kellementology – Page 34 – life according to me

life according to me

Sucking it up (and in) for an ocean swim.

My friend called yesterday to see if I’d like to go for a swim at The Cove early this morning. We could do that first, rinse off in the showers, then drive up to visit a friend who has adopted a brand new baby.

“How early?” I asked.

“6:45? It’s not that cold. You get used to it and the water’s calm at that hour. It’s great,” she tells me.

“I know. Sure,” I say, before I’m tempted to start whining about having to put on a bathing suit. Do I even own one? When was the last time I saw it? And when in hell was the last time I got in that water? It wasn’t the cold so much as it was the kelp and long pieces of sea grass that you have to swim through. And you can’t really see the bottom unless you wear goggles. We wouldn’t be snorkeling, we’d be swimming out to a buoy and back for the exercise. How far was that buoy?

“Make sure you bring your fins. You have some, right?”

“Yah, I have some — well, they’re the RT’s but they’ll work. I’ve used them before,” I said, trying to remember when that was, and how little his feet were then.

“Great. See you tomorrow. I’ll come pick you up. We’ll have coffee, too,” she promised before hanging up.

I woke up before the alarm at about 6am — always a good sign. The night before, I had found not one, but two suits I’d used in the past few years, and both seemed to be fine. There was no way I planned to try either on, as the idea of having to look at myself in one has never been one of my favorite things to do. Ever. No matter, I thought as I grabbed one, and threw it on with a pair of cargo shorts and a tee. I stuffed some undies into my purse to change into after we were finished with our swim, and out the door I went, already deciding that even though I was dressed for a swim, I wasn’t ready to participate.

The morning was quite grey, and not especially warm. It was very quiet out as it often is on days with heavy overcast skies. My ride came and we drove to pick up another friend before heading to The Cove. The mood was light as we drove the short distance, and they graciously listened to me as I told them I may not go in. “The water’s great. It’s only cold right when you get in,” I was consoled. “You get used to it really quickly.” One of them had brought her wet suit along, so she wasn’t the one giving me the pep talk.

But I had begun to think that something else was bothering me. Was I afraid? I hadn’t thought about that before. Although I was never what you’d call a beach kid growing up, I’ve always lived near one, and did spend more time than the average person may spend at the beach. I don’t recall being afraid. Or do I? Maybe it’s just that I have a healthy respect for the strength of the ocean. Maybe the combination of the chill of the water, the murkiness…

We were there so quickly, none of it mattered anyway. I dropped my pants and left them in the car before following the others down the long flight of stairs past the large group of people clad in diving gear getting ready to head down as well. Lots of people come to The Cove to scuba dive. As we piled our things on a rock just below the wall of the cliff, I squinted to see which buoy we’d be aiming for. It wasn’t close. My two friends had just done the swim the past two days, and were letting me know that I’d be fine, and that with my fins, I wouldn’t have to use my arms at all. By this time, I had already begun to remember the instructions I must have had many years before — kick with your whole leg from the hip, back and forth…

The small shoreline of The Cove is quite steep, the large grains of sand loose, and the surf harsh from time to time. Large rocks lie in and around the water, and sea grass is visible swaying with the constant motion of the water. The tide was low. I had goggles around my head, but decided I’d most likely not use them. So many others were just beginning or ending their swims. The group of divers had come down the stairs and awkwardly headed toward the water, lumbering, waddling back and forth to the edge — some backwards, as they already had their fins on.

The coldness of the water isn’t horrible as I step into it, but I always have trouble with the flutter of seagrass against my legs. I remind myself the water is refreshing when it’s been hot, and a bit of chill in the beginning is worth it. But once it hits my torso, the breath leaves me gasping a second or two. One of my friends holds my fins as I float in the water, pushing them onto my feet, one by one. The shore is barely two yards away, and already we have to tread water and begin to paddle. There are no waves — just large swells that carry us up and over, gently. I can tell where the kelp is ahead, as the bulbous heads poke their way to the top of the water, the very end of a long and wide rope I can’t see below for more than a few feet. Long strands of grass flow through the water in front of us, but thin as we swim farther from the shore.

The water is very salty, and soft. It takes little effort to hold myself afloat, whether I’m moving my arms or legs. I just want to turn on my back and float there, feeling the gentle lift of an occasional swell. Although I’ve been paddling enough to speed my breathing, it seems I’m not getting anywhere and I have to occasionally look toward the rocks near the cliff to measure that I’m actually getting somewhere. I can hear a seal baying on the rocks, and six feet away, one pushes its head above water before quickly diving back under. A long silver fish jumps up out of the water in front of us. I’m tempted to put on my goggles knowing that although the water seems grey, I would be able to see golden garibaldis swimming not too far below us.

The water is so soothing I could stay all day. I wonder already why it’s so difficult to remind myself that I enjoy it from one time to the next. Why it’s easier to make excuses about bathing suits and very un-tropical water. “We’re almost to the buoy — do you want to go to the next one?” one friend asks of me.

“How far is it?” I respond, thinking I might be too tired by the time I have to turn around to head back.

“The same distance we’ve just come, but it’s your call,” she tells me, knowing I’m concerned about not being able to make it. “We’ll swim back with you, and then go back ourselves. That’s okay,” she tells me, always the gracious person she is.

So we head back, passing many serious swimmers in their brightly colored caps, sporting their competent crawls and gliding effortlessly through the glassy water. They don’t seem to mind the kelp, the grass, or us — paddling at a relaxed pace, talking from time to time about nothing in particular — switching positions from back to front to relieve the tiredness in our muscles. We are quickly back to shore. “Make sure you take your fins off before you walk out,” one of my friends calls to me as they head back out. “You’ll roll over if you don’t.”

