tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2488757859196085982023-11-16T08:14:15.190-08:00Choose2BHappyI Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.comBlogger60125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248875785919608598.post-42509507300396180082015-10-18T13:42:00.001-07:002015-10-18T13:42:25.138-07:00<br />
Cricket Van Buren must be in her seventies now, though you'd never know it to look at her. Maybe Valen was right: after the first, few mono-syllabic answers to his initial queries, she started to talk. She seemed to forget that anyone else was in the room, and directed all her answers to Galaxy. There were long pauses, when she seemed lost in thought, but Galaxy waited, once or twice shooting Valen a look when he tried to interrupt.<br />
<br />
She'd joined Bay Zen Center nearly forty years earlier in those first few years when sitting in silence with gentle Roshi Anh had seemed the answer to the cacophony of a bitter, angry divorce. Later she'd almost stumbled, but even that was forgotten now, it was so far in the past. The twisted bun high on the back of her head had been white now for many years, her face settled permanently into a gentle smile. She walked in quiet joy, as if slightly removed from her surroundings. Her steps were a bit less certain now, her hearing slightly less good, her eyes less sharp, but they still twinkled above the apples of her round cheeks, maybe just a little less red than in years gone by. She’d spent most of those years in these mountains, where she knew the turn of the seasons, the sound of the bells, the voice of the creek as it rose and fell with the rains. She knew where the wild strawberries were likely to ripen first in the Spring and how to keep the biting brown flies at bay in the first few warm weeks of summer.<br />
<br />
She’d been Tenzo, Ino, Director, and dishwasher in repeating turns. Now, finally, she no longer had any designated title—she was the mistress of Masiana and in many ways mother to all the Way-Seeking minds who passed through. She’d been here longer than anyone, now. Most of the companions who had first made this place a home were long gone. Some had left for good, hearts and spirits broken by Hara's betrayal, some had gone to other Sanghas, some to their next incarnations. She didn’t even visit the shrine much anymore, the place of sacred ashes. The way was very steep and she didn’t need the carved stones to remind her.<br />
<br />
Although she missed Roshi more lately. “Kicket, ” he would say, the r’s ever eluding him, “is not good name for you. You are lucky, like kicket, yes,” he’d say, “but calm, like deep still water. Quiet, but strong. ” At her dharma transmission he’d given her the name Keisui, Strong Water, and later it had seemed right that she’d ended up here. But the waters of Masiana Creek were more moody than her own, rising with terrifying swiftness after a winter storm, and sulking to a trickle at the end of the long, hot summers. Cricket’s waters had always run at a steadier flow.<br />
<br />
She recalled the two young people before her, noticed how beautiful they were, and how they unconsciously leaned toward one another, unaware. She smiled, and answered their questions.<br />
<br />
They finished the interview, and Galaxy watched from the doorway as Cricket headed down the path.<br />
<br />
She came to a stop, feet aligned together, and bowed deeply from the waist, palms facing each other in traditional gassho greeting as she passed Devon, who did the same. It was an automatic response that brought her out of her reverie into the here and now. Devon straightened and continued on, her face expressionless. Sometimes the faces blurred together now. Some of the current residents had been here long enough, like Devon, to have become part of the Valley. Others were like children, no matter their age. And, anyway, they were all so young! Children that came and went. Each unique. Sweet and warm, or cold, or harsh for a little while; then passing, like the seasons.<br />
<br />
Her own childhood was another lifetime ago. She’d outlived her only brother; barely recognized the family name on those few occasions when she happened to look at a San Francisco paper. His children gave to the Opera, won big court cases, were photographed at the Symphony Gala. Their children went to the right schools, here and in the East, were scouted by law firms and political parties in their turn. Except for Macie. Her path hadn’t included a mate, or children. Not yet--Cricket reminded herself gently. She'd hoped Raine would be happy. With her new husband. And finally, the father she'd always longed for.<br />
<br />
Until the shocking revelation a few days ago, Cricket hadn't thought about Hara in a very long time. The news that he was Raine's father--which meant that he and Cat--didn't hurt her as much as it might have, once. She had never doubted his devotion before. They had all benefited from his tireless efforts. The fund raising. The Outreach programs. The well-known names he'd brought into the Sangha. She had perhaps been guilty of pride, Cricket admitted to herself. Had remained above the machinations of money, and power. And thereby, quite by accident--there are no accidents! she reminded herself--avoided what surely would have been a terrible mistake. One that how many others had made? She thought of beautiful Cat, how she'd wasted away that winter, even as the child within her grew.<br />
<br />
Stranded after that terrible storm, they didn’t notice that Cat was eating even less than the rest of them. They piled all the clothes they owned under and over their thin robes and no one even noticed that Cat was pregnant. They all walked around in a daze. They didn’t know what to do, they were cut off from the outside world for months. They sat for hours, for days, for weeks in the old, unheated Zendo. Freezing. Starving.<br />
<br />
Now Cricket thought she understood. It had all passed over Cat like a high wave--and she'd made no effort to keep her head up and breathe. She moved, when she moved at all, in a dazed trance. She refused to name the father, refused to talk, ate only what was put in front of her. She stewed for hours in the one hot plunge that had survived the collapse, froze for hours in the Zendo. But the child was strong. <br />
It remained.<br />
<br />
And grew in spite of her. Seemed to take its nourishment from her flesh, grew as she wasted away. She had been slender, with generous curves, warm like the island sun. She grew gaunt, never really recovered her health, looked too old too soon, the skin hanging off her too-thin frame. Raine Tanawe Ladyblossom was born in Pine Cabin 12b, caught like a fish in the old tin tub they used to wash potatoes. By then Cat must have known that he was gone for good. They couldn't get her to look at the baby, hold her, name her. Finally, when pressed, she held the surprisingly healthy thing to her shriveled breasts and stared at the storm raging again outside. "Rain," she said. It was all she said for a very long time.<br />
<br />
Cricket filed the paperwork later, added the 'e.' Mother and daughter found one another slowly, protected there in the ravine from the worst of the ravages outside.<br />
But Raine would never know the Cat she had been.<br />
<br />
Cricket’s own children, James and Ivy, had been raised in material comfort in San Francisco. When she’d found her refuge at Bay Zen Center they were already in college; they’d found their way more often to their father’s new house in Marin for a few years, let him keep paying for winter ski trips and summers at Stinson beach. Roshi told her to wait, to sit. Eventually they found their way back home, back to her. She’d been waiting, sitting.<br />
<br />
They weren’t Buddhists—or as Roshi had often said, they just didn‘t know it yet—but they were good people. She tried not to be too proud.<br />
<br />
They brought their own children to Masiana now, also not children any longer but bright, confident young adults themselves. Sarah, the oldest and nearest to her grandmother’s heart, had just started med school. The youngest was still in high school, busy with sports and dances and electronic gadgets in neon colors. Both families came every summer, at least once, and over the years had grown as comfortable here as the residents. The annoying young man Ivy had married treated the place as his own private refuge. She knew he went where he shouldn't. He liked the privacy of the one remaining plunge in the old abandoned bathhouse across the creek.<br />
<br />
He wasn't the only one, she thought. She'd seen Evan sneaking over there these last few months, too. Another entitled, cosseted son...She stopped the thought. It was unworthy.<br />
<br />
Cricket went to see the family as often as she could stand. Christmas, mostly, and for the big occasions. She had grown comfortable in their homes, had her own room at Ivy’s with a warm, soft bed and the luxury of her own bathroom. Nobody spoke yet of a time when she wouldn’t be able to stay at Masiana any longer. But she glimpsed it, sometimes, out ahead of her. Getting closer. A time when she’d have to go back down into the harried noisy world she’d left such a long time ago. She could sometimes feel the great Wheel turning now. And tried not to hope that the time would never come.I Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248875785919608598.post-69520750200267536412010-04-20T14:14:00.001-07:002010-04-20T14:20:13.450-07:00Almost Perfect<p><font face="Arial">The act of sliding his right arm inside <br />the sleeve of his designer raincoat <br />tore an almost-invisible thread <br />which released a tissue-wrapped bit of powder <br />into a few drops of liquid left at the bottom <br />of the triple-density waterproof pocket.</font></p> <p><font face="Arial">It may have been there for some time; <br />biding, <br />poised for the next, inevitable, storm.</font></p> <p><font face="Arial">The poison developed slowly, <br />undetected, <br />(she’d been such a good girl in school) <br />until he took his place behind the wheel, <br />crushing the expensive fabric <br />and forcing the pocket open.</font></p> <p><font face="Arial">Released, the almost odorless gas <br />filled the tiny sports car, unheeded, <br />until he lost <br />consciousness—just long enough.</font></p> <p><font face="Arial">Pedigreed power, briefly free of his iron control, <br />escaped along a rain-slick road <br />and soared over a cliff toward the distant horizon. <br />Desperate flight-- <br />until the crash, too soon, at the very bottom <br />on pain-sharp rocks at the edge of the pounding surf.</font></p> <p><font face="Arial">When they finally retrieved <br />his broken and wave-whipped body, <br />there would be no trace of what was, after all, <br />a common industrial byproduct. <br />It was the perfect crime.</font></p> <p><font face="Arial">Except-- <br />that afternoon <br />he loaned his raincoat <br />to her beautiful, sixteen year old son, <br />hoping to avoid <br />another storm.</font></p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> <div style="padding-bottom: 0px; margin: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; float: none; padding-top: 0px" id="scid:0767317B-992E-4b12-91E0-4F059A8CECA8:67613411-d0b9-4240-8e4d-a38d07d52146" class="wlWriterEditableSmartContent">Technorati Tags: <a href="http://technorati.com/tags/perfect+crimes" rel="tag">perfect crimes</a></div> </p> <p><font face="Arial"> </font></p> <p><font face="Arial"></font></p> I Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248875785919608598.post-1698018337752726972010-02-05T08:47:00.001-08:002010-02-05T08:47:17.967-08:00My friend Monica<p>In first grade I had a best friend named Monica. We were inseparable, as only two six-year old little girls can be. We played house, we played jacks, we played at recess, we played at each other’s houses. And we giggled all day long. She was nice, she was funny, she understood about shiny, crystal, see-through pink plastic beads. </p> <p>My mom liked her parents, and hers was the first ever, big-girl, all-night, stay-over, birthday slumber party I ever attended. Her mother, like mine was beautiful, and kind. She also had a father. </p> <p>He was a bit of a mystery to me. He was tall and handsome and also kind, but I didn’t really get the father thing and was a little wary. Monica took him totally for granted. I was a little in awe of the way she just called him ‘Dad’ –like it was nothing—and told him what to do. I remember that he had a wonderful laugh, deep and unexpected.</p> <p>One day Monica and I were playing on the playground, and jumped up, almost beside ourselves. We had made an <em>incredible</em> discovery, and we couldn’t wait to TELL. We ran off to find a teacher.</p> <p>Unfortunately, that day the teacher on playground duty was not Mrs. Chin, our beloved first grade teacher. Not Mrs. See, the kind, white-haired old lady. (For years I thought she was the one who made all that chocolate…) Not even Mrs. Woodward, the principal.</p> <p>The teacher on duty that day was Miss Kneeneighborly. (That was really her name—you can’t make this stuff up.) She wore dark blue suits with narrow skirts and ruffle-collared blouses. She wore her dark hair in a poufed-up pile on top of her head and thick bangs that just touched the witchy points on the ends of her blue cat-eye glasses. She had long legs and wore too much perfume and high platform pumps with sharp little heels that tattooed deep puncture marks all over the playground, like the tracks of some dangerous bird. </p> <p>We were more than a little afraid of her. She was old and strict and mean.</p> <p>(She was probably about twenty-eight, and terrified at the thought of imminent spinsterhood.) </p> <p>She already looked the part.</p> <p>Monica and I slid to a dusty halt in front of her, a little uncertain of our audience, but too full of discovery and delight to stop. We were ready to burst.</p> <p>“Miss Kneeneighborly!” “Guess what we found!” “Guess what we found!”  We stuck out our hands, side by side.