life according to me
The sunset was interesting last night. 
The troops became even more restless.
And according to the RT, gas alerts were also something to be concerned with. 
But not natural gas.
Teenagers.
Thirty-one words. Not bad for a nearly wordless Wednesday.
Okay, so now 41.
Um…
The house is quiet now.  My brother and sister-in-law have taken their kids down the hill to get gas and take a break. The MoH and the RT have taken Big for a ride — her favorite thing. Someone made the mistake of saying “ride” and she heard it. Prancing and hip-hopping ensued. Bizarre dog.Â
If there’s anything more strange than sitting in my house (which is used to having only three people in it) with five more, and sitting in one room staring at a television with relentless coverage of fires that refuse to stop, I’m not sure what is. To break the hypnotic focus on the television, small diversions have occurred — most of which have been due to the antics of my four-year-old nephew. Who knew an ace bandage could be so entertaining, and that Big wouldn’t like being wrapped in one. Thank goodness for the RT’s old books and three trunks full of Legos.
We switch from channel to channel looking for something new and on each one, a continuous tape runs across the bottom of the screen with information about specific streets and series of addresses of homes that have been burned. There are so many. Currently, 346,000 homes have been ordered evacuated from Fallbrook in the north, to East Lake in the extreme south east.Â
The reporters have begun to respond to emails the stations are receiving about whether homes have been lost, and they’re taking the time to announce what information they have. At least then, people can call their insurance companies to get their recovery process going. I can’t imagine…Â
The most surreal scene I’ve seen is a massive condominium complex on fire. Some units on the edges were in flames, and on the opposite side of the development, SDG&E had a crew frantically digging down to shut off the main gas line into the complex. I’m not sure how it all ended because things change and the coverage shifts.
When you look at the line of fire in the south east that has traveled at an amazing rate up over San Miguel mountain, I suppose someone not involved would look at it and think, “How could that fire do any harm to anyone?” It looks so harmless, and it’s only burning brush. But what makes San Diego so unusual is the number of canyons that characterize the topography.  Very little of it is flat — even near the beach. Fires are often set by arsonists during Santa Anas. Four years ago, the massive fire was set accidentally by a man who was out hunting and became lost, so set off a flare. This time, downed power lines caused by the high winds are to blame.
Regardless, a fire is a fire, and I think we are all lulled into a sense of security because we’re in our homes, but the recent years have shown that the fires are erratic, and that the firemen cannot possibly prevent them from destroying structures. As it is, most of the severe injuries currently are to fire fighters.
Yesterday when we knew this wouldn’t be over anytime soon (the current prediction for 100% containment of one of the fires is November 4…) my sister-in-law and I got in the car to go to the grocery store. What a zoo. No parking. People swirling around in the lot. Grouchy people honking horns at those waiting for a spot. Goodness. I do think it’s a good time to think about others and take a deep breath that in this area because we’re not at risk. But not too deep a breath.
The ash from these fires is finer than sand and rusty brown in color. I can imagine that it isn’t too great to breathe it. It’s everywhere, dulling everything with a kind of sepia effect. The last time, fat ashes fell from the sky, floating softly to the ground to collect against our house.Â
The winds have died enough to allow helicopters to collect water from the reservoirs and begin dousing flames, but only in some areas. It’s so dry, but the humidity has climbed into double digits today. Thankfully. But the air quality is supposed to worsen as the week proceeds until the Santa Ana breaks up. My nose feels like it has rocks stuffed in it.Â
But my family is safe. Wheezing, and parched, but safe.
If you’re interested, this is a local site that has a live video feed.
Last night as we flew over San Diego county, the pilot said that if we looked out the windows we’d be able to see the fires burning out of control in several places below. That if we smelled smoke in the cabin, we shouldn’t be worried. Not too earlier, one of the MoH’s brothers called to say he and his family were leaving their home, and shortly after landing, we discovered their entire area was being evacuated.
We arrived home after 9PM and began washing bedding and setting up the air mattress for their arrival at our house. After being on the road stuck in the evacuation traffic for three hours, they arrived after 1AM, smokey-smelling and exhausted, but in surprisingly good spirits. They’re pros. This is the third time in about six years they’ve had to leave because of wild fires.
