(Aside to the latter group: I know we don’t know each other, and some of you might even think Sarah Palin is totally awesome, but political insanity notwithstanding, I have a good feeling about you. Feel free to pull up an Internet ottoman and stay awhile.)

I just realized had I waited one more week to write and hit that cheery blue “Publish” button, I could have let an entire month pass before updating this here site, which I think would be a personal abandonment record for me. Alas, here I am, because I missed you all too much. (Awwwh.)

Oh, and I’m not having a baby, in case you thought you had missed some big important (immaculate conception-type) news.

My sister is the (mighty adorable) one currently carrying her very own fun-size human, and while I heartily concur pregnancy is beautiful and life-changing and Merriam and Webster really didn’t provide me ample amounts of words to convey how extremely psyched I am to be an aunt, can I just tell you how surreal it is to see your little sister in her third trimester, because: Whoa amounts of surreal over here.

Theresa of course looks amazing, as you will very soon get to see for yourself because I (‘m a visual learner, yes! and) took five bazillion pictures over Memorial Day weekend as we showered her and my soon-to-be-onesie-wearing niece or nephew with myriad tiny and sweet and maybe-not-so-gender-neutral baby things.

The general guessing consensus is that Theresa and Will will be welcoming a bouncing baby boy on or around July 18th, which is a consensus based on pure conjecture and gut feelings which could end up being less “hunch” more “too much spicy Thai peanut sauce.” I will undoubtedly be all sorts of ecstatic to announce I have a niece OR a nephew, and will forever maintain the “Handsome” onesie I WAS TRICKED into buying–itself being the center onesie in a pack of an otherwise neutral set of three, and me thus assuming it to be white and only white–will only be all the more entertaining if worn by a little girl.

As you read this I will be lounging in a window seat at 30,000 feet, on my way to Minneapolis to spend nine! days with my one and only and aforementioned sister. I will also hopefully be napping as it’s become nearly impossible for me to sleep before an early morning flight, my brain preferring instead to waltz from one unrealistic flight-missing-scenario to another.

I would promise to update my site while I’m gone, but we all know I’d probably be lying. But hey, you never know; maybe Minneapolis comes complete with bonus blog posting mojo!

Until then, here’s a sampling of some of my favorite pictures from the most recent Baby Shower Extravaganza(s):

T & Momma:

Behold, the best guest book idea in the history of guest book ideas: The fingerprint tree!

Will and T’s newest niece:

On Saturday night T and I made what would be my favorite decorative addition to Sunday’s shower. Poms!

These three have been best friends since junior high, bridesmaids and maids of honor in each other’s weddings, and are now all moms, too:

Theresa, our great aunt Joy, and Grandma Ladish. Three of the loveliest souls you’ll ever meet:

The entire Flickr set is here. I named it Nobody Puts (My Sister’s) Baby In A Corner. (Guess which movie I watched recently.)

Catch you on the flip-side, kids!

Thirteen miles outside of my Haystack Rock-laden destination traffic came to a sudden and perpetual halt. I sat patiently for thirty minutes (Iggy sat less patiently) before being told by a lovely woman who had walked a mile up the road to investigate on foot that the last stretch of Highway 26 was officially closed due to an accident, and that it wasn’t slated to reopen for two hours.

I had previously told myself I was prepared to wait thirty more minutes, but two hours in my car with beach-combing legs and an anxious pug was out of the question, and so I set off back down 26 until I came to the Tillamook turn-off, a road I’ve never taken, but one I was sure would eventually lead me back to the coast, and the 101.

(Storytelling aside: Have you ever played telephone down a line of gridlocked traffic? It was actually sort of amusing: being flagged down by car after car as drove slowly back down the 26, stopping briefly to tell people that they might want to turn around too, unless they had two hours and a good book to read.)

Thus, a drive that was originally slated to look like this:

Actually ended up looking like this:

The detour ensured I didn’t make it to the coast until about an hour later than originally planned (and that I wouldn’t make it to Cannon Beach until much later), but the quiet windy drive down Highway 53 was lovely and relaxing, laden with trailhead turn-offs and river views, everything proudly green and damp and smelling of spring.

