Back from Yellowstone, Monroe, Seattle

I haven't been blogging because I've been hanging out with buffalo, driving, and letting the University of Washington instill in me a fear of education/life.

Here's a picture to tide you over:

Geyser!

R.I.P. Shark

Yesterday at approximately 6:25 PM, The Shark left this world. The non-muddy-creek-world, I mean. My favorite disc sunk.

The Shark was my first disc. I bought it because the guy at the nerdy comic book/disc golf store said, "Any of these would be good for a beginner." I chose the pink one. The pink Shark. It was a smart purchase. The Shark could soar, could curve, could plop in the disc golf hole like nobody's business.

But last night, at hole 14 of the wildly confusing Riverside Park Disc Golf Course, Oats threw The Shark into a creek. Now, I don't blame Oats. I don't blame Oats at all. Sometimes, a disc ends up in the water. That's how the world works. If Oats didn't throw into a creek, I might have. Heck, YOU might have! And then you'd feel bad, wouldn't you?

So anyway, Oats threw The Shark into the creek. The Shark was probably all like, "Water! I will swim in it because I am a shark!" Little did the disc know that the creek is uninhabitable to sharks.

The pink disc of glory rested on the creek's edge, under a mess of thorns and pain. Our course acquaintances sent Cocoa, the brilliant chocolate lab, to get the disc. "Cocoa, dive! Cocoa, it's right there! Go get it!" And after several minutes of disc hunting, Cocoa still couldn't grasp The Shark in her chocolate lab jaws. (It should be noted that Cocoa knows the names of different neighbors and can, on command, go to certain homes and return with a can of soda.)

Finally, I rolled up my plaid shorts and ventured in myself. Oats and Cocoa's dad helped me balance as I sunk into the ooze. Oats kept saying, "It's right there! We just saw it!" And I wooshed through the water and pulled up roots and received scratches on my arms and said, "Oats! It's not here!"

"Keep looking! The gospel this morning was about never giving up." Oats is a good Catholic. He's not a good disc finder.

"Oats, Jesus would not spend this much time looking for The Shark."

"Jesus would, too. Keep looking." So I looked more. And gave up and climbed out. The acquaintances and Cocoa moved onto the next hole. Oats talked me into going back into the creek. I did. No Shark. Got out again. Complained. Got back in. Still no Shark. Oats kept telling me to look harder.

"Oats! I am in the creek, not you! If you're so set on finding The Shark, you get in!" I roared. "You're stubborn," said Oats. Are you kidding, Oats? Are you covered in mud like me, Oats?

Finally, we said our goodbyes to The Shark and moped on back to the truck. Dinner was waiting for us at 7:00, and we didn't want to finish the last few holes with mud encrusted legs and one disc.

One day, global climate change may take its toll on the Riverside Park Disc Golf Course and the creek will dry up. The Shark may be tucked into a jumble of once-underwater blackberry roots and some joyful eleven-year-old will find my favorite disc.

Until then, Shark, may you live on in our hearts and blogs.

This post is dedicated to my mom, who is dropping me off at the airport at 4:30 AM.

EBot and I begin our Yellowstone adventure on Tuesday. She and I road trip together well - Mad Libs, 19-hour drives, Changing our pronunciation of "crazy" because of a Swiss-German named Andy, etc.

Here are pictures of past silliness so you can prepare yourself for pictures of future silliness (once that future is in the past, of course):

Here we are ruining the Space Mountain picture for the folks in the back.

Here is E helping Ned (may his deflated little body rest in peace) check out the Golden Gate Bridge.

Here is E stranded on a wee ocean rock.

Look out, rural Western states. Where ESchu and I go, fun and excitement follow.

Gold Medal #2 (the first was the chowder, remember?)

Disc golf personal best! Disc golf personal best!

Two over! Woooooo!

The Chowder

We made clam chowder. From scratch. It was better than any chowder you have ever made. Or eaten. I'd bet you one dollar. Here is how we did it:

First, we dug clams. Ok, ok, Drew dug clams. I stood in the water and watched kayakers paddle by.

Then, we went to Haggen. We bought stuff.

Next, we let the clams sit in fresh water and spit out sand while we played disc golf and watched the Olympics.

