My Dog is Chelsea

What the what? It’s already mid-June, not that you’d know that by measuring the rainfall in the last four weeks. Summer is slooooowly arriving (sources say this weekend will be sunny!) and frisbee season is in full effect. Highlights of the past coupla months:

• Housewarming BBQ! We finally had a real party up in this joint — played running charades and everything. A friend brought over a bottle of Bulleit, of which I drank half. Needless to say I can’t remember a whole lot of details from the event but my overall impression was “FUN.”
• Three once-Portlander friends were in town for a few weeks — one of whom my mother once famously described as “fit and firm” — which made for Happy Times for Laura. Far too many of my favorite people here have decided to up and move elsewhere in the past few years and I don’t like this diaspora one bit — especially since I just bought a house and I ain’t goin’ nowhere. But it’s always glorious when friends return, if only for a short time.
• Speaking of glorious — a few weeks ago, I saw the most amazing thing at a garage sale at the old residence of my said fit-and-firm friend’s house. I can’t tell you this story just yet (I don’t want to run out of material) but I will — oh I will. With a picture.
• Calla update: This dog has made some serious progress lately. Remember when she ate a door? Well, she doesn’t do that kind of stuff anymore (knock on wood!). She’s just kind of stopped freaking out. It’s almost as if one day she woke up and said, “Mah mamma doesn’t deserve to have doors eaten, moldings chewed, wood floors drooled on or countertops pooped on anymore!” She’s happier, more relaxed and finally capable of being home alone without causing a mini hurricane. Gone are the days of removing the knobs on the stove to prevent her from turning on the burners (though she did set the oven timer the other night).

That’s about it for now. In the midst of making some fish and shrimp tacos for dinner. Just thought it was high time I updated this creaky old thing.

A favorite blogger of mine recently explained why she no longer updates her blog regularly: “I’ve run out of things to say that I can’t say in 140 characters or fewer.”

I feel the same way.

It’s like my brain now functions only in short bursts.

Anything long-form (more than three sentences) seems extraneous.

I mean, why write a whole blog post when I can complain about a horrible salad in a quick, simple tweet?

And that tweet could be heard, potentially, by the offending restaurant that served said horrible salad?

I mean, really, soggy cucumbers are not OK.

And a wedge of iceberg lettuce should be fresh, crisp and cool when served. Not warm, deflated and mushy.

Here’s the thing that’s relieving about Twitter: it’s immediate.

I have an idea. I don’t have to come up with a narrative, a story arc, a time peg or a reason to share it.

It can be an observation, or a fleeting thought, a tiny piece of commentary, a mini-review. No pressure to make it more than it is.

The important thing (to me, if no one else) is that it’s published. Somewhere. Even if I never revisit it again, it’s out there.

The ideas that don’t get out there—the phantom blog posts I write daily in my head—those disappear.

Yes, I wish I had time to write more. 140 words. Someday, 140 pages. For now? I will blog when I can and tweet in between.

Oh, one last thing—mixing mayonnaise, ketchup and sun-dried tomatoes will not make a good salad dressing.

• Are you on Twitter? Follow me at twitter.com/mydogischelsea.

Me: I want to make a bolognese sauce with the ground yak I bought at the farmer’s market.

My brain: But you don’t have any pasta.

Me: So?

My brain: Go to the store and buy some — it’s only a few blocks away.

Me: No way! I’ll make pasta from scratch!

My brain: That will take forever, and it’s hard work.

Me: So?

My brain: Really hard work.

Me: I’m doing it.

My brain: Hmm, you know, that pasta you’re making is awfully thick.

Me: So?

My brain: Might want to make it thinner.

Me: No way! I’ve been rolling this dough out for an ETERNITY. I am SO done!

My brain: Well, just make sure you cook it long enough!

Me: What?! It’s been cooking FOREVER — like five whole minutes!

My brain: Not long enough. See that dry spot in the middle of your ridiculously thick noodle? That means it ain’t cooked.

Me: Liar! It’s fine.

My brain: Dumbass. You just spent two hours making pasta from scratch and you can’t wait another three or four minutes?

Me: Who needs you anyway?

My brain: Clearly not you.

Me: Fuck off.

My brain: Not to say I told you so, but whaddya know? This pasta is awfully chewy.

Me: Shut up.

My brain: I mean, this is one hell of a yak bolognese — fuck, damn near one of the best I’ve ever tried — and really, when have I ever tried yak bolognese? — but for crying out loud, I shouldn’t need to eat this pasta with a steak knife.

Me: Just chew harder, whiner.

My brain: Just sayin’.

The gas station cashier where I picked up the Uhaul sold me a few moving boxes.

“Moving? You buy house?” he asked. An older Asian man, he was not a native English speaker and his sentences a little choppy.

“Yep! I did. And now I have to move,” I said. And then, because I’ve been stressed out to no end about this whole packing-moving-unpacking endeavor: “Moving’s such a pain in the ass.”

“But you buy house! You should be happy!”

“You’re right,” I said. “But I will be happier once this moving stuff is over with.”

“But we never happy. We always move things around and change everything. You move and then you unpack and move things again. There is always work to do, because we never happy!”

So true.

It’s time now to go unpack. And make myself a little happier.

As you may recall, back in September I posted about how I was trying to buy a house. It’s been quite the journey since then. I’ve seen the insides of what feels like half of all of the homes in Portland. Three accepted offers, three inspections, three appraisals. Two deals fell through. (And one dragged on for three months before I finally gave up.)

But last week? I got the keys to my new house! Calla peed and pooped in the backyard on Wednesday — that makes it official. Here’s me in my new kitchen the night I got the keys:

Martin priming the icky living room color.

Calla gallivanted in the wet and muddy backyard, and when she came back inside, she decided to “dry” herself off by wiping her face on the wall. Problem was, the fresh coat of primer hadn’t exactly dried yet.

Calla and River survey the primed walls.

First coat is on!

More photos to come. We’ve finished the living room (except for the trim) and the spare bedroom. Here’s a preview of the rest of the walls:

• Master bedroom: red
• Spare bedroom: sea foam green
• Kitchen: Gray and turquoise