life according to me

Category: San Diego

Finding time to relax again

Busy season is finally over yet another year. There have been so many I’ve lost count. It means the MoH is home before dark, and that it’s time for me to have an idea or two to plant in his mind before he heads for work in the morning about what we might do in the evening. It’s so he can begin to feel like there’s actually a day — or at least part of one — to be enjoyed even though it’s not quite the weekend.

Or maybe it was that we were celebrating the beginning of the weekend — the first of many to come before the next string of late nights and work-filled weekends.

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April 18, 2009
Making a plan for myself, maybe.

Yesterday, I avoided coming up here to sit at the keyboard, to sort through emails, to sip my coffee while scrolling through the early morning cacophony that is Twitter. I’ve been doing this for more time than I like to acknowledge. Instead, I straightened things up around the kitchen and the rest of the house, started some laundry, and pulled a stool up to the kitchen counter to make a plan of sorts. It was a scary concept, but I was armed with a pad of paper, stickies, and a sharp pencil. It was going to happen, or else.

I also silently vowed to get in the car to get groceries before noon — something I resist doing like one might resist jumping into an ice cold pool buck naked just because it was there.

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January 13, 2009
Alive, Exercising, and So Not on Main Street

Well, hello. Remember me? I’m the one who used to write here quite regularly. I’m never quite sure how it gets to be Tuesday after it seems that Thursday was just yesterday, but that’s how it goes.

I think I’ve figured out that if I had a way to hang on to my thoughts while I was out walking, or putzing around during the day, I’d have no problem sitting here and downloading them. But the time passes, and then whatever I thought was so pithy has evaporated. You know, kind of like that bailout the House was trying to get passed?

I could spend all kinds of time writing about that, but everyone else seems to be handling that quite well. I’m sure my opinions aren’t needed.

I did notice on my walk this morning, that everyone seems to be sharing theirs, however. No matter whom I passed, I heard comments regarding “credit,” or “Wall St.” and the beyond annoying “Main St.” reference that is supposed to be us, I guess. You know. Average Joes? This isn’t Kansas, and I don’t live on Main Street. In fact, does anyone any longer? I just want to yell, “Snapoutofit!” to all the talking heads. Ugh.

What a train wreck.

Instead of getting up at the crack of dawn to walk this week, I’ve been trying to think about wondering if I might possibly consider attempting to somewhat establish a new routine. The old routine, walking with my VBF, has been an excellent one that has lasted fairly well for more than two years now. But she’s quite the busy person, and her appointments have been getting earlier and earlier. How sad is that?

Although neither one of us is too thrilled with the idea of getting up to exercise that early, it gets it over with and I know I feel good about that. Plus, I can have bed head hair and clothes that I wouldn’t be caught dead in at any other time of day, unless you count that I leave them on the rest of the day. Let’s call it conserving water, shall we?

So today, after I dropped my carpool charges off at school, I continued down the street to park and try my routine near the beach. Sounds motivational, doesn’t it? The goal here would be to do this twice a week so I wouldn’t have to think about it. I’m in the car already, so why not?

It goes something like this:

I park at the beginning of my route, walk about 20 minutes in one direction, then turn around and go back. Allowing for issues such as feet that ache, a shin that stings, and a butt muscle that is mysteriously aching, the entire effort takes 40 minutes — about the time it takes my friend and I to complete our route.

I can’t figure out what the aches were all about today, because I haven’t had those problems for quite some time. Walking by myself has never been a thrill a minute, so who knows. Maybe I wasn’t walking as fast as my friend and I walk. Her dog usually drags her on the leash, and that keeps us hopping. But, we do have some hills that have me gasping for breath and I didn’t have to deal with anything like that today. Maybe I just feel like complaining. Wonder of all wonders.

The nice part about this route is the beauty. The sun still hadn’t made it over Mt. Soledad, so the beach was cast in shadows. Here and there, as the sun rose, the light shot through the side streets, coloring the water as it pushed up onto the sand. Very nice. It looked like there would be blue skies forever today — so different from yesterday’s unusual thunder and pathetic sprinkle of rain.

