life according to me

Tag: Attitude

Third Pounders, Slim-Fast & a Stevia Chaser to Go, Please.

I’ve got food on my brain today. I know you’re currently questioning an image of me with a fried egg on my head or something. Or perhaps wondering if I’ve gone bonkers having decided that if I lay food on my head, then I won’t be able to absorb calories, and will still be able to nourish myself. Condition my hair at the same time as well? Ah….no. I’ve succumbed. I’ve pulled the Slim-Fast from the back of the fridge. And worse? I’ve cracked open a jar of 100% Pure Stevia for my coffee this morning. And fat-free Coffee Mate. Blech. Seriously.

So that means I’ve consumed any number of barely pronounceable “ingredients,” and “minerals” this morning. *sigh* How I miss my Kashi and blueberries. And what the hell is Stevia, anyway? I saw it at Trader Joe’s, thought about it for two whole seconds and threw it in my basket right before vacation. Past experience has proven that no matter how much I have walked, or as in the case this year, swam and paddled a kayak, I return blimplike. A veritable dumpling just missing the gravy. A chubbette. Or phattissima. Have I made my point?

Retrospectively, I did not pork out on our vacation:

Chicken and Sausage Kabobs with Rice and a salad. Not big portions. Roasted veggies, mushrooms….YUM. Oh, but the MoH made Banana pancakes the next morning. Yes, and he drove them to the beach slathered in butter and “lite” syrup where my VBF and I were staked out with lounge chairs and building our compound at 8AM.

Then Grilled Tri-Tip, Roasted potatoes, and salad. Again, not big portions. Oh. But there were lovely berries and cream with chocolate chip merengues. Meringues don’t have calories, right? And berries are loaded with antioxidants. So there was only a plop of cream. Not too bad.

But there was breakfast again the next day. But then there were those grilled pork chops and quinoa salad with grilled bread. And pancakes and waffles the next morning. Oh my gawd, and then that pasta the last night with grilled sausage, chicken, veggies….And that baked blueberry crisp. With vanilla ice cream. Y-U-M.

Of course, I consumed absolutely no wine the entire time. Don’t blink or you’ll miss those low flying pigs…

Okay, so does no lunch every single day count for anything? Jeez. What am I supposed to do, starve myself?

Um…so on the way home we stopped at Mickey D’s. I just had to try one of those new angus Boi-gahz. Had. To.

What? You can’t see it quite clearly?

It actually tasted like a real hamburger. For the first time ever. And I don’t want to hear anything about Fast Food Nation, okay? Gimmeabreak. I’m not a Fast Food Frequent Flyer and I eat my grains and veggies regularly, okay? So no surprise that I’m not a vegetarian, but I have read recently that vegetarians are eating more meat… Just not Mickey D’s.

So how many calories could be in one hamburger? Huh? Uh, according to this source, only about 800. Uh, approximately three Lean Cuisine frozen entrees. That’s three lunches. No, I’m not checking on the fries. Or the Sprite. So probably four lunches.

My Slim-Fast has 190 calories. The Stevia zip.

Whatever.

Tomorrow I have to deal with the Thinner Bitch, that heartless, cold, slab of worthless metal and springs that I may launch across the street if she gives me any grief in the morning.

August 7, 2007
The Sunshine Vacation Chronicles

I have been knighted, or princessed, or smacked upside the head with yet another honor. Phil at Thought Sparks, the extraordinary guy who helped save me from ripping out my eyeballs when I switched over to my own domain, has dubbed me “Inspirational,” and that is a very cool honor. It means that Phil is willing to weed through my writer’s moods, confusing musings, and contradictory thought trajectories enough to find glimmers of purpose. It’s kind of like a roller coaster ride from one post to the next, dipping and spinning. Then rolling along smoothly until a sudden drop you didn’t anticipate sends your stomach up into your throat. Like Phil said, Inspirational. Woot! Thanks, Phil. And thanks to Christy at Writer’s Reviews whose ingenuity gave birth to a variety of positive recognitions for those in Bloggsville. I will dub those I believe are inspirational, but plan to do so over a period of time as I get back into the saddle again after being on vacation. I’m evidence that one can actually not blog for more than five days…

And to celebrate my new accolade, I will launch into the first of “The Sunshine Vacation Chronicles.” Actually, they began last night in the wee hours, as I needed to flush my attitude a bit. And having dragged my rear end out of bed somewhere around 10am today to the scent of something….ahhh….smelling not quite right, and the steady roar of the exhaust fan over our stove, I am quite rested, and ready to roll — although I’m glad I missed breakfast. The MoH saved the evidence.

Now, this is the part where you may want to take a seat in the back row and catch some zzz’s. You know. Like when you’re forced to watch a slide show of someone else’s vacation shots? Like that. Kay? For those of you inclined to stay, gird your loins and prepare for a glimpse of the more easily overlooked, but very best gems on our way to Tahoe.