</p> <p>Miss Kneeneighborly made some noises about running, about shouting, about pushing (who was pushing?), and about my KNEES.</p> <p>My knees were always a little banged-up or dirty. Dirty from kneeling in the dirt, dirty from climbing trees, dirty from playing on the monkey bars, dirty from inching the wrong way up the slide.</p> <p>(Monica, on the other hand, was always spotless. No wonder my mother loved her.)</p> <p>I reached down for the wipe-wipe, dust-dust, stamp, stamp the dirt off of my knees.</p> <p>With my right hand, because my left was still held out, next to Monica’s, palm down.</p> <p>Miss Kneeneighborly looked at Monica and smiled. </p> <p>We took heart.</p> <p>“Monica,” she said, “why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”</p> <p>Monica looked at me with a huge grin. She was missing a tooth. She touched the back of her hand,and rubbed it a little with her finger. “Look!” she said, “My skin on the outside is BLACK—” She touched the back of my hand, and rubbed it a little to show that it wouldn’t come off, either  “And HER skin on the outside is PINK—“ She looked at me. </p> <p>That was my cue.</p> <p>I flipped my hand over and pointed “And on the inside I’m PINK…” Monica turned her hand over and I touched it “ And SO IS MONICA!!” </p> <p>Miss Kneeneighborly’s mouth opened.</p> <p>In unison we shouted “We’re the SAME! <em>INSIDE!</em> Like <em>SISTERS!”</em> We both squealed and grabbed each other in a hug, jumping up and down for the sheer bursting-out-happy JOY of discovery.</p> <p>Miss Kneeneighborly closed her mouth.</p> <p>Then she opened her mouth again and BLASTED me. </p> <p>Literally, blasted me, backpedaling frantically under the onslaught, halfway across the playground, up the ramp, and into the classroom where I was forced by the weight of her words into a chair, at a table, and left with my head pressed down on my crossed arms for the rest of recess.</p> <p>A ten-ton torrent of words. Words like <em>racist</em>. </p> <p>I remember her saying “Monica can’t help it that she’s black.”</p> <p>My friend Monica stayed as close as she could.</p> <p>I know, because when I finally stopped crying I could see her there, from under my right armpit, hanging on the railing, leaning farther up the ramp than we were allowed to go, trying to see if I was all right.</p> <p>I wasn’t.</p> <p>She stayed until Miss Kneeneighborly took her by the arm and dragged her away.</p> <p>I had to stay there for the rest of recess. I had to stay there while the bell rang, and the other kids lined up outside, quieting down a lot faster than usual when they saw me sitting there. I had to stay there while Mrs. Chin led them back inside, and everyone sat down.</p> <p>So everyone could see my shame.</p> <p>Mrs. Chin came over, handed me a tissue, and let me go to the sink. </p> <p>I blew my nose, washed my hands, and sat back down, while she went on with the lesson. Arithmetic, or phonics, or spelling, I don’t remember.</p> <p>I remember that I kept my eyes down. I remember that I couldn’t lift my head, or raise my hand, or look at anyone. Not even my friend.</p> <p>I don’t think either of us ever told our parents. I didn’t, anyway. You didn’t, in those days. Children were children, and adults were adults.  We didn’t talk back (much) and we did what we were told to do. By our parents and by our teachers. We had much tighter, more clearly defined boundaries. And, consequently, had much greater freedom (and were better behaved) than children do now.</p> <p>Later that day, when we went to sit on the rug for storytime, Monica came and sat down beside me, like always. </p> <p>And held my hand.</p> <p>Like <em>sisters</em>.</p> I Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248875785919608598.post-18134743281887088222010-02-03T20:46:00.001-08:002010-02-03T20:46:14.229-08:00I don’t know how to thank you, but thank you ♥<p>Someone did something for me recently that was so kind, so generous, so supportive, so loving, so unexpected, and so incredible, that I quite literally don’t have the words to thank her.</p> <p>She knows who she is, and the world—my world—and my life is a better place for her being in it.</p> <p>Thank you, dear friend. For loving me, for trusting me, for supporting my dreams. Always.</p> <p>I love you!</p> <p>xoxo</p> I Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248875785919608598.post-85103820020315780692010-01-29T11:55:00.001-08:002010-01-29T12:38:46.851-08:00So much good living, Part II.<p>Day 25. My nose is still stuffy, too.</p> <p>The good living didn’t end in Switzerland. Even in England I managed pretty well.</p> <p>Most of the time. </p> <p>Liverpool was pretty good. There were some pretty funny missteps, but there were also some wonderful home-cooked meals, good bacon-buttys (grilled ham & cheese on thick farmer’s bread) at the local pub, and there was always the Chinese restaurant at Fiveways.</p> <p>London could be tricky.</p> <p>Lots of late nights at the office. Lots of meals missed, lots of meals out. Some of them were ok.</p> <p>Or on good nights, crispy duck (or garlic prawns) at the Tradewinds on Baker Street with a favorite colleague. </p> <p>If I was lucky. </p> <p>Another nine rounds with the room service chef at the hotel, if I was not.</p> <p>I lived in that hotel for six months. And later stayed, off and on, for another two or three years. A very nice hotel, with—very unfortunately, and very typical of British hotels, even really nice ones—a SHORT room service menu.</p> <p>That led to frequent and frustrating battles with the Room Service Chef.</p> <p>I’d order roast chicken, with green beans, and wild rice.</p> <p>No, he’d say. The wild rice comes with the lamb (smothered in mint jelly—YUCK! What a <em>horrible</em> thing to do to perfectly innocent lamb.) and overcooked carrots and mushy peas. The <em>chicken</em> comes with runny mashed potatoes, greasy gravy and drowned green beans.</p> <p>I get that.</p> <p>What I’d LIKE is the CHICKEN (no potatoes, no gravy), with wild rice and green beans.</p> <p>Not possible. The <em>chicken</em> comes with..</p> <p>After two or three rounds of this (Who’s on first?) I’d inevitably, over and over again (I’m not kidding about this) be forced to order the lamb—WITHOUT THE LAMB, WITHOUT the overcooked carrots and mushy peas, </p> <p><strong>AND</strong> order the CHICKEN, WITHOUT the GRAVY, WITHOUT the potatoes.</p> <p>And he would send up two plates:</p> <p>One with the wild rice (hold the lamb, hold the…).</p> <p>And one, with the chicken and green beans…</p> <p>And charge me for two meals.</p> <p>(It’s not like he didn’t get it, either. After three or four weeks he started sending just one place setting, instead of two. Still charged me for two meals, though. For being “difficult.”)</p> <p>And then occasionally communications would break down entirely.</p> <p>I once asked for a cheese pizza. I was really tired of all the strange toppings (tuna?!!) and weird ingredients and just wanted a plain, cheese pizza. </p> <p>I didn’t think it was an unreasonable request.</p> <p>It certainly didn’t seem like a difficult <em>concept</em>.</p> <p>Wrong again, Sherlock.</p> <p>First of all, cheese pizza was not on the menu. If it isn’t on the menu, it’s a PROBLEM. </p> <p>Full stop.</p> <p>I’m an American. The “If it isn’t on the menu…” attitude is INCOMPREHENSIBLE to me. </p> <p>Make me a damn pizza. Refrain from polluting it with corn, leeks, aubergine, mashed potatoes, and any other of the strange and inappropriate toppings you have listed. Leave it PLAIN. Bake it. And then send it up here before I start gnawing on the furniture. </p> <p>We went around and around: JUST cheese. Nothing else. No, not even onions. JUST cheese. No, nothing else. JUST cheese. Yes, CHEESE. Just like normal. Whatever cheese you usually use. Just don’t put anything ELSE on it. No, JUST cheese…</p> <p>Ten minutes later, the furniture was starting to look pretty good. Or maybe some of the flowers might be edible?</p> <p>I resolved to duck out of an all-day meeting with Nintendo the next day (the Japanese appreciate fine food—they’d understand) for an hour and go grocery shopping. If I took all the booze, the salted peanuts, and the jar of candied grapefruit slices (?!) out of the teeny, weeny mini-bar, there’d be enough room to wedge in <em>something.</em></p> <p>I waited. </p> <p>The man next door called down to Reception to complain about the loud growling noises coming from my room.</p> <p>(It was just my stomach, I swear.)</p> <p>Then there was a knock at the door.</p> <p>I looked out the peephole first (I’m no dummy) and was relieved to see that it was just a liveried room service waiter with a cart.</p> <p>Not hotel security.</p> <p>He wheeled it in, waited impatiently for his signature and tip (to add insult to injury) and bolted.</p> <p>Like he was a little afraid.</p> <p>I grabbed a thick linen napkin and carefully raised the domed cover…</p> <p>What was revealed underneath <em>looked</em> like a pizza—mostly—and <em>smelled</em> like a pizza—mostly. </p> <p>Except for five large, evenly-spaced, blue-ish gray, slightly lumpy, toxic-looking <em>puddles </em>floating on top.</p> <p>I think one of them was moving.</p> <p>I know of no naturally-occurring edible substance that color.</p> <p>But it was late. I was really tired, frustrated, and starving. The company at that time had a large insurance policy on me—I figured if I was poisoned to death in this London hotel room the rest of my family would be set for life.</p> <p>And that chef would get his.</p> <p>It was not that big of a pizza to begin with, but I carefully cut around the pulsating puddles—leaving a WIDE margin of safety—and ate the little that was left. </p> <p>By the time I’d finished, the puddles had congealed into a soft, blue-gray, slightly lumpy porridge–like substance. Darker streaks, like veins, were becoming visible.</p> <p>Alien. </p> <p>And vaguely threatening.</p> <p>I trapped them back under the dome before they could spring to life and make a break for it,  pushed the cart out the door into the hall, shut the door and locked it behind me.</p> <p>Safe.</p> <p>Went for a bath, and a book, and bed. </p> <p>And an hour later, just as I was falling asleep, it occurred to me. </p> <p>He’d topped it with <em>bleu</em> cheese.</p> I Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248875785919608598.post-39573599578416077052010-01-28T11:01:00.001-08:002010-01-28T18:13:31.757-08:00Life’s Been SO Good, part I<p>Day 24 and my tongue is still white.</p> <p>Apparently, a white tongue, (which should eventually revert back to a nice and pink tongue again) is a sign that the body is still de-toxing.</p> <p>I guess I have a lot of good living to cleanse.</p> <p>It may have started freshmen year in college, when I discovered Ho-Ho’s. Or Junior Year Abroad, when we ate and drank our way through Germany (yum) and the rest of Europe. Ouzo, anyone? Fond memories of Rahmschnitzel, RitterSport, gyros, and Mandelhoernchen from my favorite Konditerei. Baumkuchen, and tortes and pastries of all kinds. That incredible, fresh bread! And hot pretzels. And hot pretzel <em>buns</em>. Hot, sugar-and-spice cinnamon almonds all winter. And chocolate, chocolate, chocolate.. (I have a whole TWO shelves of German cookbooks. Another of Swiss & Austrian. And all the recipes from my Oma, of course! ♥ )</p> <p>It got worse during grad school, when I spend a summer as a intern in Bern, Switzerland. And lived across the valley from the Toblerone Factory. It was like coming home every afternoon to an entire valley filled with the inviting aroma of hot chocolate chip cookies.</p> <p>I tried some strange and interesting new things; learned to make (always stir the cheese in a figure-8) and eat (never, NEVER drink water while eating) fondue, and risotto, and a great salad dressing that I still use; and generally had a great time.</p> <p>And when I could graciously bow out of the full-fledged hot midday meal with my colleagues in town, I loved getting a fresh roll from the local baker, some chocolate at the Confiserie and sitting on the back steps of the Bundeshaus—the equivalent of the White House in Washington, D.C.—looking out over the river below.</p> <p>Food didn’t become a big problem until I went back to Switzerland and worked in Zuerich for a year. It was cold, and wet, and rained for weeks and weeks and weeks at a time.</p> <p>And that was summer.</p> <p>(I once paid about $3.00—each—for a bag of California apricots. It was like holding the warm memory of the sun in my hands. Every bite was pure heaven.)</p> <p>I didn’t share.</p> <p>That winter it was REALLY COLD, and snowed and snowed and snowed. For weeks at a time. The man at the market laughed at me, because I was looking for fresh lettuce, and handed me a head of cabbage instead. </p> <p>And pointed at the potatoes.</p> <p>I would’ve dashed from building to building if I could’ve, but the sidewalks were icy. Lethal. The best I could do was a careful shuffle and slip. Or stay inside. A lot.</p> <p>And eat.</p> <p>The Swiss eat well—all year round. And exponentially more chocolate—it’s considered <em>food</em>, not an occasional ‘treat’ –than Americans do. (And this is real chocolate, remember. Not the chalk-and-paste stuff that Hershey’s tries to pawn off.)</p> <p>Rich, full-fat, full-flavor, real cacao chocolate. They even have real white chocolate.</p> <p>All day long.</p> <p>Hot chocolate for breakfast. A chocolate bar tucked into the briefcase (just in case). Pick up out a few handmade truffles (mocha, praline’, and white chocolate champagne were my favorites) from the over 100 varieties at the original Teuscher Confiserie you pass by every morning on the way to work. A chocolate-filled Broetchen, or pastry in the afternoon, when the sun goes down at 3:30 and you need a little boost to make it through the rest of the day workday in the pitch dark.</p> <p>Then a sweet snack for the trip home.</p> <p>And chocolate fondue (after the cheese fondue for dinner) for dessert on the weekends.</p> <p>Everyone has their favorite brand of chocolate—and there are jillions of them. Big, international companies like Lindt, and tiny, specialty houses who create only enough for a select, often subscription-only, clientele. </p> <p>Different chocolates for every season, every occasion, and every possible taste.