"It took me an hour to realize that 'F.U.' meant 'Felix Unger'!"

The first time I met my best friend was in a church gym. Ironically enough, this is also the place where she met her husband, so it's safe to say that organized sports and organized religion have been good to her.

It was 2006 and I had just moved to Portland. At that point, I could count the community of people that I could call "friend" in the city upon less than one hand. The only person with whom I could really "hang out" was a girl that I will call "Patrice" for the sake of it being fun to give people aliases when you write about them. She had been my closest friend throughout my two years in graduate school and was spunky, talented, smart, quirky to an often mystifying level, and immensely fun to be around. I also benefitted from her being a member of an unnecessarily hip family that included a teenage brother who was quiet but hilarious in the way that electric bass players are, and another brother in his twenties for whom I once had embarrassing feelings and in whose name some of the galaxy's most horrific non-Vogon poetry was written after he broke my melodramatic heart by marrying a Perfect Hippy Girl. Side note: I still have moments where I look back on my disastrously silly behavior during the time of my first heartbreak and experience full body shudders- this is a phenomena as yet unpublished in the DSM-IV known as "aftershawkward."

Patrice and I had yet to really make friends with anyone in our area, so our Saturday nights for the first month or so after my relocation were comprised of taking in marathons of "Flava of Love" and debating over whether Hoopz or New York would be the one to rock the clock of Public Enemy's one and only timekeeper. Occasionally we also mixed things up with a venture to the city for confused driving on one way roads, and were rewarded with the finger from pedestrians with 25-gauge ear plugs. Ah yes, it was a crazy time to be young and post-collegiate.

One night, we decided to attend "family home evening" (FHE) which, by way of explanation is a phenomena in the LDS church wherein Mormon families come together for a wholesome night of fun featuring an uplifting spiritual lesson, home-made snacks, and fun activities like going to the waterpark or playing spoons. Unfortunately, Mormon singles do not yet have families to share their Mondays, so our FHEs essentially consist of a spiritual thought slammed together at the last minute by the person in charge, Crystal Light with a manufacture stamp that pre-dates Y2K, and awkward conversation had with a member of the opposite sex who is either sweating from the 45 minutes of full-court basketball he just played in his HSBC work shirt, or because this is literally the first time he has ever talked to a girl. As a cultural past-time, FHE as a single person is awkward even when you know people, so I was not thrilled to be going. Patrice, however, insisted, so I went, dragging my heels the whole way.

When we got there, we saw a girl wearing a blue hoody that read "Brigham Young" on her left sleeve and "University" on her right. She was talking to a guy that was at least ten years older than her but leaning towards her, giving her those hungry eyes oft-spoken of in Eric Carmen songs of yore. Ew. Patrice pointed and said, "That's Kristin talking to Dave. I met her last week in church. She's new too. She is pretty cool." Rolling my eyes at her sweatshirt, I grumbled, "Doubtful"- ready to have to my prejudice against BYU graduates once again reinforced with another agonizing conversation about how ballroom dance IS a legitimate major, and how the Jazz are God's team, it's just that the National Basketball Association has yet to acknowledge this fact in writing.

Before I tell you what happened next, I have to explain one of the things that I loved about Patrice while we lived in Eugene- she has practically no filter for saying weird stuff. She had some of the most randomly strange ideas which, combined with her amazing talent as a pianist, resulted in some pretty hilarious sing-alongs during summer breaks. Life is always interesting when the first person on your speed-dial is basically an imaginary friend come to life. Sadly though, I realized quickly on that fateful Monday evening that this quirk was not a charming quality to have when forming new acquaintances.

Having met Dave several times before, she and he immediately dived into conversation while I listened to Kristin talk about her exercise sciences degree and how horrific Provo is when you live there after graduating. I raised my eyebrows at my fellow noob- somewhat impressed by the fact that this brunette Barbie might actually have depth. We rejoined the conversation with Dave and Patrice shortly after, and as my brain worked to catch up, I realized, in horror, that the current PASSIONATE subject at hand between the other two parties was . . . poo.

Yeah- poo.

And Patrice was taking the lead.

Horrified, I listened to my friend talk with that beautiful freedom of speech about scat and several items of scat-related merchandizing. I kept looking from my friend to the pretty girl in the BYU sweatshirt that I was absolutely positive was within weeks of becoming one of the "popular people", and winced in horror at what was certainly my future as Vice-President of the Society for Crazy Girls Obsessed with Shit.

Despite my best efforts and pathetic attempts as segue ("Have you ever tried to get a penny OUT of a penny loafer?") the conversation continued FOR TWENTY MINUTES. Kristin, who was pretty quiet and hard to read throughout the interaction, did laugh a couple of times, and only checked her phone once when she got a text, which- to her credit- she did not return.