We think their house if fine, but they’re still here with us while we watch the fires growing and spreading toward the coast, burning home after home. Leveling one, skipping the next, then crossing the street. The problem has been the Santa Ana winds, in some places, gusting at 60 mph. The fire department hasn’t been able to use helicopters or winged support to douse flames. The news stations have begun to run a tape across the bottom of the screen of the addresses of homes burned.
Over 250,000 people have been asked to leave their homes around the county.   Thankfully, ours is not threatened. But several of the MoH’s colleagues homes have been and they’ve been evacuated also. Â
No one is supposed to go out and breathe the air because of the toxicity.
The Govvahnator just arrived.
Dub-yah called.
I’ll catch up later…
 Not one to have a fit and leave the room, I thought I’d let you know that we’ll be off to the land of Lost Wages for a few days. It’s how we have celebrated the culmination of big deadlines for years. It sort of snuck sneaked up on me.
This will be the first year I’ve gone with no deadline or pressure in sight. Like…this is a bad thing? I honestly don’t know what to expect being in a place I’ve been in so many times over the years without needing to decompress. Um…par-tay?
I’m not interested in lounging by the pool with all the sun and water I enjoyed this past summer. Although it is rather special ordering cool beverages on the room card from waiters who glide by from time to time.
I have no reason to dawdle at the spectacular shopping mall, because I have a closet full of clothes and shoes that don’t get much wear with what I’ve been doing. E-Bay could be in the works.
But it will be very nice to be with the MoH — something I always enjoy.
Perhaps we may dance.
Um…no. What was I thinking? We wouldn’t exactly fit in with those cavorting, writhing bodies on the floor. That would be dance floor.
Watching the fountains in front of the Bellagio is more our speed. Or watching all the giant screens in Caesar’s sportsbook. Eating at ESPNzone at New York, New York. Riding that coaster.
Okay. What about room service?
In Las Vegas? I’m kidding.
Great food? Absolutely. Las Vegas doesn’t have to be the land of cheap midnight buffets any longer, but we’ve been there, and done that, too. The Golden Nugget used to have the Late, Great Steak dinner for $1.99. It was incredible if you don’t mind eating a steak after midnight.
A show? We’ve seen excellent shows, so what could be next?
Spamalot? La Reve? Mama Mia? We haven’t decided.
 But I will most assuredly be parked on a stool at Paris, spending my nickels and pennies, mesmerized by the digital cards I’m dealt, wondering if maybe, just maybe…
I could be Warren Buffet on a $2.50 bet.
I’ve done it before…put in a few nickels and seen the results of a royal flush. And then a hand later, another.
Okay, so not quite Warren Buffet, but still. Impressive, don’t you think?
See you on Monday.
*serious air kissing ensues…*
I’m probably not going to do very well on the “nearly” aspect of my version of Wordless Wednesday. And I’ll blame it on this article published today in our local paper. It’s worth clicking on just to think about your own reaction before you keep reading. It’s a very short article…
Goodness knows there are many important issues that we can pay attention to, devote our time to, be concerned about, and get on soapboxes over. Worthy causes. Behaving as if today and now is ours for the taking with no regard for others’ future on this very unique planet is the epitome of stupidity.
But where does one draw the line? At what point is a sensational side show supporting a cause? And do they actually think this educates anyone, which would be the whole point of bringing public attention to it?
It was crude, public masochism.
Oh, and certainly I’m convinced that a fish is more important than this. Or this. Or that spending time to worry to the extent demonstrated by PETA about what it feels like being “hooked” should be focused upon more than this or this. Or this. Or this. Or what is happening in Darfur. Or Burma.
Perspective would be a great thing, don’t you think?
ambivalent (adj.) having mixed feelings or contradictory ideas about something or someone…
Yesterday late in the afternoon, I received an email referencing this piece. I’ve read it several times since, and caught myself mulling over aspects of it.
Politeness. Authority. Acculturation and silence.
Self-negation.
But Verlyn Klinkenborg’s piece is about writing, isn’t it? He acknowledges that when “you talk about writing…you always end up talking about life.”