I do as she says, and still have trouble getting out of the water, going down on my knees once before finally making my exit. I turn to see where they are in the water, and notice they have already made some distance. I am tempted to get back in and am a bit sorry for not continuing. But I do notice that my legs are a bit shaky, so know it’s okay that I wimped out on the extra distance. I wait and watch those latest to The Cove readying themselves for the water, wrapping my towel about me to dry off. I feel refreshed. I have time to notice that most of the bathing suit clad bodies in and around The Cove are less than svelte. A good number of them are quite a bit older than I, but most likely, routine swimmers. I could just tell.

As the three of us prepared to head for the showers, one of my friends turned to me and whispered, “I guess it takes all different shapes,” to me as we eyed another group passing us on their way down. A young thin woman, a couple of older, heavier females, and a large man were suited to spend their time in the water as we had. How true, I thought, and how nice.

I’m glad I decided to go in, and even more glad I have friends who tolerate my idiosyncrasies with kind patience.

I don’t deserve that sometimes.

July 9, 2007
Thank you, San Diego. Please leave your trash on the beach.

The frenzied July 4th crowds began Tuesday evening. How could they not? The weekend had just ended, so it seemed that people were on simmer and waiting for an opportunity to really get going on their summer vacations. We could see them as we drove through the beach area on our way to the ball game many others decided would kick off their holiday as well. Lots of traffic, people hustling to get somewhere — anywhere — even if it meant getting stuck at the place where Interstate 8 ends at the Pacific Ocean. On that evening, there wouldn’t have been a glorious sunset to keep them entertained as they swore at each other, trying to squeeze from four lanes into two.

I’m such a party pooper. For some reason, I’d rather be an observer than a participant. People watching is far more interesting to me than putting myself in a place where I could become the object of another’s scrutiny. I’m quite capable of making an ass of myself given the perfect circumstances, so best I avoid those situations by enjoying others while they are in their element — or not.

Being one of about 46,000 at a ball park guarantees superb opportunities for people watching. But we were fairly early, so dinner was in order. The expected fish tacos never materialized. Instead, we tried the sushi restaurant. Sushi? At a ball park? The MoH has baseball in his veins, so seizing the opportunity to sit in a restaurant with a view of batting practice is seriously his cup of tea. Er, ah, beer. With edamames, please. Nope. The RT was completely unimpressed with the California Roll because he most likely had boi-gahs on his brain. But the view was very relaxing and a great way to begin the evening. Unfortunately, the MoH is a jinx, so the home team lost. Again.

The 4th was a very quiet blur with little or no fanfare. An excellent dinner with friends, with no celebratory songs of being glad to be Americans, and very little Souza. And why is it that the older one gets, the less important fireworks are? I won’t apologize for the bah-humbugging I’m doing because I’ve seen some fairly amazing fireworks shows and unless someone is interested in taking me to see the pyrotechnics competition they hold in Monte Carlo every year, then I’ll only feign interest. Actually, the view from our friends’ home is quite spectacular on a good night. But Monte Carlo?

Sadly, no Monte Carlo for me. I was more interested in heading down to the beach to walk early the next morning because I had to see with my very own eyes what the local paper had published the year before. I had to see the mountains of trash that others feel no discomfort in leaving behind after they’ve had their one day at the beach for the year. I had to see.

It was early enough by the time we had stopped at Kono’s to get our coffee that beach rental folks were barely stirring, and there was nary an officer in sight at the SDPD Mobile Command Unit trailer. But many others had already been up for quite some time. Junior Lifeguards were congregating to pick up trash; the Surfrider Foundation was organizing the clean up event; kids in summer day camp programs were collecting even the tiniest pieces of litter; men in skip loaders were gathering what the cans had held. It seemed that everything was under control. By the time that we walked by, compared to the ugliness of last year, the beach was relatively clean and it was only 8:30 am. Amazing. The greatest aspect of this was seeing people walk up to do their part just to help out.

How might it be if people took the responsibility of not leaving trash to begin with? My evil side imagines for just a second, what people would do if a garbage truck removed the trash, drove it to a neighborhood where the once-a-year beach goers live, and summarily dumped it, leaving it for others to clean it up. But that wouldn’t be kind, would it? I wonder what their thinking is? Well, it’s only a bit of trash. Someone will clean it up. Or, everyone else is doing it, so what difference does it make? People are willing to carry very heavy bags, boxes, and coolers through the sand, but can’t think for 5 minutes on how to remove something that takes up less space in their SUVs, Trucks, and MiniVans, than when they arrived. Lazy? I’m thinking it’s something more subversive, but I’m not in the mood to stir that pot right now. Think about it. I still have the Black Beast sitting in my garage right now. I could have rolled it down to the beach and left it there, right? Take some time to see what last year was like and watch this video clip .

Enough. Hope your 4th was relaxing if you celebrate declaring independence from an overbearing monarchy. I could let you in on all the tourismo “stuff” we’ve been doing since then, but I’ll spare you. At least for now. The perspective I’m attempting to employ at this point is along the lines of working to appreciate the city I have lived in since 1968. The one I often say I don’t appreciate.

The one I often consider leaving.

July 7, 2007
Internet Storminess with a Chance of Fish Tacos
For the first time that it really ever mattered, the Internet wasn’t available today. Assuming it was a glitch that forced me to get down on my hands and knees to dig around in the wires and see if everything was plugged in, reset the router, and whatever that box is with the flashing lights that has something to do with our phones, cable, and internet service, I completely avoided calling the Time Warner for quite a while. Stupid me.

There was no service available in our area. Sheesh. And right after I’d been able to finally find a new wrap for my blog. One that everyone seems to be able to see. Abe was so wrong about not being able to please all the people all the time. So what do you do without Internet?

Organize photos on the external hard drive. There’s about 17oo of them. And play around with albums and iMovies and slide shows. Oh. And ask the RT to share with all of you how tired our Big is from her race at the County Fair last week. She needs a bone, and then she’ll perk right up. Better not be a pork bone, though. Gotta wait until tomorrow for that one since NOTHING is moving right now. That stoopid little wheel is turning and turning, slower than molasses in January.