A thrill a minute, everyone.

Totally.

Now, I only have about five more days of the week to fill with exercise. I can’t tell you how unexcited I am by this prospect.

It challenges watching dirt cover the ground.

September 30, 2008
You, too can enjoy life past 30
Today is my birthday. And as much as I can say that many women my age choose not to admit their age, I’m proud of mine.

I’m 52 years old. Not 52 years young, or 52 years better. It doesn’t need to be made into something other than what it is.

Fifty-two.

The year I was born, The Platters recorded “The Great Pretender,” Elvis made it to U.S. hit charts for the first time, and Doris Day’s serenade of “Que Sera, Sera” let all who listened know that the future was not for us to decide.

I beg to differ.

Carousel was playing in theaters, and The Edge of Night could be seen on television. Jackson Pollock died in a car crash, Eisenhower was re-elected President, and IBM invented the “Hard Disk Drive.”

Not that long ago, but at the same time, several lifetimes ago.

I have fond memories of growing up in the latter years of that decade and the earliest of the next, but would love to forget many of the years following, until high school was nearly half over. Yes, there were good things about those years, but I’d never live them again if given the opportunity.

Um, no thanks.

I’ve learned quite a bit in all this time, so indulge me, and I’ll give you the short version:
1. The concept of Family is not something to be taken lightly. A bottle of wine can help.
2. Quiet times during the day are the best, even if they’re only five minutes long and in a dark closet.
3. It isn’t possible to watch Pride and Prejudice too many times no matter how much my son rolls his eyes.
4. It’s important to pay attention to what’s going on in the world. It doesn’t always make sense, but ignoring it makes even less sense.
5. Good friends are priceless.
6. Deep and lasting love is about Learning, Appreciation, and Compromise. Being silly frequently doesn’t hurt, either.
7. It is more than possible to appreciate the way your body looks, even though it’s rounder and more soft than it used to be, and lined and marked where it used to be smooth. Well, mine is.
So, Happy 52nd Birthday to me! Since most of the Bloggosphere seems to be made up of twenty and thirty somethings with very young children and who often write about aging, I hope this helps you know that life is good after 39 — in fact, better. It’s all about attitude.

And and occasional masque using French clay and lots of moisturizer.
September 3, 2008
You’re so over the Italy stuff, right?

The train ride to Florence was easy. There were no delays, the air conditioning was refreshing, and it actually seemed as if we were really skimming along at 300 km/hr, leaving cars on the autostrade in the dust, which is saying quite a bit. We were able to look out the windows the entire time, unlike our first trip, when a man sitting across from the boys yanked the shade down without the slightest acknowledgment that three others were sitting at the same table. Okay.

Small towns appeared along the way, their terra cotta roofs clustered on hill tops in the distance. Fields of sunflowers stretched away from us one after the other, but their heads pointed down and away, revealing only a yellow fringe in the midday sun. I wondered if I’d have the chance to drive through that countryside some day to explore those towns.

From the moment we arrived at Stazione Santa Maria Novella, it was different. The area inside the walls of Florence is traffic controlled, allowing only those with a special permit the opportunity to enter. Yes, there was traffic, but far less. And absolutely, we had to be wary crossing streets, but not as if we were taking our lives in our hands each time we did. The streets seemed more organized, neater. Less frenetic. And… not quite as intriguing as Rome, nor as quaint as Sorrento.