</p> <p>On a regular basis the company I worked for took me on tours of their other holdings. Among them, of course, were chocolate and other confectionary companies. And sent me home laden with samples, bless them.</p> <p>In my free time, I toured a couple of chocolate factories on my own. Like said Lindt. (Very stingy on the samples, they were.)</p> <p>And it wasn’t just chocolate. Tortes, and pastries, and crispy little cookies (cookies dipped in chocolate, cookies filled with chocolate, cookies sprinkled with chocolate…) Marzipan and real nougat (the soft, chocolate-y hazelnut creme, not the yucky white stuff with fruit & nuts). Rahmcarameli—a Bern specialty—were a particular favorite of mine: little tins (I still have one somewhere) filled with little cubes of of a brown-sugary miraculous confection somewhere between a soft caramel, fudge, and the brown-sugar filling in those See’s chocolates that I can never remember the name of.</p> <p>And then there were the cheeses—every shape, color, variety. Hard, soft, strong, mild, and those incredible creamy German varieties that are spreadable. And of course the breads—hot, crusty, fresh-baked everyday. Light and airy; rich and eggy; rustic and hearty; chewy and whole grain. (I did miss the pretzel buns from Germany, but I made do.)</p> <p>In Switzerland (and Germany, and across Europe) people patronize a favorite cheese shop, a favorite baker, a butcher who has the best cuts and makes the best sausages, a green grocer who has the freshest produce. </p> <p>Every region in every country has their specialties—wonderful things, unusual things. </p> <p>Things I might not be able to get ever again…</p> <p>What can I say? I went native. It wasn’t just the food—it was the lifestyle, the camaraderie. The wine and cheese and amaretti on a warm summer evening by the lake in Lugano; or fondue, or raclette by the fire on a cold night in Bern. Fastnachtskuechli and Zwiebeli  at Fasching (Karneval). And Kaffee und Kuchen on a Sunday afternoon in the garden. With friends that became like family.</p> <p>I spent more than a year living on bread, and cheese, and chocolate, and…</p> <p>I could go on and on.</p> <p>And did.</p> <p>Some really wonderful memories there. </p> <p>Stuff that no cleanse can ever wash away.</p> <p>And I think I’ll get my raclette grill out and invite a few friends as soon as this fast is over.</p> <p><a title="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raclette" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raclette">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raclette</a></p> I Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248875785919608598.post-60510388291754664412010-01-27T17:25:00.001-08:002010-01-27T17:25:49.760-08:00Not cured yet<p>Apparently God does not mean for me to be a vegetarian.</p> <p>I can go—and have—for weeks on just tofu and nuts, cheese and eggs at Tassajara. </p> <p>And clearly, as I’m doing now, I can actually go for weeks without eating anything at all.</p> <p>(Who knew?)</p> <p>But I’m still fantasizing about savory, crisp roast chicken; rich, flavorful braised and slow-simmered short ribs; tangy, juicy barbeque; and even golden, perfectly toasted, crisp, warm, melty ham and cheese.</p> <p>It’s Day 23.</p> I Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248875785919608598.post-88190850850203181912010-01-26T21:08:00.001-08:002010-01-26T21:08:29.059-08:00Books in the Bathtub<p>Day 22.</p> <p>One wonderful benefit to this fast has been all the long, hot baths I’ve been taking lately and all the books I’ve been able to read as a result.</p> <p>I LOVE to read. But life gets in the way, and there are only so many nights you can go to bed at midnight and read until two before you need pharmaceuticals to get through the next day. (Or reading glasses. As much as I HATE to admit it, that time is inching nearer. Rapidly.)</p> <p>Or maybe I just need a better reading lamp.</p> <p>All this time on the cardio machines at the gym helps, too. But it’s a LOT harder to read bouncing up and down on the elliptical than it was on the old lady bike. </p> <p>Sigh.</p> <p>In the past week or two I’ve read, among other things:</p> <p>P.D. James “The Private Patient” about a well-known investigative journalist who is murdered in a plastic surgery clinic outside of London. I like and respect P.D. James, but this is not one of her better ones. It started out slow and never got any better. It’ll be nice when the new Elizabeth George novel comes out. In May, I think. Hers books are incredibly tragic, incredibly gruesome murder mysteries, but she’s a phenomenal writer and one I hope to learn from. She was an English and writing teacher for years and has also written a great writing book  “Write Away” that I think is one of the best—regardless of genre.</p> <p>“Can’t Wait to Get to Heaven” by Fannie Flagg, she of “Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe.” This dragged a bit at the beginning, but is really a sweet book with a nice message. It’s been on my pile for a while: I was searching for a caramel cake recipe last spring and read somewhere that this book has a great recipe for caramel cake with caramel frosting in the back, so I bought it. It does—and a couple of other recipes that sound fun—and I’ll bake it sometime when I’m eating again.</p> <p>And about half of  “A Dirty Job” by Christopher Moore–a really strange book about a thrift-store owner in San Francisco, but I’m still reading. </p> <p>I read pretty fast—it’s very rare that I dislike a book so much that I don’t finish. I can only recall two off-hand: One was “She’s Come Undone” by Wally Lamb, and the other was “The Lovely Bones.” Yes, I realize that I’m only one of seven people on the planet that didn’t like that one, but I don’t care. I hated it. Didn’t even finish reading it, just scanned the rest and threw it far away. Not going to the movie, either. </p> <p>Ick.</p> <p>But back to the bathtub. There have, predictably, been some unfortunate incidents. An old Agatha Christie: “Poirot Loses a Client,” I think it was, and at least one or two other books have been the victims of accidental dippings. Only one book—a particularly thick one—actually got dropped all the way in. </p> <p>Ooops.</p> <p>I now have a new only-paperbacks-in-the-bathtub rule. </p> <p>And a whole stack of books, still waiting to be read.</p> I Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248875785919608598.post-46172640357928317522010-01-25T20:53:00.001-08:002010-01-25T20:53:02.304-08:00Wild Weekend Women<p>I had a absolutely fabulous weekend with a dear, fabulous woman that I’m grateful and honored to call my friend. </p> <p>Friday night we went dancing. The first time I’ve danced (or been able to dance) in ages and more fun than I’ve had in a long time. It was a wild, wonderful event for a really good cause. The room-length dessert buffet didn’t even tempt me. (The crispy, golden calamari emanating enticing aromas of garlic and goodness from the other end of the room, however, did. )</p> <p>Not enough, though. Not enough.</p> <p>Although I used to go up to the City once a week, I haven’t been in a while. And there’ve been things I’ve missed! But we didn’t go to any of my favorite restaurants, didn’t eat or drink any of my favorite foods.</p> <p>And I wasn’t even tempted on Sunday, at a really unique and fairly rare event: a lovely tea which featured fresh-baked bread and a long table heavily laden with Tassajara-inspired goodies. Instead I enjoyed the music and the company.</p> <p>And being back in surroundings that feel like home.</p> <p>I was reminded all over again what an incredibly beautiful city San Francisco is. And how much I love it, and what happy memories I have.</p> <p>And how glad and grateful I am that I live here, with open vistas of hills and trees all around me, instead.</p> <p>Day 21.</p> I Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248875785919608598.post-2159940744521142132010-01-21T11:10:00.001-08:002010-01-21T11:10:03.832-08:00You’re Boring the Dog<p>I have a new idea for a reality show.</p> <p>It’s called “You’re Boring the Dog.” </p> <p>Dogs are great. And I’m really lucky—I have a particularly sweet one. He’s fascinated by almost everything I do, follows me around, wants to see, stick his nose right into the middle of, (and participate, if possible) in whatever I’m up to. Or at least watch. Is always ready to run. Or play. Or walk. Or snuggle.</p> <p>But sometimes even he gets bored. </p> <p>Like when I’m working at my desk, or watching tv, or soaking in the bath with a good book and it doesn’t look like I’m going to get up and do anything interesting anytime soon. </p> <p>He gets bored waiting and gives up. Curls up, either under my feet, or in my lap, if he can get away with it (he’s kind of outgrown the lapdog parameters), or on the bathmat in front of the tub and goes to sleep.</p> <p>Bored. </p> <p>Until I get up and do something more interesting again.</p> <p>The last few weeks have been a little boring for him. I’ve been really busy, and it’s been raining—a lot—so we haven’t been on many walks. I’m NEVER in the kitchen cooking anything yummy anymore. I never drop crumbs, or tidbits, or the little crispy end of anything for him to hoover up. I don’t bring home bags of interesting things from the market anymore. I never save him the last bite of a sandwich anymore. </p> <p>And there hasn’t been a mixing bowl to help lick out in ages.</p> <p>These days it’s just plain ol’ dog food, and cookie bones, and the occasional soft liver treat.</p> <p>And just potion, potion, potion for me.</p> <p>Even the dog is getting bored.</p> <p>So, it’s Day 17 of my cleansing fast. I’m going to keep going, but I’m going to quit yammering on about it so much.</p> <p>I was boring the dog.</p> I Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248875785919608598.post-88896907436584930872010-01-20T10:15:00.001-08:002010-01-20T10:15:24.756-08:00Day 16<p>I’m really, REALLY tired of lemonade.</p> <p>I usually love the taste, and smell, of fresh lemons. Lemon blossoms on a spring day, the scent of fresh lemons in a bowl, a little fresh lemon squeezed into a glass of water on a hot summer day. And I’m permanently, eternally, on the hunt for the perfect lemon pound cake recipe. (If anyone has one, please, <em>please </em>share…) Ages ago there was a funky little deli in Sausalito that made a great one. Just a plain lemon Bundt cake, but so perfectly done—every time--that even the (usually dry) outside edge was moist and delicious. </p> <p>And they didn’t pour lemon syrup over it, either. I mean, what ISN’T moist when you drench it in syrup?</p> <p>Anyway, I’ve always loved lemons.  And right now I’m so sick of the taste of lemons, I would almost rather not have <em>anything</em> than drink another glass of this lemon juice potion. </p> <p>But I’m doing it. Day 16. I still find it hard to believe that anyone—particularly me, the Nibble Queen—can go 16 days without eating anything. Was out on Friday night and someone asked me “Don’t you miss eating?” I do. I’m not hungry—at all—but I miss eating…</p> <p>I think at this point, if I could cheat a little—if I could have a piece of savory roast chicken, or a bowll of creamy mac and cheese (heck—even one or two of the edamame my mom was munching on last night)—I would. But J and everything I’ve read warns me, I can’t just start eating again. Going off the fast is a gradual process…they recommend a day of orange juice, then adding vegetable broth for dinner. The next day it’s vegetable broth for lunch, etc.</p> <p>So, ‘cheating’ would mean getting to drink a glass of orange juice. Maybe some broth, if I really go off the deep end.</p> <p>Not a slice of pizza.</p> <p>And nothing about a glass of orange juice is  worth it. </p> <p>Or even that appealing.</p> <p>This weekend was a bit rough again and I got frustrated. I didn’t sleep well Friday night, so I was tired and a little grumpy on Saturday. I also hit a wall as far as weight loss goes. Stalled for a couple of days, then Monday morning I was UP two pounds (on what?! a couple of extra glasses of water?) so by Monday night I just could NOT face another cup of potion. </p> <p>So I deviated a bit. I admit it. For cups 5 & 6 that evening I used two tablespoons of Trader Joe’s pure, 100% cranberry juice instead of lemon juice. Woo hoo! And skipped the maple syrup entirely. </p> <p>I’ve always loved maple syrup, too (one of the reasons I order waffles, instead of pancakes). And I LOVE maple candy—which was one of the few perks of commuting from Boston to London all that time back when: Logan airport gift shops carry FRESH maple candy—not the crystallized, rock-hard lumps you find out here…if you can find it out here at all. </p> <p>But now even that taste is getting tiresome. </p> <p>I did have a little spoonful of maple cream with the first cup, to make up for it. Not getting tired of that—maybe because of the wonderful, creamy texture. It <em>almost </em>gives my mouth something to do. </p> <p>Cup number six went down completely plain.</p> <p>And by Tuesday morning the scale had finally gotten with the program again and was heading in the right direction. (I know, I know—I’m not supposed to weigh myself every day. I just can’t help it.)</p> <p>So last night I did it again: two tablespoons of pure 100% cranberry juice (No sugar, no nothing added. VERY sour. And SUCH a nice change.) in the last two cups. </p> <p>And I’m good to go again.</p> <p>In other news, last week, after half a month of warm, dry days, I was hauling watering cans around to water my potted plants. And even some of the ones in the ground. Not too bad, since all of my rain barrels were still full. </p> <p>This week, we’ve had almost four inches of rain in the last couple of days, thunder, lightning, and even a little hail, and the biggest storm so far is raging as we speak.</p> <p>I hope everyone stays safe, and warm and dry. Well hydrated.</p> <p>God bless.