I reached the sleepy river town of Nehalem and instantly knew where I was, and smiled as the sun came out just as I pulled into Manzanita, one of my favorite coastal cities I don’t visit often enough.

The scenic detour was worth it in and of itself, but the views waiting for me in Manzanita were even more breathtaking than I had remembered.

After moseying on the beach with Iggy until all six of our legs were soaking wet, and visiting my favorite coastal store (hi, Unfurl!), and having watched ominous clouds grumbling up the coastline, I decided to race the impending storm to Cannon Beach, and managed to secure some quality beach time before some impressively strong wind started pelting rain into my ears.

Coastal craving: Satisfied. For a few weeks, anyway.

An overnight at Cannon Beach never fails to rejuvenate my heart, to make me forget every bundle of “to-do” I was carrying on my shoulders, every stress and every fear. But really, five minutes at Cannon Beach does that for me. For me, the coast and its rocky shores are a sacred place, more spiritual than any church, more steadfast than any promise, untouchable by loss or grief. I can think clearer sitting in front of crashing waves than I can anywhere else. I can smile broader, and walk longer, and remember stories I want to tell.

I typically don’t come to Cannon Beach in July, or even August, unless for some magical reason I don’t have to work on weekday. During the height of summer, the traffic through the typically quaint downtown is bumper-to-bumper, and parking is mostly nonexistent, and while I don’t think the beach could ever feel too small no matter how many people were simultaneously occupying it, I know I prefer the mellow simplicity of the off-season. I don’t need the beach to be hot, or even warm, to enjoy it. I just need to be standing on it.

Having spent so much quality time at Cannon Beach over the years, especially when my sister and her husband were living there, it’s admittedly hard to share the coast with the throngs of tourists who come through every year to wander the beautifully unique northern coastline, and take pictures of Haystack Rock, and buy postcards and prints that never do any of the sights any justice.

But it’s never hard to share the coast with friends.

In fact, Cannon Beach is one of the first places I will offer to take anyone who comes to visit Portland, never mind that it’s an hour and a half drive away from the city. What’s waiting for you just off Highway 26 is worth every windy mile stuck behind a motor home that can’t seem to drive faster than 45mph.

Camp Dykstra stayed in a(n adorable) beach rental on Cannon Beach most of last week, and they so graciously invited me out to spend a night with them and revel in the beachy glee.

Following is a smattering of my favorite pictures and moments from my coastal inspired weekend.

Angella and Amanda at Deschutes on Friday night:

Photographic proof I have not yet mastered the art of the self-take group shot. But everyone IS actually in this picture, and as a bonus, we can start a new photo game called “Guess that chest!” Or…something.

From far left (sliver of hair) to far right (sliver of cheek): Sarah, Vahid, Amanda, Rhi, Angella, Me.

Pre beach run:

Post beach run:

During our first beach excursion on Saturday Nathan asked me what was across the ocean, because he wanted to go there. “Korea,” I said, and his face lit up as he decided, plastic shovel firmly in hand, he was going to dig all the way to Korea. That plan soon changed, as Nathan, Graham, and Emily each decided they would dig to separate locations, and then see who they could entice to accompany them. Nathan: “Do you want to come with me to the African volcano to die?” Emily: “Or to Paris with me to speak French?” Graham: “Or to Mexico with me to swim?” Decisions, decisions.

Nathan and Graham, digging to Africa and Mexico, respectively:

Pretty girls (This might be my favorite shot from the entire weekend):

Nathan, after a half an hour on a very windy, very chilly beach: “My brain hurts.”

The boys:

Awh, yeah.

I don’t know that there are words for how much I love this picture. It’s just so them:

Emily is pretty much Iggy’s biggest fan. She’s also not afraid to tell him, “No paws on the table!” Atta girl.

When I said goodbye to the beach-combing crew Saturday afternoon, Miss Emily started crying. It was so unexpected, and so incredibly sweet, that I had to quickly saunter to the car after giving her big hugs and telling her I would see her sooner than later, before I started crying myself, thereby not helping anyone.

It’s amazing to have friends that really can and do feel like family.

It’s also amazing to have so many friends come to visit (me! and) Portland, thereby providing me ample opportunity to get out of my apartment and traipse about my favorite city with some of my favorite people.

