30 to 30

There are 30 days left until I turn 30. I'm still puzzled about how this happened, because I certainly don't feel 30. I like to think of myself as an overgrown teenager most of the time. Like a silly Jennifer Garner movie I'm ashamed to admit enjoying, but with more carbohydrates. When I think about all the adventures I've had, even in the last 10 years, my life certainly seems full enough for 30.

Ten birthdays ago, I visited Sweden for the first time, and made friendships that double with each repeat trip. Ten summers ago was when I moved to New York and met Weatherly, with whom I'll be spending this forthcoming birthday. Nine birthdays ago, I flew to Japan to float in hot springs and visit Sanrio Puroland. Eight summers ago, I moved to Portland on little more than a whim and the knowledge that this was where the music came from. I met Bobby a few months later, and married him five summers ago on the hottest day of the year. Five birthdays ago, he and I traveled to Sweden together for the first time. If I refuse the number, what happens to these experiences?

In my quest to get the most out of my last days as a directionless twenty-something, I've been committing minor rebellions against maturity. I had Tara dye the underside of my hair bright purple. It subsequently turned my neck purple so I looked like a mad Smurf and had to wear black for an entire week, but it looks awesome. I've picked up a bunch of new shows to cover for Music Savage in the upcoming season. However, the crowning achievement of my youthful silliness happened yesterday morning, when Bobby and I stood in line for more than an hour to meet Lil Bub, a famous cat from the internet. Bub was so tiny and adorable, not to mention tolerant of being scratched by and photographed with hundreds of strangers. It was well worth the early hour.

She seemed less impressed with us, but I was happy to donate money to the Oregon Humane Society in exchange for meeting the tiny celebrity who so often brightens my days.

We've been up to other things, of course, in the two months since I last posted. Most notably a weekend trip to Palm Springs for my mother's birthday. You can't tell by the hazy sky, but it was about 80 degrees when this photo was taken:

Bobby and I weren't able to visit at Christmas, so my parents were extra happy to do parent things like give financial advice and rearrange my hair:

Though it was my mom's birthday and I baked the red velvet cake at her request, she decided to turn the party into an early 30th celebration because she hasn't seen me on my actual birthday since I turned 18. I had more than a month to go, but who am I to turn down some candles?

Later in our visit, like responsible adults, Bobby and I got tetanus shots because ours had both expired. On the way to the airport, like irresponsible adults, we stopped at In N Out with no time to spare. After inhaling our food and getting lost in endless construction en route to the rental car return, we became the jerks who run down the jetway yelling, "Don't shut the door!" This is a new experience for Bobby, but one with which I am all too familiar after a few late connections and misplaced phone retrievals. Whoops. We made it home to Portland nonetheless. Fortunately I'm good at maneuvering through a crowd.

So here I am, staring down the barrel of an unwanted age, with no choice but to keep pushing forward. Alright 30, show me what you got.

This Year is Mine

By all calculations, 2013 is set to be a big year for my household. Its months will be jam-packed with milestone birthdays, anniversaries, graduation dates, and far-flung adventures. The first big event, my thirtieth birthday, is less than 90 days away. I'll admit there is a cloud of dread circling the date. I certainly don't feel 30. I don't get the sense that my youth is coming to an end, though I realize I'm careening toward functional irrelevance in the eyes of the culturemakers. It helps to live in a city that'll nurture your Peter Pan complex until you're good and ready to give it up. Recently, though, I've looked in the mirror and seen a solidly 30-year-old woman staring back. It's a little unsettling. I can't tell if my face or posture has changed, or whether I'm dressing more like a responsible adult and letting my concert t-shirts slowly drift into the pajama bin, but damned if I don't look more mature lately. Glitter nail polish, bright eyeliner, and unnatural hair colors have little effect on this phenomenon, so I've decided to own it. Even if my heart sinks every time someone fails to ask for my I.D. Thirty, you've arrived too quickly, but you might as well get comfortable.

We ended up throwing together a last minute disco-dance-attack for New Year's Eve, with invite texts going out around 10:30 in the morning. This was one of those years without a lot going on, so there were plenty of stragglers who were happy to come shake their moneymakers in our living room. Silly hats and party snacks, paired with plenty of champagne, make for a fine evening. We rang in the new year with excellent company indeed.

Permanently installing a mirrorball in the living room ceiling was the best idea ever.

Brey and Adam came to dance with me!

Bobby and I posed for photos.

We fed our guests, like responsible adults.

Tara was cheerful.

Folks were tolerant of the roving camera.

The prop bucket made an appearance.

Silly hats and dancing for all!

I would like to state, for the record, that this nearly-30-year-old woman kept dancing until 3:30 in the morning after being awake since 6:45, and succeeded in hitting Genie's for breakfast with the overnight party crew by 9:00 the next morning. Yep, still got it. This year is mine.

Family

It is your greatest right and responsibility as a human to take care of the people you love. For as long as I can remember, I've believed that while you may share blood with your relatives, your family is composed of the people you choose. Your relatives love you in spite of who you are; your family loves you because of it. There have been but a few occasions in my life when I've met a person and wanted to hang out with him or her forever. 

