Julie & Julia - Review

I’m convinced that at birth I got my wires crossed. Somehow some kind of chemistry soured or maybe my brain sent out a mixed signal during early development because no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, I cannot stand food noises. Chips munched, cereal slurped, crisp crudités crunched - all of it drives me absolutely crazy. Sigmund Freud might blame it on my mother but when she came to visit last week it was me who suggested we go to a movie.


We went to see Julie & Julia, once again my suggestion, and why not? It came highly recommended by my wife Linda and our good friend Jeff. “Go see it they said, you’ll love it. Meryl Streep is incredible.” And she was. She took the role of Julia Child and filled it so well I caught myself wondering if, in fact Meryl Streep was Julia Child. I mean, she is old enough and while I don’t remember seeing much of Julia Child on television maybe they’re actually the same person. It sounds crazy but she really was that good.

Oddly, though, they never said much about the ‘Julie’ character played by Amy Adams - yuck. And even worse still was the guy who spent the entire film eating Julie’s cooking - LOUDLY. Frankly it ruined the movie for me. What was I thinking voluntarily going to a movie about eating food? Slurping, crunching, smacking and lip licking, it was all just a bit too much for me.


I give Julie & Julia 2 out of 5 stars (it would have been a negative 5 but Meryl Streep really did do an incredible job).

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Surgical Taco

I dropped by the dermatologist yesterday on my way home from work. And while I like to make it sound off the cuff and casual, there was nothing relaxing about it. My doctor and I are not friends. She’s a small trim woman with dark short-cropped hair and she smiles a lot while asking to do unspeakable things. In the past six months she’s carved so much skin cancer off me that when I told my brother-in-law Wade I’d been hit with a shotgun blast he believed me. This was in July while boating on our family vacation. “Really?” he asked. “Did it hurt?” I thought about really running, taking him for a nice ride, but considering the pattern of scars across my chest and arms it’s hard to believe the involvement of anything but a shotgun.

I’m no stranger to injury but, for me, there’s something about laying down and voluntarily being carved like a Christmas ham that makes my head spin - quite literally. Yesterday was my 5th visit in 6 months, I think, yet still every time my doctor asks me to lie down I begin to sweat profusely. “You look pretty good, Christian,” she said with a smile. “There are just two more spots we need to remove. How about we just take care of those right now?” This is a woman who knows my history, one who’s seen me nearly pass out at the first sign of a scalpel and so she tries to make the suggestion of removal sound easy going and optional. “Just roll over to your stomach and I’ll start with the larger one on the back of your neck.”

And it’s at this point that things become really uncomfortable. I try and roll to my stomach but have already begun sweating so much that the paper liner I’m laying on is stuck to me head to toe, wrapping me up like a paper taco. My doctor asks if I’m OK and all I can think is, “I hope Wade doesn’t hear about this, he’ll really run with it.”

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Swan Island Dahlia Battle

This past weekend my mother paid us a visit. She loves to garden and spends countless hours each week working in her yard. The back yard is reserved for vegetables and berries but the front is where she grows her flowers. About a week after she moved in she dug up half her lawn to plant more flowers and her children called her crazy. “Who digs up their lawn?” we asked, pointing at the surrounding neighbor’s lawns. Of course it turned out looking beautiful and she has the whole neighborhood jealous.

Then, last year, she put up an 8-foot fence with thick wood posts and heavy gauge wire. It looks like the kind of barricade one would imagine surrounds Fort Knox. “It’s to keep the deer out,” she insists. “They keep eating all my flowers.” While this might be true, the fence has her children now convinced she’s crazy. She insists the neighbors are jealous of her fence as well but I’m not buying it.

Either way, my mother loves flowers and for the past four years or so has wanted to visit during the Swan Island Dahlia Festival. It’s the largest of its kind, at least in the U.S.; something one of my mother’s neighbors loves to remind her of. She’s a small, fast talking woman who likes to hold her own visit to the festival over my mother’s head. “So,” she might say, “it’s just too bad you didn’t make it out to the dahlia festival this year.” She bides her time, waiting till mid-September, knowing it’s too late for my mother to catch a quick spontaneous flight. “It’s such a shame too because it’s the largest one of it’s kind,” she’ll add as she walks away. “Acres and acres of the most beautiful dahlias you’ve ever seen.”

Well no more, miss neighbor of my mother’s. She’s been to the Swan Island Dahlia Festival and seen the ‘dinner plate’ section. She’s been in the creepy underground display cave and she’s walked the acres and acres of the most beautiful dahlias in the world.

Oh, and by the way, rumor has it this was the biggest most glorious show in the entire history of the Swan Island Dahlia Festival.

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Alden's All Natural

It’s no secret that I love ice cream. I have for as long as I can remember and I like it plain, unadulterated, topping free. While still in high school my mother was introduced, through a friend of a friend, to a black market source for purchasing ice cream in bulk. It came in 1/2 gallon plastic tubs and 2 1/2 gallon brown paper containers and was intended for ice cream parlors, which meant there was a minimum order. The word on the street was that most families would group together and spread the order between three or four homes but in my house we covered the spread single-handedly.

Every month or so my mother would hand me an order form with instructions to fill it out. “Just pick 15 or so flavors in the half gallon size and one or two of the 2 1/2 gallon size,” she’d say. We had two freezers and looking back I wonder if they were simply there to foster my habit. Later that day we’d meet in the garden out of earshot where we’d look from side to side before exchanging the form, X’s carefully marking each of my selections. Then just after dark she’d head to some back alley where she’d knock twice and ring once on an unmarked door and wait for further instructions. The order form would be slipped through a mail slot in the door and she’d be instructed to back the family van up to the loading dock. At least that’s how I remember it.

