life according to me

Tag: Responsibility

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
There’s No Vacationing in Bloggsville.

This business of blogging during the summer is rather interesting. I have come to realize how much I expect certain individuals to just “be out there” and when they have the audacity to go on vacation? Well, it’s kinda quiet in Bloggsville. The kind of quiet that happens when you arrive at a friend’s front porch and knock on the door expecting them to be there, and then they’re not. But you’re still there under that porch light. The one with the golden glow that hasn’t stopped the moths from practicing their persistent dance around its perimeter. Standing there. Alone. Holding the tuna casserole you baked especially to share. *ewww* I’m thinking a few nights there were actually crickets chirping just loudly enough to punctuate those bloggers’ absence.

Vacationing?

You were vacationing? Is that allowed? I mean, come on.

There’s no vacationing in Bloggsville.

What? Your life matters, and you have a family? Whoa. Where’s your commitment to the cause? Your dedication? Your principles? Sheesh.

And no, I wasn’t getting even by not writing since Friday. Technically, I wrote that wonkin’ meme on my other blog, so that counts. You know we have weekend-itis around here. We christened the opening of our local race track this past weekend by flopping down in our sand chairs, stretching out our legs, lazing in the overcast greyness of the day and slapping two dollar bets on the “grey horse,” “number 8,” “that good jockey,” or the “50/1” horse.

Okay, so those are the kind of bets I make. And I usually make the bet to place or show — rarely win. Why? It’s economical. More chances to actually win something. I think I cashed in on a whole $3.20 on one horse. Is that cool, or what? That’s like income to me about now. Let’s see — earn over 100% on an investment that pays out in less than two minutes while I’m sitting on my caboose. Not bad. Not bad at all. My husband does the whole numbers thing — of course. The Racing Form, past performance, adjustments in class, blah, blah, blah…I usually do as well as he does for all his analysis. It’s a numbers addiction. I’m telling you. Numbers…Mmmmmm…numberzzzzzzzzz.. On the way home, we were treated to a lovely sunset and a view of the hot air balloons that launch from Del Mar each evening. Wouldn’t that be something to do… Um… Honey?

If you add up all the weekends we’ve been making like tourists, it comes close to a vacation. It’s fairly easy to pretend to be on a vacation here, which is nice. We have successfully avoided the Zoo and Seaworld — which is about 10 minutes from our house — but I did see a gleam in my husband’s eye the other day when the Zoo came up, because they have “Nights at the Zoo.” Has anyone figured out all the animals are asleep? What do you look at for hoot’s sake? Owls?

It looks like our turn for a real vacation is just around the corner. We weren’t sure we were going to make it, but it looks like we’ll be gone for about eight days with friends and their families. No hotels. No maids, no room service, and lake water as cold about as warm as the ocean in Paradise. All night poker games and trashy romance or crime novels. We’re chipping in on a Lake Tahoe rental near the beach (completely more cost effective to stay on the Left Coast). So we’ll be cooking up a storm, and making beds ourselves. Raiding the refrigerator in the night. Parading in “public” in our jammies. And swimming, and hiking, a possible sunset cruise on a catamaran, and horseback riding? Water skiing? Kayaks? Maybe. I’m sure there’s a casino visit or two on the agenda as well. Fun will be had by all. Well, except maybe for my youngest whom we’re dragging along. We were hoping to bring along his cousin, but that didn’t work out. The doldrums of pseudo only-childness at the age of 15. We’ll keep him hopping and he’s a good sport, so all should be quite well.

My older boys will hold down the fort while we’re away and put a dent in the food in the freezer and fridge. I’m sure I’ll have a wealth of hairballs and pet yack to scrape off the rug when we return. I think it’s the way the mules get even with us for leaving them.

Of course, like the very responsible person that I am, I will try to keep you enthralled from afar. I’ll bet you just can’t wait. But if I can’t figure out how to do it, then I want you to remember those crickets chirping mournfully in the dark when you click up to my bloggstep and I’m not home.

Just don’t throw your Swedish Meatball Delight at me.

July 25, 2007
If I want it…

In the movie Field of Dreams, there is a line that goes something like this: If you build it, they will come. I know the character that mulls over these words is thinking about baseball, but I’m thinking those words apply to life in general. And I’ve been known to bend those words a bit to suit my own purposes saying things like: If you spend it, it will come. But I’m trying not to do that as much as I used to considering the MoH is the one paying the bills. And I have no need for the things I used to. But it’s an interesting concept, don’t you think?