Oh, well. I just got the “42 minutes until departure time” call from the MoH. No time to do more than say I haven’t fallen off the edge of the earth. I’m still enjoying my summertime cold, and getting ready to go to a Padres game. You do know that:
- Jake Peavy is 9-2 with a 2.09 ERA and is the league leader in strike outs, right? Too bad he’s not pitching tonight.
- Chris Young is 8-3 with a 2.14 ERA and a league leading 0.88 home ERA, but nope, he’s not pitching tonight either.
So why the hell are we going then?
- Because Greg Maddux with a career 340 victories IS. And our ball park is cute. With fish tacos. Served at your seat.
Good thing I get to just sit there and stare at the grass, or the guys on the field in their spiffy uniforms. That’s always a nice distraction. And I hope our seats allow me to stare straight ahead since I can’t turn my eyes without howling silently in pain. Truly.

Does wine taste good when you have a neutron bomb style head cold?
July 4, 2007
Headaches and Old Photographs

The RT hasn’t been feeling great lately. I guess “sick” would be an accurate descriptor, and yet he’s trooped through what we’ve had going on. I think this is only the third time he’s ever been ill. Amazing, actually. He had that head-achy, eyeballs hurting when you look one way and then the other kind of sluggish don’t really care about much malaise.

I have it now.

What is it about being sick in the summer that makes it seems so much worse than just generally feeling like crap? It must be the warmth, and all that happy sunshine. You can’t exactly cozy up in a comforter, or languish in bed all day. It’s too warm.Â So I’ve been up, but not as early as I would have liked since I could feel the drum pounding in my skull at what must have been two or three o’clock this morning with the idea of a cup of hot tea wafting through my delirium.

The decadent chocolate fudge cake with cream and strawberries left over from the RT’s birthday get together yesterday perked me up a bit while I was reading the paper, but the idea of eating the rest of it just to keep myself perked up didn’t seem too logical. So here I am with you guys. I employed a new technique to claim my seat at the computer this morning by sitting in the chair in the corner of the office, casually looking at the Adobe Photoshop and Photoshop Elements for Teens book I got the RT for his birthday. You do know that book is really for me, right? Sitting in the room while the RT was surfing only lasted about 10 minutes, and then he moseyed into another room, leaving me to think. Scary when my head feels like it’s filling up with something more dense than my brain today.Â All those thoughts crashing into each other, making me wince each time I move my head.

It is a good day to think about all the family photographs my mother has been bringing to our house over the past several weeks with nudgings of, “Go through these when you get a chance and keep the ones you want. Then you can ship the rest to me in Virginia after I’m there.” There are so many of them. So many years, so many people whom I’m related to in some way or another, and so many memories that aren’t always pleasant.

I’ve wandered past the growing stack of boxes taking the time to move some of them to the landing on the stairs where they wouldn’t be such a reminder of something I need to do that I’m not always especially fond of doing. Even the good memories are tinged with a bit of sadness now that so much time that has passed. So many changes have occurred in a face, or in one’s smile — eyes that had a different kind of wistfulness than they do today. It’s hard for me to look and to not notice. To sort and choose. And to ache a bit for what used to be, or could have been.

So I’m going to treat my heavy head to Inventing the Truth: The Art and Craft of Memoir edited by William Zinsser whose books on writing have been favorites of mine over the years. Books like On Writing Well, and Writing to Learn. No, this book isn’t one of those on my stack. It doesn’t count because it isn’t fiction, and I don’t read nonfiction the same way. I scan the titles, notice the contributing authors — Anne Dillard, Frank McCourt — and skim until I settle on something that catches my eye.

Reading what others have to say about memoir will take up time. Call it avoiding setting about the task myself. You can imagine that if it’s challenging for me to look at years of pictures, that writing about what’s behind some of those pictures will be something I have to force myself to do.

With respect to memoir, Zinsser writes:

A good memoir requires two elements — one of art, the other of craft. The first element is integrity of intention. Memoir is the best search mechanism that writers are given. Memoir is how we try to make sense of who we are, who we once were, and what values and heritage shaped us. If a writer seriously embarks on that quest, readers will be nourished by the journey, bringing along many associations with quests of their own.

Who we are, indeed.Â

In my time deciding how to go about starting, or at least think about starting, I’m sure I’ll return to Phillip Lopate’s The Art of the Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present. James Baldwin’s “Alas, Poor Richard” begins this way:

Unless a writer is extremely old when he dies, in which case he has probably become a neglected institution, his death must always seem untimely. This is because a real writer is always shifting and changing and searching. The world has many labels for him, of which the most treacherous is the label of Success. But the man behind the label knows defeat far more intimately than he knows triumph. He can never be absolutely certain that he has achieved his intention.

So what would my actual intention be to write down all that I’ve kept in my head for so long? To purge myself of it? I wouldn’t want that, because it has become part of me, and not holding onto it would be similar to cutting a hole in the center of me. So then might it be so others can understand? If so, what might they understand? That you can choose to either dwell on what happens to you in life and let it mark you, or acknowledge that it’s now a part of who you are, and turn it into something you can leap from inventing yourself.

That would be a good place to begin.

I like the jaunty tone of Wendy Lesser, though in “Overture,” the first of her pieces in The Amateur: An Independent Life of Letters. She writes in a pointed, but less pedantic way of the choices we make in life, and who we are as a result of them:

The autobiographical mode implies the justification of a life, but that is rather hard to do when one is still in the midst of living it. Also, it is not clear exactly what in the life could justify it. The plan you conceived and executed? A laughable chimera, believable only when you are nineteen years old and deciding on a college major. The choices you made? But if they turned out well, you don’t necessarily deserve the credit, and if you try to take it, you will merely sound foolish or smut. Do you, in any case, make the important choices, or are they thrust on you?