</p> I Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248875785919608598.post-55911191880443309042010-01-16T11:04:00.001-08:002010-01-16T11:04:28.626-08:00Humbled<p>This puts an entire new spin on the term, ‘craving chicken.’ </p> <p>I’m appropriately humbled. Grateful all over again for the many blessings I’ve been given. And grateful for a new twitter-contact,  @<strong><a href="http://twitter.com/AngeliasArt">AngeliasArt</a> . </strong>It was a link on her site that led me to this short, but powerful film, winner of the ‘Most Popular Short Film’ award at the 2006 Berlin Film Festival.</p> <p>Chicken a la Carte: <a title="http://www.cultureunplugged.com/play/1081?pf=rate:1081" href="http://www.cultureunplugged.com/play/1081?pf=rate:1081">http://www.cultureunplugged.com/play/1081?pf=rate:1081</a></p> <p>Today’s Day 12. Maybe I will try for 40 days.</p> <p>Just because.</p> I Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248875785919608598.post-75104047865980075982010-01-14T20:37:00.001-08:002010-01-14T20:37:13.214-08:00I haven’t eaten anything in 10 days<p>It boggles my mind. </p> <p>And it makes me think. About what we want, and what we actually need. What I think I have to have, and what is actually enough.</p> <p>Now I know why God gave me the Frankenlemon tree.</p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP-eNmqbe6JL5FeJcwJlVJGYa7dtSz4QIdzHzxyBCazexgfuObfP3d7dsPqHl5b9joj1CGhMbYj8MYNW6rEpHb25MZvRjaH8m7fackGYVLqByKeIivjajpe3Zjzq131VImVEf0BtFokSMf/s1600-h/DSCN4648%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="DSCN4648" border="0" alt="DSCN4648" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKXiFLSbiuI-5epgeTVDm6eI5NzXcLyphwMpb8_j-rOTm7ZttCUuvIrHn8nRQrHHiUbB9TgQ5hQ1jPK7idvZWfsRsLx79Z0TywpFgUCfFGml2Xq3-AkHZtgqwwUZpRpRQFskedLRVUcbLg//?imgmax=800" width="370" height="253" /></a> </p> <p>I’m not hungry, although there’s a kind of mental list of ‘oh-the-things-I will-eat’ in the back of head with things like roast chicken, crispy duck, and barbequed ribs on it. I’ve always been a die-hard carnivore, but this is ridiculous! So I guess there’s no longer any doubt (if indeed there ever was) that I’m not just addicted to sugar. And chocolate. But also to protein. And fat.</p> <p>I’m more than a little mortified to admit it, but it’s true. </p> <p>Still odd to me that I’m NOT craving sweets—I guess the maple syrup takes care of that. It’s actually been tasting too sweet to me for the last few days, and sometimes I cheat a little and only put in one tablespoon, instead of two. Not sure if that’s allowed, but..</p> <p>There’ve been some unexpected benefits, too. Except for the juice-squeezy-thingy and a couple of mugs & spoons, I haven’t had any dishes to do for more than a week. I haven’t had to clean the kitchen. And I haven’t had to clean that stove.</p> <p>I still have lots of energy, and, in fact, seem to be sleeping less. My skin is really soft. Two people yesterday asked me if I’ve lost weight (YES). And no one’s complained (at least not to my face) that I’m any crabbier than usual.</p> <p>I can’t believe I haven’t EATEN in ten days.</p> <p>I bought a cute pair of boots (tall, black, suede, scrunchy. Sweet!) as a reward with the money I’m saving on groceries.</p> <p>Which brings me back to needing and wanting. </p> <p>I wanted those boots. (What I really wanted was some over-the-knee boots, but I decided that I’m too old for ‘em. Sigh. But these are pretty great.)</p> <p>I didn’t actually <em>need</em> them.</p> <p>I’ve been thinking about how much I have, how lucky I am.  </p> <p>And starting to feel a bit guilty about the boots.</p> <p>There’s a volunteer opportunity I’ve known about for a while. Shortly before Christmas, I finally went down & signed up. Yesterday was my first of two scheduled days, and I had so much fun!   The first thing they did was get me to commit to a whole bunch more, on a regular basis (the old ladies they put in charge of these things are tenacious.) I was pooped at the end of it, but I had <em>so</em> much fun. Which just goes to show, all over again, that we usually get more out of giving, and volunteering, and service, than we could ever put in.</p> <p>So maybe tomorrow we could all skip just one thing—that extra latte, the dessert at lunchtime, that mid-afternoon candy bar, that extra glass of wine, or even some guilty pleasure tv show and give that money (or time) to someone in need. </p> <p>Here’s the link to the International Red Cross, if you’d like to contact them: <a title="http://www.redcross.org/" href="http://www.redcross.org/">http://www.redcross.org/</a></p> <p></p> <p>In the meantime, since I’ve met my first goal (10 days), the next stop is 15. Wouldn’t it be nice if I could make it?</p> <p>I’m off to pick more lemons now.</p> <p>And I’ve put it on my list to ask the local butcher how long it takes to order a duck.</p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNjIe9TjIxKga17JGuEVUIOvjZtl42j7aZYg9w5o_AYSN4RCBOEDISjj38ktHd_k-hNw-eYR0tGasEDmITXx-B4eQ3nQDGz6aI9hTO7cT8cQVRe06clViWPukgygelXCYGaiSef_zhMnQN/s1600-h/DSCN4671%5B4%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="DSCN4671" border="0" alt="DSCN4671" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-1AHDVyDcYGm_DEgtKcI_f99RhAGIYAMHBsyFm0zXcF_7oTkU3Ji58Ubk13HW_BYSog2xFW2Ly6POaTSggTSJXDsRP9a37QtSe7lsby1eR8W4RWuclIxx5cA1jkRcjHIuv4xh9M9L3-cQ//?imgmax=800" width="389" height="108" /></a></p> I Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248875785919608598.post-30214913478999603702010-01-12T10:36:00.001-08:002010-01-12T10:36:52.513-08:00And then there were Eight<p>So I got up last Tuesday, admitted my transgressions to my friend J, put them behind me, and started the Cleanse again. Made up a big bottle of potion, as they suggest, so I’d have no excuses. </p> <p><strong>Day 1</strong> was no problem, but that first evening was ROUGH. It took two pieces of gum to get me through it, but I did it.</p> <p><strong>Day 2</strong>. The second evening was tough as well,  but my mom came by to help prepare some glazes for a local school project (who am I kidding? I just decide,  fetch and match colors—she does all the heavy lifting, i.e. cleaning and mixing, bless her. It is NOT a job I enjoy, or have much patience for.) </p> <p>I pooped out early (not that I was being much help to begin with), so she decided to stay over and finish the next day. Which means she was there to ‘babysit’ me all evening and so I stayed on the straight and narrow. Although in the end it took a couple of killer games of Scrabble (and one chewy mint) to keep me honest…not sure I could have done it on my own. She also took the rest of the not-sure-how-long-I-can-resist-it food in the house with her when she left the next day. She forgot the head of lettuce and the head of purple cabbage and one lone little endive.</p> <p>Those, it turns out, I’m able to resist. </p> <p>By <strong>Day 3</strong> I was unbearably  proud of myself for having made it that far. I spent two hours that night at a party at the best pizza place in town, but by then I was too thrilled to have gotten that far to blow it. I didn’t have so much as a teeny crumb of that toasty, crispy edge of cheese. I did bolt early and drove STRAIGHT to the gym, where there was just enough time to get a quick workout in before they closed. </p> <p>On <strong>Day 4</strong>, an order of maple cream I’d ordered arrived. What looks like an undistinguished little plastic container is actually a jar of pure heaven—pure, organic maple syrup cooked down to the creamy texture of smooth peanut butter. YUM. I had to hide it from myself or be tempted to eat a significant portion. (I’d already done the math, and knew how much I could substitute for the maple syrup in my potion. I may have eaten just a teeensy bit more…)</p> <p>I took the dog for as long a walk as I could manage and spent TWO hours at the gym, including an hour and a half on the old lady bike. (My ankle still hurts)</p> <p><strong>Day 5</strong>—Saturday—included an hour at the gym and then dinner with a friend. I watched her eat while sipping my potion. And was only a little tempted. (It wasn’t the manicotti so much as all that warm, gooey cheese on top.) And then I sat through an entire movie—which, as luck would have it—featured people cooking, eating, and talking about delicious food in darn near every scene, without eating so much as a grain of popcorn. </p> <p>I dropped the forgotten vegetables off at my Mom’s while I was in town—I’d been entertaining lascivious thoughts of crunching into that head of lettuce.</p> <p>J was right: I DO miss chewing!</p> <p>By <strong>Day 6</strong> I had a hard time even getting all six cups of the potion down. This was the first day that my weight wasn’t down, which J assures me is normal. The gym is closed on Sundays, but I worked in the yard for a couple of hours. Weird weather—at 5pm it was still 70. Kinda still and heavy. What we call ‘earthquake weather’ which it has been all week. No one believed me when I said so Tuesday and again on Saturday. And indeed, biggish earthquakes in Northern California both those days…</p> <p>I took a long hot bath with a good book, and went to bed early. To no avail: some wild animal was gallumphing across the yard, driving the dog crazy, and once in a while galloping across the roof, just to break it up a little.</p> <p><strong>Day 7</strong>, down another pound. Back at the gym, where I’m starting to warm up to the old lady bike. This is to working out as condos are to camping: I can comfortably read while pedaling, although I’ve already gotten a bruise from just trying to get on and off the thing. Not sure it really counts as working out, but at least I’m moving. I’m not hungry at all, but by late afternoon the thought of a nice piece of roast chicken (I make great roast chicken) is driving me a little crazy. It takes another chewy mint and three little pieces of Flaming Dragon cinnamon gum to get me through the rest of the evening.</p> <p>And <strong>Day 8</strong> is today. </p> <p>It boggles my mind that I haven’t eaten <em>anything</em> except six (more or less) cups of potion a day and a glass of herbal teal in the morning & evening for EIGHT days. I’m amazed that I’m not hungry. (A little bored, but not hungry.) Not sure if I’m any crankier than usual. </p> <p>You’d have to ask the people that have to deal with me every day, and so far, they’re not telling. </p> <p>The first few days, for one reason or another, I kept coming across links for new and yummy-sounding recipes I was dying to try. I wasted a bunch of time researching & saving recipes in a try ‘as soon as I start eating again” file. By Sunday, Day 6, they were all recipes for goodies—some yummy-sounding cookies, some cute cupcakes I’ll probably make at Valentine’s, some decadent dessert bars. I guess it was all some sort of sick substitution for actually eating, but hey—no actual calories were consumed in the process. And amazingly, for only the second time in my life I’m actually NOT craving sweets.</p> <p>Over the last eight days I’ve had five pieces of gum, two chewy mints, and the occasional sugarfree tiny cinnamon Altoid none of which, strictly speaking, are allowed. Oh well. <em>I haven’t eaten in EIGHT days.</em> I’m so proud of myself I could burst. I feel great. I’ve lost that first five Christmas pounds I gained. And the second.</p> <p>Part of me never wants to eat again..I mean hey—I’m kinda on a roll here. But there are all those good recipes to try..including a yummy one for pulled pork, and some pecan caramel toffee bars, and just yesterday I found a delicious and do-able sounding recipe for “Fragrant and Crispy Sichuan Duck” <a title="http://www.vietworldkitchen.com/blog/2010/01/fragrant-and-crispy-duck-recipe-xiang-su-quan-ya.html" href="http://www.vietworldkitchen.com/blog/2010/01/fragrant-and-crispy-duck-recipe-xiang-su-quan-ya.html">http://www.vietworldkitchen.com/blog/2010/01/fragrant-and-crispy-duck-recipe-xiang-su-quan-ya.html</a>…</p> <p>It’s featured on every Chinese restaurant menu in England and almost none here, and I’ve been craving it since I left. </p> <p>Anyone want to come over (after I’m done with my fast, of course!) and help me try it?</p> <p>But not yet. My first goal is the ten day mark, which (it boggles my little mind) is just two days away. Then fifteen days, then twenty. According to the literature, you can go as long as 40 days at a stretch, as often as four times a year. Twenty seems a reasonable number for now--we’re taking my mom out for a nice dinner on her birthday, which is just a couple of weeks away. </p> <p>In the process I’m hoping to learn the difference between being hungry and just liking & wanting to eat—for any other reason. I’m hoping to learn a more intuitive, natural, <em>healthy</em> manner of portion control—one blondie is about a 1”x2” rectangle –not a quarter of the pan, just because they taste so darn good. (And they’re ooey-gooey-chewy. I’m a real texture eater, too.) I’m hoping to improve my health, help my joints, and get rid of stuffy nose that I’ve picked up recently. I’m hoping to shrink my stomach. And kick-start some serious weight loss, too.</p> <p>Did I mention that it’s going to an INCREDIBLE year?!</p> I Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248875785919608598.post-5293988344165428102010-01-11T14:32:00.001-08:002010-01-11T14:32:06.013-08:00Fast the New Year<p>The driveway wasn’t the only thing I fell off of last Monday.</p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTBiZ44yvhxUOQZF6RSJB_L5PThkDx4JrMRyuBSxHef0zGJWm2LbQOCD_fR692r1NbF5-f_lctZDpnay0EW9tQtV_kGzAS6J9nnSL-OHz_Mp4fWbKLOobYw0jYF4X285RXM9muYLTpDAi-/s1600-h/DSCN4467%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="DSCN4467" border="0" alt="DSCN4467" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpogoyqBKVJLRvs260VFwmEKGaKPRmOqopC-31prUIMIDPCjai_h8wA93YodIKFxSEgMCFBEBM7W562iaJL7dUI9l38vJkiKT5oUrMHVqg3-vKJq8wHqAcCAP4V90L-82blTffGjnIz6Nu//?imgmax=800" width="337" height="254" /></a> </p> <p>It was also the first day of my New Year’s diet. One of the things that is going to make this year so great is that I’m getting back in shape. Just getting back to my pre-Christmas weight would be a good start. Ever since they finally, FINALLY fixed my oven, I’ve been baking, and cooking, (and eating) up a storm. I got the five pounds you always gain at Christmas gained early on—at least that was one thing to cross off my list. And then I gained five more…</p> <p>Darn me for being such a good cook :P</p> <p>I’d agreed to kick-start that get healthy/lose weight process by going on the ‘Lemonade Cleanse’ with a twitter-friend of mine. He’s done it before, successfully, a couple of times, so we agreed to support one another.