High Points on the Trip Up.

We didn’t hit the road until 1:30. On a Friday. If that doesn’t sound the alarm, then you might as well give up, lay down and close your eyes. So Cal. Mid Day. The last week of July. Friday. So we’ll donate our brains to science, okay? Because no one in his or her right mind would actually PLAN to do this. But we’re the adventuresome sort. Right. So HP #1 is having ridiculously optimistic attitudes.

Downright giddy, actually.

We covered 70 miles before we had to stop on the parking lot that was supposed to be the I-15 North. We’d been driving 1 hour and 7 minutes. I could probably tell you how many gallons of gas we’d burned, the average speed, and miles per gallon our car was getting, but I’ll spare you. Yes, the MoH knows all of this and will report immediately upon request. You don’t even have to insert a quarter. Oh. I forgot. The temperature was also being tracked: it was hovering at about 100 degrees. Swell, huh? Well, my ankles and wrists did, loving excessive heat the way they do. So HP #2 is managing to get out of San Diego county before parking on the freeway in scorching afternoon heat. This traffic jam was sponsored by a minivan that didn’t quite stop when the fast lane traffic must have, so veered off the road and flipped a few hundred times. There were no ambulances, so there must have been a flock of angels hovering in the vicinity. It caused just enough commotion to stop both sides of the freeway with rubberneckers gawking at the wreckage. Eyes not on road + heavy traffic = crash.

HP #3 is creatively busying ourselves with mindless activity and pithy games to keep from paying attention to the less than interesting, scrub-covered landscape that stretches to the horizon. We keep track of license plates. I know. It’s so ’50’s, but it passes the time. Kind of like when I was a kid on road trips, my brother, sister, and I would whack each other when we saw one of those pseudo wood paneled station cars and scream, “BEAVER CAR.” Uh, no, I don’t know why they were called that particular term. Then my dad would launch a low flying whack to the side of one of our heads in retaliation. We’d resort to stealth pinching or poking from that point on until my sister whined about it and we’d get whacked again. A father’s arm reaches pretty far in a VW Beetle. Far. If you try to escape the whack, you bonk your head into the side window, then you get whacked for moving away from the oncoming whack. I guess that means we were double whacked. This is true and today, I think it’s called child abuse. So the MoH, the RT and I count license plates. We aren’t quite June and Ward, but we garnered 20 of the 50 states with Massachusetts being the one from farthest away. Poor saps. They won’t even find Dorothy or Toto in this place.

I also take note of strange things like small fenced areas in the middle of nowhere with nothing different inside the fence than what can be seen outside the fence. Areas with hand-painted signs that say, “Stop the FTAA dot org.” Hmmm… What could have been inside that crude fence at one time? And whose land was it? Only cars speeding anxiously toward the next passing lane and a series of enormous power lines were visible for miles. Whose attention could the organizers be wanting here? And why? I had to wonder about this for seven whole days until Google put me out of my misery. But I would have forgotten about it if I hadn’t seen it on the other side of the road on the way back, or been enthralled with our mindless activity. Of course, now I have to wonder about those folks and their campaign.
HP #4 was seeing all those solar collectors out in the high desert while we were racing up and over the ribbon-like road and thinking that someone had a freaking clue. According to Wikipedia,

Boron [near Four Corners] is also the home of the worlds largest solar power production facility. Florida Power and Light operates five thermal trough technology Solar Electric Generating Stations (SEGS) plants. These units generate enough electricity to provide the electrical needs of 30,000 to 40,000 homes without the use of fossil fuels.

There must have been a million of them shining in the searing heat and sending power back to a sort of conversion station at Four Corners (which had the most unbelievably long traffic light and endless number of semis mixed with racing cars waiting to pass through.) Sorry. I missed the photo of the Ferrari. But seeing the collectors just stirs up my attitude about why, why, why there can’t be more. About why it’s so difficult to push those who keep steering us toward the use of non-renewable energy.

Oh, how foolish of me. It’s money — just not ours.

Well, it was ours, and now it’s theirs. Funny how that works, don’t you think?
HP #5 was staying overnight at Mammoth. We juiced up at Starbucks in Bishop (no, there wasn’t a mom & pop coffee place open…) at about 9PM in the still sweltering heat before ending our day at a condo kindly offered by an acquaintance at the last minute. So no motels in lonely places for us. It made for a restful night, and a seriously cool trip up Mammoth Mountain on the gondolas the next day to gawk at the view and gasp in the thin air. Literally breathtaking up there on that humongous chunk of volcanic rock more than 11,ooo feet in the air.