On Sunday I met Terrell and her fella (and her awesome cousin Shelby) for brunch, and didn’t need to be but was instantly reminded how lucky I am to have such amazing friends in so many cities, with a heaping dose of amazing being conveniently located in Seattle, where Terrell (also Jen, Sizzle, and Andrea!) happens to live. (Just to clarify, Terrell was in Portland this weekend. I did not drive three hours just for brunch, though really, it’s not out of the realm of possibility for me. What can I say? I love my friends almost as much as I love a great Eggs Benedict.)

All in all, this weekend was one of my favorites of the summer, just like last weekend and the weekend before that, and I’m already looking forward to much more friend and family-centered excitement on the horizon.

Coming soon: a trip to Seattle, bachelorette river rafting, GETTING TO SEE MY SISTER*, Rhi’s wedding which also means a long weekend with Kristin!, and Step Up 3D.

Before you start laughing at me, I dare you to watch the afore-linked movie trailer and not think the dancing looks UH-mazing. I actually think this might be the first movie worth watching in 3D. Also: Yes! That’s totally Twitch from So You Think You Can Dance and! Harry Shum from Glee. I can’t help myself; I’m beyond psyched to see this movie.

*Also clarifying: My sister is coming home from Korea in August, lest anyone think I (won the lottery, and) was flying back to Korea.

————–

OK, I’ve officially rambled long enough. Tell me about your weekend!

Why, you ask?

Well, first! because I got to spend half a day with the stylishly savvy and incredibly down-to-earth Kali, soaking up the sun, chatting about everything and nothing, stuffing our faces with Italian food, making fun of American Apparel clothing, and finally, watching The A-Team.

Dear American Apparel, This is u-g-l-y, it ain’t got no alibi:

Dear American Apparel, 1987′s Debbie Gibson called. She wants her sweater back:

My review of The A-Team in a 140 characters or less, and without spoiling anything:

No, but really. It was awesome. And you should go see it. Like, tonight. The characters were super engaging, and the comedic timing was near perfect. Sure, there were ridiculous action sequences that could never actually happen, but hi, welcome to all the best action movies.

Cool guys don’t look at explosions.

It was quite amusing to discover Kali and I were watching The A-Team at the exact same time Angella and her husband were, some 10+ hours away. We were equally smitten with the film, and I was definitely not surprised. Angella is awesome for many reasons, not the least of which being her appreciation for (Bradley Cooper, and) great action movies.

On Sunday I woke up early with absolutely zero to do beyond meet Hans for some coffee consumption and studying. While I would wait until later to drink coffee (I dropped in at Barista to see my friend Meggan’s husband, Daniel, and drink their delicious brew), Hans and I had an awesome morning people-watching and conversing at Sip & Kranz, which for some unknown reason I have called Sip N’ Kranz since I first visited the place over a year ago, as if (I can’t read signs, or) it’s a coffee shop doubling as a boy band from the early ’90s.

We sat outside for hours and watched sleepy, happy Portlanders amble by with myriad sized dogs in tow, and listened to kids splashing in the community wading pool at the center of the small park laden with trees and shaded benches. That is, until a man came to sing and play his portable keyboard, just for us.

I also shared the magic of the (very free) MacGruber app for the iPhone with Hans, complete with MacGruber mullet generator.

Reason #437 why I love Hans: She’s a great sport. Especially when it comes to computer-generated mullets.

After leaving Sip AND Kranz, we meandered over to Bridgeport in the Pearl for some patio brews, wherein “brews” mostly means “brew, singular,” as in “I had a Haymaker Pale Ale while Hans studiously studied.”

After monopolizing Hans’ Sunday morning, I hiked around Northwest for a few, eventually stopping in at REI to get into trouble spend some birthday money (See also: my grandma is cooler than your grandma), eventually deciding on a pair of Chacos (a preemptive expense for some river rafting I’m so psyched to be looking forward to as part of Rhi‘s bachelorette weekend in August), and a pair of green Tevas. I then proceeded to get ridiculously sweaty on my trek home. This just in! Leisurely walking: I apparently cannot do it! At least, not when I’m walking solo.

A super “artistic” shot of my new Tevas from underneath the table at 23 & Hoyt.