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July 23, 2008
Our Italian Saga Continues

The unpleasantness of being in Naples wore off as soon as we were settled on the boat that would take us to Sorrento. Maybe it was the deep blue of the sea, or the cool breeze that refreshed our sweaty bodies. Or Vesuvius, looming in the distance, reminding us of all those history lessons delivered so long ago and so far from here. Pompeii…Herculaneum…

But it could also have been the tall, thin as a willow whip blonde that walked up the gangplank with the assistance of the crew right ahead of us who bore an uncanny resemblance to Diana. The Diana. Her hair was short, and she was dressed in a leather mini skirt and strapless bodice. Her four-inch heels drew everyone’s attention, and we waited to see if she could balance herself on the boat as well as she could on cobblestones. Most of the crew exchanged knowing looks, but one took it upon himself to sit next to her as we made our way across the Bay of Naples.

At first, she had chosen to settle in on the first deck in the cushy seats, but after we’d all dragged our luggage up the tiny stairs and flopped into seats where we’d get a good view in the open air, she emerged upstairs. And as much as there were only a few passengers, and therefore, many open seats everywhere, she decided to sit in the row directly in front of us.

We must have appeared to have been harmless, or uninterested in young women wearing black leather.

I soon figured out I was on the wrong side of the boat to snap my next 500 photos and moved, with the MoH following. We kept an eye on the boys and the woman as she sort of avoided, but not with any true energy, making conversation with the forward crew member. He eventually gave up on her and disappeared downstairs.

At some point in a strong British accent, she turned to the boys, and with a cigarette posed between two fingers, asked if either of them had a light. You just don’t know how hilarious that is considering that not only does neither smoke, but that they wouldn’t expect anyone to think they did. Well, that anyone like her would ask anyone like them anything. Ever. Their raised eyebrows and quick glance at one another after she turned around told it all.

When we stepped onto the dock in Sorrento, she was already getting into what we thought was her mother’s car, because we realized at some point, that she wasn’t quite 20. Goodness. Nothing like a bit of intrigue to take one’s mind off travel weary doldrums.

Officially, we were rested and ready to enjoy a small town where streets close to traffic in the evening so everyone can walk and shop, sit in cafes and watch passersby, or eat well into the evening. We did all of that, and crowded into groups clustered around televisions in bars here and there to watch Roger Federer lose to Rafael Nadal at Wimbledon. It was like a huge street party.

In a walled garden setting lined with lemon trees and dotted with impatiens, we enjoyed pasta, seafood, lovely wine, and dessert at ‘o Parrucchiano “La Favorita,” a restaurant housed in an old building and credited with inventing cannoli. Who knew? The wait staff was ridiculously tolerant of our horrible attempts at Italian, and the setting a perfect place to relax after an extremely long day. Even the cat that wandered through the tables and brushed against our legs added to the perfect evening. And yes, I fed the cat. Incorrigible.

I now know that Sorrento was my favorite place on our vacation. We never took the bus to Positano or Amalfi, nor did we take one of the ferries we constanly saw headed to the island of Capri. But I have no regrets because we wouldn’t have been able to enjoy what was right in front of us: balmy weather, delicious food, hospitable people, the Hotel del Mare, and a clear, warm sea to swim in.

Although everyone seems crazed to spend time in Venice or Tuscany when they travel to Italy, Sorrento is a place to be considered. I know I’d go back so I could stroll through the quiet streets without an agenda of any kind and let time take its course, but maybe in the Fall, when others are back to work, and the idea of other places to go and things to see don’t exist.

Yes, I’d go back to Sorrento.

July 21, 2008
Soothing Sunsets and Sleepless Nights

With only three days left before we head off to our vacation in Italy, I’m to the point where I wake at 3AM and realize I’ve been making lists in my dreams. I haven’t done this for nearly two years; it was a by product of my former profession.

The lists aren’t the usual kind where I rerun whether I’ve got all necessary vouchers, and copies of passports. Or reservations to avoid lines for particularly popular sites like Galleria Borghese in Rome, and the Uffizi in Florence. I make make mental lists to check on details like: finding out which bus line will get us from the train station in Florence to the farm house where we’ll be staying; and how we’ll know which dock to head toward, luggage in tow, after we get off the train in Naples to take a hydrofoil to Sorrento; and whether we should pack a roll of toilet paper and a bath towel each since we’re not exactly sure whether they’ll be included in the apartment in Rome or not. I’ve read those reviews, remember?