Back in the car, Patrice turned to me and said, "I had fun. Dave's hilarious and Kristin is great. We should hang out with them more." I leveled my eyes at Patrice and told her, "Okay- seriously? I love you, and think you are funny, but we will never see that girl again."

Kristin called and asked if we wanted to hang out a few days later. "Wow." I thought. "She's going to be less popular than I thought."

Turns out Kristin liked people that spoke their mind. She was a genuinely cool person with no unnecessary ego; strange taste in music that I blamed on her being from Canada ("Foreigner? REALLY?"); and an optimism that on anyone else would be annoying, but on her was just really genuine. She also had a lack of tact that somehow managed to be fearless, embarrassing, and hilarious all at once. I was in platonic love.

In the year that followed, Kristin and Patrice and I hung out quite a lot. We went to the zoo and teased Kristin about her fear of birds in the aviary, pointed out a tall skinny member of the deer family that looked like Patrice, and attempted to get me through the emotional crisis that I had upon realizing that my thumb is the exact same size as an adult male gorilla's. Kristin fell for Josh, aka the Future Mr. Kristin at a church basketball tournament where he sunk everything but the Titanic. Patrice broke up with her long-time long-haired guitarist boyfriend and vowed to marry a Mormon boy. I went on a movie date with a guy that yelled at the screen in the movie theater in anticipation of the trailer for the movie "Snakes on a Plane". Everyone was growing and we kept each other abreast of all developments via every form of communication possible except smoke signals because I felt that they were culturally insensitive.

Several things happened that brought me closer to not only Kristin but her extremely cool boyfriend who was fast developing into a close friend. Unemployment, new employment, struggles with family, drama with boys (mostly mine), life-threatening illness, the "WHEN IS HE GOING TO PROPOSE?" drama, and above all else, "US Weekly" magazine to which my roommate subscribed and we regularly read and snarked upon in a group setting when I was too poor to do anything besides sit on the couch and grump.

In a series of events completely expected, Kristin and Josh married after a year and a half together. In a series of events that still makes the staff of Ripley's Believe-It-Or-Not go "Wha- huh?", Patrice married a guy named "Patrick" (gosh it's fun to give aliases!) after dating three weeks, and being engaged for two months. I remained a crock-pot less head-of-household on my W-4.

More time passed. Kristin and Josh and I continued to hang out together on a regular basis- none of us uncomfortable with the fact that our double dates were missing a fourth wheel. After ten months of being married, Kristin finally responded to my weekly inquiry of- "When you gonna start popping them out?" with "In January." Along came baby. REALLY shortly after came baby number 2. After a LOOONG trial process at work, I was finally promoted and got my first real apartment in Portland (okay fine, Lake Oswego.) Again- Yay! Personal growth.

Sadly, Patrice and I grew apart. I am not really sure what happened, aside from her thinking that being married to Patrick was the most interesting thing in the world, and me politely disagreeing. I am still friends with the electric bassist though, and an admirer of the prolific artwork of the Perfect Hippy Girl (aka her sister-in-law), so I get semi-regular social networking updates as to her wellbeing and she seems to be doing fine. The best that I can do now is wish her well and thank her for the belly laughs of 2004.

All this brings me to now. Kristin and Josh have moved to Salem to support Josh in his new employment, presenting her with a small problem- although Kristin works only two days per week, her commute is long, and at each end of a 12-hour day, exhausting. After learning of her predicament I told her, "Just spend the nights at my place! You are always welcome."

I did not realize the situational folly into which I had entered myself.

Here are the good parts:

• I adore my best friend. I adore her children, to whom I am "Aunt Whoa-wee". Sadly though, her having kids meant that we could never really go out and DO anything unless we went to special effort. With her spending the night at my place each week, we get girl's night on a regular basis- which is kind of awesome.
• As a mother of two under three, she gets one night per week of uninterrupted sleep. Most women would proffer up certain necessary digits for that luxury.
• I get to maintain my relationship with one of the most important people in my life despite her moving an hour away.
• I am learning how to cook because there is someone else around to cook for. Granted, I have only done it twice, but it's coming along.

Here are the not so good parts:

• Kristin has a very high standard of clean.
• I do not.

Already, this has proved for some interesting developments.

Week 1: She was astounded at the pristine condition of my living room, bathroom, and kitchen- which I came home from work early to spit-shine- but despite my best efforts, she accidentally caught a peek of the wreckage that is my bedroom as I was getting ready to sleep.

She shook her head. "Heh."

Week 2: I realized that I did not have any clean towels for her to use for her shower, so I had to go buy some at Fred Meyer's. "Wouldn't it just be easier to set aside towels for guests?" "How is that easier?"

She shook her head as she removed the tag. "Heh."

