Oregon Bottle Deposit

Oregon has made me quit drinking soda and water.

I'm officially a one year native of Oregon on New Years Day. Only a few things bug me about this state.

1. The roads suck--They're loud, too slow of speed limit, they never built a freeway to Boise, and the city planning is terrible. One way streets are not parallel and often dead end and resume with the same name four blocks later.

1.5--Sidewalks and walking paths would be nice...

2. The grand annoyance however is bottle deposits. The people in Oregon always kill a live Christmas tree to put in their living rooms, but cans/bottles etc are so endangered they pay extra money for the privilege.

When I was a kid, I started noticing the $.05 labels on drinks and thought--"Gee if I only lived in Oregon, I'd get $.05 for every can I collected and could get rich!" That's not how the low works. When you choose to purchase a marked beverage, you are charged a $.05 deposit (IT SHOULD REALLY BE CALLED A TAX BECAUSE I DON'T EARN INTEREST FROM IT). When you chose to return the can to a store that has recyclable machines, you get that $.05 back.

Okay, that doesn't sound so bad, but it is and here's why.

I praise Oregon for giving me a huge recycle bin dumpster at my home that is picked up every two weeks. My husband complains that he has to sort the trash, but I have no problem with it. I'm the one who cleans and takes out the trash. His argument is null and void. The cans can be put in there, but then I'm throwing away my $.05.

To get my $.05 back, I must take it to a machine to be counted. The machine then gives me a receipt to take inside to redeem for money. I admit, that still doesn't sound too bad. The bad part is the reality. The machines are usually broken, full of dirt, scum and whatever else, reject every other can because it wants to and are completely gross. Cans, bottles or whatever always have at least one drop left in them and that gets gross and sticky on you when you're putting them in the stupid machine. I'm the type to consolidate errands anyway, so to first dump in the 3 bags of soda cans I've collected in my garage and then go in and spend my $4.55 from the cans doesn't really work because my hands are too sticky to even hand over the $4.55 receipt.
To make it all better--on my anniversary of moving to this state, they're going to start charging this same $.05 deposit on bottled water. That's one more beverage I won't be buying except in Idaho.

From what I've read, Oregon was the first state to come up with a bottle bill in the 1970s. The purpose was to help eliminate trash on the roadsides. Trash is considerably less than it was and I salute the vision of this. I think it's completely awesome how they fixed the problem. However, the need for this has come and gone. Let me buy a 12 pack of Dr Pepper or water without charging me an extra $.60. (The average price is usually $4.00 because we're so far from a supplier.) I promise to put the cans in my home recycle bin the same way I put my daily newspaper in the bin.

What’s happened to the NBA?

One of my x-loves is basketball. It was poured into my upbringing in about the same quantity as milk. I’ll spare you the long saga of my career playing basketball and focus only on the NBA in this blogpost.

I reached my most influential years during the 80s rivalry of the Boston Celtics (yea) and the L.A. Lakers (boo). My family never missed a game. Even my mom would become a nervous wreck watching those games. My brothers used to brainwash me that my other brothers were Danny Ainge, Larry Bird and Greg Kite. A few years after the height of their fame, I was delighted when my sister finally passed me her Boston Celtics t-shirt to wear as a night shirt.

My brothers were gone soon after the Celtics glory and my family never got hysterical about Michael Jordan. I still considered myself a NBA fan until Kobe “the rapist” Bryant soured it all. As I got busier with being a teenager and being buried in homework in college, I somehow stopped watching the NBA. However, I’ve always cleared my schedule to enjoy March Madness and follow my family upbringing to cheer only for Duke-- who usually breaks my heart.

And now—scandal after scandal, what is there to watch in national sports??? Mr. Floporama follows all sports and I’ve become aware of the existence of other disgusting sports heroes that are all children have to look up to now.

The best thing ever to happen to stockholders in the NBA is a pair of familiar teams to make the finals this year. I have been enthralled. It’s wonderful to remember the same color jerseys playing 20 years ago. I’m disgusted with the super media attention they are trying to give Kobe “the rapist” Bryant as if he had negotiated in his contract to have major PR included for his image. It gives me joy to remember that he was too good to go to college and play NCAA which means he doesn’t have any education. When his body gives out and he has the rest of his life to be a has-been, he will have no education to build even create something to pass the time with. I would laugh if his agent embezzles everything. He should not be compared to Jordan, ever.