You’d think 550 Euros would guarantee toilet paper, but…what do I know? I’m a presumptuous American, remember?

The good thing about all of this worry is that I’ll most likely be so exhausted, I’ll sleep on the flight, and when we arrive in Rome at 10:45am (2:45am our time), I’ll be as perky as a daisy. Okay, so a daisy with purple bags under her eyes, but still.

In the meantime, enjoy the solstice shots I took last week in celebration of the beginning of Summer and Sky Watch Friday. Looking at photographs of the sky from all around the world is a pleasant way to start a weekend, with an added value of helping me get a grip.

Looking toward Point Loma.

I like the reflection on the ocean in this one.

Going…

Going…

Gone.

June 27, 2008
Solsticeness

I know the rest of the world seems to believe that Memorial Day is the kick off for summer, but somehow, the whole idea of that particular holiday kicking off anything has never quite sat right with me.

Call me a party poopah, but there’s something way wrong about all those furniture sales, and car sales, and well, just any sale to get people up and out to slap them back into a consumer spending stupor. On Memorial Day? Okay, so the sales do help with all the purchasing that goes on for school promotions, and graduations, and weddings, you know, in case someone needs a futon or something. OMG, Dubyah! What in hell would we have done without your economic stimulus check?

It’s all nonsense, because today is our favorite day of the year. Party, anyone?

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June 20, 2008
The effect of Paradise and marine layers on golf.

I think by now you know that I have a “maybe like – sorta meh” relationship with this palm-laden place I begrudgingly refer to as Paradise. I know that there are many cities I could live that pale in comparison are much more interesting, but my grousing is about more than the monotonous weather that draws people here.

It’s about mindset — as in the mindset of many long time residents and other self-elected expert representatives of the region as a whole. Somehow, as large as this city has become over the years, the only thing that ever seems to matter to visitors is the weather.

So why am I on this particular toot this morning?

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June 11, 2008
Sunday, Sunday…So good to me…

It’s quiet now. So quiet I can hear the refrigerator running — a strange way to measure quiet, but still. Okay, so if my Mac was in the bedroom where it’s been recently, instead of on my kitchen counter, then I guess being able to hear the refrigerator would be huge.

You know. The distance and all?

Okay, so maybe not.

Everybody’s gone. The MoH and the RTR are on a hike. Do they hike? Erm…no. But we’ve sort of decided that we’d kind of like to think about possibly learning. Maybe. Notice that I’m not with them. I’m in the kitchen, of course, again indulging myself in an on-line baking gab fest with other passionate foodies. And the Gramster got in her car to go for a walk. That’s where you drive somewhere more interesting than Reach-Out-and-Touch-Your-Neighbor-Gated-McCommunity-Hood to park your car and then get out and walk.

Did you notice I missed Friday? (Insert affirmative response here.) I thought about it, and somehow the time got away from me.

You’re not dying to know why? What? Are you cranky today?

Well.

I’ve been using two guide books to assist my vacation planning. One is Rick Steves‘ Italy 2008 (lotsa advice in black and white text from someone who has a great reputation) think Nitty Gritty — and the other, a very colorful guide published by DK Eyewitness Travel: Italy (you know, lots of cool drawings, photographs, color, and less text) think Bright and Shiny here. That one would be for the menfolk. I figured I’d go light on their attention spans.

Anyway, having gotten all the lodging taken care of, I decided to tackle the recommended strategy for avoiding long lines. Now, it isn’t that I don’t particularly enjoy standing in long lines. I am an SDSU grad, after all, and back in the day before on-line registration, all we did was wait in line. Serious ones. It was the beginning of my quest to develop some semblance of patience in my time on this planet.

Where was I?