It implies that if you are someone who is willing to think that there will always be more, then there most likely will be. I know what you’re thinking. There are people who have very little and I’m being glib about something quite serious. Yes, I also know there’s fine line between being a spendthrift and being optimistic. Deciding how you’ll walk that line is another interesting concept. The idea, of course, is to live with an eye to possibilities instead of constantly grousing about what you don’t have.

So apply this ~~esoteric thinking~~ drivel to my work today. Call it priming my creative pump. Call it learning to love Photoshop. Call it educational: enjoyable, thoughtful, interesting. Time-consuming.

Call it……Avoidance.

Aren’t most of the tasks we engage in to avoid other, less mesmerizing responsibilities, fun? I truly remember rejoicing in my dust ball collecting when I was writing my Master’s Thesis. Or picking lint off of the carpet while being less than diligent about studying for final exams in college. Grabbing the feather duster to flick away that hard to reach cobweb, or streak of barely discernible dust on the bookshelf. This is no different.

But it’s worse.

I have no real deadline for getting anything done. I’m at my own mercy. I’m armed and dangerous with a real attitude on life about having a frame of mind on possibilities. About knowing that if I think positively about something I want badly, something that matters to me deeply….it happens. It does. Am I charmed? Most likely not. These things don’t fall from the sky.

What are they? These things, these possibilities? If I peer carefully enough, will I see them now? Are they right in front of me, and I haven’t noticed? What is it I really want?

Monster keeps bothering me with their less than interesting crumbs. The idea of putting a suit on makes me itchy. Leave the house every single day? It would most likely only take a few days to get used to it again. But giving in to something like that is most likely the real avoidance. Taking a job will keep me from having to pinpoint those possibilities now that I can.

Now that I have no reason not to.

But I’d rather play with my Mac. I can’t take credit for the Pig-Big, though. The RT did that. I’ll bet you didn’t know the RT was a farm kid, did you? I told you The Big didn’t really look like a dog.

I’m thinking a line of greeting cards… See how quickly I can change the subject? Oh, and don’t forget. I cook, too. That’s why I should have a spot in one of these photos for my not-so-sleek self. But you should see my creme brulee….Ooooooo you have no idea how good it was.

Okay, how about a little cafe of my own?Â With pig greeting cards.Â And dogs allowed.Â You can tell I don’t want a job, right?

July 11, 2007
Where in Hell did the day go this time?
Do you know what’s worse than being a dedicated blogger, don’t you? Being a dedicated cook. A cook with a cooking blog. And what could possibly top that? Having said blogs and having your husband at home for a week. It isn’t that he’s here that causes the problem — it’s the hopping and moving and shaking. You know. Going places and doing things. So blogging in general causes the first round of why the hell my house looks the way it does, and the MoH being on vacation mode (a much deserved one btw) really sends the ol’ hacienda over the edge. Over the edge and into the dump. The good thing about all of this? We’ve done every thing there is to do, so now the RT and I can grow roots for the rest of the summer. Trick.