Week 3: "I'm sorry- I didn't have time to clean my kitchen, I was working on a project."

"Is that a bottle of mustard on your kitchen floor?"

"Sorry, that's where I usually put the catsup."

She raised one eyebrow. "Heh?"

Week 4: I called her in a panic because I found what I thought were twenty bug bites on my arm and so became convinced that it was bedbugs. I told her she would have to stay with her in-laws that week and begged her to wash her clothes from her previous stay in boiling oil. Within two days I would learn that I did not have bed bugs but hives from being sick.

Over the phone: "Heh."

Week 5 (This week): After my $5/500 lb. garage sale TV gave up the ghost, I decided to invest in a GREAT, BIG TV because Best Buy has a leasing program and I could not live without "So You Think You Can Dance". I became obsessed with getting it by the time that she got there that night, and so enlisted my friend Bryan to help me with the project. I did not have time to do anything besides clear off the coffee table and make sure that there was no underwear on the bathroom floor. In horror- I realized 15 minutes before she got there that the towel that I had put out for her was the one that I had used on my hair that morning.

I spent a full two minutes deciding whether or not to tell her, but decided that I could never live with the guilt of lying to her about a hairy towel, and so, set about solving the problem in the best way I could. When she got to my house, I was straight with her about what I had been trying to cover up for 5 weeks:

"The sink is overflowing with dishes. There are things growing on the kitchen floor. You have to dry off from your shower with a top sheet because I ran out of towels. My friend Bryan, who was setting up my GREAT BIG TV laughed, and wished her luck on getting a cotton-poly blend to absorb any moisture.

At the end of the evening- after walking Bryan out to his car- I came back to an open dishwasher that was beginning to be filled by my friend, who had apparently "heh"ed her last "heh" and was taking matters into her own hands. She did all but clear out the unknown matter in my sink that was sticky and stinky and looked like it might cause birth defects.

I started cooking a batch of brownies for us both and watched as she slowly began organizing the piles in my front room. She poked fun at my inability to open mail marked "Urgent: Please Read" and my collection of movie ticket receipts from as far back as February. I continued to justify my messes with protestations of a career woman on-the-go, and when those failed, I pretended that I could not hear her over the racket the dishwasher created.

When she finished, I realized that with anyone else I would have been ashamed to have them clean my house because they needed life to function at a certain standard of clean, but with her, it was just Kristin being Kristin. Just like how the feeling that purchasing new towels is infinitely simpler than the practice of designating guest towels is an attribute of me being me.

We are an odd couple. Thank heavens.

It's a nice place to visit . . . but now you gotta live here.

In third grade, I flunked the geography portion of the final test in the "All About Oregon" unit at school. I was asked, "What's the capital of Oregon?" to which, I responded with resounding confidence, "PORTLAND!"

(Insert soul-crushing game show buzzer sound here.)

Wrong.

I was politely informed by my teacher that it was not Portland, but in fact Salem, which was the capital of our great state. I told my teacher I thought this was pretty cool since the city of Salem was rumored to be haunted by a bunch of dead witches. My teacher blinked and then pinned a copy of the Sylvan Learning Center brochure to my shirt so that I could give it to my mom.

The only other extremely vivid memory of Portland from my childhood happened when I was about 13. I was in the car with my parents, and as per usual, my father was driving like Mr. Magoo on Oxycoton and my mother was reacting to his slow slides into the opposing lanes with an impressive amount of volume. To make matters worse, it was rush hour so the patience that the other drivers had for my father's Super Dave Osborne-esque attempts to ride up on the highway divider on two wheels were not accepted with any degree of what one might call patience. My mother kept muttering, "The traffic here is crazy!" and cursing the day that the other drivers were born. Amidst the honks and frequent tests of the Maternal Broadcast System, I vowed to myself that I would never live in this place. I was wholeheartedly surprised to learn after a couple of white-knuckled road trips to P-town in my early 20s that it is not the city that makes the trip scary, but rather your tour guides. (In defense of my parents- there is much that they do well- volunteer, community-build, raise awareness for various civil rights-based issues- it's just that land travel together is not one of them.)

So I moved here at 23 with absolutely no idea of anything aside from the fact that I wanted to be out of my hometown. Over the course of the next six years I would learn many things I would have previously thought impossible: how to use chopsticks, that I could learn the names and positions of each player on a professional sports team (GO BLAZERS!), that the truest proof of this world having been created by a Divine Being is found in the existence of Powell's City of Books, and that bacon on top of a maple bar is the greatest thing to happen to breakfast since the first farmers said, "Hey what's coming out of that chicken's hoo-ha?" "I don't know what it is, but I think maybe we should eat it!"