Lines…oh yes. Avoiding them. It would be the heat. I’m spoiled rotten. Completely and thoroughly. Like today. It’s a non-balmy, somewhat breezy, wannabe sunny but not quite makin’ it 69 degrees on this Sunday in Paradise. So I’m beyond worried about heat, and sweating, and well, honestly, my tongue lolling about on the pavement while I’m there. How gauche. Erm…quanto viscoso! Or something like that.

I am so not someone who can do heat unless it’s in a kitchen, and even then, it’s not pretty. And I know none of you are feeling the love over this right now since I’ve taken a gander at your temps and you’re sweltering. Most of you! Okay, so not you, paisley, but still.

So, getting reservations in Florence to see Michelangelo’s David and the Uffizi are highly recommended. Now here’s your quiz. Do you just ignore the suggestion to call, or get on line because you are a firm believer that anything is possible on line? (Insert Jeopardy music here)

You are correct! I got on line. And yanno? The booking fee is more than the fee the museum charges and I am so not interested in paying anyone for their network, or whatever it is they spend on their servers. So I decide, with my tail firmly between my legs, to call. You know, punch the umpteen gazillion digit number into my phone, and then rely on redial until I get through…

Monday: after 10 or so calls, I decide to refer to the business hours, and realize they’re closed on Monday. Fine.

Tuesday: after 10 or so calls, I do notice that the phone rings in two ways — a regular “busy” signal, and another odd-sounding, and irregularly buzzing type sound which I figured was a “ring.” And no, I’m not on speaker phone because the phone’s not near my computer. Gawd forbid that I have to get off my ball, trip over the Doggo who is laying on her bed to get to the phone should someone deign to answer my call. I also learn that if you let the phone “ring” more than 40 times, a recording tells you all lines are busy.

This is key information. (Lick the end of your pencil and write that down.)

Wednesday: I told the MoH to set the alarm for 3am our time so I could call then. Really. But the idea of getting up to engage in this rapidly expanding exercise in futility, going back to sleep, then getting up again at 5:00 to beat the streets with my VBF seemed pointless. So I spent another morning analyzing Italian telephone rings and busy signals.

Thursday: After the MoH telling me that I should just suck it up and book on line (consider that this would cost almost $80 for the four of us for ONE museum), I spent the morning making more inane phone calls that no one answered, stressing the entire time that I was not accomplishing anything. Horror of all horrors.

Disclaimer: Okay, so I have to qualify “not accomplishing anything.” That would be accomplishing anything for the trip. Picture the whole forward motion thing on a football field. The ref blows the whistle, right? The rest of the stuff I should be taking care of is well, being taken care by the Gramster who needs to stay busy.

Friday: I have a renewed burst of phoning energy, really looking forward to the crick I know I’ll have in my neck and a beet colored ear before I’m done. I plan to arise at 3am and proceed downstairs to the MoH’s laptop. In the dark. Pick up the phone and “dial” the phone number I’ve dialed for what seems like the millionth time. It sounds so loud in the quiet house, and it already feels different since there’s nothing to occupy my mind while I’m listening to the beeping of the busy tone, or the odd ringing.

I decide to log on to Concierge to surf through the info they have about Italy. After about the 4th attempt calling, I notice the phone number Concierge has for the place I’ve been trying to contact. The last three digits of the number catch my eye, and in the dim light cast by the screen, I look back at Steves’ book noticing that something isn’t quite right. I see an 883 in one place, and an 833 in the other.

Oh. My. Gawd.

I try the different phone number. It rings three times, and an English speaking voice, cheerfully and heavily accented in Italian answers. In less than three minutes, I’ve booked two reservations for four people. Three. Minutes.

After how many days?

I smell a letter coming. And it’s stinky.

Dear Rick Steves…

And newsflash. The menfolk are back from their hike. In case I’ve swayed you about Paradise and palm trees, here’s another look without the Pacific. Makes you want to move East, doesn’t it?

No, it’s not smog. It’s that lovely June Gloom that we get. If you’re into pure sunshine, June would not be the time to visit.

June 8, 2008