HP #6 was thanking our lucky stars that my car managed the dirt road to Bodie, CA, a bonafide ghost town left over from the gold rush. What a stark, but beautiful place. I’m still wondering why that particular area was where Bodie decided to dig for gold at an altitude of 8400 ft., with daytime temperatures peaking in the 80’s and plummeting into the 30’s even at this time of the year. Desolate. A bit creepy even with visitors walking among the decaying buildings on a sunny day. I suppose I should read the guide we bought, huh? I was too busy taking photos.

HP #7 is that we actually made it to Lake Tahoe without a map. This was by design since it was one very long road all the way there. How hard could that be? A total of five turns were made. The bummer is that maps often can explain strange things you see on the side of the road. Like odd black rocks that rise up from the earth and gather into a formidable ridge that just ends after reaching a height of hundreds of feet. What the hell were those things, and how old were they? If it was an ancient lava flow, where the hell was the volcano? I somewhat recognized the basalt structure thanks to that geology professor at SDSU, I think. Maybe. And that very odd looking red hill jutting from the earth. Was that a fissure, or something. What was the redness about? Iron? Simply stimulating, don’t you think? Rocks completely fascinate me. Of course, so does Google, because thanks to this intelligent source, I now “get it.” Simply spectacular. Truly. You can tell I’m a nerd, right?

HP #8 is that my VBF was already at the rental in Tahoe when we arrived at 5PM and was getting chicken and sausage kabobs ready for the grill. The wine was cold, and a hammock was waiting between two pines just behind the house.Â And in less than another day, my VGF was due to arrive.

Gentle folk….start your engines…

August 6, 2007
Ranting about Urban Sprawl & Open Spaces

I long for an entire day to sit and write. To mull over the time I’ve spent away and enjoyed. To remember and feel the endless blue of Lake Tahoe wash over me. To smile at how silly to not have known of such a beautiful, relaxing place. Oh to be in that water right now…so clear. So soft. Like glass early each morning, before boaters disturb its calm.Â Not salty.Â Not murky.Â No sea grass or kelp.Â Just brisk, fresh water.
But I also need time to relax and forget the angst I feel when I have to sit on a freeway with a ridiculous number of cars attempting to go somewhere. Anywhere but where they all are, inching along. Testing one another’s patience. Pushing limits. Practicing stupidity.

I’m not good at that. I can’t say how many times I longed for a laser or something like one might find on the Starship Enterprise. Zapping another’s molecules into oblivion because they see nothing wrong with darting in and out of traffic. Speeding up to and around cars in a burst of energy and then slamming on their brakes at the last minute, making me gasp with worry about what could happen to them and others nearby. Forcing me to finally grab for my book so that I wouldn’t have to witness what might happen next. I’ve gotten to the point where I can barely sit in a car that I’m not driving because of it all. “Take a nap,” the MoH tells me. Unfortunately, that wouldn’t be possible. If I’m going to die, I’d like to know about it, or plan to go down with a very noisy fight, screaming obscenities about why idiots are allowed to drive and why they think they’re so much more important than the rest of us.

I’ve tried to blame it on the developers. Those individuals who just keep building. The ones who believe we all need to live on top of one another and then crawl to work each day on roads not intended to hold that many people. They’re just looking out for themselves. They want to make more money, so nothing else seems to matter except their bottom line. Once they’ve planted the last stupid palm tree in the last stamp sized neighborhood, they never look back to notice that on the best day, it’s difficult to see more than a mile or so through the haze.Â They don’t care.

Since I’ve traveled from our Paradise to another quite different, through the hell that is east of Los Angeles and back in this last week and can remember a time when much of that land was covered with lush farms and dairies, then I can say that I see no point to the sprawl. It’s so ugly. All of it. And it’s so very sad.

When I was small, we used to drive up the old 395 to see my grandparents who lived in Chino, and then Ontario. I remember the long two lane roads marked by broken lines of paint, and edged with enormous eucalyptus trees. I remember being able to see the wall of mountains in the distance that rose sharply into the sky. It was possible to get there without needing to drive on a highway that had more than two lanes venturing in one direction. There were no mega malls. There was no Honda complex or obscure distribution center where an unbelievable number of containers awaited loading and then shipment out to consumers elsewhere. There were no areas filled with housing so compact that our slice of Paradise looks grand in comparison.

Â Â I know I should be writing about things that are light hearted and carefree. I’ve just returned from vacation. But I’m always tired after returning — especially when I’ve had to sit in a car for 10 hours. Especially when three-quarters of the journey is filled with the most amazing beauty imaginable, and then just before arriving home, we’re welcomed back to reality with the ugliest slap possible. The slap of “who cares what happens later. Let’s just use up what we have right now. Who cares?” It reminds me of what a blast site must look like with its center wasted, and a wave of smoke emanating from that center. Somehow, “Urban Sprawl” is too kind a description, conjuring an image of a restless adolescent who has outgrown himself, stretching to ease his growth taxed limbs. Far too kind an image for this.Â Tree, anyone?Â Water, perhaps?