</p> <p>And Monday was supposed to be my first day. </p> <p>(I’m already lying. Sunday, January 3rd was supposed to be my first day. But I still had fresh crab in the house. Christmas (and New Year’s) on the California coast also means fresh crab, a rare and wonderful treat. Yum! Nice with a good German Riesling, if you’re into that sort of thing.) So I was still eating some of that fabulous crab on Sunday. I also ate, cleaned out, gave away, or froze most of the rest of the too-tempting food in the house. (I froze the rest of the crab legs, but kept them for myself. Already looking forward to those later.)</p> <p>So Monday morning I’d had my first cup of tea and then my first glass of the magic cleansing potion (2TB of lemon juice, 2TB of maple syrup, and a dash of cayenne pepper in 10 oz. of filtered water) just before I walked out the front door and over the edge of the driveway into hurtville. </p> <p>But I wasn’t going to let a little thing like <em>pain</em> stop me.</p> <p>Now, I’ve tried this Cleanse thing before, a couple of times, over the years. And I’ve fasted successfully, for, oh, say six, eight, maybe even ten hours at a time. </p> <p>This time I was determined to do better. And indeed, the day was a breeze. I often go for hours at a time without eating (during the day), and the potion isn’t bad at all. How bad can anything be with two tablespoons of maple syrup in it? (The very best part is licking the spoon.)</p> <p>Got through the day, got through the walk, got through the gym and even got through the hour on the old lady bike.</p> <p>Then I got home and ate everything in the house. </p> <p>I mean <em>everything</em>. I started with a Baby Ruth bar. A nice fresh, chewy, one. Then I had half a pound of bacon, a slice of Swiss cheese, a CHUNK of cheddar cheese, then a Butterfinger bar. For dessert. </p> <p>And then another one.</p> <p>And I wasn’t even hungry.</p> <p>No human being should be able to eat that much food in one evening. And I shouldn’t have had that food in the house to begin with.</p> <p>Well, it’s not in the house anymore.</p> <p>I finished the day with my cup of herbal tea and resolved to start again in the morning. </p> <p>Went to bed (after scrubbing off the blood) and realized (all night, every time I tried to turn over) that I’d really wrenched by back when I fell and that it HURT to move.</p> <p>And resolved to do better tomorrow. </p> I Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248875785919608598.post-18771598954584157652010-01-10T13:39:00.001-08:002010-01-10T14:14:44.455-08:00Off with a Bang<p>I started the New Year off by falling down.</p> <p>No, not from any artificial impairment, and not from anything as exciting as a horse. This time I fell off my own two feet.</p> <p>It was a bright, blue, beautiful morning. New day, new week, new year! Full of new chances and bright new possibilities.  The weather was gorgeous—still a little cool, but on it’s way to to the incredible 74 degrees it would be by lunchtime. </p> <p>You have to understand that Christmas in California—at least here near the coast--means that in the last few weeks we’ve had almost every kind of weather imaginable. </p> <table border="0" width="400"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="200"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvRYMGDnRvM0uf0mhg94R5ayijvBwG_Pt0dUqgfsCiIAiqDqVpmWg7L8Iagr0PlnhYB7KAeiiQieDhgsqvBQOUllqQumRT_5ONtx_F1ZSGP9BohfGZGaBVQublflKx72iN5oHK833IXLH7/s1600-h/tropicalflowervineDec120092.jpg"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="tropical flower vine Dec 1 2009" border="0" alt="tropical flower vine Dec 1 2009" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivmtp8QzKwpRRTjRoc-oBzbtuVR3yvtKEshtIrQ7L4xtamRnZ4v0RaxhnALFWMRlYYvU5T7p_iGotiEJi_Fl1DxiIW1SAJ-WXtaWllpWEbXooi5dEMXE7epGGlN9HH05NciwOdOLbEH321//?imgmax=800" width="196" height="244" /></a> </td> <td valign="top" width="200"><strong>Sunshin</strong>e…. <br /> <br />December started off warm—the tropical vines over my table on the patio burst into unrestrained, almost obscene bloom on Dec. 1st. Roses were budding like crazy all over the garden, the not-a-camphor trees were covered in tiny white flowers, the sun was shining, and the sky was blue.  <br /></td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p><strong>Rain</strong>….. <br />Then we had a little rain…. much needed and welcomed. Also slightly unexpected, torrential, and brief. <br />Lovely green things started sprouting everywhere, the tiny white flowers from the not-a-camphor trees started drifting down like delicate white snowflakes everywhere, but then</p> <table border="0" width="402"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="200">it got <strong>COLD</strong>…. <br /> <br />Really, REALLY cold. So cold, in fact, that for a couple of days I could see real <strong>SNOW</strong> from my backyard! <br />(Have I mentioned that I LOVE living out here?!)</td> <td valign="top" width="200"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVFmwKlrfIlsmi1Y7AdhlW-77UJXERrj160s-nnj0s2s_xwtj9QM368BUTg1JnE6tgsxrKbRQgd0j4EnYTj_Cu2jR4EeaZpnc9whSQ-NiIti9nv4zrvfMaeYkmDpasv42jTseLMzojA8yv/s1600-h/SnowDec20092.jpg"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="Snow Dec 2009" border="0" alt="Snow Dec 2009" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRCi9AvJrFvP-b37k32ZYVHLa-NCKoj0NlOdV9IoY0SeeuIDj9s6Gc2WBl6NHTw75-B6COlCnFGARTxEIm2x84eKaIle9FOgiiaQUCPJkmVoYuvtii4rBhlwzNZoRrcjY2xnZS9PE4RYU-//?imgmax=800" width="244" height="168" /></a> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p>Unfortunately, the frost that accompanied the snow took out the tops of the vines and some of the just-sprouted lovely green things. Somebody’ll have to do some pruning out there.</p> <p>Any day now.</p> <p>Then the heating went out on the 23rd (of course!) which was also the coldest night all year (of course!) and didn’t get fixed (sort of) until the 28th. </p> <p>The little dog, however, knew just what to do. He moved from his usual warm, sunny spot out on the patio to an even warmer one inside:</p> <table border="0" width="400"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="200"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyX2qmw3tboBNfTRDbgq07wGH7MvdcI7nMPIu0XyzwvXeQSbWvPZfiUsxPS61GaJ4W5azp1riJSrdS1kASv2C9m7FBm4zvcF3gSVkvE5J0FOfBYiBpTAgqro9PHvvC4m3-IYQqEnPL2Y_C/s1600-h/DSCN4484.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="DSCN4484" border="0" alt="DSCN4484" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxxb1vEbgAmf7k8RKTRaCNBwKOXF4ILG_bfrPdcQKXLbZKIVhdcsR5ETq9l0ahxK5wlyDO1ZSGIJg-j4E9U0Ghe6csvw22gq0sA5uDSaxGcufUkjoCdkgkwbpGzF2LW4jc64e1s4AmEH2T//?imgmax=800" width="196" height="175" /></a> </td> <td valign="top" width="200"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHKjgEwj6jfTo6bi19VOw8P2GzQp0IZ1VH931aWs3t37qw2qdlDh8jES2EdZd3BDqkZmjV67rLQaplr1Him38EqNxwlorDDPNGIKcJasesjv15MdEcdP9AJiOuxD5BUguqbzCXQ1jqu8Qe/s1600-h/DSCN4483%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="DSCN4483" border="0" alt="DSCN4483" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZqEfuF-oevfC-xY1r6hczcWYce-xgy6F0Hftl5xvQObo13K6k-RMFE61-rnOLnv6fAi0PfszS5ucU3XKnlxco1Z2tVmtVztKm0PengLDyG0j6r0oJrEitiujvkVqcFTUIm6IANosN-IfD//?imgmax=800" width="209" height="176" /></a> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p>So we had a fire burning non-stop over the holidays. Nice, and it turns out that the goofy little ole fireplace heats up pretty well!</p> <p>(You’d think a black dog would get hot enough—sometimes he lies in the blazing sun until his fur is almost too hot to touch! But he loves being warm and basks in the heat.)</p> <p>(He’s curled up at my feet, under the desk, with his head on my foot, as we speak.)</p> <p>Starting Christmas Day, the weather warmed up. And up. And UP. Which brings me to back to New Year’s…</p> <p>I was on my way down the driveway. Just happy that the sun was shining, and glad that it’s a New Year (this is going to be SUCH a good year!) and glad to be alive. And not watching where I was going until it was too late…. </p> <p>My happy-go-lucky, unsuspecting left foot landed on  the sharp edge of my poorly graded driveway, my ankle knicked over, and I started to fall…</p> <p>There is a horrible fraction of a second, when you realize that you’re falling, but are already past your center of gravity and beyond any point of equilibrium. Helpless to do anything but flinch in anticipation of the inevitable, and rapidly-approaching impact.</p> <p>I landed HARD. So hard I bounced. So hard that I was in shock for a second. So hard, that a second later I started to cry.</p> <p>I lay there for a minute. As the shock wore off, the pain flooded in, and I assessed the damage. My first fear and concern is always my knees but practice or luck had protected them and they were fine.</p> <p>But I’d twisted one ankle, tweaked the other, scraped a knee, banged an elbow (HARD!) when it hit the raised edged of the damned driveway, hurt my shoulder, and had the inevitable, grit-ingrained, scraped palm. Later I’d realize that I also wrenched my back—one of the invisible injuries that no one who hasn’t been there themselves understands. </p> <p>Which, come to think of it, is true with most injuries and might warrant a discussion all its own.</p> <p>In any case, I eventually got up. At first I wasn’t sure I could make it the short distance back to the house, but it’d been a long time since I sprained an ankle. I’d forgotten how much it could hurt. And how quickly you get used to it and walk on it anyway.</p> <p>I did wonder, briefly, if I should do something …like ice or Ace bandages. My neighbor sprained her ankle recently. She said it didn’t hurt, but that she had to hobble around for a week or two with it bandaged. Her husband’s a physical therapist, so he would know.</p> <p>But there’s no one in my house that smart. And besides, mine really hurt (still does) so maybe that was a good sign? I was determined to walk it off—so I later that day I put the dog on the leash and went for a long walk around the field, just because. I even went to the gym that night. I couldn’t hack the elliptical, but I did pedal away on the old-lady bike for almost an hour.</p> <p>I wasn’t until I was changing for bed that I realized that I’d had blood dripping down my leg from the scrape on my knee. Of course, by then it was dry, so I just scrubbed it off and went to bed, determined that the next day would be better.</p> <p>NOTHING is going to stop me from having a GREAT year!</p> I Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248875785919608598.post-87319657749335439122009-12-03T22:17:00.000-08:002009-12-03T23:58:08.891-08:00Octopus Hugs<table border="0" width="378"><tbody> <tr height="20"> <td width="226">I heard a really lovely story not too long ago. This is second, maybe even third hand (how fitting!), so I may not have all the details quite right. If not, I apologize in advance. <br /> <br />What happened is this:</td> <td width="150"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXDGRPYXU6LBcgn4b2nZYXjdkvJbq6I44xKEfWTLDrxP2GCuvp13lwZy1Yhu_0OmmwgfN38Y_nktwF1Jp5xI7m4eKIWqX_escFUpX4fdQQfAtPe8wJ1kZ8lkxNf6mWzeVVXQQG2jDmSQvq/s1600-h/Large%20Red%20Octopus%20ArtTile%20from%20Choose2BHappy%5B33%5D.jpg"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="Large Red Octopus ArtTile from Choose2BHappy" border="0" alt="Large Red Octopus ArtTile from Choose2BHappy" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGpfnEOk1aKw5eFjVd2k2rS-NT3nOA1JRZ5Vtmly9wbzcSeoT6FweLGpJmZnHc_ADI09YJ5SL1JIO3avwJ2YorC_RNE_QKd1faHQjEEjbeGJU040J5qwX1N01uTJsB1cxz9ea9CnvwhdxO//?imgmax=800" width="146" height="146" /></a> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p>At any one time, the Monterey Bay Aquarium has two Giant red octopus on display. Each in their own, neighboring tanks. These octopus live about five years. They are one of the largest octopus species known: the ones in the Monterey Bay grow to have an arm span of 15 feet, which is plenty big enough, but the biggest specimen ever measured was more than twice that big, with an arm span over 32 feet wide. </p> <p>Giant octopus are highly intelligent animals. In captivity they often form attachments to the aquarists who feed and care for them. The octopus can distinguish and recognize individual aquarists within two seconds of touching their skin with the sensitive tip of a tentacle.</p> <p>A couple of months ago, it was time for one of the octopus, a large female, to be released back into the Bay.</p> <p>She’d grown close to a particular aquarist (we’ll call her Sam), who was chosen to be the person to release her. Sam took the octopus out on the Bay and dove down into the water with her. At the appropriate depth, she opened the container and the octopus swam free. </p> <p>The animal clearly understood what was happening to her. She “hung around” in the water near Sam for a few minutes. </p> <p>As if to say goodbye. </p> <p>Then she swam away and disappeared.</p> <p>Sam went on about her business, doing whatever it is the aquarists do out there, examining, and measuring, counting and collecting. I’d guess for half an hour or so, maybe longer. And was probably a little sad. Or at least had mixed feelings: sad to see the octopus go, and glad that she’d been released to live out the remainder of her life in the wild.</p> <p>When she was done with whatever her tasks were for that dive, Sam swam back in the direction of the boat and prepared to ascend.</p> <p>And suddenly the octopus appeared again, swimming toward her.</p> <p>This creature, who she’d tended for several years, and who she’d released to swim free in the vast depths of the Monterey Bay, came <em>back.