Thrust? A more gentle word than I may use for some of what I am compelled to write.

Subjected to? Withstood.

Never resigned.

I need to go lay my fat head down before I topple out of this chair. My eyeballs ache. But if I stare straight ahead at my books, quietly reading, it’s not so bad. And then I can read and think about writing, instead of writing.

Instead of sorting through those photos.

July 3, 2007
Summertime Plate-twirling and Writing

My weekend started yesterday. We went to the county fair. So what, you say? Well, I haven’t been in probably ten years. Think about it: Universal Studios last weekend; the county fair this weekend. All that food, and all those people. Yet I survived both experiences—in tact and smiling. I actually had fun. Go figure. It had to be the food. I should have paid more attention to the whale on the side of the building, letting me know that I’d be as big as he, once the day was over.

I am not one to endure crowds. It’s strange when you consider that’s exactly what I did for a living for many, many years. Maybe it’s because I have finally calmed down. I’m alone much of the time, get to choose when I’m around people, and so don’t mind an occasional crush now and then. I guess that being around nearly 1,000 people daily meant that on weekends and vacations, being part of a herd of humans wasn’t something that sounded like fun. So I’m cured. Voila. I am going to have to stop eating the food that accompanies these excursions, however. Have you ever had a deep fried Twinkie? No, neither have I, but the my husband tried one. I only eyed it, sitting in all its greasy splendor while I savored my chocolate-vanilla soft serve cone. Of course, that was only a while after I helped demolish the pile of fresh fried potato chips and onion rings smothered with bacon-cheddar sauce and jalapenos. And that green-chilie burger. With mustard.

I can’t tell you the last time I saw pigs race for Oreo cookies, or souped up beach cars speed over a small dirt course in an arena. Or monster trucks. Well, I haven’t seen any of that before, now that I think of it. But it was fun. It was also fun watching people whirl and twirl on the rides, wondering whether they’d had food before their ride, and whether they had an inclination to hurl in the course of all that spinning. No, no whirling for me. The ferris wheel was more in order for the beautiful day, and the scene spread out below full of raucous color and brilliant motion on one side, the vast Pacific and cloud speckled sky on the other. Warm breezes. Beauty.

The rest of the weekend? The Resident Teen’s 15th birthday has finally arrived. Family is coming over to eat. What else? I like to cook, remember? Plus my mother is getting ready to head for VA, so we’re sort of combining the birthday with a launching. We’re going to launch her into her new life. It’s a story that has hovered near saga length that I’ve avoided writing about at this point. I’ll get around to it later, because there’s much to ponder on with respect to the whole process of her thinking about, wanting to, threatening not to, and deciding to go. To leave Paradise where she’s lived since 1968. To leave for good. I’ll get back to you on that one.

And then my husband is taking some time off. A day here, and a day there. Just enough to break up my routine of sitting in front of the computer all day every day. Just enough to make me wonder where I’m going to find the time to write, and begin to feel a bit of anguish about not writing. But it’s definitely not his fault. He’s just one of those people who has a bit of “get up and go.” Or maybe wanderlust.

How can I not write? I have to write. It’s a habit now. A great habit. One I’m quite fond of and would like to insist on time for. Don’t get me wrong, because my husband isn’t the type of person who would ever expect that I stop doing something I enjoy. Out of respect for one another, we never would do that. It’s more my problem to solve.

Writing comes very easily to me. The way I write may not appeal to all, and the topics—if you can call them that—may not be something for everyone, but that isn’t the point. I usually know what I’m going to write well in advance of sitting here and getting it down. Once I sit down and begin, the rest flows. There is little time for organization or planning in a concrete fashion. That usually happens as I mull over the idea once I’ve thought about it the day before. I no longer write in a notebook like I used to. Instead I keep stickies. They’re everywhere. It’s a bit annoying, because I don’t often look at them. It seems that once I’ve committed an idea to a stickie, it stays in my memory until used. Unfortunately, the stickies stay on my desk and in other places in the house. It’s ridiculous.

In other news, this blog is messed up again. Evidently, much of the difficulty lies for those of you who are still using Internet Explorer. Those who use Firefox have a better view. I know this for certain now, because I downloaded Firefox onto my husband’s computer. The old blog looks the way it’s supposed to. No fat, blob like font squeezed together in the center. No blank middle with the text 20 clicks down the page. Perfect. Thanks again to Phil at Thought Sparks who lends a hand when it’s most needed. He’s truly a kind soul.

But I’ve been shopping for a new theme again, and it’s fairly tedious and time consuming. Taking care of the blog takes writing time away. I still have difficulty mediating that. I do enjoy the idea of planning what it all may eventually look like, and want to learn to do the designing myself. For those of you who know what this involves—don’t tell me. I usually get where I want to go in life by the seat of my stubbornly tenacious pants. I enjoy learning, but I am not always completely efficient in the process, so as long as you’re willing to stick by my side as I figure this all out, I’ll be pleased. Of course, you do know you’re welcome to complain that you’re sick of the changes, and to stop the audience abuse. There are other aspects of life far more painful.

And then, there is my food blog, Sass & Veracity. Although I have the cooking down most of the time, I’m still struggling with my writing voice there. I speak to a completely different kind of community, so that affects the way I write. I’m working on it, though. In fact, I have to complete a huge post today to conclude a food blog event I co-sponsored with a food blogger who’s got more experience than I do. It should be up on Sunday. Make sure you take a peek.

When you wonder where I am and why things don’t happen daily here like they used to, it’s because I’m plate twirling. It’s free plate twirling, mind you.

And I’m doing it gleefully, of course. It’s summertime.

You should be plate twirling, too.

