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Thursday, May 31, 2012
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Upscale suburban camping
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| Not Hillsboro! |
I've been invited to be a co-conspirator on this blog. I fear my posts will lack the witty humor that characterize Bryan's posts. We shall see.
We've been in Hillsboro for 5 days and all I can say is "hmmmmm I don't hate it". It's strange but not in the wonderfully weird way that Portland is. Hillsboro is a suburb teeming with chain businesses. We live less than a mile from EVERY major national chain store you can think of. Seriously try and name one that 's not here. So it's convenient and monotonous. Every inch is preened, mulched, swept and painted to perfection. And did I mention every thing is new and there is constant development. We could have had that in Rio Rancho. 
We have also gotten to drive around Portland and more of its expansive suburbs and seen the beauty that is our new hometown. I love it! The lush greenery, the bridges, the million little shops on winding hilly streets- all marvelous. Today we went to the Portland Children's Museum. Both girls had a great time and we didn't even get to do all of it. The Bot got to paint her own face, a station we found after seeing many terribly painted little faces. I was thinking they needed to fire the trembling artist who was marring all these kids' faces with hideous colors and lines until the Bot got to do her own mask. Her art was subdued compared to many. The wee one enjoyed every minute without favoritism. She dragging a stuffed kitten around the vet room, dressed up in a cape to play drums on stage, spent 20 minutes on the giant light bright, and she licked rocks and threw rice in the sensory room. Great time! We bought a membership with guest passes, it's a grandparents' delight.Sunday, April 29, 2012
The "you might get stranded" light
The other day (my use of this phrase is an all too common clue that I can't remember anything anymore, I think of it as child-induced amnesia) I was giving Sarah a hard time because the "fuel indicator" light came on in the middle of Fresno, CA when we were 15 miles away from our exit. She was sweating bullets over the presence of the docile yellow light in her field of view, certain that we would run the tank dry prior to docking at the port de la quinta in what turned out to be a mostly industrial part of town complete with active train tracks, well within 2 AM train whistle hearing distance. She reports that at one point she "lost power," a feeling I'm very familiar with thanks to a tiny Honda civic that, due to a poorly designed gas tank, would deny fuel access to the fuel pump when going up a steep hill. The result being a sudden "loss of power" at some point either at the zenith of the hill or just after summiting, which felt a lot like a front end collision. In other words, the gas-is gone-on-the-freeway feeling is a lot more like slamming on the brakes than anything we felt in Fresno. To make her feel better I looked up the indicator lamp in our owner's manual and relayed my findings that when the lamp comes on there are ~3 gallons of fuel left in the tank. So we had about 60 miles of fuel on board to take us the 15 miles to the exit.
Fast forward one day and I'm at the helm of the TARDIS in the amazing foothills of Mt. Shasta when the lamp rears its placid yellow head into my field of view. I try to play it cool, as moments before, we had passed a gas station in the middle of nowhere selling regular unleaded for 4.65, to which I likely remarked, "we don't need to stop, we've got plenty of gas to get us to ______." Of course the stakes were a little higher in this situation, as we were pretty remote in terms of hoofing it to a service station, so I say in my most nonchalant voice, which likely means I'm very chalant at the moment, "well, the gas light just came on."
We coasted into Weed, CA without incident after passing by a motel constructed of old train cars in which you can dine or sleep (depending on the car type obviously) and put five or so gallons of gas into the van under the watchful facade of Mt. Shasta, the peak of which was well within the low hanging clouds.
Being in California, I was still allowed to man the pump handle, a perk that would be denied me in Medford, OR the next morning. We made haste to the Oregon border and stayed in Ashland, which is apparently famous for a Shakespearean festival. Our hotel was very Tudor on the outside and very late 80's on the inside. They had an indoor pool which resulted in an automatically necessary trip for the Bot, who spent most of the half hour chlorine-Fest sitting on the second step at the pool entrance. For about ten minutes I walked around the pool with The Bot on my back while holding the wee one belly down. The wee one kept opening her mouth providing a pool skimming service for the proprietors. We'll have to get both of them into swim lessons this summer.