So what did I do today with resolve to shower first thing, read the paper to ~~stay abreast of cutting edge news~~ find something blogworthy, exercise, and get some much needed house projects done — which really means make a bigger mess than already exists. What did I do? I’ve been checking out other’s blogs. For TWO HOURS. There is simply not enough time in the day to do what I want to do. I find that to be a problem. I could use an additional six hours to take care of my responsibilities. The list grows as I write:
1. Revamp my Phoodplan. Let’s face it, I was doomed to failure from the start. But there’s more to it. Does it make sense that for eight weeks I was excellent. On the job — well, okay, four. Four serious weeks, with four more of a dwindling, oozing kind of problem. But still. My VBF did come around again, we did start walking at the crack of freaking dawn again, and after getting within spitting distance (if you’re a weak spitter) of the magical 10 lubs lost mark, I popped up four lubs. So being the human I am, I flipped the flying bird to the Thinner bitch in my bathroom and stopped measuring and writing, and doing everything related to the Phoodplan except walk — a few miles a day at least five days a week. And guess what? I stayed the same. How can that be? So today (after diligently eating branflakes with 1% and blueberries……and later two pieces of raisin cinnamon toast……with butter &@#$***&$@%%%%%…..)I’m going to revise what I said I’d do. And hell no, I’ll not lose 50 lubs by September. But that shouldn’t be the goal. More later. sounds noble, doesn’t it?
2. Clean my refrigerator. You should see it. Really. We’re at the “shoving it in and slamming the door before everything else falls out” code mold stage of non-Martha-ness with our refrigerator. My middle son dropped by the other day, opened the fridge to get some milk and after lining up a few cartons on the counter asked, “So what kind of a problem are you guys having with milk?” with a smirk on his face. I let him know that it’s not a problem, but simple: whole milk for the ice cream recipe, 1% for my cereal, half ‘n’ half for the MoH’s tea, whipping cream for the creme brulee recipe, 2% for the RT and his addiction to chocolate milk, buttermilk for the sorbet recipe, and heavy cream for the chocolate cake recipe. Okay, so maybe it’s a problem.
3. Cook and post recipes from less fat laden sources. Not nearly as fun, and often not as tasty — but not always. My body and my refrigerator would be forever thankful. But the dairy council of American will most likely send a hit squad out to get me. Or I’ll have mad cows on my doorstep mooing in protest. On second thought, that may be more conducive to sleep than the army of lawnmowers and hedge cutters outside first thing this morning.
4. Get a job. Ugh. I don’t want a job. I’d like to earn some money occasionally, though. Or even routinely. That might be nice. I do remember it was swell to have a dollar in my wallet once in a while. Bear in mind I didn’t say I didn’t want to work. There’s a big difference between having a job and working. I should clarify by saying that I’d like to earn money in a less than typical eight-to-five way. I’m not going to mention too loudly the earn money from home thing, because I could write for an entire week about that racket and its related gimmicks, purple kool-aid drinkers, and downright scum-sucking scammers. I’ll save that story for another day, also. I’ll call it, “How Not to Be the Poster Child for the Work At Home Scam Sucker Born Last Minute.”
5. Try to get straight all the summer reality TV shows we’re watching. Really. I need a tote board or something. The person who used to scoff at others for wasting their time with such drivel. Me. Sanctimonious moi. “The Next Food Network Star,” “Top Chef,” “Hell’s Kitchen,” and “So You Think You Can Dance” all compete for our time. Thank goodness for our DVR. Otherwise, we’d have to watch….uh…..I dunno? Maybe we could each vanish into separate rooms in the house doing our own thing instead of being together in the family room familying like the good family we are. I haven’t written about any of these shows like I have in the past with American Noodle, but that isn’t because I haven’t wanted to. So much to say, so little time….But I will take the time to say this: I found someone who Giada drives as crazy as me. You know. That woman with the teeth and the cleevage who acts like she can cook. Check out Jerry’s well executed tirade at Cooking By the Seat of My Pants. I think he’s my hero.
6. Keep making progress on my pile o’ books. I’m experimenting with sidebar widgets because I less than love writing book reviews. Especially when I haven’t loved the book. It’s like kicking a dead horse. Well, maybe not all the time. But I’ve got to have some credibility, right? Let you know where I am with that pile. What’s shining, and what’s to be avoided — just in case you’re inclined to dash to the bookstore to ready a Pulitzer winner that’s five years old instead of the newest. Right? I just finished this and this, and am getting ready to read this . I just bought it. I know. I said I wouldn’t spend money for books. But I couldn’t resist. It’s a problem. Read, Spot, read. See Spot go.
7. Catch up and keep up with my food blog posts. They take freaking forever to write. And Typepad loads the photos soooooooo slowly. I have gazillions of photos of food I’ve made and only a fraction of them posted. It’s grueling. Salads, desserts, main dishes, breakfast food. *sigh* I believe I did find in my food blog surfing yesterday, a cool new flickr toy that will make it all so much easier — and eye appealing. I’ll get back to you on that one.
8. Say thanks to a few people on the internet who have recognized me….
- Mel at Freak Parade who I miss quite a bit, who has decided that I’m a Rockin’ Blogger. Woot! I wondered what that rumbling was all about. Does it help burn calories? Mel is an outstanding human whom I enjoy tremendously. Her blog makes me laugh, stirs me to frustrated anger, and makes me cry.
- Ev, the ever busy and ubiquitous personality behind My Life is Murphy’s Law, has deemed me worthy of an Imaginif award. It was started by Megan at Imaginif, a site dedicated to keeping children safe in all ways. I know my 15 year-old is safe. He’s a house potato like me. Yep, I know what he looks at on line, too. That’s my job!
- Steve at Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Blogosphere, 100 Bloggers, and Joyful Jubilant Learning — quite the involved and industrious group of individuals — wrote a great post recognizing my writing which always makes me puffier than I already am from all that food loving I engage in. He found me on the Technorati Billy Collins trail which I have to check out, being the Billy fan that I am. What an interesting way to be found on the Internet. Kind of like a needle in a haystack. But he found me!
Thanks for the kudos! And apologies that it’s belated. It’s heartfelt just the same. I will begin my thinking on when and how to pass the recognition along….
July 10, 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