I know. I see what he sees as he observes and writes. The students, the classroom. The quiet. It’s what gets in the way most often when you’re teaching someone to write and they’re struggling, not understanding that aspect of it all, thinking that it fits neatly into a formula with five double-spaced paragraphs in 12-point helvetica. It’s easier to think of those very concrete things. More safe. There isn’t a commitment, really. Is there?
Writing comes from life. Everything we’ve said or thought or done is a path from which words come in whichever voice we choose: one of passivity and compliance, or cold detachment.
Abject humor.
Writing is not linear. It’s messy. There are no clear cut rules even though most of us had rules thrown at us about what we should or shouldn’t do as writers. We were asked to complete lifeless narratives or produce dull regurgitations of information on gross national product and chief exports — if we were asked to write at all. We received letter grades for our efforts, in pen at the top of the paper where everyone could see it, and when you turned the paper over, could feel the embossment, and think about the teacher putting it there. 
It’s safe to expect students to write about those things. Nothing personal will arise. There will be no worries about whether one piece on “Where You Went On Your Summer Vacation” will differ from the next. You don’t have to have confidence in anything like that because you just write it.
Unless you didn’t go anywhere on your summer vacation.
Or lacked the confidence to realize that it didn’t mean your summer vacation was insignificant compared to that of others. That lying in golden, waist high grass to watch clouds drift, or listening to pebbles clack hollowly against one other in a ditch as the water from lawn sprinklers carries them along may not be considered worthy of being written about.
That the teacher might look at your paper and think, “I knew there was something not quite right about this girl…Who must her parents be?”
We’re pigeon holed almost from the beginning to behave and think and act in particular ways. To speak in a specific fashion. To dress ourselves just so. To do and to be what others expect.
First at home, and then at school. Especially when others are watching.
There could be a high correlation between the seeming lack of confidence exhibited by students repressed by societal norms and the degree to which they let loose, get rowdy, and party hearty when they’re not being watched.
Or being controlled.
Eventually, they escape if they really want to.
Klinkenborg concludes by stating that when “a young woman suddenly [understands] the power of her perceptions, ready to look at the world unapologetically — I realize how much has been lost because of the culture of polite, self-negating silence in which they were raised.”
Lost as writers, or lost as humans with life to experience?
I’m still ambivalent…
It’s true. I’ve been slapped by Robert at Miscellaneous Ramblings.with a Redneck Chef of the Week award. *scratches left arm pit* How did he know I have Okie roots? I figger ee calls ’em as he sees ’em since it’s all on account o’ them nut bars I dun up last week. Musta been tha two-and-a-quarter pounds o’ butter. That’s pounds, not cups. Wait a minute. I’m thinkin’ here…
To be truly dee-servin’ o’ tha ‘ward, I woulda put margarine in them thar bars. Or lard, mebbe. Thanks, Robert! Right back at cha, mister!
Ahem. Of course I didn’t eat them all myself. I gifted the hummers to several groups of humans who had no idea the nut-filled caramel and chocolate honeys were headed in their direction. But still.
Since I find making butter bombs so much fun, and can’t see a day in my future that I won’t enjoy baking, then what’s the point of writing down everything I eat and drink? Okay fine, there is a point, but I don’t need to do it here. I decided that the day after I said I was going to do it. One more thing to keep up with when I need to be doing other things. If I could only find that list. So cancel that idea about the Daily Nitty Gritty. Oh, you didn’t know about it? Well, fuhgeddahbowdit anyway. *all two audience members glance knowingly at one another* Fine. I’m weak. Whatever.
I did have plain yogurt with a sliced banana this morning, however. Okay?