July 1, 2007
How Mameve Medwed saved my summer reading life

About that pile of books I’m supposed to be reading…

Some time ago while I was reading through others’ blogs, I spied the cover of a book in a sidebar. If I remember correctly, there was somewhat of a tease in the caption encouraging me to receive the book free if I was willing to review it. You do know that I am completely aware of the promise I made to read all the books I have at home before I purchase another, don’t you? I chide myself each and every time I see something I’d love to read that isn’t in my stack of books. I’ve been so trustworthy. So diligent. Well, perhaps not quite tenacious enough when one considers the amount of time I’ve taken to read through a couple of the first books on my list.

Just a refresher: the whole point of reading everything in my house has been my cost saving measure: a sort of contribution to the family’s coffers since I’m sans income. Besides, I did take the time to choose and purchase these ah… tomes at one point in the past, mulling over the authors, considering the reviews, and projecting the mood each would lull me into as I read.

So when I saw How Elizabeth Barrett Browning Saved my Life in the lamentably forgotten blogger’s sidebar (I am so very sorry!) with “free” nestled beneath the cover shot, I thought that it wouldn’t be cheating if I accepted the offer. Sure, I’ll read a book and write a review. Technically, I wouldn’t be spending money for the book. It would be just fine if I sneaked this one in to relieve myself of the recent horrendous reads I’d suffered through. So I clicked. A free book!

The book was delivered, and read. I read it in two days. Not a month like Mapping the Edge. Not weeks and weeks and weeks, like Dog Days. Two days. Now, that’s more like it. Nothing like being back in the saddle again. Greasing up the ol’ reading machine. I’m back. Besides, it’s summertime, and what can be more perfect than a book that travels easily to the beach and back? A book that’s about antiques, New England, a little romance, an obscure biography by Virginia Woolf called Flush, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s thunder mug. Ahem… Excuse me?

Let me back up a bit before I truly begin.

Quite some time ago, I was in Cambridge, MA, working on a project at the Harvard Graduate School of Ed and happened upon Mail. The cover was an eye-catching yellow, and I was drawn to the author’s name — unusual. The setting was Cambridge — how coincidental; the protagonist a writer — and I wanted so much to be a writer. So it seemed perfect for a summertime read to ease my mind from the less than glamorous work I was involved in: curriculum writing. I no longer have the book, most likely loaned to a friend who neglected to return it, but I remember enjoying the woman in the story and her quirky personality. I remember her mailman, too…It’s been a while since I’ve read something by Mameve Medwed — nearly ten years.

I’m so sorry, Mameve. I know you’ve published other books in that time, so it’s odd that I’ve not come across one while traipsing through bookstores, or surfing Amazon’s cyberstacks. And I know that had I found one of those books, it wouldn’t be hidden in that dusty stack I currently find myself having to read. I would speak to my marketers, if I were you, because I enjoyed your first book quite a bit and would have read the others had I known…

Memories of Medwed’s writing came quickly back as I began this latest of her novels. Abby Randolph is an easy to get to know woman who sells antiques. Her store isn’t one known for grossly ornate 18th century European credenzas, or priceless Baccarat crystal candlesticks. In fact, her “store” is a booth that sits alongside that of others who have a passion for, and know much about old things that just might be worth more than we think they are worth. Like the porcelain chamber pot that sits in Abby’s booth. The one her colleague encourages her to lug to the Antiques Roadshow soon coming to town. The chamber pot once owned by her mother who was recently and tragically killed. Her lovely mother who, after years of chin-up tolerance with her role as one of “the Cambridge ladies” poet E.E. Cummings writes of, runs off to seek a new life: a life with the woman next door. Yes, woman. Her best friend’s mother. The mother of the boy next door she fell in love with so many years ago.

Medwed’s ability to sell Abby and her self-deprecating existence, her seemingly new found promise of wealth, and love, are what make this book. Otherwise, liking Abby could become a challenge. She seems not able to hold herself up or deal with her life. She lets people walk all over her. She just accepts things. But she knows it. And when she acknowledges her shortcomings over and over again, you find that you are on her side, cheering her on, wanting her to step up and push back against the pathetic people she has chosen to tolerate throughout her life: the pseudo best friend who is really only out for herself; her ex-business partner and lover, gone after taking what he could from Abby’s life as a Cambridge professor’s daughter and has moved on to a more profitable lifestyle; or the reporter who surfaces to get the inside story on the chamber pot, now authenticated and valued at a staggering amount of money.

Don’t most people fare well after they’ve received news of a windfall? Shouldn’t everything turn around in their lives, making their dull existence more bright? Can it erase the sadness one feels for the tragic loss of a mother, and a young man always thought of as someone who would be part of her future?

Maybe it can. Abby Randolph has to confront her demons in much the way that you and I would, failing over and over again, before she is able to arrive at what matters. Without Medwed’s clever sarcasm and tight narrative, without her insider knowledge as a Cambridge resident, How Elizabeth Barrett Browning Saved My Life could be just another book in a growing list of what is now referred to as Chick Lit. Without Medwed’s dry humor and ability to capture the odd characteristics humans have, Abby could be just another female whose pathetic lack of self-awareness makes her unnoticeable. Instead, we are left smiling as Abby grows into herself and her life.

http://www.harpercollins.com/services/browseinside/widget.aspx?hc.guid=3ee96b8e-5b18-427e-a36e-6893adfa1856Mameve Medwed has saved me from the depths of yet another completely dreary read. Thank goodness. Now I can go back and read her novels I’ve missed in the past ten years. But not until I finish that stack. Promise. Well, maybe the public library has them. That’s free, too. Right?

I’m left wondering on whose site I originally found the offer to review this novel and will continue to do some investigating. My quest has dropped me into the world of publishing houses and their quest to step up their on-line marketing. It has taken me to Booksquare and a very interesting look at opinions on the publishing industry. It has also taken me to First Look at Harper Collins — a very intriguing opportunity for someone like me, trying to avoid those books I already own, wanting instead to wallow in the possibility of buying more, always more.