I have crossed the line. I am now old. I qualify for geezerhood because I wax about what once was. I find no beauty in what has evolved. I wince to imagine that it’s okay for others to have no need for personality in their neighborhoods. To want cloned strip malls or shopping meccas at an arm’s reach. To be so close to their neighbors that it won’t matter that they can’t see the sun through the haze.

Aren’t you glad I’m back?

Just refer to me as your little ray of sunshine.

August 5, 2007
And another one leaves Paradise.

My mom has loaded up and is getting into her little white car tomorrow at about 3:00 AM. She’s sold her casita in the hills, and the last few real possessions other than clothes have been gifted, donated, or bartered away. Although she has had to make the difficult decision to leave a dear Tabby with a neighbor, she has Emily, a cat abandoned at birth, and close companion for nearly ten years accompanying her. She also has one of her own three sisters, packed and ready to go along for the ride. The 3,000 mile journey is sure to be Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. And they will take no prisoners.

Tomorrow morning before the crack of dawn with Willie Nelson blasting on her radio, her neighbors will be treated to “On the Road Again” well before they’re ready to rise. They’ll know that “E” is gone. That she’s left town. She’s outta Dodge. And a Hearty High-Ho Silver — Away! Any person unfortunate enough to stumble out of bed to figure out what all the racket is about could be treated to a couple of flying fingers of fate extended from the car windows– one from each side, barely visible, but recognizable through the dust.

She’s off to Virgina to start over again. It’s for the last time, she has said, but I’ll believe that when I see it. No, she’ll not likely be back in Paradise anytime soon, although she’s lived here since 1968. A lifetime of wanderlust has finally taken a gentle hold and nudged her to head somewhere else. Anywhere else but here. The expense and the summertime heat has gotten to her. The dust and the grit of living out in the hills. The unwillingness to tolerate for One. More. Day. the motley assortment of individuals who inhabit the community she has called home for more than six years. My sister moved to Virginia in December and that has been another factor. No, she’ll not be back. I know this. Although she has lived in Arizona, California, Florida, South Carolina, and Spain, the decision to move from one place to the next has never been hers. For the very first time, it is.

Quite a milestone.

She’ll be 70 this December, so those of us stuck in Paradise will head to the Right Coast, gather ourselves into a little bunch, and launch her into her eighth decade on this planet. She’s always been full of piss and vinegar, of fire and brimstone, of little insecurities and quiet regret, but she’s healthy as a horse.

For a while, I wasn’t sure she’d go. First she was, and then she wasn’t. Elation, then dejection. Emails flying furiously across the miles, and phone calls that should have been on conference call with everyone involved throwing in their two cents. Angry words, less than pleasant thoughts, and depressing Google searches for “senior services” or “jobs for senior citizens” and “cheap rentals” filled our time.

Her desire to move to a place away from here and into a small home next to a big tree waned. It all became too large for her. She exhausted herself and us with it all. We ran out of ideas. Out of suggestions. Had no patience left for any of it.

Time came to the rescue like it always does. It passes more slowly than desired, forcing hard thought about choices. The act of planning is constructive, but at the same time a struggle with emotion always accompanies any decision made. Is this the right thing to do? Will I be okay? Who am I leaving behind? Will I regret this decision, or will it be the best I’ve ever made? I’ve always said I’ve wanted to go and never have. This is my chance…

I wish I could afford space on a billboard somewhere along a winding road that she might see which says, “Bon Voyage.” Or purchase a message to display across the silver surface of the Goodyear blimp, looming slowly over the horizon one day to encourage her along. Perhaps a plane to script a message in the sky to send love. But I can’t.

And I don’t quite know how to tell her how proud I am of her and her decision. That I wish the best for her and know that this is the very best thing for herself she has ever done. Ever.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

It has guided me for so many, many years and I wish it to carry you along as well.

You go, Mom! Kick butt and take names the entire freaking way. Find a hundred great places to write, “E Was Here.” Make your mark. Beep and wave at people you don’t know, just because you can. And absolutely make sure that you slam the door as hard as you possibly can on the way out.

No mooning, though. Kay?

July 20, 2007
Macro Views: Avoidance

I have no energy today. No “get up and go.” It all got up and went. I’m not sure what has sucked it out of me, but I’m non-existent. Evaporated.

When I’m like this, I struggle to find humor in anything. I’m flat. Everything feels heavy and in need of microanalysis. Things that shouldn’t matter, matter. I don’t dare read the newspaper or I will find myself sobbing at my inability to help some poor soul in a country whose name I can’t pronounce. When I realize a funk is upon me, it’s too late. I can’t do anything to correct it. I meander. I drift from one task to another, my heart not rising to any worthwhile occasion. I clean up my email in box, filing and deleting. I give a weak effort at collecting a few things from the RT’s room while he’s away for the week, knowing I should thoroughly clean the entire place, but rationalize not doing it because it’s his room. Not mine.

