Something New Every Day

Well, I learned three new things today.

1. Potato plants can and will grow from eyes cut out of store-bought spuds.

2. What said plants actually look like.

3. Don't pull up the aforementioned plants, thinking they are weeds. You will both be pleasantly surprised at the find and hit with viceral remorse that you've just killed a food-bearing part of your family.

And in other news, the watermelons and serrano chiles in my garden are doing fantastically well (why I felt the need to plant no less than 5 serrano plants is beyond me--I can cook spicy but not that spicy).

We'll Call This a Lesson Learned

I've just returned from an extended weekend at Mammoth. Because airline service isn't provided from San Diego to there yet (but it is coming), the trek must be done via automobile and done through either the snarl that is Riverside/San Bernadino or vortex that is LA. Either way, it is one long-ass car ride.

Or better: road trip. See, I have a secret rule that any car ride that last longer than five hours is actually a secret road trip. And the seven-hour joyride from San Diego to Mammoth easily qualifies.

I hate road trips. It may be the sitting still for so long or the absolutely unchanging and uninspiring scenery through the Adelanto (also known as the city of unlimited possibilities) corridor of hell, but I just can't handle it. The stale air from the airconditioning, the growing numbness in my right leg, the crick in my neck, the same black road over and over and over and over and over. But really, I've said all of this before, so enough of my hatred of being trapped in zooming piece of metal for hours on end.

This trip, I decided to read as much as I possibly could to distract me from my motionless misery. I brought seven books and set the goal of reading at least five of them before I returned to San Diego.

Besides wanting to have dedicated time to read, we journeyed to Mammoth to visit with friends and family and drink much wine while listening to music in an outdoor setting. In other words, this weekend was Mammoth's wine Festival. Wineries from all over California pushed their fermented grape juice as the sound of guitars wended its way through the evergreen trees. The festivities started Friday night with a little pretasting in the Village.

That night I learned an important thing about myself: do not buy "art" while inebriated at high altitude just because it happens to stimulate your mind to make interesting connections. It isn't the "art," it's the altitude. Your mind would make interesting connections at the nearby, overpriced children's store but you aren't going to buy a $75 tee-shirt.

Or maybe you would if you hadn't already bought said "art" and were already experiencing intense buyer's remorse.

I am still upset at myself though the weekend wasn't an entire bust. I did get another piece of art that is indeed just that. It is beautiful, speaks to me even at sea level, and is already up on my wall.

The other one? Ummmm, maybe I can salvage the frame.

*Did I get to my five-book goal? Oh, hells yes.
Books read:
John Berger's King: A Street Story
Novella Carpenter's Farm City: The Education of an Urban Farmer
Steve Dublanica's Waiter Rant
Jesse Ball and Thordis Bjornsdottir's Vera and Linus
B. Traven's The Bridge in the Jungle

Timing is Everything

Last week contained one of those days where I operate on the razor's edge of hysteria. Where I wonder if I'm actually pulling off normal since my nerves are so frayed that the slightest bump is going to cause them all to snap and recoil at extreme velocity into my skull. Part of me welcomes this break because then maybe I'll get a few moments of peace until the people around me figure out that something is wrong. Part of me fears it because maybe I'll end up like Humpty-Dumpty and never be put back together again. I've worked so hard for so long on this me, years really, that I don't know if I want it all in pieces.


Anyway, I digress.

(n)Ever Changing

I kind of like how the moon is a constant amidst the sparkle (and fade--hee) of fireworks but is actually a huge variable force in the natural world (and here I'm talking about cycles not about inconsistencies).

More about my white trash (sorry dad) Fourth later.

For now, enjoy the moon (if not all my qualifiers).

Before a Fall

I have a thing for heels. Being 5'2" on a good day and with most of that height made up of forehead, I rarely wear flats as they reveal exactly how misproportioned my body really is (think giant torso and forehead with squat baby legs). Instead, I employ a variety of open-toed shoes that give me anywhere from 4 to 7 inches of extra leg length.