Oh, that heaven is a bookstore when I get there…

June 28, 2007
Makin’ Like a Tourismo in So Cal

The weekend was lovely. Completely. Go figure. I don’t especially like driving — or riding in a car. I’d like that twitching nose thingy so I could just pop in and out of places. And it is summer, so the potential for a hot day anywhere in Southern California is quite high. But the wind was blowing, and we were up high on a ridge with a lovely view. Crowds? Oh my…we don’t mix. All those bodies, that mass of humanity. But it was fine. Miraculously fine. Really. Even though the parking lot attendant said they were expecting 25 thousand people Saturday. The MoH and I looked at each other. Was that a lot?

I know my mother was doubting my confirmation that all was well on my call home to her. She would have a hard time believing me because she completely knows that I usually don’t enjoy this sort of thing. For years, I’ve completely avoided it, or just gone along with it in the spirit of familial companionship. Or something like that. So now I’m wondering what was up? Perhaps again, I less than enjoyed anything that took time and energy because I needed to savor my down time — store up my energy — get ready for Monday. Can you imagine doing that for nearly 20 years? What a complete loser I’ve been. A lesson in moderation would have been nice along the way to learn a bit of tolerance.

So off to Universal Studios we went a la family road trip style. Now, I did have something up my sleeve. The Hotel. I love nice hotels. Swanky lobbies, eight million percale count sheets, and lovely bathrooms. It’s a problem. I could totally be one of those traveling people who just stay in hotels. I’m thinking it’s the clean factor. There’s no clutter, the bed is made when you return from a difficult afternoon touristing, car parking is valet only, and they hand you an ice cold bottle of water as you head out for your day of adventure. And if you’re feeling special — room service. *sigh* Not on this trip, though. But you do remember The Stagecoach Inn in Monterey, right? You decide.Â The Graciela… Or the Stagecoach Inn?Â Â I rest my case.

What was nice about this trip was knowing that there was only so much we could do and see. There was no hurry to fit in a zillion things, no itinerary, no waking up to the blare of an alarm clock. And surprisingly, no serious traffic. What? And we drove through LA? Go figure. Okay, so the picture above is the only snag we hit and it was only a 15 minute one at that.

High points? The back lot tour. Yes, I’ve been on it several times over the years, but this time was the longest and the most seen. Maybe we just had a tour guide who was into it, wannabe actor that he stated he was. I had to stop and wonder about what kind of life that would be. But he looked like he was enjoying himself talking to a tram full of blase tourists — most of whom probably do not know or care about all those old glorious black and white movies. All those gorgeous and perpetually glam shot ready stars like Hedy Lamarr, or Carole Lombard. And there’s no way they could possibly get a thrill looking at those old deco style dressing rooms of the stars and famous costume designers. Or knowing that those soundstages have housed a very unique brand of history. Somehow, Terminator 2 doesn’t cut the mustard as something to get nostalgic over.

The brand spankin’ new Mummy roller coaster ride is way fun. You have to totally love a ride that whirls, spins, and shoots you through the darkness. Yes, I scream. A lot. Of course, I yell on the simulated Back to the Future ride also, and it’s more than 10 years old. Does anyone but me scream on a fake ride? I’m hopeless.

A semi high/low point was the Jurassic Park ride. Yes, you get wet. I knew that. But the advertised “new and improved” was a bit too much improved. As the ride concluded, I wondered what the Japanese man sitting in the row in front of us was looking at, but I smiled at him none the less. After I asked the MoH whether my eyes were black or not, he said, “You’re going to have to go to the ladies room” quite graciously, and with not the slightest hint of controlled laughter. Not, what he could have said, like, “Oh My Gawd Your Eyes Are Completely Black and You Have Streaks of Mascara Running Everywhere!” No, he didn’t say that, kind man that he is. But he could have.

I spent about 15 minutes in the bathroom trying to rub the black streaks of mascara from my cheeks and around my eyes. And no sunglasses to hide behind because they were in a locker. By the time I was done rubbing, I was left with some freaky black eye liner and no sun screen. So should I have thought about waterproof mascara when I was in the drug store purchasing my “Buy One–Get One Free” Maybelline that I haven’t worn for years? I wasn’t planning on crying, no weddings were booked, and most days, putting on mascara isn’t high on my list of priorities. So I got soaked. Completely drenched. It took my shirt several hours to completely dry. It was a blast.

The nicest surprise was the original Bob’s Big Boy around the corner from the hotel. It was in the cutest little neighborhood called Toluca Lake, “Established 1923,” or that’s what all the signs said anyway. It was cool. And the whole area had remnants of that old LA look when things weren’t so slick and smoggy. When neighborhoods were quaint, and you could walk down the sidewalk to a store close by. It made me wonder for five seconds about living in LA. Well, maybe 10.

Â Where was I? Oh yes, breakfast. It was completely saturated with calories, but my goodness, was it delicious. I didn’t lick the plate, but I wanted to. Have you ever had deep fried French toast? With cinnamon? And syrup. And butter? Coffee refilled every time I got it doctored up just right. Hot coffee. Not warm you better be careful or our lawyers will sue your lawyers coffee. *sigh* I didn’t even need a crane to get off the vinyl bench. But I also haven’t eaten much the past two days. I just wanted to see if my arteries still worked to be safe.

The “mall” next to the theme park is pretty interesting as well. Musicians, food, strange tee shirt shops and stores that sell chocolate covered Twinkies. Really. No, we didn’t buy one. Â But the RT and I are thinking we can come up with something better. Plus, we’re headed to the County Fair on Friday where I hear they have deep fried Twinkies. I couldn’t spoil my appetite, right? Ewww….How do you spell C-A-R-C-I-N-O-G-E-N-I-C, class?