Medford Oregon provided us with delicious pastries, not so delicious coffee, and our first fill-up at an Oregon gas station. In Oregon you don't pump your own gas, instead you roll down your window and ask a teenager to "fill 'er up with regular." It's not as though there is anything different about the pumps, they are exactly the same as the ones 100 miles south in CA. Oddly enough the extra service doesn't seem to affect the price as Full service Oregon gas so far has been way cheaper than the "suck your own Benzene" variety I bought in CA.
Fast forward one day and I'm at the helm of the TARDIS in the amazing foothills of Mt. Shasta when the lamp rears its placid yellow head into my field of view. I try to play it cool, as moments before, we had passed a gas station in the middle of nowhere selling regular unleaded for 4.65, to which I likely remarked, "we don't need to stop, we've got plenty of gas to get us to ______." Of course the stakes were a little higher in this situation, as we were pretty remote in terms of hoofing it to a service station, so I say in my most nonchalant voice, which likely means I'm very chalant at the moment, "well, the gas light just came on."
We coasted into Weed, CA without incident after passing by a motel constructed of old train cars in which you can dine or sleep (depending on the car type obviously) and put five or so gallons of gas into the van under the watchful facade of Mt. Shasta, the peak of which was well within the low hanging clouds.
Being in California, I was still allowed to man the pump handle, a perk that would be denied me in Medford, OR the next morning. We made haste to the Oregon border and stayed in Ashland, which is apparently famous for a Shakespearean festival. Our hotel was very Tudor on the outside and very late 80's on the inside. They had an indoor pool which resulted in an automatically necessary trip for the Bot, who spent most of the half hour chlorine-Fest sitting on the second step at the pool entrance. For about ten minutes I walked around the pool with The Bot on my back while holding the wee one belly down. The wee one kept opening her mouth providing a pool skimming service for the proprietors. We'll have to get both of them into swim lessons this summer. Medford Oregon provided us with delicious pastries, not so delicious coffee, and our first fill-up at an Oregon gas station. In Oregon you don't pump your own gas, instead you roll down your window and ask a teenager to "fill 'er up with regular." It's not as though there is anything different about the pumps, they are exactly the same as the ones 100 miles south in CA. Oddly enough the extra service doesn't seem to affect the price as Full service Oregon gas so far has been way cheaper than the "suck your own Benzene" variety I bought in CA.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Road provisions 4 us
I haven't been able to keep up with the daily demands of the drive and the logging of the drive so events have bled together into a single impossibly long day on the road.
Between the wasteland that lies between Barstow and Bakersfield is the small town of Boron, in which we did not stop for fear of a "the hills have eyes" scenario, and a nice rest area with both a "gourmet" coffee and a robotic ice cream vending machine. From the non-highway side of the rest area you can see factory where they make Borax. In fact, the road to the factory is called 20 mule team road.
We made the decision (on what I'll call) the other day to stop eating fast food on the road. This involved a trip to the grocery store to stock up on fibrous provisions.
The first store was a Safeway in Sacramento for which I have a shoppers card thanks to a nice couple who were in front of me in line in a Safeway in Hawaii, who had signed up for card to get provisions for the flight back to the mainland. The clerk, who knew that was the case, told them to be sure and destroy it instead of leaving it somewhere, to which the nice guy in front of me responded by handing it to me. Using the card spared me the opportunity to try the account associated with the local version of Jenny's number: 867-5309 (which I read on Lifehacker is a ubiquitous shopper card fake phone number). I recall nothing of that store other than the fact that we bought humus, carrots, some sort of "wheat" cracker that looked much better on the box than it actually was, and some ingredients for "grown-up" lunchables (the deli meat/cheese/cracker packages that I lusted after when I was eight-years-old, though they always included the odd combination of a peculiar grey-colored mustard dispensed from a plastic box resembling one of those mouth-like coin purses and a single Andes mint.
