to amazing places.

'Nough said.

The Blue Angels {It's Seafair, Baby!}

They circle you like sharks.

You can hear them coming.

The noise seems to come from all sides of where you are.

It fills the sky

And the air vibrates with their approaching thunder.

Then, you see a glimpse of tail through the trees.

It's moving fast.

Too fast to focus on.

Where did it go?

You can still hear it, but now it's hidden.

Then, like fireworks, they explode over your head.

Roaring over the ground, as it shakes beneath your feet.

Your stomach jumps 

And your heart is like a bomb bursting out of your chest.

You scream as they soar right over your head,

"YEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH-OOOOOOOOOO"

So close, you can see the pilot in the cockpit.

Moving like lightening as they race by.

And then they're gone.

The noise fades.

It gets quiet, as you start to search the sky.

Where are they?

Are they coming back?

They always do.

Full of noise and speed and power.

The entire city stands still.

Their brilliant white smoke streaming from behind.

They always come back.

Because it's Seafair, baby!

A Week In The Life 2K11 {2000 Miles to Seattle ~ Day 8}

Day 8 ~ From Eugene to Seattle

or

HOME!

8:33 a.m.

A quiet stroll around the RV village before the chaos of the morning comes screaming at me.

That's us there at the end.

8:35 a.m.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnd.....here's chaos.

10:05 a.m.

What a pretty barn.  I might like to live there.

Except I wouldn't want to live on the freeway.

I'd want it on a vineyard,

which are back behind that hill in northern California

that no one would drive me over to see.

You still owe me a vineyard.

10:57 a.m.

Transferring the kids to the back of the motor home for this leg of the journey,

then running back to the truck and sprawling out in all the space and enjoying the quiet.

12:01 p.m.

Haha!  The first sign of Seattle!!

12:16 p.m.

Portland.

Why would anyone want to live here?

It's not Seattle.

It's not San Francisco or LA.

It's not even Vancouver.

It's just stuck somewhere in between.

Like Purgatory.

In fact, I don't think I should even take a picture of it.....

12:20 p.m.

Hey!  They have a Lombard St. here, too.

Still wouldn't want to live here, though.....

12:25 p.m.

WASHINGTON!

Back home agaaaaaiiiiiinnnnnn, in Inndiaaaa.....Oh wait. 

Wrong song.

W...A...S H I...N...G...T O N

The next part spells "Cougs, and I'm a Husky, so forget it.

BOW DOWN TO WASHINGTON!!!!!

1:20 p.m.

Any time is a good time for Artichoke Jalapeno Dip.

I mean, we gotta' eat, right?

2:09 p.m.

Briefly considering a major turn off to Aberdeen 

and heading out to the beach for a few days to relax after all of this road trip.

2:41 p.m.

Ah, yes.  Here we are.

3:01 p.m.

Home

The End.