The game has changed. The shorts are longer, the fan apparel is better designed and HD has made me realize that the players are not dripping water. But somewhere under it all, I’m drawn into the game again. I enjoy that some of the old players are still near the Celtics team. Dear ole Danny is G.M.

I foresee that this will be my only sports post ever so don’t expect any continued poor commentatorship here. I guess I still “I love this game.” What’s happened to that too? “The Finals” is not any kind of a slogan.
Come on Boston!!!

Gotta love a complex

Alright alright, I’LL blog again.

Disclaimer—Cat is sitting on my wrists so all spelling mistakes are the cat’s fault as well as my faulty elementary education.

Mr. Floporama and myself are doing very very well. (cat has hit 4 keys on the computer pulling up strange menus)

We have been renting a 1200 sq foot town house literally 200 yards from Mr. Flop’s employer. He walks to work which is a closer walk than his assigned parking space at his employer. (Cat is considering falling asleep. Deliberation is over.) We’ve been living here for not quite 2 months. We found a house this week that suits us (pictured above) and we will close on the house no later than the 10th of April. We are very excited for this development.

Cat is bathing now.

There are some things about living in an apartment complex that I will miss. I want to name these so that my by invitation only, very privileged readers can also be reminded of apartment complex joys.
1. There is a diesel dodge pickup with every supped up muffler attachment and lift kit available—that leaves for work at 5a.m. every morning. The thing is so loud it shakes the building.
2. Our neighbors downstairs are very unsocial. They play xbox continuously, fight occasionally and create a general hum of background noise.
3. The old woman downstairs and not directly underneath us has 3 DOGS. They bark all the time. I see that she got in trouble for killing the lawn in front of her apartment from the dogs peeing all over it. I do not envy the next occupants. x
4. Our apartment has the smallest amount of cupboard space of anywhere I have ever lived (and I’ve lived in many dumpy apartments.) We converted the full size double closet in the bathroom (who puts a double closet in the bathroom?) into our pantry. It is kind of gross to walk past a toilet to find a cup of sugar.
5. Cat will miss the stairs though he only gets to enjoy the inside set. Our new house will be on one level and the cat loves flying at his top speed up and down the stairs to be on the level we don’t want him to be on. I will enjoy moving all of our crap down from the 3rd floor when we move.
6. Is there ever enough convenient parking in a complex?
7. One of the advertised features of our complex was “upgraded appliances!!!!” Upgraded means black in color and nothing more. Our freezer on top, bend-all-the-way-over fridge on bottom is about a foot narrower than the refrigerator space. Looks cheap to me J
8. The washer and dryer are reversed. This means that the door to the dryer opens into you instead of into the wall which becomes very difficult to move wet clothes into the dryer because you keep running into the door.

Don’t get me wrong, I would tell anyone I knew if they needed to rent to rent where we have. They are new apartments and an awesome location. But I think I needed to record these features so that I’m more excited for a monthly house payment.

Cat is asleep now.

Cat on a Plane

It will probably come as no surprise to my readers for my second blog post to be about my cat. At least my cat did something interesting and you will be spared many sentences about his furry coat, cute face and devotion to Mr. Floporama and me.

Mr. Floporama has moved to O--------- and in my gradual process to rejoin him, Finneran was preparing for a move unaware. Mr. Floporama took him for his first vet visit on my birthday (great present) last October. The very skilled veterinarian gave Finneran his first shots since adoption without removing him from the cage—lucky. Never the less, Finneran had a howling fit about the conditions and being subject to leaving his castle the entire ½ hour trip.

My choices were becoming clear to me. Either I could move Finneran to Oregon over the Christmas Holiday when I already had a ticket booked and torture more travelers, or I could take Finneran with me on a sudden all-expenses-paid house hunting trip this weekend. Though I will be completely distraught without ANYONE at home, I decided to be merciful and spare the increased number of holiday travelers.

Delta’s website leads you to believe that you must take a cat for an “inspection” vet visit and bring documents of that nature to the airport before charging you $75 for the animal to sit in your leg room. Finneran HATED this trip to the vet because he was indeed forced out of his cage. He stayed in a defensive ball the entire time. The vet said his teeth were quite bad and moved around to look under his tail only to then be surprised the cat didn’t have a tail because he was so hunched over. Much hissing later at the poodle in the waiting room, we were told we could go home after the $33 bill. At least this included drugs to give the cat for the journey.