The second store was called "Food-4-Less," which immediately gave me pause as I generally distrust companies that abbreviate the word "for" with the number 4, as though it is anywhere near appropriate. If anything, the number 4 is only a suitable stand-in for the word "four." I feel the same way about the word "lite." Anyway, we went there because of the proximity to Highway 5 and because a single positive review in Yelp will convince me to go just about anywhere, including the "Hawaiian Style Cafe," where I was served a breakfast of a plate of white rice adorned with four pieces of brown-gravy-smothered fried spam and a single, crowning, over-medium fried egg. Food-4-Less turned out to be very nice, though the foodstuffs where piled to no less than 30 feet high throughout the entire store which made for a rather claustrophobic hike through the meandering edible canyons. The food was remarkably geared towards a Mexican consumer base, which was great because I saw products there I've never seen before including parts of the pig you'd never find for sale in a gringo supermarket and a line of tropical fruit flavored yogurt drinks adorned with a mustached man's countenance.
Sarah was blazing our path through this foreign territory with the cart as her guide and she encountered a purveyor of free samples near the dairy case.
"Would you like to try some queso fresco?" the woman asked. Sarah must have shot her a look of exhaustion which could equally be conceived as bewilderment, and Sarah said, "no thanks." The woman quietly explained, "it's just Mexican cheese," as though the spanish name made it seem more like pickled face meat or joint compound than a lightly processed dairy product. "oh, I know, I just don't want to try some cheese." I, on the other hand, gladly took a sample unaware of the previous exchange and was impressed by the saleswoman's ability to spear the lofty cheese, not with toothpicks as would seem appropriate, but with an arsenal of small plastic spoons.
Our checkout was impeded by the poor choice of a lane occupied by one of those oversized electric wheelchair carts, the occupant of which was unwilling to actually drive the thing (or at least that's what made it through the translation by the checker), relying instead on her companion to inch it forward by pulling on the basket mounted to the front.
The switch from fast food proved to be worthwhile as I did not suffer once from the general road trip malaise I usually fall prey to.
One of those nights we ate at a mountain-themed restaurant in the middle of farmland filled middle California (a not so wise decision in hindsight, but the promise of speedy seating and service trumped he idea of a good meal). They had only Coors Light (or is that Lite) on tap as some beverage serving genius had frozen all the other lines solid. We all know the serving demands of light beer require near freezing temperature to ensure all flavor whatsoever is masked, but serving below freezing is clearly not possible as they showed us in Fresno, but I imagine if they started serving beer at a more acceptable 45deg F they'd either get a lot of complaints or requests for brews on ice.
Between the wasteland that lies between Barstow and Bakersfield is the small town of Boron, in which we did not stop for fear of a "the hills have eyes" scenario, and a nice rest area with both a "gourmet" coffee and a robotic ice cream vending machine. From the non-highway side of the rest area you can see factory where they make Borax. In fact, the road to the factory is called 20 mule team road. We made the decision (on what I'll call) the other day to stop eating fast food on the road. This involved a trip to the grocery store to stock up on fibrous provisions.