Completely low point? The theme park food. I can’t believe I got sucked into it. Again. They just have you by the short hairs so know they can charge a chunk of change for warm cardboard. Â School cafeteria food is better. Real warm cardboard is better for that matter. Really. Put a little bernaise on it….The giant Corona helped wash it down, though. And the giant Heinekin the next day was even better.

On that note, I’ve survived the assault on my taste buds and have been cooking. If you’re in the mood for a salad or hunk o’ beef (sorry to my vegetarian friends) then check it out. We’re giving our Barby the workout. I’m still not back to my usual blog self, however, and the MoH has more days off scheduled next week, so I’m going to have to figure out how to keep things running smoothly in Bloggsville. Stay up all night? Schedule particular days for visiting my favorite people? The word “schedule” makes me quake in my flops.

Anyway, thanks for bearing with me while I figure it all out. And know, that when I’m not sitting here, you are sorely missed. *sniff*

June 27, 2007
Solstice Love in Paradise

We did not carry drums. Black cloaks may have been an excellent idea considering the damp, salty chill. And antlers may have been in order had we thought of the idea. There always seem to be those who are just more creative than we are. Regardless, we did take the time to pack a quick dinner, throw a few sand chairs in the trunk, grab sweatshirts, and roll down the hill to celebrate the Summer Solstice.

A bonfire might have been nice, but there’s probably a rule about that. A maypole would have drawn too much attention from those whose view we could have blocked, solstice celebrators’ silhouettes frolicking back and forth as the ribbon wrapped its way around the pole. Besides, we’re mechanically disinclined. Waving bundled sheaths of grain did cross my mind, however. Of course, there’s always another time.

We sat on the rocks, so did share a remote kinship with those who head to Stonehenge on this day each year. Does that make us pagans? Unlikely, considering that “hick,” or “rustic” may be a bit harsh as far as descriptors go.

Is the experience spiritual? Being with those you most love often is, isn’t it? With a massive ocean stretched as far as you can see, and the anticipation of that amazing orb growing as it sinks slowly into its watery end for the night, what more could a person want? Sandwiches, of course. Eating is always spiritual event for me.

For some reason that I can’t exactly remember, we started taking the two older boys up to a hill near by to watch the sunset on the longest day of the year. It was free, and we did many free things in those days. But the real reason was just to introduce them to something that doesn’t take much effort, and allows you to pause to consider the passing of time and seasons. Whether we have much of a seasonal change here in Paradise or not is beside the point. They loved it.

When the June gloom was so heavy that even in East County Paradise where we were living, no glimmer of golden orange light could be seen, we were always disappointed. The pleasant aspect of this disappointment, however, was that we were able to do the very same thing on the Autumnal Equinox. It is extremely rare for there to be cloud cover here at that time of the year, so we were able to promise them a make-up day not too far in the future. It is usually unbearably hot just about anywhere inland, and the build up of pollutants in the air thanks to Tijuana and Los Angeles guarantee that there will be a spectacular sunset. Unfortunately, by that date, school has begun again, and the day is a reminder that soon, darkness will come earlier and earlier — a poignant end to a carefree time of the year.

Ahh…the ebb and flow of time and seasons.

The rituals we hang on to for life and love.

June 22, 2007
Summer Trough in Paradise

There’s a significance about this summer: it’s the first one in about 10 years that the RT hasn’t had to attend a camp. Hasn’t “had” to. “Had.” He has attended camp because like many others, we worked, and he would have been alone at home for a good portion of the day if we hadn’t found something for him to do. No siblings his age to stay home with like we were able to when I was growing up. No endless days of doing absolutely nothing — although I do remember being completely entertained. Hours of black and white television reruns. Dressing up in my mom’s clothes. Mixing every ingredient in the spice cupboard and daring each other to taste it. Watching my brother take the dare. Tying my sister up and chaining her to the street sign in front of our house. Like I said — fun.

So the RT’s been packed off to a variety of YMCA camps to endure popsicle stick craft projects, “special” weekly outings, and a tough kid or two who have tried to poke him in the nose. He’s been to camps that focused on mask making and rocketry. San Diego Zoo camp, and Sea World camp. He’s had plenty of time at Camp Gramma as well, to fill in the spots between the other camps. The last two years, he’s been dropped off at UCSD, a host site for iD Tech Camps. It’s a bit pricey, but he has shown some interest in various aspects of computer technology like every other boy his age — read video games — so this was an opportunity to provide some depth learning in a couple of areas. He seemed to enjoy it, but all in all, it was still camp. No buddies to hang with. No war mongering soul mates to hunker down with and talk shop. Just camp.

This year? I guess it’s all about me. Call it Camp Mom. Apple pie, baked bread…well, not exactly. More like frozen microwavable burritos and and an IV with Black Cherry Vanilla Coke flowing from its bag. Endless trips up and down the stairs from the computer in his room, to the TV, to the PS2, to his models. Oh, and there is the daily chore of walking the dog I neglected to mention. Some movement will be involved.

What’s my role then? Balancing the inertia I’ve described above with semi-constructive “other things to do that involve learning and moving your body.” Unfortunately, I’m not very good at this but I have been thinking about it for a couple of months now.

The first things that come to mind are museums. You know — special exhibits. Things we could talk about. I picture the RT sort of slogging after his mom through these places, wishing he was in front of his computer, or tinkering with one of his tanks. That image doesn’t particularly sit well with me. Or art galleries. Take our sketch pads, do our own renditions of what we’re looking at. That could be interesting. Abstract nudes? He’d shoot those flat eyebrow darts at me for that.

And the beach is five minutes away. We could rent bikes because we don’t own them. And when the RT did own a bike, he chose not to ride it. Ever. It ended up in a parent raffle at my old elementary school, scoring me many bonus points. We could ride on the boardwalk or around the bay. I think he’d like that. We could see how many rollerbladers we could crash into, or tourists we could knock down because it’s been a while since I’ve been on a bike as well.