The departure day arrived. It broke my heart to wake up with the cat snuggled in bed like usual and to think that it was his last sleep in our very cute little house. I came home from a less than fabulous work day only to be cheered about my departure to see Mr. Floporama, and be even more anxious about the cat.

Please take a moment and imagine a very nervous cat and myself with a syringe.
Fortunately, the vet actually gave me pills. I ground the pills up and put them in a can of Fancy Feast—we pause now for a product endorsement.

Finneran started moving slower, but was still definitely moving as I hoped he wouldn’t be in the ½ hour of time the drugs were supposed to kick in. We had the same fight about getting into the cage and he howled and told me how mad he was. He even used the guilty meow. I loaded him into my car and we were off. I however had to stop and go to a Christmas work dinner with no choice but to leave Finneran in the car—which of course made me feel like a horrible parent. I knew full well that he had a fur coat, but it still felt cruel to leave him in the 32 degree weather.
After the dinner, I sped to the airport and surprisingly Finneran was quite calm. I thought there was a chance that the drugs were working. But no.

We parked, we got on the shuttle bus and he let everyone know not to come near his cage. Once at the check-in gate Fineran was being his usual self and telling everyone that he was NOT happy to make their acquaintance. And then the joyful ticket agent—who told me that Finneran sounded like the type to want to bite your hand off—informed me that she didn’t need proof of good health or vaccinations, but that I would be required to take him out of the cage to go through the metal detector.

YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING.

Finneran and I had a fight in the security line. Eventually with the person behind me’s help, we managed to pry all four limbs of the cat out of the cage to walk through the metal detector. I don’t know what I would have done if they’d decided to have the “puff machine” operating that night. Finneran was however happy to get back in his cage. We then set off for the very farthest gate in the entire airport which is where they board my flight every time. If I had a dollar for every funny look we got as we meowed by, I would have been able to afford to have him professionally moved.

Finneran notified everyone that he was in the waiting area—just what was in those drugs? A megaphone? Next time—definitely double dose. I felt very sorry for the passengers because it was obvious that there would be a small child AND a cat on the flight, and ironically we were seated one row apart.

Finneran however was remarkably quiet for the flight. I thought he might be dead. Mr. Floporama decided later that he must hate being carried. The flight had a headwind but I was never so happy to arrive.

Mr. Floporama escorted us to our temporary dwelling—and then the drugs kicked in. Our loopy cat has always been known to be a wuss. And here he was exploring the entire apartment. He was leaping from the kitchen to the living room, exploring all of the window sills and bedrooms; Making himself quite comfortable. Mr. Floporama and I were very surprised. We were expecting a cowardly cat for at least a week to be the chief resident of under the bed.

Which is exactly what we got, the next day after the drugs wore off and his pupils returned to normal. I’m sure my parents will be disappointed, but I swear to never move this cat again so I guess I’ll be living in this state until he dies.

Turkey Bingo

Alright,
The day has come for Mrs. Floporama to start a blog.

"I like work; it fascinates me. I can sit and look at it for hours." Jerome K. Jerome

I am so excited for Thanksgiving this year. As a consequence, the 3 days of work this week are going to be a drag.

Paid holidays are one of my favorite things in adult life; to me, they kind of balance out bills. I am thrilled to plan to be home while being paid to complain of turkey sleepyness and the frenzy of shopping on Black Friday.

However, the three days prior to Thanksgiving are useless work days. No one wants to work and I’d rather be home baking and preparing for company. I work in a real estate related industry and I hate to inform you of this fact, but realtors don’t work the week of Thanksgiving. So instead of facing a short week of boredom and no one to work WITH, I created a game for my fellow employees and myself.

Turkey Bingo (inspired by my nephew’s booster club)

I printed out a bingo sheet for each employee and told them to fill the 24 (plus 1 free) spaces with the names of people who would walk through the office door in the next 3 days. The FedEx delivery guy and UPS woman included.

As a reward, I suggested to my boss that we offer the first person to get bingo the chance to go home for the rest of the useless week. While this indeed sounded pleasant to my boss, she compromised and said that the first bingo would be rewarded with wearing jeans to work the rest of the week. I’m further trying to negotiate flip flops in this reward. Unfortunately, I don’t remember ever winning BINGO in my whole life.

If any readers are also bored at work this week, I recommend Turkey Bingo. At least it will make you be interested in being at work to observe if your predictions are correct.

Happy Thanksgiving