One of my favorite places on Earth

We went to Laguna Beach in Orange County, California to celebrate my sister's 21st birthday. Our favorite restaurant there is called Las Brisas, and it's high on a hill about the curvature of the white, sandy beach far below.Emily got a kick out of being carded, and ordered her very first drink. Ever. After starting off the afternoon with drinks and delicious food on the patio, we headed to look at Laguna Beach.

It was gorgeous, except for the huge clumps of smelly seaweed littering the beach. Kinda like Bainbridge Island looks when the tide is down, or there's a sewage spill.
But that didn't stop us from wandering down to the hot white sand, taking off our shoes, and sticking our Oregon toes into the warm California water. It was cold, but I'm used to my feet turning red and falling off when I touch the water in the Northwest.

I love being near the coast - the rumbling of the waves is a sedative. I could lie on the shore and listen all day long.

This is one of my most favorite beaches in Southern California. It's an artsy town full of boutiques, ice cream shops, and restaurants. It's away from the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles.

We had a great time with the sand in our toes, and the sun in our hair, and burning the crap out of our shoulders.

Goodbye Laguna. I'll miss you until next time.

The amazing Grandpa

It's been difficult posting on my vacation, becuase I usually have my trusty ferry ride to formulate thoughts and write things that make sense. This trip so far has been a whirlwind of family activities. I'd like to share a little bit about my soon to be 92-year old Grandpa, who has inspired and amazed me ever since I was a child. Earlier this year, he had a stroke, and had to stay in a nursing home for a few weeks. Some people leave not being able to talk, or walk even, but he's still chugging along on his daily routine. I've never seen a happier elderly man.Every morning, he goes outside and rakes his leaves into little piles, waters the plants, and trims the hedges.

Even though his memory isn't as good as it used to be, he still smiles, constantly.

After puttering around the yard, he goes to the park, and takes a one mile walk. Keep in mind, we are talking about a man who is almost 92. Below is him strolling near my brother.

This walk always includes push-ups.

I've learned from Grandpa that the key to longevity is to always stay moving. He taught me this when he was in his 70's and would still climb the Grand Canyon, or Mount Baldy. His pace used to be so fast I couldn't even catch up.

He's not as fast as he used to be, but he wouldn't miss a walk for the world. Every morning we go over for breakfast, I see little piles of leaves, and know he's on the right track.

Little Bro, Little Sis

Last night my little brother graduated from high school, and on Tuesday my little sister will turn 21. It's amazing how quickly time seems to fly, for I felt like I was just graduating from high school, turning 21, graduating from college. Those significant milestones from my past are still etched into my brain as though they were yesterday. Amazing how time seems to stand still, yet flies right by, once you start doing the same thing over and over again, day in and day out (job).

These little tykes are 7 and 10 years younger than me. I remember when they were born, and I seemed so much older. I changed their diapers, I fed them baby food, I taught my sister words like "fart" and "poop" in a fort in our living room. Yes, I corrupted them, that's for sure. I remember my brothers fascination with balls ever since he was a baby, and now he's a varsity baseball player. He always used to tell me, "someday when I'm rich I'll buy you a fancy sports car." I'm holding you to that, little bro.

Even though we have different Dads, I've never thought of these two as anything less than my full brother and full sister. Those half labels never made much difference to me, as we were raised under the same roof, and I saw them almost every day of our lives. I love that they are getting older now, that we are finally starting to be on the same playing field. 19, 21, and 28 are much closer in age than 2, 4, and 12. There's just a world of difference when you are children with such a big age difference.

Anyway, I'm so proud of both of them, and excited to see the family in California this week! You guys Rock!

The incremental chef.

One of my first forays (disasters) with cooking happened in Sunriver, Oregon, when I was babysitting my little brother and sister. They are 7 and 10 years younger, so I'd be responsible for cooking (destroying) dinner.

"Here's the Mac and Cheese," said my mother, planting a box of the processed food firmly on the kitchen counter.

It will be easy, I thought, all I have to do is mix the water and noodles, right? WRONG.

The oozy, goozy, creepy concoction that materialized in the pan reminded me of something you'd find in a hospital bedpan. It was slimy and yellow, chunky and chewy. I think the kids forced it down anyway, I was too scarred by my cooking gaffe to even notice.

I gave up on cooking after that for many, many years, until living in my very own apartment in college forced me to try. I remember calling my mother with a myriad of dumb questions:

"How do I microwave frozen vegetables?" (I first tried it without water, and the veggies came out wimpy and shriveled)

"What temperature do I cook chicken in a pan?" (Flashing back to memories of uncooked chicken strips a customer brought back when I worked in the zoo food court)

"How do I cook fish?"

Eventually, the onslaught of questions paid off, and now I love to cook. I love making soups, salmon, and spinach salads with cranberries and walnuts. I love making Shepherd's Pie, enchiladas, and casserole. I love browsing through recipes and creating new concoctions. Someday I'd love to cook on taste alone, and invent new recipes of my own.

I wish I had time to cook every day....maybe someday that time will come.

In which we are binars

There is one clue that will tell you whether you are a nerd, a dork, a Trekkie and everything in between: when you understand what Binars are, and take it as a compliment when used to describe your relationship.