The patio and sunlight are a magnet, and I want to be outside so the soft breeze can soothe me–or distract me from constructive activity. I take hold of my pruners and move from plant to plant, dead heading, snipping the spent blooms to encourage another round. They fall to the flagstones as I cut and scatter around the base of each pot. It’s quiet, contemplative work.

As my eyes focus on minute characteristics of my small garden and its population of tiny insects, my mind works to hone in on what is troubling me, because I know something is.

It’s a game of sorts to decide how easily to acknowledge that I know what it is. Do I admit it to myself? Or do I immerse myself in the possibilities, all the while chastising myself for having anything at all worthwhile to be preoccupied with.

My camera usually comes out because it’s a good excuse to play with the macro setting which often finds objects I can’t see — even with my glasses on.

Some of what I find is lovely, even though few would admit to thinking a bug is beautiful. What I see in the images sparks a bit of wonder, curiosity, and effectively deters me from thinking about myself and whatever was on my mind.

I could use this time to sort through what’s troubling me, but I don’t have to. There isn’t a deadline, no one is waiting, and nothing will happen if I fail to pinpoint the annoyance. If I acknowledge what’s bothering me, I may have to rise to the occasion and take care of it. I don’t want to take care of it. My “Take Care of It” window is closed. I’m only now realizing that it may not ever open again and that I’ll just crouch behind the counter in the dark, waiting quietly for whomever knocks to go away.

Because I have to immediately see what I’ve aimed my tiny Canon at, I end up back at my monitor loading and examining the images. I turn up the volume on one of my play lists and begin my writing, thinking…and avoidance. Fiona Apple or Liz Story’s Night Sky Essays and “Valse d’Amelie” are perfect accompaniments to my thoughts, but today, they’re only encouraging my dreary mood. As is Elton John’s “Belfast.”

I’m a laborious writer. I don’t have difficulty deciding what to write, or being motivated to write. I edit as I write, then review paragraphs and the entire text many, many times. I rarely write in a free thinking manner. Every comma, sentence fragment, run on, ellipsis or series of dashed phrases are thought about. Mulled over. Ridiculously.

The editing works wonders today because time passes, the songs on the play list change, and my sadness has shifted into an edgy kind of irritability. I’m annoyed. At least I’ll get something done now.

Hell, even the insects on the patio are being productive.

I’m lower on the food chain than a bug, not getting anything done.

But I’ll be out in that ocean today at 5PM, burning calories, and working my sore muscles, pretending like I want to have a different body than I do. One that I didn’t want when I had it. One that I didn’t want anyone to notice. Ever.

We’re supposed to want that, right?

Thinness.

Is that one of the rules?

July 19, 2007
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
BBQs & Choosing Happiness at The Home Depot
I forgot to look at my horoscope yesterday morning, and therein lies the rub.

You see, I never have been very good at running errands. I’m especially poor at it now that I rarely have to leave the house if I choose not to. The whole idea of putting on make-up, shading in my sad excuse for eyebrows, and tying back my unruly hair just to take care of the odds and ends of our life is tiresome. All that starting and stopping — getting in and out of cars. So gauche. So we tolerate things that don’t quite work, or need adjustments, or go without something that needs replacing. Shabby chic?

I spent years semi-silently grousing about not being able to take care of such things because I was teaching and couldn’t call for appointments, let alone actually go to an appointment. If I could only find the time…It seemed that everyone else in the world had closed up shop before I could get there. Poor, sad creature. Mistreated and maligned soul.

I shouldn’t be complaining because my exercise in futility yesterday couldn’t have been for a greater cause. Last Sunday, the MoH and I went on a BBQ finding expedition. Our beast has seen better days, and although still functional, it’s only a matter of time that the cooked-on grease holding it all together finally gives way and it collapses right in the middle of a swanky get together with just a few of our very dearest friends. Okay, well it sounds good, right? The swanky part. Not the crashing thing.

We looked at BBQs with stainless steel exteriors, ceramic grates, steel grates, drawers, and cabinets. We looked at rotisseries, burners, split lids, and sliding propane holders. Did we purchase one? No. Because we don’t have a truck. So I called a few days later to graciously inquire as to whether there is a cost associated with putting a BBQ together. I imagined that I might tackle it, but my dremel would most likely not get the job done. And the image of a crazed woman, hair on ends, a hammer and wrench clutched in a vise-like grip, and crouched in a corner of the garage waiting like a fiend for the MoH to arrive home did cross my mind. No, I would not be putting the BBQ together, so purchasing the big box wasn’t going to happen. Besides, I could also picture the big box falling out of the trunk of my car while driving up the hill, rolling backward for some distance, and picking up speed until it crashed into the brand-spanking new Mercedes CL550 coupe following me up the hill. Oops.