Moving right along, I’ve also been graced with another accolade. One that I’m very proud of, but personally feel I’ve been slacking on a bit lately. Because I haven’t been blogging a year yet, I’m not sure if seasonal dips and sways are part of the problem. Or maybe it was THAT PROJECT that is finally done. D.O.N.E. Wah-hooooo! And since it’s been complete, I’ve had the time to think about blogging and working and being a human being in the real world. One who is still adjusting to some fairly heavy changes over the past year. *one man music show puts cymbals down and reaches for violin…*
The award? The Community Blogger Award, bestowed upon me by Dawn at Twisted Sister, who also calls it like she sees it, *a woman after my own heart* has made me think hard about how I support the bloggers I visit. It’s made me think about what really constitutes a community in this strange land of the Internet. Of course there are the social networking sites, but that’s not really what I’m talking about. It’s that feeling I get when I visit and comment on a blog, and I see that others I know have been there, too, and I feel comfortable. Or that when I haven’t visited in a while, I feel remiss, and make an effort to do so, sometimes getting my coffee or wine *or plain yogurt…* and hunker down settle in to read several entries to catch up and see what I’ve missed out on. It makes me stop and wonder about the people I know in my non cyber world who don’t get nearly as much attention.
The strangest thing I’ve noticed is that when I peruse the blogs in people’s sidebars choosing one or two to visit, sometimes it doesn’t quite work. Almost like I’ve invited myself to someone else’s dinner party. You know, pull up at the table with my own place setting and everyone at the table turns to stare at me wondering where I came from and why I’m there? I’m sure it’s only my imagination, and I pull up anyway rarely waiting to speak before I’m spoken to. Listening intently to what others have to say, and sometimes not quite knowing how to respond. Trying to decide if I fit in or not. If I should be there.
Like Junior High. Egads! Run. Don’t stop for anything…
But definitely stop and visit the following people, because they, too are ever so faithful, putting up with my nonsense, and making serious headway in adding grace to my day. Thanks for your tolerance, kindness, wit, and *fill in this blank with your favorite descriptor*. It’s greatly appreciated.
Wonderland or Not (I know, Cooper. You less than love this business. But I just had to sing your praises. Grab a nut bar while you’re here.)
So on this rainy Monday in Paradise *like, totally amazing, but true…* I’m feeling grateful and gearing up to make some changes on both of my tiny pieces of the Bloggoverse. I’ve been busy writing and working and visiting and haven’t paid much attention lately to how things look and work. Which means I’ve been a slacker. I need to get back to learning about the techie side of things, gird my loins and upgrade to WordPress 2.3, install a new theme, and redesign a header. I’ve done my homework, I just keep putting it off. And, I’m also thinking about moving my foodblog to WordPress. Thinking would be the key word here…
I also need to force myself to learn how to use the Adobe CS3 software I have *seriously lucky person, huh?* which looks soooooooooooo hard every time I open anything but Photoshop, I cringe and close it after only 10 or 15 minutes.
But I’d rather figure that out than deal with the Daily Nitty Gritty. I know. I’m still weak.
Whatever.
Nut bar, anyone?
This morning, I could hear the MoH’s voice coming from the closet, but couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. I think it’s a passive form of control, actually, expecting the one you most love in life, the soul who makes your sun rise and set each day to get up, come to you and inquire gently, “What was that you were saying dear?” But I don’t, because I know how this works.
He soon walked out of the closet and stopped to look at himself in the mirrors that are on the closet doors. I noticed the black, corduroy baseball hat on his head before he returned to the closet. “So brown, black, and grey are neutrals, right?” he called out, returning quickly with yet another baseball hat perched on his head and stopped again in front of the mirrors. It was a dark Navy blue with a Yankees logo on the front. I was surprised it was even on his head and couldn’t remember where he got it.
“Yes,” I confirm, remembering that he and I had watched What Not to Wear last night before heading up to bed, and that this is exactly what Stacy and Clinton were trying to teach that Philosophy doctoral candidate who had absolutely no clue about clothes. “Tan, beige, and khaki colors, too,” I continued as he headed back into the closet, evidently not liking the second hat either. He emerged with a third, black hat that kept him standing and appraising longer than the two previous choices. It was an SDSU hat sporting the fierce face of Monty Montezuma, the Aztec’s old mascot. “What are you doing?” I asked him, watching him begin to smile because I’d found him out.
“Well, I don’t like this one because it’s pointy on top,” he said, raising his arm and extending his index finger to point directly down toward the offending crown of the cap. He was right.