Or we could rent kayaks. He enjoyed it when we went to Cape Cod a couple of summers ago. Besides, Mission Bay doesn’t have the currents that Nantucket Sound does, so he wouldn’t have to worry about exerting himself, or spraining his mouse finger. Just kidding. And what about one of those boards you run, jump on, and skim across the water with before falling on your posterior? Yes, I can see myself doing that, all right. It does look fun, though. I’m thinking he’d most likely not be interested in being close enough on the beach to me that people would connect the two of us as belonging together. So maybe the better purchase is a board for him, and an umbrella for me. An umbrella, beverage, and a really juicy beach read. Except there isn’t one in that stack of books I’m wallowing through. On second thought, I do have The Bride Stripped Bare somewhere just waiting to be read…

The library is definitely in order. Once a week should do it. Yes, he always gets to choose his books. What do you think I am? I’m only a wannabe control freak. He’s always enjoyed his books, and although I’m sure he’d like to purchase them so he can savor them over and over again, we’re on a semi “what can we save if we don’t really need to spent it” kind of quest here.

I’ve heard our local branch has quite the collection and some great events scheduled, so I’ve wanted to investigate. Has he? He’s 14. He’d most likely rather rent time at Office Games over at the mall while I shop. Or hang out with the seals at Casa Beach.

I’d like to nudge him to set up his own website. He is a walking storehouse of knowledge about WWII, tanks, military vehicles, aircraft in particular, weapons, and history in general. It’s truly incredible. So in an attempt to get him to consider bringing together his knowledge, tech interests, and to sneak in some much needed writing practice–along with some graphics for good measure–I think he’d enjoy that. However, I’m only the camp director. Time will tell whether my influence leads to success.

There’s always photography and Photoshop–something he learned to use this past year at school. He can show me how to use it so I won’t have to learn. Trick. But he does click those buttons faster than I seem to be able to.

We’ll see how that goes. Camp Mom. I’m not great at it, but I’m willing to try.
You can lead a horse to water, but… if you have to, you can push its nose in the trough.

Troughs are not quite the same as hoops. It’s easier because all you have to do is fall in — or be pushed. And if it’s big enough, you can either sink or swim.

Or get a floatie and then splash water at the person who pushed you in.

June 21, 2007
Hoop Jumping and Birch Swinging

My head and heart are full.

It isn’t that on most days they aren’t, but the sense of fullness is different today. The difference is the result of something I’ve grappled with for many years — a by product of raising my sons. The result of years of observation, interaction, angst, and tribulation coming to a conclusion milestone by sometimes painful milestone.

My youngest finished his first year of high school today, and in a few weeks, will be 15. But he did not beat The Geometry Teacher. He received a “D” for his hoop-jumping efforts in her class. In this newly completed step toward the rest of his education, I’m left wondering so many things about what I have strongly held on to about learning and raising humans:

Some humans are better at being trained to jump through hoops than others. In fact, some are so good at it—it’s the point of their existence. Their day revolves around how many hoops are lined up, how far apart they are, and whether each successive hoop is positioned higher than the last. Whether the person jumping next to them is quicker, or more graceful in their quest to finish first. It isn’t about what is at the end of the hoops they crave. It’s the hoops.

Some humans are more easily missed than others. Or skipped over—like one skips a step when jogging up a flight of stairs to get to the next floor more quickly. Their non-hoop jumping idiosyncrasies are not easily understood by others, and often difficult to tolerate. They are more than capable of jumping through the hoops than many others. Many. But they don’t seem interested. What they see in the world and think about from one day to the next is difficult to know. They are quiet about much that matters, and talk about things that don’t. Hoops are not one of the things they think or talk about.

They even bruise differently than most. They haven’t figured out how caught up in the hoop game most people are. So when a zealot moves a hoop at the last minute to trick them, it takes them a while to start the game again. They are only just beginning to understand, or, if they do understand, have a tendency to forget that there are people on this earth who live to have power any way they can get it. It’s probably another reason that hoops don’t interest them. It’s all so petty.

I am not a mother of hoop jumpers. And I am routinely reminded of this fact.

I have diligently tried to raise my offspring to understand the construct of the world. But they are very content to think about, getting around to, considering, being involved, possibly participating, in life’s basic rules of engagement at their own pace. They construct their own hoops. Unfortunately, when you’re their mother, the hoops resemble hurdles. Large ones.

It’s not supposed to matter to me that so-and-so’s daughter is in “advanced this” or AP that. Or that this person’s son was recommended for such and such. That this acquaintance has a daughter that crosses all her T’s and dots all her I’s all the time. Sometimes those same people don’t understand how hard it is has been to let my children be who they are instead of what I want them to be. What I believe they can become. It’s not supposed to matter. But it does. It always has.

I’ve tried many years to act like not having a hoop circus at home doesn’t matter. I believe strongly that many have been duped about the educational system so many of us willingly send our children to each year. “All children can learn,” is what that system blithely professes. We have so willingly trusted that it will meet their every need beyond what we have worked to meet ourselves at home. But not every child fits into that system. It’s not supposed to matter. But it does. It always has.

I cringe every time I realize that my nobly held philosophy could be a sham by wanting more for my boys than they seem to want for themselves. I argue with myself that I don’t really want them to care. I swear I’m not interested in wanting them to want what society expects them to want. The way society expects it. The way the system acts like it’s structured to prepare them for.

How sad to have to admit that I want for my sons something I say I don’t believe in. I would never tell them because I have acted like a hoop jumper most of my life. And they probably figured that out a very long time ago.

One could do worse than be a mother of non-hoop jumpers. Perhaps my boys were born knowing that life is a birch and that their job on this earth is to teach me so that I will know, too.

June 19, 2007