After changing so as not to stank in public, I went to meet two of my favorite people (Ms. Long Story Longer and the aforementioned Rhi!) for drinks at 23 & Hoyt, and convinced Hans to come and delay her studying a bit longer. A good scholarly influence I am apparently not.

From left to right: Long Story Longer, and Rhi. They make me laugh. A lot.

While chatting with Kali on Saturday, and with the rest of the girls on Sunday, I realized, for the hundredth time probably: I really do have the most amazing of all friends. They are witty and hilarious, kind and generous, and some of the most supportive people I have ever known. I am beyond blessed to have each of every one of them* in my life.

In short: If the rest of the summer is anything like this particular weekend, I will officially be a happy camper.**

So, tell me, what did you do this weekend?

———————-

*Each and every one of YOU if you are a friend of mine reading this right now. (Also, hello! Happy! Monday.)

**No actual camping is planned for this summer, as I’m pretty sure a tent, a sleeping bag, and a desire to camp are prerequisites for camping.

In short, it was a very good weekend.

I know I’m clearly and unabashedly biased, but I really do believe there is no lovelier place than the Pacific Northwest (all the time, but especially) in the spring. Seattle or Portland (and their surrounding metropolises and coastlines) on a sunny day in May? Nothing beats it.

But before I incite an online debate about which state is the fairest in all the land (sorry guys, it’s Oregon), OOH LOOK PICTURES!

This is my lovely cousin Frances. She is the eldest daughter of my dad’s youngest sister. I’ve told you before that my family is awesome, and she herself is proof of said awesomeness. She is an amazing person, a talented writer, and she knows the best place to eat Pho in Capitol Hill. At lunch on Saturday she also regaled me with stories about Dave Eggers BECAUSE SHE HAS MET HIM. (She’s interning at 826 Seattle.) See again: awesome.

Jen is an amazing baker (and cook). These were flourless cupcakes she made Saturday afternoon for our girls’ night gathering after The Cupcake Situation Which Shall Not Be Named. They were delicious. Also delicious? The dinner Roth made for us Saturday night and the frittata he made Sunday morning, and also I think it should be hereby stated for the record that he has magical fruit-cutting powers.*

Rowan was a fan of my camera. He especially liked pushing the button that scrolled from one picture to the next, and recognizing himself on the digital screen.

I was gifted these because Rowan wanted me to smell them. They didn’t really have a scent and so I said they smelled like the ocean. I don’t think he was buying it.

This was my favorite shot of Rowan from this past weekend. I love it because (he is adorable, yes! and als0) it looks like he could be a) making a monkey sound or b) leading a dinnertime discussion on the merits of health care reform. For some reason when I look at this picture I also see him in a tweed suit at Oxford, signing autographs.

How was your weekend?

*Which is better than having, say, magical cheese-cutting powers. HA HA GET IT? #lamestjokeever And yes, I just totally hash tagged a sentence on my blog, what?

How to promptly and efficiently distract yourself from wanting to hate your fellow coastal commuters? Driving self-portraits, of course! (Dear Face: Spend some time in the sun. Sincerely, All of Mankind Except for Maybe Nicole Kidman.)

Despite the Annoying that was the actual trekking, the day was gorgeous (albeit cloudy on the coast once I got there; go figure), and during the two years my sister lived in Cannon Beach she taught me how to find the great, top-secret places known only to locals, so even though there literally was not a parking spot to be had in all of downtown, Iggy and I enjoyed romping around a mostly deserted beach for a few hours.

One of my favorite things to do while I’m wandering any beach is to concoct stories based on the myriad tracks left in the sand by people and animals and plants alike. I decided these belonged to a rare and elusive species known to ancient coastal tribes as the Werepug:

Cannon Beach or the Sahara desert? Iggy doesn’t care so long as he gets to run freeeee!

Werepug! Or: What happens when I’m attempting a macro shot on a shell that Iggy wants to maybe eat.

I’ve never wandered any stretch of Cannon Beach without finding notes (love or otherwise) left in the sand. This trip was no exception.

Thank you God for beautiful beaches, Saturdays, and Pug butts.