“It makes you look like a poindexter,” I said, because that’s my job when he preens, and I’ve been doing it for years. I noticed that he’d put on his blue grey fuzzy lined sweats purchased at Old Navy years ago, and had chosen a waffle weave two-toned steel grey and black Nike long-sleeved tee, pulled over a white tee. It’s what I call his Spock shirt because it reminds me of the Star Trek uniforms from the old TV show. It was all coming together now. He was actually trying to apply his learning from the show last night. Unbelievable. I’d tell him to go without a hat, but learned long ago that the hat comes out when he feels he’s having a bad hair day. I’ve never quite been able to figure this out, because there’s just not that much hair. I’ve thought about encouraging him to shave his head, but it’s kind of lumpy here and there.
I went into the closet to look at the stacks of baseball hats with him and knew which he’d choose. It was a longer billed cap with a more shallow crown. A soft worn khaki green with a golf logo. His favorite. “It looks like you’re going out in a boat,” I told him, but I like that hat. He smiled and pushed past me to again survey the fruits of his fashion labor, and admired his reflection. I could tell he thought he looked cute, satisfied with his artfully mussed appearance.
“Yes, that one works,” I told him. It’s a neutral. It doesn’t have to be grey or blue or black. You look fine, I confirmed as he headed downstairs to leave for the office on this maybe final Saturday he’d have to work for a while.
He’s in the stretch, and this must have been his way of celebrating. Choosing just the right type of slacker wear to crunch numbers on the weekend when nobody’s around.
I should probably email Stacy and Clinton.
He never trusts what I have to say about his clothes.
I am no stranger to men’s anatomy. *oh, really? and we thought you ended up with three boys by immaculate reception after three hail marys…* I grew up with a brother, not quite two years younger than myself, and along with our younger sister, had to sit in three inches of tepid bath water each night until I was about seven. If you knew my mother, you’d understand the time-saving, environmental, and financial sagacity of this particular routine.
To further expound on my familiarity with those meaty appendages found on the nether regions of men, I’ve been nearly the sole female in my home, not counting dogs and cats, snakes or guinea pigs, for more years than I need to count on a Friday morning.
Factor in that I have taught Sex Education to adolescents once a year for nearly ten years, and can position the diagram of a penis on an overhead projector in a room full of boys and girls faster than you can say “Voila!” ignore their snickers, snorts, and audible ughs of despair with the expressionless face of authority?
As I said, I get it.
But could someone please tell me what “penis pills” are? Although I’ve been quite efficient with the on-going spam I’ve been getting lately regarding male anatomy, this one has me flummoxed. Usually I’m more than cautious about noting that I do not know anyone named Caroline Messer, or Juanita Woodruff even though they are attempting to familiarize themselves with me. And at this point, I’m not sure I’d like to know either of these “females” because one email indicates that “she” may have a few anatomical appendages that I lack. I wouldn’t quite know how to break the news to her that if I took her advice and “whipped out [my] improved, giant [wonder],” not only would my friends be less than “charmed,” the MoH would pass out knowing I had way too much time on my hands…
It’s easy to delete this nonsense, and have a few chuckles about the spambots that send it out. How sad that the pathetic machines can’t get women from men sorted out, and just click and whir along each day, happily sending emails. Hasn’t anyone in SpamLand Inc. gotten the memo that Friday is an Email-Free Day? It’s so unfortunate that they can’t even get my name correct, leaving me to pity the addressee, “Fabianiwamba,” and am left to puzzle over what his mother was thinking when she named him — er — his appendage, perhaps?
But penis pills?
I know. I should have been able to figure this out, because clearly, everyone else has, and quite some time ago. Whatever. Perhaps I’ve led a much more sheltered existence than I may have thought. Um…and do they work? Sorry, insatiable curiosity.
But there’s good news. This morning, I read that the condom industry will no longer have to deal with complaints about their product being “one size fits all.”
Fascinating, isn’t it?
If this doesn’t mean there should be national cause for celebration, I don’t know what does.
Perhaps “The Science of Knots Unraveled?”
I could have written about that instead, but I’m not an expert on knots… 
I’ve caught myself mentioning that I’m calm, or that I’ve nothing to get worked up about these days. That days of unrelenting stress and palpable anxiety are over. For the most part, it’s true, because most of my catalysts have been removed. But I know myself too well. It’s all there. Waiting. Sometimes, I feel that I carry around what has seriously angered me in life, and it surfaces unexpectedly with little provocation.