</em></p> <p>The octopus swam right up to Sam, gently wound one long tentacle up and around her arm and, very gently, <em>squeezed.</em></p> <p>Once, twice, three times.</p> <p>Then she slowly withdrew her tentacle, looked Sam in the eye one last time, and swam away.</p> I Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248875785919608598.post-19249040219264796172009-12-02T21:52:00.001-08:002009-12-02T21:52:41.857-08:00The Viking and I, Part I.<p>I love living out here, but this house has some interesting quirks of its own. Like not really having a front door (I use the one by the garage).  Small bedrooms, but a giant kitchen. And the world’s biggest laundry room. As soon as I can figure out how to move the washer & dryer, I’m turning that into a dining room. Until then, I mostly keep the appliances covered and use the rest of the room as my gallery/studio. It gets good light—from both sides—but isn’t insulated, and is really c-c-c-cold in the winter.</p> <p>I digress. Back to the giant kitchen. And the giant Viking stove.</p> <p>The one that hasn’t worked well since I moved in, and has been getting worse. Those yummy Blondies, which should take about 25 minutes to bake, come out half raw inside after an hour and a half. (They’re actually really good that way, but still.) </p> <p>For the past couple of months, I’ve been mostly ‘cooking’ in an old toaster oven a friend of mine was going to throw out. It doesn’t heat up the whole kitchen, which was nice during the summer, and actually works great for a lot of things. Not for baking, though. Which has been good for my waistline, but…</p> <p>So, with the weather turning, and the holidays rapidly approaching, I finally got somebody out here to take a look. </p> <p>Took me almost two years before it got so bad that I had to do something about it.</p> <p>Took almost a week between me calling, and them actually showing up.</p> <p>Took him almost fifteen minutes before he was packing up and writing up an invoice.</p> <p>This is where my insecurities come in. Now, mind you, I really did wait until I was ABSOLUTELY sure that there was something wrong with the oven (and the burners weren’t all that reliable either) before I called. That it wasn’t me. That I hadn’t, <em>every single </em>time, forgotten an ingredient, or set the timer wrong, or forgotten how long it takes to roast a chicken. Or bake a batch of Blondies.</p> <p>So I only had to watch him, stunned, for a minute or two before I got up the courage to ask “You’re already done?!”</p> <p>(Internally, the dialogue went something like this: He’s been here five minutes! I can’t believe I’m going to have to pay him $65 to give me one of those condescending looks and say “Lady, “ (I hate being called “<em>Lady</em>” that way) “There’s nothing wrong with this oven…”)</p> <p>He did none of those things.</p> <p>He told me, in slightly more detail than required, exactly what was wrong with my oven <em>and</em> the range above, which parts he was going to order, how he was going to replace them, and the adjustments he’d make once the new parts were in to make sure that the temperature stayed even, that the burners didn’t sputter, and that never, ever, <em>ever</em> again would the flame go out leaving the gas flowing and me worried that the dog and I would asphyxiate in the middle of the night and that weeks later the neighbors would start complaining about the smell and send the fire department in to find our dead rotting bodies… that is, if the house hadn’t blown up first.</p> <p>I almost kissed him.</p> I Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248875785919608598.post-72618460589226232652009-12-01T13:32:00.001-08:002009-12-01T13:32:14.456-08:00The Rain in Liverpool Falls Mainly<p>About those boots. The ones I hadn’t worn in years. The ones I bought in Liverpool.</p> <p>I hadn’t been there very long—it must have been the first or second weekend. I’d already been through not three, not four, but TEN bomb scares.  Was trapped in the tunnel—UNDER the Mersey River—for hours and hours each time. Had my car searched each time. Had already changed hotels—to one on THIS side of the Mersey. Which is where she picked me up that day.</p> <p>So it must have been the second weekend. </p> <p>Anyway…</p> <p>It’d been a rough two weeks. I was seriously considering calling New York and asking for hazard pay. I was thrilled when one of my new colleagues suggested going riding.</p> <p>And really disappointed when I woke up Saturday morning and it was raining. The phone rang. I assumed she was calling to cancel—and you know what they say about assumptions. She laughed it off.  ‘If we cancelled our plans every time it rains here, we’d never do anything. I’ll pick you up in an hour. I’ll bring a spare jacket.’</p> <p>Fair enough. Besides, she assured me, it was ‘just spitting.’ </p> <p>I found this recent image when I googled “Liverpool rain.” Just to give you an idea: <a title="http://www.pixdaus.com/single.php?id=188006#first_new" href="http://www.pixdaus.com/single.php?id=188006#first_new">http://www.pixdaus.com/single.php?id=188006#first_new</a> </p> <p>(It was a long couple of months. Really nice people, though.) </p> <p>The British have an incredible number of terms to describe each incremental increase in precipitation. Isn’t it the Japanese who have seventeen words for ‘yes’ and most of them mean ‘no?’ ‘Spitting’ turned out to be what, in California, we call RAIN. That steady, drenching drizzle that doesn’t look like much when you’re standing in a doorway, deciding that you can dash to the car without bothering with an umbrella…until you’re in the car a few minutes later cold, wet, and realize that your clothes are soaked all the way through.</p> <p>An hour later I was the slightly resentful new owner of a helmet (no rain cover, which is basically just a shower cap, anyway. They assured me I wouldn’t need one—by then it was ‘barely a drizzle’), a pair of slightly water-resistant breeches in some incredibly unnatural polyester blend, and that now-infamous pair of knee-high rubber riding boots. </p> <p>And her big brother’s borrowed barn jacket. </p> <p>Just an attractive picture all the way ‘round.</p> <p>And a wet, windy hour after that, I was flying—right over the head of my horse, ALL BY MYSELF over a three-bar jump. </p> <p>Apparently, the horse thought I looked lonely. Or that, having seen me go over, the jump was safe, after all. So then he jumped too—damn near landing on top of me.</p> <p>Afterwards, we put it all together. We’d been over the same jump, with a lower bar, a couple of times already. The rain had tapered off a bit, but the wind had picked up to compensate. As the horse and I were approaching the just-raised bar, one of those ubiquitous white plastic grocery bags went whizzing by outside the ring and >SMACKED< into a nearby post.</p> <p>My horse startled, planted his feet, and dropped his head. I slid forward on my wet saddle and sailed right over the top of his head, (right between his ears), somersaulted over the jump (clearing it with plenty of room, thank you), and crash landed on the the other side. This surprised the horse, who threw his head back up and, in an effort to catch up (and quite impressively, I might add) bounced over the jump from all almost-complete stop. He landed with two hooves—that’s almost 1,000 pounds of horseflesh in two round, razor-sharp, iron-shod packages—on either side of my head.</p> <p>This stuff happens. A more experienced rider (or maybe just a <em>drier </em>one) would have kept her seat. I just lay there for a second, stunned, desperately trying to catch my breath and staring up at a great, brown expanse of heaving horsehide above my head.</p> <p>(It was actually kinda nice to have something blocking the rain for a minute.)</p> <p>I was fine. Muddy, sore, and mortified, but fine. It did NOT help that my colleague—who has since become a dear friend—still looked like Grace Kelly, despite the rain and the gear, perched blonde and graceful on her mount on the other side of the ring. I had now added mud—a great MUCHNESS of mud—to my overall ensemble. (Plus some impressive, Technicolor bruises which wouldn’t be visible until later in the bath. And for weeks to come...) </p> <p>As soon as she saw that I was all right, she started laughing her head off.</p> <p>I caught my breath, caught the horse, and got back on. As you do. </p> <p>And went over the jump a couple of times—successfully—just because.</p> <p>An hour after that, I was curled into the tiny hotel tub, tired, and SORE, but happy. And looking forward to going again.</p> <p>I mean, having invested in all that gear, I kind of had to, right?</p> <p>I  got to wear the boots a few more times after that in Liverpool, then off and on after I moved to London.</p> <p>And hardly at all since.</p> <table border="0" cellpadding="2" width="393"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="202"> <p>But now they’re out again. They’re ready.</p> <p>Maybe even <em>lucky</em>.</p> <p>Wouldn’t it be nice?</p> <p align="left">♥ </p> </td> <td valign="top" width="189"> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1tkqy0d4bFfi4ZlNk4B9WplNGQVF1ImpyRG00Y5TE6AhTNMiBjfDwBy2-N2lRSu_6S2w8d5cUQwO-jdBSszAWbDDZhg-Ev7yl4KPeQAKcZpYZGAaEHIJ33rMgWiACg7anC29EzP-AGySC/s1600-h/RidingBoots24.jpg"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="Riding Boots2" border="0" alt="Riding Boots2" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXTIiv2fEr1YTeoV4J7WLg8lC-QWHUI6_chQO-8zldTAXrs2gjpK9tylXl9PRxjw5TKF49zJzZvblEZVLkWi-7d7MPUErjrGc5tvEzB7EZ7uUUH4ydr7Wlugfc8ZQEdLH7kh3TW0Z2O_cU//?imgmax=800" width="200" height="308" /></a></p> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> I Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248875785919608598.post-3169905789614336422009-11-30T14:54:00.001-08:002009-11-30T15:02:46.482-08:00Boot Scootin’<p>I got stuck in my boots yesterday.</p> <p>There are all sorts of things I love about being single, but there are times when it would be nice to have someone else around.</p> <p>Yesterday was one of those times.</p> <p>It was a glorious Sunday, sunny and bright and I was muddling around the house, as my British friends would say, “happy as Larry.” </p> <p>I don’t know who Larry is—don’t ask. Since I usually think “happy as a clam” (which doesn’t make any more sense), I usually now picture a smiling clam with a little  “Larry” nametag. Pinned to the left corner of his shell. You know, like, “I’m Sandy…Fly me.”</p> <p>ANYway--</p> <p>I was happy and relaxed, and thinking about what a great day it was, and had just decided to take a long walk with the dog later, when it occurred to me that I didn’t know where my riding boots were. The ones I bought when I lived in Liverpool.</p> <p>I haven’t ridden in ages, but somewhere in the back corner of my brain and rapidly elbowing its way forward, it occurred to me what a nice day it would be for it.</p> <p>So off I went, hunting through the various closets until I found them.</p> <p>And started to pull them on.</p> <p>(And yes, Kim M., if you’re out there anywhere, I did remember to check them first. Not for mice—that would really be unlikely—but for spiders. Because the number and variety of arachnids out here is <em>unbelievable</em>.)</p> <p>No spiders. Good thing, because I didn’t actually remember to check until I was halfway into the second boot.</p> <p>Barefoot.</p> <p>Well, they still fit. Sort of. Were a little tight, to tell the truth.  Especially that hard edge up around the top of my calf, right under the knee. But not as bad as I’d been afraid of and I decided to leave them on for a while. <br />See if they’d stretch out. <br />Did I mention that these are rubber? <br />But rubber stretches, right?</p> <p>So off I went, and they either did stretch out a little or my lower extremities went numb. One way or another, they were actually pretty comfortable.</p> <p>For a while.</p> <p>A couple of hours later, I briefly considered leaving them on to walk the dog. By the time I actually got around to walking the dog, however, I decided that that might not be such a good idea.</p> <p>You can’t actually flex your ankles in hard rubber riding boots. And I realized that I did have some feeling in my lower extremities and some part of that feeling was definitely PAIN.</p> <p>Apparently my left foot is slightly larger than my right foot. </p> <p>Or maybe it’s just that one toe.</p> <p>In any case it was time to take them of and trade them in for a pair of running shoes.</p> <p>But in the meantime I’d been walking for hours, barefoot and bare-legged, in tight RUBBER knee-high boots on a WARM day.</p> <p>You get the idea.</p> <p>I mean, they’re lined. Sort of. With thin nylon lining stuff that gets warm and damp and (it turns out) gloms onto bare skin in a smooth, unbroken (and almost unbreakable) air-tight seal from knee to ankle.</p> <p>I couldn’t get them off.</p> <p>Here’s where a guy would come in handy.</p> <p>Someone to grab those boots by the ankle and PULL. </p> <p>Of course, if I were really prepared for all this country living, I’d have a boot jack (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boot_jack">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boot_jack</a>) hanging by the barn door, ready for such an emergency.</p> <p>Having neither boot jack nor barn, I was left to struggle on my own.</p> <p>And struggle I did.</p> <p>Now, to my credit, I didn’t panic. Worked on that pesky left boot first. Used the right one to get it started. Since they’re rubber, they don’t even have that hard, raised edge around the sole and heel to grab with, but I did the best I could. Stood on the side of one foot with the other. Kept wiggling and twisting—the boot, my ankle, my calf—and inching it down. Maybe centimetering it down would be more accurate. In between I lay backwards on the bed in that time-honored pulling-on-jeans-that-are-too-tight move, and used both hands and both arms and everything else I could think of to p-u-l-l. </p> <p>And finally got it off.</p> <p>Then I realized that now I had NOTHING left on my left foot to get the right one started.