We met on a weekday evening before they even lived here. Still residing in Vegas, they'd come up for a few days to look for apartments before Conor's work transferred him to the Northwest. Bobby met them first, after responding to Conor's online post seeking new friends in an unfamiliar city. I would have been in attendance that night at Gold Dust Meridian, but I had a two hour Swedish class scheduled. I got the call as I was driving home. "You need to come to Gold Dust Meridian right now. You are going to love these guys," Bobby said. I was tired. I'd worked all day and been in class all night, but I know what this degree of enthusiasm from Bobby means. I skipped the exit for our house and headed for Hawthorne. By the time I got there, the three were on their way to The Woods, a funeral home turned concert venue, to see a show. I turned around again and met them there. Bobby was right, of course. Conor was outgoing from the start, while Jonathan hung back, saying little and taking in the new people suddenly surrounding him. They headed home to Vegas to prepare for their move, but I was certain we'd all be good friends. 

Later, while stationed in Seattle, Conor met up with me, Bobby, and Tara to attend Bumbershoot 2010. By sheer coincidence he was living in the same hotel in which we were staying, so the four of us spent the weekend together. 








Once they became permanent residents of Portland, we began hanging out constantly. I'd text Jonathan after work to go out for happy hour, Conor would join me for lunch, and we'd gather frequently for parties and movie nights. Bobby and I introduced them to our friends, who quickly adopted them. They each possess that rare trait that makes people gravitate toward them. 

Through travels and wine-soaked silliness, through awful days and grand excitement, through birthdays and holidays and no-reason get-togethers, these two young men became some of my favorite people on the planet. 













For all the times we've gone out dancing, for all the concerts and pub quizzes, for the night you let me cry all over your living room after the election. For the Palm Springs adventures and roller coaster rides. For the chance meeting that turned into such a wonderful friendship. Thank you, dear ones, for letting me share in your great joy, and for adding so much goodness to my life. It is my tremendous honor and privilege to witness your marriage, host your party, and be your friend. 

Lo-fi Laziness

Forgive my poaching from Instagram for the majority of this post; November is a busy time of year. This one started with an election-related dance party:

 

Then there was a trip to California:



Since I was in town to be a bridesmaid in my high school best friend's wedding, I decided to let teenage Caitlin out for a while. Here I am demonstrating my favorite high school pastime - loitering in front of the city's only Starbucks during the Thursday night street fair with a surly look on my face:



However, it's hard to look surly when you're petting a pot-bellied pig a few blocks later:



Don't let this next photo fool you; it was actually unusually cold in Palm Springs that weekend. Still, it made me think of Arcade Fire's "Sprawl II" with its mountains beyond mountains. Dead shopping malls not pictured:



The night of the rehearsal dinner, my order for a "very special vegetarian meal" - because I totally love being the center of attention when it comes to food [sarcasm] - was demonstrably absent, which resulted in my being a much cheaper date than I'd intended. Oh well. I made a speech, I behaved myself, and my mom picked me up when it was over. I'm not always good at remembering to take photos, so I pilfered this one from the bride's facebook wall. I figure it's fair game since I was tagged in it. That's me in the back on the right, holding my liquid dinner:



There are many photos from the actual wedding. Professional ones, even. But this one, taken by Karla, is my favorite by far. It's Mircea, Jennifer, and me, laughing like crazy and being our younger selves. It was the theme of the weekend, really:



Back at home, the universe thought it would be funny to schedule Bobby's birthday, a work potluck, and Thanksgiving within two days of each other. Here's the cake I made for work. I didn't have the necessary brain cells to take a photo by the time I finished Bobby's. Imagine a similar cake, but with red icing and some aliens and a Mars Curiosity Rover sticking out of it:



I did think to get a photo of Bobby appreciating his birthday present, which was drawn by a friend with significantly more talent than I have:



The party was pretty low-key, but we had a good time. Chris (I think) was kind enough to snap this photo of us around 2 a.m. when the festivities began to wind down:



The next morning, Thanksgiving, involved quite a bit of kicking. We were both pretty tired from the night before, and in no mood to fulfill our holiday responsibilities of preparing cranberry sauce and fake turkey. So there was about a half hour of, "You get up." "No, you get up." We pulled it together, though, and the cranberries were as popular as ever. They had to be tossed in the freezer to cool them down in time for transport.

As is my tradition, the super tacky Christmas decorations were hanging in my house before noon the next day. I may dislike the actual holiday, but I love to decorate for it! I am a mass of contradictions:



Saturday brought our friends Rob and Elise's brilliant idea of hosting a leftover party. No Thanksgiving remnants will linger in our fridge this year! Here I am with their dog, Tom, who is the goofiest, nicest, most cat-like dog in the world:



Lastly, we spent the majority of Sunday shooting this year's holiday card photo, which I hope to have selected and sent to the printer by sometime next week. Apart from the universe deciding to jab me in the eye with every possible annoying thing yesterday, you are now caught up on my mundane goings-on. Lucky you(?)