The first store was a Safeway in Sacramento for which I have a shoppers card thanks to a nice couple who were in front of me in line in a Safeway in Hawaii, who had signed up for card to get provisions for the flight back to the mainland. The clerk, who knew that was the case, told them to be sure and destroy it instead of leaving it somewhere, to which the nice guy in front of me responded by handing it to me. Using the card spared me the opportunity to try the account associated with the local version of Jenny's number: 867-5309 (which I read on Lifehacker is a ubiquitous shopper card fake phone number). I recall nothing of that store other than the fact that we bought humus, carrots, some sort of "wheat" cracker that looked much better on the box than it actually was, and some ingredients for "grown-up" lunchables (the deli meat/cheese/cracker packages that I lusted after when I was eight-years-old, though they always included the odd combination of a peculiar grey-colored mustard dispensed from a plastic box resembling one of those mouth-like coin purses and a single Andes mint. The second store was called "Food-4-Less," which immediately gave me pause as I generally distrust companies that abbreviate the word "for" with the number 4, as though it is anywhere near appropriate. If anything, the number 4 is only a suitable stand-in for the word "four." I feel the same way about the word "lite." Anyway, we went there because of the proximity to Highway 5 and because a single positive review in Yelp will convince me to go just about anywhere, including the "Hawaiian Style Cafe," where I was served a breakfast of a plate of white rice adorned with four pieces of brown-gravy-smothered fried spam and a single, crowning, over-medium fried egg. Food-4-Less turned out to be very nice, though the foodstuffs where piled to no less than 30 feet high throughout the entire store which made for a rather claustrophobic hike through the meandering edible canyons. The food was remarkably geared towards a Mexican consumer base, which was great because I saw products there I've never seen before including parts of the pig you'd never find for sale in a gringo supermarket and a line of tropical fruit flavored yogurt drinks adorned with a mustached man's countenance.
Sarah was blazing our path through this foreign territory with the cart as her guide and she encountered a purveyor of free samples near the dairy case.
"Would you like to try some queso fresco?" the woman asked. Sarah must have shot her a look of exhaustion which could equally be conceived as bewilderment, and Sarah said, "no thanks." The woman quietly explained, "it's just Mexican cheese," as though the spanish name made it seem more like pickled face meat or joint compound than a lightly processed dairy product. "oh, I know, I just don't want to try some cheese." I, on the other hand, gladly took a sample unaware of the previous exchange and was impressed by the saleswoman's ability to spear the lofty cheese, not with toothpicks as would seem appropriate, but with an arsenal of small plastic spoons.
Our checkout was impeded by the poor choice of a lane occupied by one of those oversized electric wheelchair carts, the occupant of which was unwilling to actually drive the thing (or at least that's what made it through the translation by the checker), relying instead on her companion to inch it forward by pulling on the basket mounted to the front.
The switch from fast food proved to be worthwhile as I did not suffer once from the general road trip malaise I usually fall prey to.
One of those nights we ate at a mountain-themed restaurant in the middle of farmland filled middle California (a not so wise decision in hindsight, but the promise of speedy seating and service trumped he idea of a good meal). They had only Coors Light (or is that Lite) on tap as some beverage serving genius had frozen all the other lines solid. We all know the serving demands of light beer require near freezing temperature to ensure all flavor whatsoever is masked, but serving below freezing is clearly not possible as they showed us in Fresno, but I imagine if they started serving beer at a more acceptable 45deg F they'd either get a lot of complaints or requests for brews on ice.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Dr. Dog and Dr. Claw
We've been referring to the wee one as "Dr. Claw" for some time now because of this funny gesture she does from her carseat when she wants something. We've been using the epitaph pretty regularly because we've been cooped up in the car together for days now, necessitating the consumption of snacks and some meals while cruising down the highway at either 68 mph while I'm driving, or a blistering 80 mph with Sarah at the helm. Usually this is how it will go down:
The Bot will request something like fruit snacks, a drink, or a pony. We will most likely give in and fulfill the request out of an overwhelming sense of guilt at the way we've had them captive in their carseats for hours. The Bot will get a widget, and seconds later you will hear a "whaa?" and that's when you'll get to witness Dr. Claw in action.
From the vantage point of the front passenger's seat you'll see the wee one's tiny hand extend perfectly horizontally from the side of the car seat, palm facing the roof of the van, eagerly awaiting the placement of a widget, of equal or grater value than the widget you gave the Bot, to be placed in the supinated "claw."
Meanwhile Sarah's been referring to Sam as Dr. Dog. I'm not sure why, but I think it's motivated by an awesome song I "found" via Pandora called "heart it races" by none other than Dr. Dog.
The Bot will request something like fruit snacks, a drink, or a pony. We will most likely give in and fulfill the request out of an overwhelming sense of guilt at the way we've had them captive in their carseats for hours. The Bot will get a widget, and seconds later you will hear a "whaa?" and that's when you'll get to witness Dr. Claw in action.