However, despite my constant use of these items, I have never really mastered the art of walking gracefully in heels. I have a nasty habit of falling (yes, actually falling) off my shoes.

In an attempt to mitigate this trait, my go-to shoes are tall, foamy flip-flops and my "dressy" alternative is almost always some sort of wedge. However, despite my precautions, combine my natural clumsiness (I fall out of bed, people) with a permanent limp and I am begging the universe to strike me down. Still, this inability to be effortlessly mobile in my footwear of choice hasn't stopped me from braving the most ridiculous heights (literally) in an attempt to appear tall.

Even when it more often than not bites me in the ass.

Case in point: a few days ago I chose to accompany my "Greek goddess" electric blue dress with a pair of light tan, 6-inch wedges. The combination was (if I do say so myself) amazing. I looked freaking awesome. And--obviously--I knew it.

Sadly, the confidence that comes with knowing you look slamming can often lull you into a false sense of shoe security.

I strutted.

I sashayed.

I moved with a grace and magnetism that is only exuded by an actual Greek goddess.

This effect was heighten by the fact that my boss offered me something he hasn't offered me in months: lunch.

I AM a goddess. A marvelous blue goddess of science!

In all my cosmic azul glory, I journeyed with him to the faculty-staff club for a little al fresco dining and science talk.

We filled our beverages and moved to the outdoor patio to claim a table (preferably one that fulfilled our mutual love of being the center of attention) before getting our actual meals. To get to the patio, you have to exit the indoor dining space and travel down about four shallow steps. These steps are situated to be the central focus of every table on the patio.

Perfect for my grandly divine entry.

Beverage in hand, fully aware of how stunning I looked, I stepped down the first step. Attracted by the azure glare of my dress (no doubt like the sky after a storm), eyes began to turn to me. I pretended I didn't notice and stepped down to the next step.

Suddenly, the weight of my head got to be too much for my stubby little legs to endure. Already straining to support my body on thin blocks of wood, my poor, overtaxed legs gave out between steps three and four.

As I went down, I made an executive decision to sacrifice my legs (those Judases) to a) save my beverage and b) prevent my dress from flipping up and treating the entire faculty-staff club to a shot of my striped underwear. This decision resulted in my bad foot somehow wrapping itself around my shoe.

A collective gasp arose from everyone on the patio (if I didn't have their attention before, I sure did now). In his dramatic haste to come to my aide (too late I might add), my boss spilled his beverage over his arms and a nearby table and commenced shaking the excess fluid off, creating a kind of lemonade soak zone in his immediate vicinity. One man (a P.I. from another lab just down the hall from mine--someone I see everyday), called out, "Are you okay?" Many asses half rose from their seats, ready to either avoid the airborn droplets of lemonade or assist me in calling an ambulance and picking up my shattered pride.

"I'm fine," I replied.

"Are you sure? That looked really bad."

Yes, it did look really bad. That's because it was really bad. I could feel my ankle swelling and pulsing as it let me know in its own special way that it hated my guts.

However, I wasn't about to let any of these voyeurs know I was hurt; what were they doing looking at me in the first place? Can't they just mind their own business and eat their stupid lunches (I had conveniently forgotten that in the previous moments I had been willing every eye on me)? Why is it when we publicly hurt ourselves, we always try to play it off if we can? Do we think that appearing to be unharmed will make the situation less embarrassing?

I don't really have an answer for that last question. I just know that I would have rather died at that moment than admitted I was hurt.

There was a problem with this scheme, however. I managed to twist my left foot. The same foot that has already suffered some serious damage, leaving me with a permanent limp. The question screamed through my mind, "how can I play this off if I already have a limp?"

The answer--of course--is to make a public general announcement to a huge group of concerned strangers.

"I'm really fine. But I will be walking with a limp because I have a permanent limp already."

"She's already got a limp, folks." The P.I. repeated just in case my announcing that fact to the club wasn't foolish and humiliating enough (BTW, nothing kills sexy faster than a limp).