After all this time though, I don't know, I think I just got jaded. The waterfront festivals that happen every weekend during the summer can get annoying when all you want to do is get to Burnside without hitting a kid dressed as a turtle-loving zombie with your car. Last Thursday on Alberta has great Thai food but STOP TOUCHING ME!!!! And the hipsters. My gosh, the hipsters. If I see one more Jack Skellington look-alike wearing the same Jazzercizing bears sweatshirt that I wore in the elementary school underneath a tweed blazer and topped with a Muslim prayer scarf, I am going to grab a giant frozen turkey and play everyone's favorite game of "Bowling for Anemics".

Last weekend though, Portland did its best to re-prove itself to me. In a very real sense, it stood outside of my balcony in the pouring rain, renting it's bird-bedecked shirt in two, yelling, "LAUR-IE!!! LAUR-IE!!!" (That reminds me- I gotta update my "Best of Brando" list on Netflix.)

Last week, I took part in a Fam Tour for Portland. Before I go on, I should explain that a Fam Tour is an opportunity for cities to show off what they have to offer to the planners of large-scale events. They fly people in, wine them, dine them, and do their best to convince that person to bring their conference (as well as the hundreds of thousands of dollars of revenue they represent) to that city. I have gotten to go play in both Alaska and Florida on Fam Tours, and they were AWESOME. They spoil you rotten and give you a lot of free stuff. Not being able to partake in the GALLONS of free booze on these trips by both company and personal religious directive, I use these trips to eat my weight in free steak. Seriously, it's as though I saw Lady Gaga at the Grammy's and said, "Throw her on the grill and hand me a decent knife." Of course, I am not a fan of Gaga, so I would just put all that to the side and save it for the dogs . . .

Anyway, a recent conversation with a hotel contact of mine resulted in her encouraging me to attend the Fam Tour for my home city of Portland, as it would help me get to know the hotels in the area for the meetings that I plan regionally. I called Travel Portland- the Convention and Visitor's Bureau for P-town- to ask if I could take part. They said yes. They were even nice enough to put me up in the hotel where the rest of the participants would be staying so that I would not have to go home each night.

Because these trips are meant to highlight the wonder and beauty of the city, they took us to do a lot of things that were very tourist-y but also very wonderful. We took a driving tour of the Washington Park area; went out to Multnomah Falls; ate at farm-to-plate restaurants; watched a local aerial troop perform acts using hoops, ribbons, and ass muscles I have never even heard of; and learned all about this, the City of Roses.

I guess it was not so much the sights that reminded me of why it is great to live where I do, but what people said about it that reminded me that it is not like this everywhere. People kept commenting on how beautiful and enormous the trees were. I forget that in many places, it is not common to have a 100 ft. tree in every front yard on the block. They were shocked and delighted that there were receptacles for recycling everywhere that there was a trash bin and that social culture dictates that you conserve or die. I guess I take for granted that I have receptacles for both in my kitchen and that I do not have to pay more in my garbage bill to take care of the earth.

They also commented on how nice the people are and that there seems to be a great sense of a unified community all around. This was confirmed for me as I sat in the window seat of my tenth floor hotel room and watched the end of the Starlight Parade on Saturday night. If you are not familiar- the Starlight Parade occurs a week before our own Rose Parade and is basically the most random collection of lit up floats, marching bands, and random weirdos that you could imagine. I watched as joyful people were smiling and cheering and in all ways showing their enthusiasm for floats that ranged from the cancer survivors on the Susan G. Kommen float, to the active military, to the Star Wars enthusiasts, to the Newfoundland (dog) Society of the Portland Metro Area. At the end of the parade, some random guy ran out into the quickly deserting street and wrote in huge letters on the ground "KEEP PORTLAND WEIRD" and then ran back to the waiting arms of his adorably nerdy girlfriend. I smiled and sighed to myself because it was sort of a perfect moment.

I came away from the trip a few aluminum water bottles richer, and with a renewed perspective on my city. Sure, the people can be unbelievably pretentious at times (I think this may be, in part, what spurred my love of reading obscenely popular Stephen King novels in independently-owned coffee shops- thus marring the brooding landscape with my advanced degree AND love of popular literature), but they are also enthusiastic about some things that are pretty great- music, art, nature, food.

My biggest worry about Portland though, is that it suffers too much from the idea of being "better" than other cities because of our reduced crime, city cleanliness, air quality, progressively minded politicians (let's leave the dirty Sam Adams jokes by the wayside for now), etc. The problem this kind of thinking creates is that people fail to understand that there is still much, much room for us to push ourselves as a community and grow. I think that as long as there are people out there that are willing to remind us that all is not right in Oz, and move us to make positive change for our people, wildlife, and environment, then we can truly embrace Portland for the weird wonder of the Northwest that it is.

Now if you will excuse me, I gotta get naked and ride my bike down 6th Street with 500 other people . . . .