From the vantage point of the front passenger's seat you'll see the wee one's tiny hand extend perfectly horizontally from the side of the car seat, palm facing the roof of the van, eagerly awaiting the placement of a widget, of equal or grater value than the widget you gave the Bot, to be placed in the supinated "claw."
Meanwhile Sarah's been referring to Sam as Dr. Dog. I'm not sure why, but I think it's motivated by an awesome song I "found" via Pandora called "heart it races" by none other than Dr. Dog.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
The little one said "roll over"
It always amazes me to spend time with the kind of friends that make a three year absence seem like it was only a week. We stopped in Henderson , NV last night and stayed with some good friends who used to live across the street from us in Albuquerque.
They cooked us dinner and put us and our dog up for the night. Sam (our Craigslist dog) was acting a bit nutty all evening barking outside at something that was either actually invisible or only visible to dogs, in the way they can hear high pitched sounds we can't. I think the trip must be taking its toll on him as well, though we've been doing our best to get him out of the car and walk him around every couple of hours. Like all previous road trips made with canine companions, Sam has yet to drop a deuce, and I keep hoping that when the moment comes he's not in the car.
The girls had a blast playing with a novel pile of toys at our friends' house. There's nothing quite as magical to a three-year-old as someone else's treasure trove, and there is nothing that will get a three-year-old re-interested in long forgotten toys quite like another kid's interest in them. They played hard and the Bot fell quickly asleep on the couch later in the evening. The wee one crashed as well and spent most of the night catatonic between us on a queen sized bed, as the port-a-crib we've been lugging along with us in the van is as welcoming as a concrete slab to her right now.
As soon as we had drifted off to sleep we heard a whimpering from the living room. Sarah was gracious enough to go investigate. The Bot was face down moaning at the foot of the couch, apparently having rolled off at some point, though neither of us heard the thunk. Sarah returned to the queen bed with the Bot in tow. And then there were...four of us in the bed. At this point I was considering tying knots in the girls' pajamas, as queen beds were only made for two. Sarah tells me at one point the girls were stacked atop one another, with the wee one being the dot ontop of the Bot's "i" after sufficient kicks to the head, the Bot requested to return to the couch where she slept through the rest of the night without incident.
They cooked us dinner and put us and our dog up for the night. Sam (our Craigslist dog) was acting a bit nutty all evening barking outside at something that was either actually invisible or only visible to dogs, in the way they can hear high pitched sounds we can't. I think the trip must be taking its toll on him as well, though we've been doing our best to get him out of the car and walk him around every couple of hours. Like all previous road trips made with canine companions, Sam has yet to drop a deuce, and I keep hoping that when the moment comes he's not in the car.
The girls had a blast playing with a novel pile of toys at our friends' house. There's nothing quite as magical to a three-year-old as someone else's treasure trove, and there is nothing that will get a three-year-old re-interested in long forgotten toys quite like another kid's interest in them. They played hard and the Bot fell quickly asleep on the couch later in the evening. The wee one crashed as well and spent most of the night catatonic between us on a queen sized bed, as the port-a-crib we've been lugging along with us in the van is as welcoming as a concrete slab to her right now.As soon as we had drifted off to sleep we heard a whimpering from the living room. Sarah was gracious enough to go investigate. The Bot was face down moaning at the foot of the couch, apparently having rolled off at some point, though neither of us heard the thunk. Sarah returned to the queen bed with the Bot in tow. And then there were...four of us in the bed. At this point I was considering tying knots in the girls' pajamas, as queen beds were only made for two. Sarah tells me at one point the girls were stacked atop one another, with the wee one being the dot ontop of the Bot's "i" after sufficient kicks to the head, the Bot requested to return to the couch where she slept through the rest of the night without incident.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
A kingly lunch
Kingman, AZ brought us a treat in the form of In-N-out burger. Only strange thing I saw there was a guy washing a quart of strawberries in the men's room, oh and a dining room full of aging bikers. 
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