Finally, we prepared the clams, scallops (store bought... how the h would one procure fresh scallops, anyway?), corn, clam juice, milk, salt, pepper, and onions. Not in that order. We mixed them, chopped them, heated them, blah blah blah. Also not in that order. Afterward, we added lime juice, as inspired by the mind-blowing Seafood Lime Chowder at the Harborside Bistro.

Then we ate. So much. We won the gold medal in chowder eating.

U.S.A.! U.S.A.!

One girl, Two mini-donkeys

I was shocked because the mini-donkeys sounded nothing like Eddie Murphy.

Remember the song about the hike? This was it! This was the hike!

Lake Valhalla. It's pretty.

We ate processed meat at every meal. Drew cooked. And cleaned. And carried the heavy stuff. I was great company, though. I told some hilarious jokes.

I won at camping AND Speed Scrabble.

Drew caught so many fish! Trout after trout after trout after trout.

On the way home, we explored a road that got beat up by the Skykomish River. Now we know who'd win in a battle between 10-foot River and 10-foot Road.

I wrote this song about a hike I'm going on. Here are the lyrics.

We're going on a hike!
We're going on a hike!
We're going on a
going on a
going on a hike!

Seattle Public Library - Champion of the World

Seattle Public Library, you own my heart. Every speckle. Each tiny, teensy sliver.

This recent declaration of love was prompted by two compact discs: Keller Williams' Keller & The Keels, and Common's Thisisme Then.

I don't always peruse the music section of the library. On foolish days, I select my books and mosey. But the other afternoon, I was like, "New music time!" I flipped through the rap section, discs clacking away, when I came up on the Common compilation. Smartish people have said positive things about Common, so I picked it up.

Hooray!
Hooray!

Then I decided that I wanted some quality country or bluegrass. Filtering through the ever-horrible Toby Keith was worth it once I discovered this Keller Williams album. I'd heard of the guy - in fact, I took a picture of my old roomie below a Keller Williams poster in a restroom - so I thought it wise to check it out.

Hurrah!
Hurrah!

Two of my favorite albums already. I uploaded both. My iPod will whoosh them out of my car speakers, and I will try to rap/sing along even though I don't know the words.

Seattle Public Library, thanks for giving me free music. As a token of my gratitude, I will pay that $3 late fee. And I will blog about you. Oh, oh, that's done!

This was strange and fabulous.

I practically saved Seattle Public Schools today.

It started when Grande Decaf Nonfat Mocha With Whip Cream Guy came into the coffee shop. He mentioned to my coworker that he used to teach in a one stop sign town. This got to the topic of my future teaching career. He asked if I was planning to stay and teach in Seattle. I said no. He asked why.

"I'll have tens of thousands of dollars in student loans, and I wouldn't be able to pay them off quickly in Seattle. I mean, other places I'm considering also have high costs of living, but at least they'd be an adventure. I love the school I'm student teaching in, but it's not worth the price to stay," I answered. Except more eloquently.

"Interesting..." he replied.

Why was Grande Decaf Nonfat Mocha with Whip Cream Guy so interested in my decision not to teach in Seattle?

"...I'm a member of the Seattle School Board, actually."

That's why.

"We've been discussing the reasons so many first year teachers aren't choosing to work in Seattle and what we can do to recruit them. What are your thoughts on city subsidized teacher housing?"

Thus began the productive dialogue between School Board Guy and Adorable Future Teacher.

Holla' fo' my part-time job.

E & K will conquer and/or appreciate pretty parts of the United States.

I just bought a one way ticket to Salt Lake City. Oh no, I didn't convert to Mormonism. Salt Lake City just happens to be the start of Adventures con E-Bot.

You don't need to know why we're starting in SLC. It's not that interesting. What you do need to know, however, is that we're going to Yellowstone!

We'll see this!
And this!

And you know, YOU KNOW, we'll play some serious Mad Libs.

And I ate so many I got sick.

One might glance into my car and gasp, "Oh my! There must have been a murder here!" But that'd be stupid. It's raspberry juice. Raspberry juice gone wild.

My passenger seat is stained and fragrant.

Spiritually rich

Two kinds of tipping exist. (No, no, not tippling!)