Last Sunday David and I celebrated my stepmom's 50th birthday with a Sternwheeler cruise up the Columbia River Gorge, and afterward stopped to see some beautiful waterfalls. We both have a very quirky sense of humor, and were practicing karate moves to celebrate the force of the Horsetail waterfall. We often do the same odd things without saying anything out loud.

"They're like Binars," my stepmom said, chuckling to my Dad.

I completely agree. Binars were in an episode of Star Trek the Next Generation, and were two people (aliens) that communicated nonverbally, and mostly with binary numbers and computers. They spoke at a frequency nobody else understood. David and I definately march to the beat of a different drummer, but that drummer plays for both of us.

That is a normal picture of us on the Sternwheeler, and below is another normal picture of us at Multnomah Falls.

Then, David decided his head looked too big relative to mine (Cabezon!), so we took a picture to put it all in perspective.

And a great time was had by all.By the way, I think I should use this as the picture on my press pass, or license, or passport.

Or....maybe not. Next I will become a Klingon.

Fast Food is the Death of Me

A hungry tummy often overrules thoughts of reason while working as a reporter out in the field. Today I ran around frantically until 3pm, when I decided I better do something about my growling stomach. My hands had started to shake, and my brain craved an injection of energy. The only glucose nearby? McDonalds. Big mistake. A big mac of a bad time. I'm still regretting going through that drive-through and ordering a Filet-o-Fish (gag me!), and a small fry (bending over the toilet retching!). Ugh, ick, disgusting. I feel like a giant vat of discarded vegetable oil, hours after the last fries were blasted into cancer sticks. Listless, useless, my body craves salmon and broccoli.

I remember and time and place when fast food was exciting. I never understood why my parents groaned as we drove through the drive-thru at McDonads or Taco Bell or Kentucky Fried Chicken. I loved the Filet-o-fish with no cheese, the chicken nuggets with honey, and we'll talk about Taco Bell in a moment. I loved munching on my goodies as we headed on our road trips, hours dragging on end. The monoteny was broken by those delicious juices oozing out of that gray fish. Delish!

Fast-forward to high school. The inside of my white Nissan Maxima often resembled a fast-food cemetary. White Taco Bell bags stood like tombstones in the back seat and on the floor, the rotting entrails of bean burritos inside. People wouldn't ride with me because of the stench. I had a terrible habit of eating something from that death hole every day after high school. Maybe it was my own way of rebelling. Forget drugs and alcohol! Kristin ate TACO BELL!

Fast-forward another 10 years. I can hardly stand the sight and smell of fast food. I usually take great care in packing lunch and eating a healthy dinner. I hate how fast-food is the norm for many people, who can't afford to cook their own meals. I wish they had other options, like cheap fresh veggies and fish. I feel like that processed Filet-o-Fish expanded inside my belly, creating an alien of a fast food pregnancy. I can't handle it. I'm full and hungry at the same time. I'm about to explode.

As if crossing the crime scene tape makes me a criminal

There are several things I'm afraid of as a news reporter: young men (we've already gone over that) , funerals and crime scenes. I had an experience in Portland that scarred me when I was a cub reporter, and now when I see crime tape, I want to wrap myself into a huge yellow bundle and hide, hoping cops won't see me as I peek between the lines.

I had to cover a standoff in Southeast Portland many years ago, since standoffs are typical fodder for a slow news day, or for a news station that only cares about crime. I circled the scene looking for the media staging area, which is a safe place to park our news trucks, and where we talk with the PIO (public information officer.) Reporters hover like puppy dogs in these designated lots, where we stand begging for tidbits. We'd eye cops in uniform huddling and whispering in hushed tones, and salivate for a variety of reasons.

Anyway, this time, I couldn't find the media staging area, so I kept driving, around and around and around. Apparently, a dude had barricaded himself inside an apartment with a gun, and police had several streets blocked off around the crime scene. I drove into a parking lot, and then found a small alley, and began driving slowly toward the commotion. I thought I'd spot the PIO, and could ask a few questions for my liveshot.

And I found the cops, all right. I knew something was wrong when I saw SWAT officers hiding behind cars right next to me, and on balconies in front of me. I suddently felt danger as a big burly man walked viciously to my car.

"What the hell do you think you're doing!!" He shouted, several feet away.

"I'm,,...uh....trying to find the PIO." I stuttered and my heart pounded. I just knew this guy was going to arrest me from impeding an investigation.

"Get out of here...NOW. And don't EVER come into a crime scene. Do you understand me?!!!"

He was seething, staring at this dumb blond reporter like I was the bubble gum he'd wipe off the bottom of his cop boot. Like I was a spit ball pounded deep into the crevices of sidewalks. Or a piece of corn that already passed. Yes, it was that bad.

I backed up as fast as I could without causing another reason for my arrest and sped out of there. I was scared beyond belief. I could have been shot! I could have been tackled! I could have gone to jail!

These are the thoughts that assault me every time I go to a crime scene. Today, I dangled around the edges of a crime scene in Everett until I got up the guts to walk past the orange cones, past two cop cars, and right up to the trooper on the offramp of Highway 2. I'd like to pretend its because I'm brave, it's because I've gotten over my crime scene fear. But it was really because I saw a guy from a television station, setting up his camera. It was the media staging area. I'd finally found it.