Since that time I’ve become quite a connoisseur of the creamy stuff. In Texas it was Blue Bell in California it was It’s-It. Any form, any location, I’ve always found the best.

Flavors are important too and in my book mint chocolate chip is about halfway down my scale, at best. For Linda, though, it’s number one - by a mile. Since I do the bulk of the consuming when it comes to ice cream I also carry the most weight when it comes to selecting and usually avoid mint chocolate chip. The other day though, in a moment of weakness I bought her a container of mint chocolate chip. Feeling whimsical I decided on a new brand called Alden’s Ice Cream touting all natural everything. All I can say is I have a new favorite and if you live in Oregon go get yourself some and enjoy the weekend. Their website doesn’t advertise the mint chocolate chip but trust me, it’s on the menu.

I give Alden’s Ice Cream Mint Chocolate Chip a 5 out of 5 stars.

What’s your favorite brand and flavor?

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President Obama, I have a solution

President Obama, I have a solution. Well, truthfully, it’s not my solution but I was present at its inception and it seems these days when it comes to politics, attendance is all that really counts.

This was a few weeks ago while Linda and I ran a few errands. We have a local market across the street from our house and a larger grocery store a mile away, but once a week or so Linda drives to the neighboring town to shop at Winco. Half big box warehouse, half grocery store on steroids, Winco sells produce by the truckload and canned goods by the case. Unlike Costco, this particular grocer offers large quantities of food in bulk and regular sized packages. Employees wear stiff green vests decorated with buttons that say, “Employee Owned & Operated” and work at a pace on par with government offices. Lines form behind back to back registers outfitted with huge self serve conveyor belts. The idea is that if customers unload their own carts then pack their own bags overhead goes down along with the prices.

It was here, just outside Winco where I witnessed history in the making. A rusted Ford Pinto had just pulled up coughing black smoke out the back and cigarette smoke from the windows and we witnessed a homeless man tumble from inside. He loudly thanked the driver for the lift then proceeded to unload 12 wheelbarrow-sized bags filled with aluminum cans. Winco is home to the largest can and bottle-recycling center I’ve ever seen. Just to the left side of the entrance sits an entrance large enough to drive a truck through. It’s like a cave, dimly lit, and extends back deep enough to hold a small army of patrons. The cement around the entrance is stained with wine and smells so strongly of alcohol it really did provide a perfect environment for such a brilliant idea.

“If President Obama just started a cash for cans program and paid these people more than a nickel a can, he could probably fix the economy in a month,” Linda said. Winco was our first stop, about 9:00 am, and there was already a large lineup of patrons waiting to cash in their evenings take. Linda kept on saying something like, “Publish this on your blog, Christian, send it to the masses.” But I wasn’t listening, I was wondering how many cans we had back in our garage should this plan go into effect.

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What's in a name?

Today at work while discussing apparel construction techniques with one of our pattern makers, she mentioned taking the train to Seattle over the weekend. It was off the subject, yet still, she continued, “So I was about halfway there when I noticed these four nerdy types larping with an iPhone.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Well, you know, they were using the iPhone in place of dice. You can do that with those things, they shake and all. They’re incredible.”

“Uh,. . . I’m talking about how you just slipped in “larping” like it was no bid deal. What is that?”

She explained that it stood for “Live Action Role Playing” then threw in, “Everyone knows that, Christian.”

I didn’t.

Some of you are probably asking a similar question, “What or who is an Ashmarlin?”

Here’s the thing, it’s just a name, nothing more, nothing less. Back in college a friend and I had this great idea we’d start a clothing line. I imagined we could start small, maybe make a few select pieces and grow from there. He, on the other hand envisioned multiple collections from the start then followed it up with the statement, “We’ll put JCrew out of business.” He said this in a frenzy, the sort one imagines being used when referring to taking over the world and is always followed by an evil laugh. And just like that I lost interest and we went our separate ways. Ashmarlin is the name I came up with for what I imagined would be a quaint little apparel brand and it seemed fitting for my quaint little blog that I hope, someday, will take over the world.

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Personal Sculpting Fitness Program®

Readers,

I have spoken with my sister Megan about this but don’t believe anyone else is aware of a milestone I’ve begun meeting in my life.  Except Linda, who is acutely aware and is in fact reaping the benefits with great joy.  I have discovered an incredible supplement which has turned the fitness world on it’s ear and turned me into the specimen Linda has always dreamed of. I have kept a journal documenting my progress and willingly share it with you now, here in this blog.  Take it for what it’s worth but believe me, this is powerful stuff.  Each Tuesday I’ll send out another day torn from my journal giving you proper time to wrap your mind around the previous entry.

Day 7-
Portions of my personal hygiene regimen have become a bit difficult these days.  But with the incredible results I’m seeing from the Personal Sculpting Fitness Program® I now have a very impressive body and the trade-off is well worth it.  Having muscles on top of muscles however makes it a bit hard to reach things, if you catch my drift.  My arms seem only capable of bending enough to accommodate barbells and these delicious Personal Sculpting Shakes 6 times a day but I’m learning to cope.  This delicious elixir only passes the doors to my new temple by using those little bendy straws, but once again the trade-off is nothing.  I mean seriously, what’s worth complaining about when you look this good.  With such terrific results I’ve hardly noticed the disruptive 4-hour increments with which they must be taken and Linda is willing to put up with the night portion of my regimen on account of the “eye candy” factor.  Her words not mine.  


Until next Tuesday, do your best to stay as fit as me.

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