At this comment, I arose, limped into the buffet line and upon returning to the steps of my ego demise, gingerly--gripping the railing the whole time--made my way to my table and full beverage.

It's eight days until my marathon. My foot is swollen and bruised. I haven't been able to run on it yet.

And I wore those same wedges with jeans today.

This Weekend I

used a flashlight to set up a tent under a moonless parachute-sky punctuated by a careless spill of stars

comforted a small child who determined that the quiet creak of bat cries

drifting down from the towering rocks above us signified that "danger lies everywhere"

woke up to the moon rise

woke up to early morning chill because small child had taken all the blankets

woke up to the sunrise

watched the light go from blue to pink to red to orange to gold

huddled with a steaming cup of coffee by a campfire of small sticks and charcoal, trying to eke whatever warmth I could get until the sun's heat struck the desert in a single fierce instant

hiked barefoot up hot red rock cliffs and through warm gold rivers of sand

sipped cold Chardonnay and read while small child played Star Wars vs Transformers in the breeze-blown tent

heard the cry of an actual wind-up bird, winding up the spring of the world

pretended that small child wasn't serious when he claimed to have to go to the bathroom and subsequently had to change small child's wet shorts

fished on the Kern river using a tree branch for a pole, dental floss for a line, and Boba Fett as a lure

failed to actually pop Jiffy Pop over the camp grill

picked up human feces with a baggie

managed to drive from the 14 merge with the 5 to Anaheim and completely missed seeing downtown LA

placed a filthy yet angelically sleeping small child in his bed and then passed out, equally filthy, in my own

continued to be amazed at how much love, beauty, sweetness, and joy exist in this world.

Gangster of Love

So, a few weeks ago, I felt the urge to read in the sun. It was one of those perfect days where the bay shimmers sliver and gold, and the sailboats look like bright leaves moving in an intricate dance dictated by wind and current.

I chose one of my favorite reading spots and settled in for an hour or so with a book I have fallen completely and irrevocably in love with. During this time, I lounged on my raised vantage point, oblivious to the cars that passed me on their way to the 5. That is until one car came to a stop parallel to my position.

It's funny how you can ignore crowds of people or things until one encrouches on your space. By stopping just a few feet away from me, engine still idling, this car claimed my attention. However as it became apparent, I did not have its driver's attention.

Puzzled (and not a little unnerved) as to why this four-door, dark sedan would fail to actually pull over to the side of a fairly busy street when it was obvious its driver had no intention of leaving soon, I watched the woman in the car, trying to determine what exactly she was doing.

The driver appeared to be fumbling with something shaped like a small bowl. A few twists of her hands and the very signature tapping motion soon revealed that she was emptying a dainty glass pipe. Pleasantly stunned, I kept telling myself, "No way is she going to smoke a bowl right here." Until she proceeded to fill her pipe and indeed smoke a pretty fat bowl right there.

Remember, she's idling in the middle of a street that gets a fair amount of to-the-freeway traffic.

Perhaps she loves the bay view as much as I do.

As I watched her smoke, I debated whether it was worth getting my camera to record this occasion.

Me: It would be so perfect to have a picture of this for the blog I'm going to write about this.

me: Really, you're already planning the blog you are going to write? What happened to living in the moment and not viewing things solely as something to relate to others? What happened to just making memories rather than recordings of memories?

Me: You're right. But still! This is amazing! How do I not want to tell others? . . . I have an idea! How about I go down there and ask her for a hit? That would make an even better story.

me: There you go again. Doing it just for the story. If you honestly wanted a smoke with her that would be one thing, but to do something purely for the story you'll tell later . . . Come on. Live life.

Me: Okay, fine. No camera. No interaction with smoking girl. I'll just sit here. And watch. Jeez.

me: You could just enjoy the unusal moment instead of pouting about it.

Me: Whatever, memory maker lady. Who are you even kidding. You know we have a terrible memory. We'll forget this within a week. But go ahead, enjoy your "moment."

It was about this time when the driver proceeded to remove the contents of her first bowl and packed a second.

Me: Holy Shit!

me: Fine, get the camera.