Sunday was spent with dear friends Ian and Jenelle and their adorable seven-month-old, Ezekiel (Zeke!). I hadn’t seen the little guy in months and it was amazing to see how aware he was of (everything, but especially) his mother. While listening to him coo and squawk on my lap I decided I definitely don’t have enough baby in my life.

(Not that I’m in any way saying I want to have my own in the future, or ever, because: UM, NO. Babysitting however? Totally game on.)

Sunday was also spent with my beloved and hilarious Hans, instituting our first of many Sunday Smoothie Walks, wherein we wandered our lovely cherry-blossom-laden neighborhood with smoothies in hand (and a werepug snorting and sidewinding next to us), and talked about everything and nothing, like the fact that I almost saw some girl’s nether regions the other afternoon because fifty-five degrees to some people apparently = a shirt that is really a shirt but you’re trying to make it a dress and hi, your butt is totally hanging out, and for the sake of everyone walking past you PLEASE PUT ON SOME PANTS YOUNG LADY.

Sunday evening also marked a milestone of sorts for me, wherein I a) realized I own jumper cables (thanks! Mom and Dad), and b) learned how to use them, thanks to Hans who needs to add Car Jumper Extraordinaire to her resume. Maybe I’m super lame and car ignorant for never having had to jump a car* before, but all I’m saying is Hans is at the top of my list of who to call in the event of a zombie (or otherwise) apocalypse.

*With jumper cables. Not with a skateboard or on a flaming motorcycle or something, which is what Jen thought I meant when I first recounted the story. In retrospect, a skateboard or flaming motorcycle would have made Sunday evening even more interesting. Maybe next weekend.

(So, tell me. How was YOUR weekend?)

Yesterday morning I revisited the crazy that is signing up for a race on an early Sunday morning, with friends as (awesome! and) crazy as you are, and then freaking out for 48 hours before said race because you are extremely adept at concocting ridiculous scenarios in your head that will never actually happen. (I do this for job interviews, too. It’s the neurosis that keeps on giving!)

“But what if I can’t run like I want to; what if I have to walk the entire race? Or what if I break my leg or something, or I’m too nervous to even start the race, OR the officials think I’m not running fast enough and tell me I should have just signed up for the Shamrock Stride, and what am I doing thinking I can run 3.1 miles anyway? What if they kick me out because I’m not wearing any green? OMG, what if I’m the very last runner across the finish line?”

Yesterday morning Kali and I galloped our way from the start to the finish of the Shamrock Run, and while it quickly became very apparent I need to be fitted for running shoes that don’t make my feet ache and throb and oh hey, fall completely ASLEEP while running, I felt better than I ever have at that distance, and I knew I could finish, and finish strong. I was bummed we couldn’t find Rhi before the start (it was madness down at the waterfront), but it was hard not to grin at the sheer energy bouncing around like the runners who were gearing up to put their feet to pavement on a crisp but clear spring Sunday morning.

It seems a little nuts on paper: paying money to get up way too early on a weekend morning to join throngs of strangers to run a distance you could run without worrying about packet pick-ups, nerves, crowds, parking. But the second I was standing in Waterfront Park, freezing and bouncing and stretching, I remembered why races are exciting, why they sell out year after year. It’s the energy, electric and contagious, bouncing off every single person who made the commitment to show up and participate, radiating to the friends and family members (and complete strangers) who line the route and clap and cheer as people pass by, pushing themselves to reach a finish line that is as much mental as it is physical.

Kali was an amazing running partner, and we laughed at the ridiculously chipper race announcer and his affinity for calling everyone “Leprechauns,” and watched people running in bright green tu-tus and huge hats and even saw a guy jogging while playing a banjo.

I was nervous about the distance and about doing it sans iPod, and about the incline up Broadway around mile two that was admittedly pretty brutal, but once we rounded that corner and started the last leg of the race heading downhill, I had to fight the urge to start laughing, because I was DOING THIS and feeling awesome (despite not really being able to feel my right foot, whoops), and I had forgotten how hard you can push your body and see it respond favorably. I had forgotten how far you can go even when you think you’re not ready.

I know to anyone who runs distance regularly 3.1 miles is a walk in the park.

To this girl it was one of the best things I’ve done with my body for years. And I’m admittedly excited to do it again. You know, when my legs stop screaming obscenities at me.