Perhaps I could have the BBQ delivered? “Can’t you borrow a friend’s truck?” the man on the phone from customer service inquired. I wondered whether his ingenuity had allowed this question to come forth, or if he’s coached to ask this of customers. I quickly searched my mental Rolodex of friends, woefully knowing before I became too engrossed in the task that we knew of only one person who owned an SUV. No one who owned a truck. Well, my brother owns a truck, but he’s an hour away, and all that hullabaloo just to get a BBQ to our house?

So I doctored up my face, made sure my arm pits were smelling fresh, and just for good measure, spritzed on one of at least ten flavors of body sprays I’ve collected from the RT’s gift giving, before backing out of the garage smelling like a cross between a cucumber and a melon. You know. Fresh. Salad-like? Ready to take on the day. The sunroof was open, and the new CD I burned yesterday was playing on the Bose. Good attitude, right? Making the best of a situation I don’t prefer. Going to buy my sweetie a BBQ for Father’s Day. He’s worth it — fab Dad that he is.

Do I have to tell you that they didn’t have any of the BBQs we picked out Sunday?
- There was no one to answer questions once I arrived. Even after I stood near the BBQs, waiting, patiently.
- No one came after I asked the customer service lady about getting assistance. Nicely.
- The second time I went to customer service, the young man followed me to the BBQs but couldn’t answer my questions, so had to call someone else for help. I looked at the new Weber’s grilling recipe book. Patiently.
- The next guy confirmed they had 5 of the model we liked in stock, but couldn’t find one anywhere — in or out of a box. I followed him on an in-store field trip looking for BBQs. But would I like him to call another store?
- Yes, he called another store, who said they also had 5, already put together, and would I like one reserved, and 25 bucks off for my trouble? An officer and a gentleman, that guy. Things were certainly looking up!
- I couldn’t find the other store — 20 minutes away. Even after driving down the rather lengthy road. It wasn’t where I thought it was. There was not a single gigantic orange Home Depot sign in sight.
- I wondered what my horoscope had been for the day.
- 411 knew of no Home Depot on that street.
- I called 411 for the first store to confirm that there IS a Home Depot on that street. They insisted it was.
- I pulled into the Bank of American ATM to get cash because I never have money in my wallet.
- I then pulled into the Mc Donald’s to order a Big Mac meal (non-super sized, thank you — at least I hadn’t completely gone berserk) and stuffed my face while driving back down the very lengthy road, getting secret sauce on my face all the while, and guzzled diet Coke which I really don’t like.
After finding The Home Depot, which actually did have a sign, around the corner on the other street, my stomach quite full considering I haven’t slummed at Mickey D’s for months and months, my guilt about eating Muck Phood just beginning to bloom, the 9 million calories… I cheerfully shopped and gathered hickory chips, a light for the BBQ, and raided the plant section to spruce up my patio. I approached the customer service desk, my basket a raucously colorful display of flowers, and myself, cheerful just by association. “Hello,” I said, knowing that I’d soon be done and home. The such and such store called about reserving a BBQ for me? It has my name on it and should be here.”
- They sent me to the contractor’s counter.
- The contractor people didn’t know what I was talking about so sent me back to the customer service counter.
- The lady at customer service greeted me with an, “Oh. You’re back,” and smiled sweetly with no discernible hints of sarcasm. I asked her again about the reserved BBQ, and she said I needed to go outside to the “Summer Sale” jumble of BBQs, lawn sets, and other seasonal stuff.
- I did. There was no BBQ with my name on it, but there were three that might be kind of like the one I’d been trying to valiantly less than half-heartedly purchase for my MoH. The employee was squeezing through the rows of BBQs raising covers and looking at tags. She wasn’t sure. I asked her about delivery or truck rental while she was looking, but she had little information. She told me I had to go back inside to take care of that. “But we only have one truck,” she adds, “and it’s on a first come first serve basis. We don’t call you to let you know it’s back. You have to wait for it.” I pictured myself, sucking on the warm Diet Coke left in the car, waiting for the rent-by-the-hour Home Depot truck to get the BBQ home. I pictured myself driving the truck.
- I called the MoH and told him he would to have to rent the truck after work.
- I went back inside. “Oh, you’re back,” the perky person I had spoken to earlier said again. “Do you have a SKU?”
- I wondered again what my horror-scope must have been.
- I didn’t have an SKU. I turned to go back outside, but she stopped me, and said she’d go instead. You think it may have been because my face was five shades of purple by this time, and I was totally over this shopping experience? After she returned, she wanted me to go back out and choose the one I wanted. I followed her. Smiling.
- We got out to the sale jumble area again, and the employee I spoke with earlier avoided making eye contact with me. She was now very helpful, suddenly more alert, informative. My BBQ was tagged. It said S-O-L-D in very large letters on a piece of paper stuck to the tags that showed it had been marked down 60 bucks since Sunday.
- I paid for my things, was handed a direct number to the customer service desk to ask about the truck rental just in case I had any more difficulty.
The MoH went to the store last night after work and saw the truck sitting there, but someone else had already called and was coming to get it. First come first serve? So he came home without the BBQ after waiting an hour for the truck. Taco Bell on the way home seemed to make it all right. No, I absolutely did not have Taco Bell.

