An Ode to the Oregon Rain

An Ode to the Oregon Rain

I couldn’t help but smile today.

Even though it’s been pouring, non-stop, since last night. 

Hazy gray skies magically make puddles appear,

On even the most level looking ground.

Trees sardonically ambush unsuspecting passerby’s with fat raindrops,

While the charcoal-dappled clouds endlessly mock those who long for sun.

Some spring flowers struggle under the never-ending bombardment of water droplets,

It's so obvious to spot the ones that are transplants, 

Just like with the human population.

I smile,

For, while other girls wear fancy colorful rain boots,

The ones that have pathetic seams with sneaky invisible leaks in them,

I have my steel-toed black farm boots,

And I'll tell you, water has no chance of getting into those puppies.

I’m invincible as I splash child-like through lakes on the sidewalk.

Stomping extra just to watch the water splash, I feel only slightly silly.

I remember: I’m an Oregonian to my very core (not some feeble SoCal floozy).

Joyfully, mark this one down as another “cats and dogs” day,

In the waterlogged story of my life.

Joyfully, because there is a whisper that treads across my mind on days like these:

All these suckers are going home for summer.

That’s what 18 years of frigid winters and showery springs will do to you.

They’ll make you smile because it’s raining. 

Why I Hate Walking...

First off, I fail hardcore at anything that involves moving on the land. I'm a decent swimmer, good sailor, and kayaking... sure. I suck at walking, fail altogether at running, and don't even try to add in a ball or frisbee flying at my face unless I'm stationary, 'cause it'll turn very ugly, very fast.

Generally when I walk, I veer in all sorts of crazy directions, bouncing off of whoever is walking next to me. Which is awkward most of the time. I can tell they judge me. Then I get super self conscious about if my feet are pointing straight, so I watch them to make sure they aren't pigeon-toed or anything. But in doing so, I run into more people and inanimate objects. And even though I'm watching my feet and the ground around them, I manage to trip over uneven pieces of sidewalk and random tree roots.

It is Oregon, so with the copious amount of rain we get, there are puddles everywhere. I think I've stepped in every single one that forms on campus. However, I never step in the puddles with my rain boots, it's always accidentally with my highly non-waterproof sneakers. I just love the having cold prune feet and listening to that squelching sound my socks make with every step I take.

But here's what really gets me.
I live on the far side of campus, so it's about eight billion miles away from all of my classes. Using my math wisdom gained from high school, but mostly using my common sense, I know that it's faster to go diagonal than walking around the blocks in a square fashion. The best diagonal is going through the quad behind the Memorial Union building. It has a bunch of paths that intersect in the middle of the quad. Anyway, it's the best way for me to save five minutes getting to class (five minutes that I generally waste on facebook, creepin').

Unfortunately, the quad is also the best place for people to peddle volunteer things, free garbage, and other blah stuff. Under no circumstances do I ever want to take one of their handouts. I don't have time to stop and I don't want to take the energy to hold it or to file it away. They're so damn persistent that I have to stand there for five minutes getting papers from them. Which, in hindsight, actually defeats the purpose of going through the quad in the first place.

I've tried everything to not get their handouts. It's a huge strategy game on both our ends. I've tried having my hands in my pockets when I pass them, they hold the paper out to me so I have to take it. I've tried not making eye-contact, they squirm into my line of vision. I've tried having my headphones in so I can't hear them, they talk louder. I've tried going around them, there's another one of them on the other side. I've tried switching sides with my walking buddy so they have to take the paper, they hand my buddy two.

Lately the cause has been Special Olympics. I am all for Special Olympics, don't get me wrong, but not when I have to get to class on time so I don't flunk out of college.

A couple days ago, I was employing all of the strategic tactics listed above. And through my headphones blaring Fleetwood Mac, if Fleetwood can even be blared, I hear:
"Would you like to help Special Olympics?"

My instantaneous response was "NO."

I realized, a second too late, that this answer was that of a 100% douche-bag.
The person handing out papers looked at me like I was the scum of the earth.
Scowling, I took a handout.

I have to cross through this quad about four times on most weekdays.
Needless to say, I have a hefty stack of Special Olympic handouts on my desk.


(If you would like to help Special Olympics, click here.)

Why I Need a New Fridge

Mini-fridges are basically the best thing ever invented. You might've been under the false impression that the best thing was sliced bread, the wheel, Pokémon, or even penicillin, but it's not. You're wrong. It's mini-fridges. 


When I finally decided where I was going to college, was locked in for a roommate, and dorm room, I excitedly began the search for an awesome fridge.

I'm addicted to ice cream, and pretty much every place on campus sells Ben & Jerry's, so one of my criteria was that the fridge would need a freezer compartment.
Actually, that was my only criterion really. Ben and Jerry are my homeboys.

I thought the process finding said fridge would be fairly simple and end with a result I would cherish for years to come.

That did not happen the way I envisioned it.

My grandparents had begun the process of moving from California to Oregon. They had lived in their house for several decades, and therefore had procured quite a wealth of stuff.  My mom went down with siblings to their house to help them decide what to pack, give, and throw away.

It was there she found my future fridge.

When she told me about it, I had no idea what was in store. I thought, "How nice, a free refrigerator".

I first saw it on a drizzling September morning, after she had completed the 400-mile exodus journey to our house. There it sat in the back of our truck it looked at me with a devilish smirk and I knew that living with this fridge would prove to be a struggle. It has set out to make my life difficult.

The fridge is a cube, of about two and a half feet in every dimension. The most distinguishing feature is the fact that it is a shit-brown fridge with faux wood paneling on the door. Sexy, right?

The fridge was build circa 1950 by Montgomery Ward. It's been to two colleges before mine, which means it already has at least two bachelor's degrees, so it knows exactly what it's doing while it passive-aggressively fights me.

It has a freezer compartment in the top right corner that holds two mini ice cube trays. Of course, nothing you put in that compartment actually freezes. However, everything you put near the outside of the compartment will freeze almost instantaneously. I don't know about you, but I live for iced lettuce in my salads.

Also, the back of the fridge looks like a miniature meth lab. Wires and tubes are exposed everywhere and I'm pretty sure it violates a plethora of fire-safety laws. So if you ever have to move it, you have to grip it super awkwardly so it will fall on you or it will spontaneously combust and set you on fire.

My bed is lofted and the fridge is directly beneath it. Every time the cooling element kicks on, a roaring miniature earthquake happens. I'm sure it would register on a Richter scale. It always seems to happen just when I get to the point of falling asleep, thus keeping me awake until about 3:00 am.

None of these things can compete with the fridge's ultimate weapon. It stinks.
Literally.
Being that it's over 60 years old, the inside smells exactly like an old folks home.
I've tried washing it's geriatric inside. Once just wiping it down with water. Once using vinegar. Bleach. Soft Scrub. I've tried emptying it and leaving the door open. I've used baking soda, gone through two boxes already. I've even tried Febreze on it.

All to no prevail.

The problem isn't the fact that it stinks. It's the fact that it makes everything I put in there stink. For example: I had a half a chicken pesto panini (friggen' delicious) that I wanted to save. It was Saran wrapped, so I thought it would be safe.

It wasn't.

Imagine, if you will, that you're planning to enjoy a nice sandwich. You're expecting something close to the flavor you has experienced the day before. Instead, it tastes like you just bit into a big odorous roll of fat old lady flab. You know the old lady smell. And now you're eating it.

"Mmmm... nom nom."

Oh, believe me, it's great.


Can you guess what I want for my birthday?