Tipping with money - Boooo current customers. I am going home with 50-75% of the dough I earned in the rainy days of yore.

Tipping with words - Hurrah current customers! I am going home with a metaphorical toolbox. Ways to stay on my parents' health insurance! Methods for getting top dollar on my scooter! Novels that I absolutely must read!

As long as I can pay rent, I am fine with the latter. Holla' fo' you, friendly espresso drinkers. Holla'. Fo'. You.

Sunday Funday

Yesterday, I fed blueberries to two miniature donkeys. They kind of looked like this:

It was fantastic.

Stevie Wonder concert review

You're furious that I haven't written about Stevie yet. Don't deny it. It's obvious. If you weren't mad, you'd have sent me a check for $90.

Well, cool it. Here's how it went down:

Stevie Wonder rocked the house amphitheater. Our posse was relaxing on the lawn with the other commoners who couldn't afford chairs, and he had us laughing and swaying and dancing all the way up there. (You know what's tricky? Dancing on a steep hill. And also finding something imperfect about me.)

Stevie played the sing-alongy stuff (My Cherie Amour, Isn't She Lovely [with his daughter right there! she was one of his backup singers!]), the dancy stuff (Superstitious, Sir Duke), and the talky stuff. Ok, he didn't PLAY the talky stuff. Now you're furious AND picky. But he talked the talky stuff. Like, he discussed the pronunciation of "throat" and told us about his upcoming albums and reminded us how much we do/should love Barack Obama.

Stevie Wonder also proposed to me after the show. We're getting married on a disc golf course. We'll own a mini horse named Zesty.

Yep. Top 5 Favorite Concerts Ever. Good job, Stevie. I like you.

Disc Golf

I have three games of disc golf under my figurative belt, and already I adore the sport. The game goes like this:

First, you acquire an awesome disc, preferably named after a scary animal.

Next, you find and go to a disc golf course.

Then, you walk around and throw the scary animal discs into these chainy pole/holes.

Finally, you laugh and relive the disc golfy memories with your pals and/or self (yes, you can disc golf alone).

Hurrah for physics that make the discs glide so magnificently! Woot woot for park folks who create and maintain the free courses! Yeah for the outdoors and the color pink and friendly disc golf gurus!

Hot Date

I have a date with Stevie Wonder on Friday. We're meeting at the White River Amphitheatre. I'm really excited because he is a fun and brilliant musician. He's really excited because I am a foxy and clever blogger.

This post would be better but I'm distracted by The Food Network. Rachael Ray just said, "Ooby gooby." I will use that phrase on my date with Stevie. He'll probably turn it into a song - "Ooby Gooby Girl."

3 pictures from camping

The picture that shows how we had fun with a campfire.


The picture that shows how we had fun with crustaceans in tide pools.


The picture that shows how we had fun using one of CoonCake's many props to attract the ranger and his "It's time to be quiet" lectures.

My home sweet home.

Fireworks are my favorite kind of propaganda. Chocolate comes in a close second, but I don't know of any nation that actually uses it.

Make it happen, Barack.


This evening I drank a beer and ate a hot dog on a roof top deck. It smelled like barbecue and sounded like woots. My roommate's boyfriend's mom proposed to me.

July 4, 2008 rivals July 4, 2003 when the fireworks caught Marc's couch and hair on fire. Thanks, United States of America. You are my favorite country of all the countries I've lived in. Ever.

Intro, Body paragraphs, Conclusion - My Favorite Kind of Exercise

Scrambling around the Chuckanut Formation is my favorite kind of exercise.

First, you get to examine sea stars, crabs, and jellyfish. (Each of these deserves its own entry.)

Second, I don't realize that the scrambling is actually exercise. In fact, I came home yesterday and kept wondering, "Why are my calves and shoulders sore? Whhhhyyy?" And then I thought about the scrambling. That was it. Successful scrambling causes soreness.

Third, you get to feel like a badass. This is because unsuccessful scrambling causes full body slips down seaweedy boulders. Then, friends like Baumgal lend you her shirt so you can clean your muddy camisole with sea water and dead barnacles.

These are the reasons why scrambling around the Chuckanut Formation is my favorite kind of exercise.