A couple of days ago, I jumped in the car to go to the grocery store to pick up a few things. I didn’t really want to go and know I can easily talk myself out of anything on Earth if given a moment, so glanced at my face in the mirror, put on a few dabs of makeup that wouldn’t fool a two-year-old, and was off.
It’s only a five minute drive if I don’t hit the traffic lights, and downhill most of the way. But the road is heavily used, winding through compact residential areas, and has the usual 25-35 mph speed limit. Invariably, someone at some point on this very short drive will be in an enormous hurry. It never fails. And that day, the woman had to have been on her way to a fire.
I could tell, because the image of her steel grey Jeep Cherokee grew in my rearview mirror quickly. The routine goes something like this: speed right up to the next person’s bumper and then slam on your brakes to exhibit frustration with any car that has the audacity to be in the way.
The person in front of me was doing more than the posted speed limit, and I was right behind, keeping pace. I was, however, also aware of the distance between her rear bumper and my car, and it was a safe distance. Not the three and a half car lengths that I should have been for our speed, but two and three quarters, and safe.
Unfortunately, the lovely brunette driving the Cherokee behind me didn’t agree. After all but pushing me downhill, and riding my bumper so closely that she could have wrapped her pouty peach lips around my exhaust pipe, she demonstrably parked her left elbow on her door frame, and pushed her head into her palm. Thoroughly. Disgusted. And could I please notice this in my mirror so, like, she could be on her way.
I’ve often wondered about this particular brand of young female driver, and what their IQ is. Perhaps she wasn’t quite sure about how traffic works. That the car in front of her can’t travel more quickly than the car in front of it. I know it’s a difficult concept to wrap a brain around, but still. Or perhaps her rules are different than mine. I was to have shown some sort of Mean Chick solidarity by riding the bumper of the car in front of me. Show her my indignation. Sure, that would work. Uh, no.
At some point, the road split into two lanes at a traffic light that had just turned red. I chose to get in the left lane as I’d soon need to make a turn into the store. The Jeep Princess behind me chose to go to the right, ironically behind the woman who had been in front of me. As she pulled up alongside me, I could feel the anger rising up, surprising me with its intensity. My passenger side window was already rolling down, almost involuntarily, and I saw her head turning to look at me in that classic “you moron” move. So predictable.
I screamed at her through the window before it was down, catching a flicker of surprise on her face. “You stupid b*tch! It’s a little difficult to go as fast as you need me to go with another car in front of me. Sh*t! Perhaps she wasn’t used to getting a reaction out of anyone quite like this. My heart was pounding, and I was amazed at the anger I felt.
Her defensive and barely discernible smirk just about did me in. What must it be like to feel so entitled, so important, so completely and utterly self-absorbed that the world is at your beck and call. I wanted to jump out of my car and rip her eyeballs out. Mess up her hair. Smear her lipstick. But only for a second. My heart was pounding.
As the light turned green, I noticed that she was stuck behind the woman who had been in front of me, but her persistence had an interesting effect on the car in front of her. It sped up, and she would soon pass me. At least she had the intelligence to not look at me again as she passed, her elbow perched once again in the window, blocking her face from view. But I caught a glimpse of a smile as she passed and when there was just enough space to get by, pull in front of my car, and speed away.
As I made my left turn, I could see that she had been forced to make a stop at the next red light, but I felt no vindication because I was still wrapped up in my reaction to the whole thing.
Where had that anger come from? I’d like to think it’s because tailgating is extremely dangerous and that I’d like to live a very long time and don’t appreciate people who drive like jerks. But I believe it’s much less logical than that.
I’ve never cared for those who behave so arrogantly that others are expected to bow in their path. They expect. They take advantage. They are brash, and humiliate. They mock, and taunt. And they travel in packs. They cause harm and use and abuse others with no regard for anything but themselves. And then they move on, trashing everything and everyone in their wake.
Clearly, this isn’t just about a woman in a car who was tailgating.
And no, I’m not calm.