I leave you with the latest Gossip song, because it is currently my jam:

Los Angeles, I'm [temporarily] Yours

I was afraid I'd like it. I hadn't spent much time in Los Angeles, save for several visits to Magic Mountain, since I was a teenager. Back then, LA was a glittering refuge glowing two hours from my stiflingly cultureless hometown. It had vintage clothing stores and vegetarian restaurants and record shops. It had a dozen concert venues featuring bands I actually wanted to see. It also had a certain inaccessible allure, because my parents would not allow me to drive myself (or be driven by any friends who happened to be female) there. 

As a result, I'd beg the driver-licensed and car-having boys in my life - who, let me tell you, were some of the worst drivers on the planet, putting certain troubled child actresses to shame - for rides to LA whenever I could. We'd go to the Roxy to see the Donnas and Bratmobile play; we'd get henna tattoos on Venice Beach; they'd wait patiently while I thumbed through racks of decades-old slip dresses at the now-defunct Aardvarks. Those rare visits made life in Palm Springs bearable. 

Once I entered college, the gender ban on driving to Los Angeles was lifted. It had become especially absurd by the time I had my own apartment and had driven my little red car from Palm Springs to Santa Cruz and back a few times. In those early years, I took road trips with friends to Magic Mountain, and to see Sleater-Kinney play the Sunset Junction Festival for six dollars. I even drove to Hollywood solo to see Lisa Loeb one night. Somehow, though, a decade passed before I set foot in LA-proper again. That all changed when Bobby and I decided some sunshine was in order. 



It was late when we arrived. Our plane from Portland was delayed, and it took more than half an hour to reach the rental car lot. We finally pulled into our gracious hostess Milena's driveway a little after 1:00 a.m.  The next day, Magic Mountain awaited. We stopped for disappointing breakfast at a Sherman Oaks cafe, which got a Tom Petty song stuck in my head for the duration of the day thanks to its location on Ventura Boulevard. Seriously, they had the audacity to call these hash browns?



Though low-quality, our breakfast certainly beat amusement park food, where my lunch consisted of french fries and an overcooked churro. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Magic Mountain held the promise of an event I'd wanted to attend since my very first visit - Fright Fest. It lasts but a few October weekends each year, and it includes trains run in reverse on the classic Colossus, as well as pitch-darkness on all other rides. I could not wait. We had originally planned to buy the flash passes that allow you to skip lines, but there was no need due to the park's sparse population. We started with Goliath, which is the first ride one encounters if one turns to the right after the entrance. Goliath looks like this. Since there was no wait, we went for the front row.



Next was Colossus. If you've ridden it before, you know the train is supposed to be facing the other way. I can assure you after two rounds on the backwards version, it's the way to go. I was concerned it wouldn't live up to my 15+ years of expectations, but it far exceeded them. Poor Bobby, with my banshee-level screaming I probably sounded like I was being murdered all day long.



Here we are right before the train left the loading station. Look at the grin on me!



Following Colossus, we headed for Batman, which had zero people in line and let us get right on the ride. We paused for a photo op in front of a fake Batmobile (with the Green Lantern in the background) before moving on to the Riddler's Revenge and Apocalypse.



After shoveling bad park food in our faces, we hit the left half of the map. Revolution (my lifelong favorite, only because of the name):



Tatsu - which invariably makes me want my mommy because it is just stupid-terrifying - Viper, which gives me a terrible headache every time (and is why I always carry a bag of Advil to the park), and X2 - which also makes me want my mommy while wondering when I became such a wimp. This video of the ride in its previous incarnation/color scheme will help explain why:



We ended the night with one more run on Colossus and Batman, and set off in search of tacos with Milena. 



The next day held visits to the Elliott Smith memorial wall on Sunset Boulevard:



To LACMA for the Robert Mapplethorpe exhibit:





And to the car museum, because Bobby deserved a break from doing stuff I want to do all the time:



We had some crepes on Melrose, drove down Hollywood Boulevard, and ate dinner at a hot dog place specializing in vegetarian chilli dogs. We stopped at a bar in Silver Lake before heading back to Milena's.The last day of sunshine came too quickly, of course, but took us to Venice Beach. I'm sorry, Oregon, but your freezing rocky coast cannot compare to this. I still love you, though, ok?



Because no trip to Venice is complete without stupid henna tattoos, Milena and I got these:



With a flight to catch, we made the last stop on our LA journey: an awesome taco/burrito joint in Santa Monica. I had a potato burrito with a bunch of other delicious things in it. The thing was the size of my head, but I have no photos because I ate it in approximately three seconds. Here's a photo of me outside, though. Tacos, por favor. That's pretty much my mantra.



I'm back in Portland now, where the weather is grim for the next six months and the Mexican food should always include quotation marks. I love LA, sure, but this dreary, burritoless city is my forever home. Fortunately flights are cheap.