But this morning, I did read yesterday’s horror-scope:

Invite as many people as you can to the party because it’s truly a the-more-the-merrier type of day. The power of your personality is what influences people. Keep smiling. Happiness is a choice.

I should really go rent that big damn truck today and bring that BBQ home myself. I just don’t know how I’d get it off the flatbed after I got it here. So the MoH will have to try again to get his BBQ home tonight. And I’ll be happy to go with him, because happiness is a choice.

And if we’re lucky, The Home Depot will not have sold our already paid for BBQ.

I wonder how we’re going to get the old beast out of here after the new one arrives? Anyone want a free BBQ? It still works.
June 15, 2007
gratitude = sum of the parts > the whole

We used to live in a house 25 miles east of Paradise. Yes, still Paradise, but worlds away from here for all kinds of reasons. It was about as beautiful as the suburbs could be in a place that should still be a desert covered with scrubby bushes and hillsides speckled with strangely rounded boulders instead of houses and neighborhood malls. We were fortunate enough to happen upon this house at a time in our lives when we needed more space: my two older boys were just entering their adolescence, our youngest was still not one, and my mom was getting pretty tired of her life and wanted a change. Only one family had lived in this house before us — a family of three. The man had died 10 years earlier, so the woman had stayed until she could no longer care for herself and was moved to a care facility somewhere near her daughter on the East Coast. For the longest time, the house still felt as if it belonged to her. Her child had grown up in the house, and they had lived there for almost 50 years.

One of the things I loved about the house was the view. Nearly every window provided a pleasant treescape, or views of distant hills that, if you woke up early enough, afforded a gorgeous sunrise. And I was up early quite a bit in those days, because 6-month-old babies do wake up earlier than most of us want them to.

As my life became more crowded with the kinds of things we all grapple with, I found myself feeling put upon, and frazzled. At times, I swore that I could feel the person I was supposed to be sinking farther and farther away, as if drowning. Before bed each night most often after everyone else had long since retired, I’d quietly venture out into the yard and look into the dark sky to say my penance for spending so much of my day being dissatisfied with what I had.

I knew there had to be something up there willing to hear me list all the things I acknowledged I was thankful for — because I didn’t want to give the wrong impression. “I love my kids, I love my husband, I have a job, I have a nice house, we’re all healthy, we have food…” the litany went each night, attempting to seal in what I was thankful for.

Although I remember this with tiny shards of sadness, I reluctantly drag it to the surface as a sort of measuring stick. So much is different now. Time has a way of doing that. But time isn’t enough. Many other factors must be considered to acknowledge what I am truly grateful for without it being an apology to the night sky. I realize that if I hadn’t lived those days, I would be less than who I am now. It all adds up. So this is my contribution. Thanks to Dave for passing on the opportunity to convey my gratitude, although perhaps not as eloquently expressed as his.

So if you are someone who finds your cup a bit empty instead of full, take the time to make your own list. And if you’re someone who likes to create two lists — one with plusses, and one with minuses, I guarantee you’ll never get to the minus side of things if you always start with the plusses. Come on. Pay it forward. Do it now. There. I nodded in your direction.

I have gratitude for my family — but specifically my boys.

Mmmm….b-o-y-z. I love my men, men, men, men…because they are just flat out different. Refreshingly not like me. They just don’t get caught up in all the total crap that females do. They make life so much easier unless I want a reason to get worked up, and then they’re really good at being the reason I get worked up — because they’re not like me. You get that, right?

I’m thankful — so very thankful for the relationship that the MoH and the RT have.

They truly like one another. The MoH still gets warm & fuzzy attention from the RT who is very comfortable with hug & love stuff. The MoH and I must have done some pretty effective modeling in our spare time. I didn’t have a relationship with a father, and didn’t get to observe my brother having one, either, so I’m curious about the whole Dad thing. Curious — which is different than wanting, needing, or wishing. Or hoping. And put a cork in the guilt while you’re reading this, Mom because that’s a complete waste of time. Ahem…moving right along…

Though my intensity would rival that of a laser, I’m grateful for my ability to notice small things

that bring me to a screeching halt long enough to breathe and wonder about nothing in particular —

— like the way sun comes in to brighten up the house after so many days of grey.

Things sparkle, shine, and amazing shadows emerge for just a minute or two, and then are gone.