</p> <p>The one that was WAY too tight up around the calf to begin with.</p> <p>Just breaking that air-tight seal took a couple of minutes. I finally, at great pains—and a giant mess—used one hand to pull the rim of the boot away from my leg and the other to dump baby powder, mostly on the floor, but some of it made it into the boot. </p> <p>Took twice as long to wiggle my way out of that one.</p> <p>Luckily, rubber is sort of flexible.</p> <p>Luckily, so am I.</p> <p>But a little help would have nice.</p> <p>I left them standing by the door. Not back in the closet. Just seeing them there makes me smile. </p> <p>Besides, I might need them sometime.</p> <p>Soon.</p> I Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248875785919608598.post-62247527187015302722009-11-25T21:55:00.001-08:002009-11-25T21:55:03.961-08:00Cooking with Books<p>When my cousin was here a few weeks ago, she’d just seen the movie “Julie and Julia.” She loved it—and thought I would, too—and wanted to see my copy of that first, original Julia Child cookbook, “Mastering the Art of French Cooking.”</p> <p>It’s not unreasonable for her to assume that I would have it. I’ve been collecting cookbooks since before I could read and have a pretty good collection. </p> <p>The majority of them are here:</p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEUPLIeDmQggN23sr_Lf8-To8D6c2g3qcMFUbda3rRfyB_wdjCloTym88I_Lq64DN8ea9eK8OyLZDUWCts-TZ3SL3RUfqF43GxHj1qJqnF5GiQK2dVNnuX7uxyAyhyVScrR44aOOn_nmEc/s1600-h/DSCN4169%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="DSCN4169" border="0" alt="DSCN4169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSp72wmCySurJzgrKRMeLp2zd76tAeLUyAD-cJmLdJ0U4Mpy9ha66TMSENIGOur2XuFq3ve2B7fMYqhzP4NJzZu1rLpOdRFshGUcQlorjKMKu8MEi2xcOekS-HDMjtqoyOAyM1WjqIse4j//?imgmax=800" width="377" height="315" /></a> </p> <p>A couple of key volumes are in the kitchen, here, </p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeqs7m94Cs7tloByw7ZxSPGeKRdTRrPt2aE3Dd740888hwG3WOJO8YwNhglLCEYQ3EcyjKRXVmtR1HvTFgpH3tOom27DMbiwaGPFKANGwEUqpaaEEY4QJs8fCKPBVKRc7DyrC9uYYbGlec/s1600-h/DSCN4171%5B2%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="DSCN4171" border="0" alt="DSCN4171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAW-yo6IhevY3ZUXIKH0mobuUXsR-EDWZst5-Kc6pPwGoxaLGW8xCv6upVQTKq0nmIAJt0q1SCq48K_YY9fFR3d7G0gr6_9My9SOx9KkqL0xJO2HoCAuFqdkxc35eWxUnX_Jdx0c1aABl8//?imgmax=800" width="167" height="244" /></a>  </p> <p>and here, </p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgou622obxJcgIS2cBjf2uVJs_mSkYTyLXBI8JbU1e5OH-RC7NHYf1MPNVl2tviaenw1hjBDrga_W48VtYg5a_xAtRj1LCmIIXlFE0u-u8jut5CRUxY3aWBhxKiauJUlAU0MHYH31mhToom/s1600-h/DSCN4176%5B2%5D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="DSCN4176" border="0" alt="DSCN4176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNSURXt4ihgTigVhg2eGmtCjliv7j5_05A__jQePGhNfpqOwj1CZn56spbZPQesRI7nzGDut6mflyqr7hj-nBTbbNd8972i3osxsK9_L2EBpIw-Jb2rvUAehJYy9PYGChIl3UdSyPe9DK_//?imgmax=800" width="244" height="198" /></a> -including a Simone Beck! (That one was a gift—I’ve never actually used it.) </p> <p>The rest are in two mis-matched bookcases in the living room; some are stacked with the Christmas  and Easter books (I <em>love </em>Easter); and some absolute favorites, plus all the recipes I tear out of magazines or get from friends and can’t wait to try, are in two big drawers in the kitchen.</p> <p>But I didn’t have that one.</p> <p>It took me almost two years in the last house to get all my books organized. And I mean ALL my books: the classics, the books on natural history, the children’s books, the writing books, the photography books, the sci-fi and fantasy books, etc.  And they were REALLY organized: for the first time, maybe ever, I had <em>almost</em> enough room, and had made the time to sort them all. A lot of them were shelved two deep, but for a brief, glorious moment in time I knew where every single one was.</p> <p>And then I moved again.</p> <p>I tried really, really hard to keep them organized as I was packing. How does that saying go? “We plan, God laughs.”</p> <p>So now I don’t know (yet) exactly where all my books are, I still don’t have enough bookcases (is there such a thing?), and even the categories that are more or less all in one place, like my cookbooks, still aren’t sorted properly.</p> <p>Which is why I couldn’t find the Julia Child book when my cousin asked for it. I didn’t even think I had it—I’ve never been big on French cooking, and couldn’t remember ever using it. And I hate to admit it—but for a while there, Julia Child was a little bit of a joke. I knew someone in college who worked for her for a while, and there were some stories….</p> <p>Anyway, we did manage to find another book of hers, which, after paging through it for maybe half a minute, my ‘cooking-is-so-NOT-my-favorite-thing’ cousin handed it back with a “well, the movie was really good. I think you should go see it.”</p> <p>So I finally did.</p> <p>And I did love it. It’s nice to know that a movie like that can still get made. </p> <p>And it turns out that I have every single one of the cookbooks they showed in the movie (except for the one with the ‘Marshmallow Fluff”).  And so I started stressing a little, thinking maybe I should get a copy of  “Mastering…” after all, and thinking that all the good, old, copies are probably expensive by now, and consoling myself that a new one would do just as well, when, near the end of the movie, they show Julia receiving her first copy of that first book.</p> <p>And I realized that, of course I had it. And I knew exactly where it was. I came straight home, went straight to the bookcase, and pulled it out. (I’m a very visual person. I just didn’t remember what it <em>looked</em> like.) And since my cookbooks still aren’t sorted properly, it wasn’t where it should have been.</p> <p>It’s right there, in that first photo of the green bookcases, just a scootch southwest of dead center: the (slightly torn) paper cover is kind of a teal green with white spots, and it has a soft orange box around the title. It’s on the wrong shelf—that’s the shelf where the baking/chocolate/candy making books are. Or should be. It’s a 1969 edition. Just eight years after it was first published, they were already on the <u>eighteenth</u> printing. </p> <p>Wouldn’t it be nice if I could say that about one of my books someday?</p> <p>But Julia’s still on the shelf for now. There’s a recipe for a scrumptious-sounding dessert I’ve been wanting to try in that pile in the kitchen drawer…and I’m going to make it tonight, so it’ll be ready for Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow.</p> <p>I’m grateful for so many things. Being able to read is one of them. Scrumptious desserts are another. And having family and friends to share them with, most important of all.</p> <p>Bon Appétit!</p> I Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248875785919608598.post-70585818095705132382009-11-21T12:30:00.001-08:002009-11-21T12:30:50.762-08:00Buy a Calendar, Save the Bees!<p>I got the following email this morning, from Gretchen LeBuhn, an associate professor at San Francisco State University, and project leader of <strong>The Great Sunflower Project. </strong></p> <p>You can find out more about how you can get FREE sunflower seeds, and help support bee research by watching and counting the bees in your garden--a great project for all ages—here: <a title="http://www.greatsunflower.org/en" href="http://www.greatsunflower.org/en">http://www.greatsunflower.org/en</a></p> <p>In the meantime, they’ve had these GORGEOUS calendars made, with beautiful pictures and all sorts of interesting information. </p> <p>I didn’t know that there are more than TWELVE different kinds of native bees! Every third bite of food we eat comes from a plant dependent on wild pollinators. </p> <p>Calendar orders must be placed by November 30, and <u>all proceeds go toward supporting this vital research</u>. </p> <p>FWD:<strong><font color="#000000" size="4">The Buzz: <br /></font></strong><strong><font color="#000000" size="4">The Gorgeous 2010 Native Bee Calendar</font></strong><img alt="Cover" src="http://madmimi.com/system/promotion_images/0018/4169/cover.png" width="395" height="306" /></p> <p>Busy as a bee this holiday season? Take care of two things at once. Get a mini-guide to some common garden bees and help support the Great Sunflower Project by getting one of our calendars! This gorgeous calendar has twelve of the most common bee genera and descriptions that will help you learn your garden bees. The photographs are by Rollin Coville and the calendar was put together by one of our participants, Celeste Ets- Hokin. All the proceeds will go to supporting the Sunflower Project!</p> <p>Imagine stuffing a stocking with a calendar, a data sheet, a garden description form, Lemon Queen sunflower seeds and a pair of new garden gloves. We think they will be wonderful gifts.</p> <p><strong>All orders must be received online by Monday, November 30, 2009. Calendars will be shipped to arrive by the holidays.</strong></p> <p>Price: $14.00 (including shipping). <br /><a href="http://go.madmimi.com/redirects/72055937d57ee9e15b0dc55a198d60bb?pa=376400260">Buy the calendar now.</a> You can use a credit card, check or paypal.</p> <p>Sales of this calendar directly benefit the Great Sunflower Project</p> <p>Have a wonderful Thanksgiving.</p> <p>Gretchen <br />The Queen Bee</p> I Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248875785919608598.post-60040100499185774602009-11-20T10:28:00.001-08:002009-11-20T10:28:35.918-08:00Meet the Man of my Dreams, or… How to Get EVERYTHING You Want<p>I’ve been taking some time off  to finally do my 100 list. A friend and I agreed to do these several weeks ago, and for some reason I just haven’t yet, so it’s time.</p> <p>The exercise incorporates a lot of things we already know but I, at least, almost never put into practice. </p> <p>1. <strong><font color="#000000" size="4">ASK </font></strong>for what you want. Even the Bible, and a lot of writings a lot older than that—say, “ASK, and you shall receive.”</p> <p>(NOT: “Hope your spouse/best friend/mom/boss/daughter/lottery office can read your mind and give you exactly what you were desperately, but <em>silently </em>wishing for…..and be sad/hurt/angry/resentful when they don’t.”)</p> <p>Just ASK.</p> <p>Sounds simple, doesn’t it? It hasn’t been for me. I’m not used to being vocal, or even very honest, about what I want. Even what I <em>need</em>. I wrote about this a couple of weeks ago (<a title="http://choose2bhappynow.blogspot.com/2009_09_24_archive.html" href="http://choose2bhappynow.blogspot.com/2009_09_24_archive.html">http://choose2bhappynow.blogspot.com/2009_09_24_archive.html</a>), and it’ll likely be an ongoing effort. </p> <p>And ASKING for what you want isn’t the all of it. You need to ask RIGHT. Ask for what you want as <strong>clearly</strong>, <strong>specifically</strong>, and with as much <strong>detail</strong> as you possibly can.</p> <p>And since it’s harder to GET what we want, until we KNOW what we want, </p> <p>2. <font size="4"><font color="#000000"><strong>MAKE A LIST….</strong>……<font size="3">..</font>……..<strong>The 100 list</strong></font></font> <font size="1">©</font></p> <p>A list of 100 things that describe what it’s like to HAVE what you want, NOW. Present tense. POSITIVE terms. How it FEELS, how it TASTES, how it LOOKS, how it SMELLS, what it WEARS, what it MEANS, what you DO. Be as SPECIFIC as possible.</p> <p>NOT the 100 things that WILL BE wonderful WHEN you get what you want.</p> <p>The 100 things that ARE wonderful, right NOW, when you ALREADY (as if you already) have EXACTLY what you want.</p> <p>Beyond your wildest dreams.</p> <p>You need to really FEEL it, to be it. Picture it, see yourself already there.</p> <p>You can do this for EACH of the major goals in each of the major areas of your life, like</p> <p>Your HEALTH or fitness goals; <br />Your WEALTH goals; <br />Your SPIRITUAL goals; <br />Your RELATIONSHIP goals; <br />Your PERSONAL GROWTH goals; <br />etc.</p> <p>For me, this means taking one goal at a time. And right now, A. and I decided that we both wanted to work on this one: That we both want someone special in our lives. For the rest of our lives.</p> <p>It’s important to just start writing. Picture yourself already there, and describe it.</p> <p>Part of my list might look like this:</p> <p>My <font size="4"><font color="#000000"><strong>100 list</strong></font></font> <font size="1">©</font></p> <p>1. I feel safe and loved when he wraps his arms around me and holds me tight.</p> <p>2. He loves everything I bake!</p> <p>3. I love that he makes me laugh so hard that it’s hard to breathe.</p> <p>4. His butt looks great in jeans.</p> <p>5. We go on lots of great diving trips—he’s my favorite dive buddy ever.</p> <p>You don’t have to do the whole list at one sitting, but get started and get it done. Imagine yourself in the situation, and describe it—how it looks, feels, tastes, smells, sounds. How you feel there. The things that are important to you. The more specific your list, the clearer the image, the closer you are to already being there.</p> <p>This is not about changing someone into someone else. </p> <p>This is about YOU. <br />ASKING for what you want.</p> <p>Years ago, Debbie Ford told me something her rabbi (I think) had once told her:</p> <p>“You are nothing but a speck of dust -- <br />the whole Universe was created just for you.”</p> <p>The 100 list is about creating your Universe. <br />Describing your world, the one you LOVE to live in!</p> <p>When I finally started writing, I was amazed at some of the things that tumbled out. The ‘man of my dreams’ is a really great guy… </p> <p>I can’t wait for you to meet him sometime.</p> <p>Now start writing.</p> I Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248875785919608598.post-60527501920910704272009-11-16T16:09:00.000-08:002009-11-16T16:10:05.270-08:00Holy mola!<p>No mola molas, also known as <u>ocean sunfish</u>, in the Outer Bay or any other exhibit at the Monterey Bay Aquarium yet, but rumor has it that there are two being groomed behind the scenes.