Driving home from Florida up 75, as we try to figure out what to get for lunch, I see a big Chik-Fil-A bilboard, and suggest we stop there.
“Yeah, that’d be alright.”
I proceed to get all hot and bothered thinking about Ice Dreams and Peanut Oil French Fries I haven’t had in at least 2 yea —
I have failed to remember the first, immutable law of Chik-Fil-A: You always crave it on a goddamn Sunday. Ah, well; maybe at Thanksgiving.
I came back from hot, sticky Florida to find Portland psyching itself up for the love affair between city and citizens that is the Fall Season in this town.
There is nothing like Autumn in P-Town. Summer here is tolerable, Spring is miserable, but Fall is sweet, crisp perfection. We’re barely halfway through September, and already I’m needing a hoody to walk to the bus stop in the morning. I found myself ambling to the music store last night, crunching through freshly fallen leaves, and shivering in the gentle breeze while watching the sun descend in the clear sky. Tomorrow morning there will be mist on the hills. I am so happy to be here right now.
Yet another bonus of Autumn is that I am sleeping again. In order to fall asleep at night, I need the temperature to be around 50 degrees or lower. This condition is rarely met in my tragically air-conditioning-free apartment during July and August, so it takes me a good 45 minutes to pass into a state of sweaty semi-slumber.
But last night? My head hit the pillow, and BOOM: I was out until sunrise. Happy Fall, everybody.
When I got back to work this Monday, I found a package waiting for me from Human Rights Campaign. I am not a member of Human Rights Campaign.
I cracked it open, but didn’t really bother to examine the contents until yesterday afternoon. At that time I found it to be filled with National Coming Out Day balloons, and pamphlets with tips for making the big announcement to loved ones.
Then, while I was scouring the outside of the package for clues as to who might have sent it, I noticed that it was in fact addressed to Ms. Andrew M. I am reluctantly amused.
This has all the marks of a stunt pulled by the wily Wookie, but I don’t think she knows my work address, so I’m not making any assumptions just yet.
In any case, me and my dad have reached a really awesome point in our relationship where I repeatedly tell him all the ways in which Portland is better than Atlanta, and he nods along and continues to believe that I will move home in a year or two. I really don’t want to upset the equilibrium by dropping the Gay-bomb on him. When I came out to my mom, she said she didn’t think he’d be too upset with the news, and honestly, I think his desire to have me working for him greatly supersedes his desire to see me getting worked up over breasts. However, I’d rather not risk it right now.
If I ever get a boyfriend, I will probably tell him then. That’s just another reason to stay single, so far as I’m concerned.
Some of you may remember me promising to post apartment pictures six or seven years ago. I finally got them developed, but only a few of them would upload properly. Here are the ones that came out more or less alright. I threw in some of the ones of trip to the coast with my dad and Pat, too.
Tacky-Ass Exterior (For the life of me, I cannot tell you why this picture uploaded so small.)
Somewhat less tacky interior.
My Birthday Present from William and Emily. One of the best I’ve gotten in a long time. It’s the coolest Post-Impessionistic Vaguely European city you’ve ever seen, and I get to see it every morning when I wake up.
My shower has a skylight.
Haystack Rock at Cannon Beach. Black and White not for artistic effect, but because WordPress wouldn’t let me upload it any other way. I hate this stupid host.
My dad and me on Canon Beach. We’re squinting because it’s windy. I think this is a really nice illustration of how spectacular it is that the hair loss gene isn’t passed on patrilineally.
Scenic Downtown Astoria, where the Columbia meets the Pacific. We ate at this restaurant on the water where you could see the abundance of Sea Lions that reside in this town.
Sometimes, I’ll get up to go to the bathroom at night, and I’ll find him sitting by the window like this, laughing softly. I don’t speak Chompskinese, but I know that yearning tone in his giggle means he’s calling out to the night. Ashley, he’s crying. Ashley.