Somebody has to notice those things and share them with others, right? So I guess my tiny digital camera gets the nod as well. Now if I could only figure out the macro thing, I’d be set.

I’m grateful for that old Betty Crocker cookbook and a mom who shoved a cast iron skillet in my hand and said, “Make dinner for the family,” when I was still pretty young. I never cease to find pleasure in thinking about food, cooking food, serving food, and eating food. Oh — and the people who eat my food. Mmmmm…..food. I absolutely love it — and them for enjoying it.

So that leads to gratitude for my developing relationship with my scale, and the respect I have for my control or lack of control, which can be pretty powerful. Boy that’s a constant argument I have with myself. To have more, or not to have more…simply more…More tasty is working better than just more…Having a brain that processes this factors in here somewhere.

And I’m grateful for people like this who make me smile on my less than exciting walks,

because I just wonder, “What were they thinking?” and then have to be even more grateful that I could never be as hateful as the person who then threw something corrosive on her driveway and ruined the prettiness she was so proud of, and not wanting people to spoil with their “turning around in her driveway” tires.

And I would be even more grateful if people like that didn’t exist. But that’s asking too much, right? Because we’re all supposed to be thankful we aren’t them. But cockroaches are small enough to step on, so someone could have figured out how to rid us of the mean folk.

In my next life, I would like to hope and wish to be grateful for patience. If there’s a line for that somewhere, help me make sure I get in it.

May 10, 2007
Complexity + Change = Simplicity

The following segment of Julius Caesar by Shakespeare used to be posted on a bulletin board above my desk a few years ago:

There is a tide in the affairs of men,

Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;

Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Is bound in shallows, and in miseries.

On such a full sea are we now affloat;

And we must take the current when it serves,

Or lose our ventures.

On first glance, it seems to be a bit gloomy, fatalistic. On another — and to me at that point in the extremely difficult work we were engaged in — it meant something very hopeful, promising. It meant that if what we were trying to do was going to work, then it was going to be “now,” and that everyone needed to join in to make it happen. Unfortunately, I also knew that many of those involved did not want to be a part of any change, for any reason. Being involved wasn’t on their agenda. They were mired in their day-to-day existence, and not loving it. Often, that routine — whether enjoyable or not — is something concrete that can be depended upon. The tension around the idea of “letting go” and trying something different, or learning and growing as a common endeavor was too enormous for many, and so, our work failed. That sounds so dismal.

To think about it in a different way, you have to picture a surfer who is waiting for that perfect wave. She gets ready, is up, is going to go for it, begins to coast up that curl toward the seemingly elusive tunnel ahead of her as the wave grows, but somehow the power is just not with her. She misses it and rides over the back of the wave, watching it rush to the shore without her. Of course there are other waves…Other beaches…

During that time, I was recommended a book by Margaret J. Wheatley called Turning to One Another: Simple Conversations to Restore Hope to the Future. It’s a beautiful book I had hoped to glean something from to encourage the work I referenced above. In leafing through it now — several years past — I know now what I suspected then. Ideas of this kind would have been scoffed at by those who were afraid of opening themselves up to change. Ideas of this nature were threatening to them. Ideas about “the courage of conversation…”

Where can we find the courage to start a good conversation? The answer is found in the word itself. ‘Courage’ comes from the Old French word for heart (cuer). We develop courage for those things that speak to our heart. Our courage grows for things that affect us deeply, things that open our hearts. Once our heart is engaged, it is easy to be brave. ( p. 25)

Ideas about “willing to be disturbed…”

We can’t be creative if we refuse to be confused. Change always starts with confusion; cherished interpretations must dissolve to make way for the new. Of course it’s scary to give up what we know, but the abyss is where newness lives. Great ideas and inventions miraculously appear in the space of not knowing. If we can move through the fear and enter the abyss, we are rewarded greatly. We rediscover we’re creative. (p. 37)

Ideas about being “willing to reclaim time to think…”

If we can pause for a moment and see what we’re losing as we speed up, I can’t imagine that we would continue with this bargain. We’re forgetting the very things that make us human. Our road to hell is being paved with hasty intentions. I hope we can notice what we’re losing — in our day-to-day life, in our community, in our world. I hope we’ll be brave enough to slow things down. (p. 96)

So it’s Friday. Time to slow down, time to converse about possibilities, time to reflect, and be creative. For me, that means giving Photoshop some time and learning how to create different images with the photos I’ve taken around here. Here’s a sample of what I’ve done so far. The one below — not above. The RT did that one. Not bad for a mouse potato, huh? Well, actually, a pair of mouse potatoes. Now I just have to figure out how to get mine into the header on my other blog. But not today. That’s a working kind of webmastering thing. I just want to create. Well, I may have to do some housework. Feh!

Have a peaceful weekend…

May 4, 2007