</p> <p>One has some health issues. Molas are prey to a mind-boggling array of parasitic and bacterial diseases. If he can’t be cured, he’ll be released back into the Bay to live out his natural life span. </p> <p>And the other mola is just not big enough yet. Despite the fact that hammerhead sharks in general are usually considered more dangerous (#10 on the Most  Dangerous to Humans list, world-wide), it’s the Galapagos sharks in that exhibit that everyone worries about.</p> <p>Divers go into that tank in pairs. One to do whatever, the other to keep an eye on the Galapagos.</p> <p>(Shortly before her release, the Great White shark had apparently had enough, and gave one of the Galapagos a nasty bite. The Aquarium’s fabulous vet, Dr. Mike, decided that it would do more harm than good to try to take the bitten shark out of the water to examine and treat her wound. Any thrashing she might do in the process of being lifted out of the water could open the wound further. But he thought it would be a good idea to give her an antibiotic, to be safe.  So an intrepid diver was sent into the tank, WITH A BIG HYPERDERMIC NEEDLE ATTACHED TO A  VERY LONG STICK, to inject the shark. What followed was a good half hour of diver-with-a-big-needle-on-a-long-stick chasing a MUCH faster, MUCH more agile, MUCH more dangerous animal with MANY more teeth around and around (and around and around….) the two-million gallon, 60 foot deep tank. </p> <p>Keep in mind that there are TWO Galapagos in that tank, three hammerheads, and, at that point, an increasingly cranky Great White. Kind of a high-stakes aquatic Keystone cops routine ensued. And you know, they almost never get their shark, er, man.</p> <p>This all happened last week, and I’m really sorry I missed it. By all accounts it was a sight worth seeing…</p> <p>I don’t know think the diver was ever successful—the person telling the story had to leave before the show was over. If not, there are also several other ways the antibiotic could have eventually been administered: in the shark’s food, or with a needle (attached to a shorter stick) when the shark came to the surface in response to food. In any case, the Galapagos seems to be doing fine.</p> <p>I’m pretty the final score was Galapagos-1, Diver-0.)</p> <p>But back to the molas. Or lack thereof.</p> <p>Before a mola can be added to the exhibit, the fish needs to be big enough to avoid getting eaten. By one of the Galapagos, or anything else. </p> <p>Molas are slow, strange creatures that look like a fish cut in half. They’re just a giant head, with two long, flat triangular fins sticking straight out the top and bottom, and then…nothing. The fish stops there. No long body, no split tail fins, just a a funny, slightly ruffled edge, like a torn piece of paper, that passes for its tail.</p> <p>And, head on, the wrinkled, toothless face of an old, old man.</p> <p>They’re the most fecund fish in the ocean—they produce jillions of eggs, which hatch into teeny tiny little molas. As young fish, molas are slow, and have no natural defenses. Other fish like to pick on them. Sharks, orcas, and sea lions like to eat them. Years ago one of the aquarists told me of a collecting trip out on the Bay, where he observed a couple of sea lions <em>flicking</em> a young mola back and forth between them on the surface like a helpless, living Frisbee.</p> <p>The molas that survive, eating mostly jellyfish, which are mostly water, grow as big as they can, as fast as they can.  Eventually they get so big that their size alone protects them. </p> <p>When they get too big, the Aquarium releases them back into the ocean. A couple of years ago, a mola in that exhibit grew from 55 lbs. to 880 lbs. in just fifteen months. That’s a LOT of jellyfish.  There’s a great picture of him (her?) here: <a title="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Mola_mola_ocean_sunfish_Monterey_Bay_Aquarium_2.jpg" href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Mola_mola_ocean_sunfish_Monterey_Bay_Aquarium_2.jpg">http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Mola_mola_ocean_sunfish_Monterey_Bay_Aquarium_2.jpg</a></p> <p>That’s really what they look like. Completely improbable. That particular one really did grow that big. (That’s one of the Galapagos sharks in the bottom right corner.) The Aquarium had to use a special crane to hoist it out of the tank—quick—before it got any bigger.</p> <p>But in the ocean, sunfish grow even bigger. Much, MUCH bigger. One caught off Santa Catalina Island in 1910 weighed over 3,500 pounds. <a title="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Enormous_Sunfish.jpg" href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Enormous_Sunfish.jpg">http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Enormous_Sunfish.jpg</a></p> <p>And even bigger ones—up to 5,000 pounds—have been reported. I would love to see one in open water—somehow my brain balks when I try to imagine a fish that size. Even half a fish.</p> <p>I’m a big fan of science fiction, a geek from way back. If there are creatures this weird or weirder in our oceans—and there are: science knows more about the dark face of the moon than about the deep oceans here on Earth—then the chance of life on other planets seems inevitable. Which is a thought I find comforting.</p> <p>Maybe somewhere out there is a world where giant molas are in control. Beaming out telepathic commands as they scud peacefully, unmolested and mostly unobserved,  through deep, wide seas that cover most of the planet.</p> <p>Maybe it’s this one.</p> I Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248875785919608598.post-73010546550454747092009-11-13T09:29:00.001-08:002009-11-13T09:29:09.027-08:00Flying with Turtles<p>That story about the chiropractor and the sea turtle (and the kangaroo, and the sharks…) reminded me of something. The chiropractor said he’d been swimming there for years, and had no idea there were sea turtles. (And we already know how observant <em>he</em> is…) But it was in almost exactly that same spot—just a little south of Cairns—that I encountered my first sea turtle while diving.</p> <p>I’d had a tête a tête with a couple of turtles  a year or two before, but that was swimming just off the beach on Grand Cayman.</p> <p>This time we were underwater, maybe around 25 feet or so, when a big green sea turtle came right up to us for a thorough look.</p> <p>I had to remind myself to breath. My friend D. next to me, squeezed my hand so hard that my fingers went a little numb. Having decided that we looked ok, I guess, the turtle turned slightly and floated off,  very unconcernedly. Went paddling slowly, peacefully along, checking out the occasional interesting rock, nosing into crevices or along the sand, then popping up to the surface for a breath of air.</p> <p>The three of us, hand in hand, followed along behind.</p> <p>Scuba diving is like flying. You know, those dreams where you soar over the landscape like a bird? Just like that. Completely suspended, completely weightless. You can turn in any direction with just a thought, stand on your head, balance on a finger, tumble in space like a happy seal, or just drift on the current, watching the whole world go by beneath you. </p> <p>And the coral gardens where we were in the protected Frankland Islands National Park near the southern end of the Great Barrier Reef, are some of the “most untouched, most pristine coral reefs” in the whole world.</p> <p>It was magical. An effortless flight over an underwater garden teeming with life, and light and color. With our own private turtle tour guide, one who seemed determined to take us to all the best spots.</p> <p>Twice, when we slowed down or veered away to look at something else, the turtle CAME BACK to see what was taking us so long, and hung around until he was sure we were following safely behind again. (“We’re swimming, we’re swimming…”) All he needed was a red umbrella.</p> <p>At one point, another turtle came up to see what was going on. He’d been following us for a while, pretending complete indifference, but edging closer and closer all the time. “Our” turtle, after one dismissive glance, ignored him. </p> <p>(I keep saying him, but I really have no idea. I figure that’s a pretty personal question that only another turtle needs to ask.)</p> <p>Eventually the other turtle just couldn’t stand it anymore. He came right up to us, and gave us a hard stare. A good going-over, first from one eye, then the other.  Turned to look at “our” turtle, watching, waiting nonchalantly, a little ways away. The erstwhile usurper shrugged and admitted defeat. Our turtle headed off again, confident of our unswerving loyalty.</p> <p>The other one trailed along behind, kind of hanging around the edges for a while. </p> <p>We continued on. I think D. and I would have followed that turtle forever, but at some point the dive master reminded us that we were running out of air.</p> <p>It was an experience I’ll always remember. As will D. Maybe more about her another time. For now, though, you should know this:</p> <p>D. grew up in an idyllic little seaside village in the south of England. And when she was nine years old, she was almost killed swimming in that sea when a boat ran over her.</p> <p>She’d been afraid of water ever since. Wouldn’t go in more than about waist-deep and never, NEVER put her face under the surface.</p> <p>But she’s an wonderful friend.</p> <p>It was my birthday, and she’d arranged this incredible surprise. </p> <p>We met up in Cairns. She came up just for the long weekend; I was going to stay on for another couple of days, make my way up the coast to Port Douglas and the rain forest, then across to Alice Springs and Uluru (Ayers Rock); and eventually all the way to Perth on the other side.</p> <p>It was June. “Winter.” A National Holiday in Australia—turns out the Queen of England celebrates the same day as I do. A gray, misty morning and the entire town deserted. Or dead. A battered little van—I don’t remember if it was actually a VW, but certainly the size and shape familiar to anyone who’s grown up near the ocean—picked us up from the ‘hotel’ (a generous turn of phrase) and headed out into the fog. </p> <p>The driver was in on it.  Wouldn’t tell me where we were going. (I’ve had that experience once or twice before. This time it wasn’t as scary. Much.) We drove south for a while, on deserted, increasingly smaller, and bumpier roads. Stopped at a rickety wooden dock on a big, green murky river. Were told to get out. (OK, right there it got a little scarier.) Led onto a boat, which immediately headed downstream, through a dark green tunnel of giant, overhanging mangrove trees, standing knee-deep on long, strange roots like grasping fingers. We kept our eyes peeled for ‘crocs.’ Saw a couple, too…</p> <p>Then suddenly the trees parted, blue sky and the wide blue Pacific opened up in front of us, and we headed out across open water towards the Great Barrier Reef. </p> <p>We didn’t have to go far. Across crystal-clear water to a beautiful bay. Tea and ‘biscuits’ and sandwiches. Sunning, replete and happy on the deck above water so clear we could see the ocean floor twenty feet below, teeming with fish, and bright-colored corals, and giant clams in day-glow colors.</p> <p>And then the cute little blonde surfer dude—who turned out to be a Dive Master—asked us if we were ready to go diving.</p> <p>And more than anything in the world I wanted to say yes.</p> <p>I said no.</p> <p>Diving is serious business. I would never try to ‘convince’ anyone to dive who didn’t want to. And I knew D. didn’t want to. And honestly, I would have been perfectly happy just swimming and sunning. Was absolutely thrilled when D. declared herself mentally and physically prepared to try snorkeling. </p> <p>It would have been a wonderful afternoon.</p> <p>But the Dive Master was cute. And determined. And blonde (did I mention that already?) And had that ridiculous accent. And D. was always a bit of a pushover for the attention of cheeky, blonde, flirtatious males.</p> <p>And he convinced her to try diving—something I never would have attempted. I even tried to talk her out of it—it terrified me that she might be doing something she really didn’t want to. But she’d somehow crossed a line. She felt safe—with me, with him. As safe as she could. She thought it was time.</p> <p>I was already Certified. She hadn’t been in water much deeper than her waist in twenty years. Dive Master Dave (or whatever his name was) did that unconscionable thing that Dive Masters do in resorts all over the world—he waved his hands in the air a little, declared her ‘Resort Certified’ and started laying out gear.</p> <p>I was beginning to regret those biscuits.</p> <p>(But watching him strip down for the wetsuit wasn’t  bad. D. did rub off on me, a bit, at the time.) </p> <p>(Come to think of it, if she lived any closer she’d probably have me married off by now, too.)</p> <p>So the three of us went diving. Hand-in-hand, like schoolchildren, D. in the middle, and the two of us on either side.</p> <p>And a big green sea turtle came right up, and welcomed us to his world.</p> <p>It just doesn’t get much better than that.</p> <p>Much later, when we finally had to say goodbye to our turtle, and come up for air, it was to a full-fledged barbeque feast, on the pristine white sands of an uninhabited tropical island. </p> <p>And a CHOCOLATE BIRTHDAY CAKE WITH MY NAME ON IT,  and CANDLES, and EVERYTHING…</p> <p>It was as much fun as it sounds. Maybe more.</p> <p>It was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me. And certainly one of the best birthdays I’ve ever had.</p> <p>It’s a special memory for both of us. The next time I saw D., almost a month later back in Sydney, we’d both gone out in the meantime—unbeknownst to each other—and  bought each other a token to remember the experience by. We exchanged the boxes—one a silver sea turtle charm, and the other a silver sea turtle key ring. To remember forever.</p> <p>As if we could forget flying with turtles.</p> I Choose2BHappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12236528881636166057noreply@blogger.com0