Choose2BHappy

Almost Perfect

2010-04-20T14:14:00.001-07:00

The act of sliding his right arm inside
the sleeve of his designer raincoat
tore an almost-invisible thread
which released a tissue-wrapped bit of powder
into a few drops of liquid left at the bottom
of the triple-density waterproof pocket.

It may have been there for some time;
biding,
poised for the next, inevitable, storm.

The poison developed slowly,
undetected,
(she’d been such a good girl in school)
until he took his place behind the wheel,
crushing the expensive fabric
and forcing the pocket open.

Released, the almost odorless gas
filled the tiny sports car, unheeded,
until he lost
consciousness—just long enough.

Pedigreed power, briefly free of his iron control,
escaped along a rain-slick road
and soared over a cliff toward the distant horizon.
Desperate flight--
until the crash, too soon, at the very bottom
on pain-sharp rocks at the edge of the pounding surf.

When they finally retrieved
his broken and wave-whipped body,
there would be no trace of what was, after all,
a common industrial byproduct.
It was the perfect crime.

Except--
that afternoon
he loaned his raincoat
to her beautiful, sixteen year old son,
hoping to avoid
another storm.

Technorati Tags: perfect crimes

My friend Monica

2010-02-05T08:47:00.001-08:00

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.

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.

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.

One day Monica and I were playing on the playground, and jumped up, almost beside ourselves. We had made an incredible discovery, and we couldn’t wait to TELL. We ran off to find a teacher.

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.

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.

We were more than a little afraid of her. She was old and strict and mean.

(She was probably about twenty-eight, and terrified at the thought of imminent spinsterhood.)

She already looked the part.

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.

“Miss Kneeneighborly!” “Guess what we found!” “Guess what we found!” We stuck out our hands, side by side.

Miss Kneeneighborly made some noises about running, about shouting, about pushing (who was pushing?), and about my KNEES.

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.

(Monica, on the other hand, was always spotless. No wonder my mother loved her.)

I reached down for the wipe-wipe, dust-dust, stamp, stamp the dirt off of my knees.

With my right hand, because my left was still held out, next to Monica’s, palm down.

Miss Kneeneighborly looked at Monica and smiled.

We took heart.

“Monica,” she said, “why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

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.

That was my cue.

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!!”

Miss Kneeneighborly’s mouth opened.

In unison we shouted “We’re the SAME! INSIDE! Like SISTERS!” We both squealed and grabbed each other in a hug, jumping up and down for the sheer bursting-out-happy JOY of discovery.

Miss Kneeneighborly closed her mouth.

Then she opened her mouth again and BLASTED me.

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.

A ten-ton torrent of words. Words like racist.

I remember her saying “Monica can’t help it that she’s black.”

My friend Monica stayed as close as she could.

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.

I wasn’t.

She stayed until Miss Kneeneighborly took her by the arm and dragged her away.

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.

So everyone could see my shame.

Mrs. Chin came over, handed me a tissue, and let me go to the sink.

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.

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.

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.

Later that day, when we went to sit on the rug for storytime, Monica came and sat down beside me, like always.

And held my hand.

Like sisters.

I don’t know how to thank you, but thank you ♥

2010-02-03T20:46:00.001-08:00

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.

She knows who she is, and the world—my world—and my life is a better place for her being in it.

Thank you, dear friend. For loving me, for trusting me, for supporting my dreams. Always.

I love you!

xoxo

So much good living, Part II.

2010-01-29T11:55:00.001-08:00

Day 25. My nose is still stuffy, too.

The good living didn’t end in Switzerland. Even in England I managed pretty well.

Most of the time.

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.

London could be tricky.

Lots of late nights at the office. Lots of meals missed, lots of meals out. Some of them were ok.

Or on good nights, crispy duck (or garlic prawns) at the Tradewinds on Baker Street with a favorite colleague.

If I was lucky.

Another nine rounds with the room service chef at the hotel, if I was not.

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.

That led to frequent and frustrating battles with the Room Service Chef.

I’d order roast chicken, with green beans, and wild rice.

No, he’d say. The wild rice comes with the lamb (smothered in mint jelly—YUCK! What a horrible thing to do to perfectly innocent lamb.) and overcooked carrots and mushy peas. The chicken comes with runny mashed potatoes, greasy gravy and drowned green beans.

I get that.

What I’d LIKE is the CHICKEN (no potatoes, no gravy), with wild rice and green beans.

Not possible. The chicken comes with..

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,

AND order the CHICKEN, WITHOUT the GRAVY, WITHOUT the potatoes.

And he would send up two plates:

One with the wild rice (hold the lamb, hold the…).

And one, with the chicken and green beans…

And charge me for two meals.

(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.”)

And then occasionally communications would break down entirely.

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.

I didn’t think it was an unreasonable request.

It certainly didn’t seem like a difficult concept.

Wrong again, Sherlock.

First of all, cheese pizza was not on the menu. If it isn’t on the menu, it’s a PROBLEM.

Full stop.

I’m an American. The “If it isn’t on the menu…” attitude is INCOMPREHENSIBLE to me.

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.

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…

Ten minutes later, the furniture was starting to look pretty good. Or maybe some of the flowers might be edible?

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 something.

I waited.

The man next door called down to Reception to complain about the loud growling noises coming from my room.

(It was just my stomach, I swear.)

Then there was a knock at the door.

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.

Not hotel security.

He wheeled it in, waited impatiently for his signature and tip (to add insult to injury) and bolted.

Like he was a little afraid.

I grabbed a thick linen napkin and carefully raised the domed cover…

What was revealed underneath looked like a pizza—mostly—and smelled like a pizza—mostly.

Except for five large, evenly-spaced, blue-ish gray, slightly lumpy, toxic-looking puddles floating on top.

I think one of them was moving.

I know of no naturally-occurring edible substance that color.

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.

And that chef would get his.

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.

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.

Alien.

And vaguely threatening.

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.

Safe.

Went for a bath, and a book, and bed.

And an hour later, just as I was falling asleep, it occurred to me.

He’d topped it with bleu cheese.

Life’s Been SO Good, part I

2010-01-28T11:01:00.001-08:00

Day 24 and my tongue is still white.

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.

I guess I have a lot of good living to cleanse.

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 buns. 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! ♥ )

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.

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.

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.

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.

And that was summer.

(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.)

I didn’t share.

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.

And pointed at the potatoes.

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.

And eat.

The Swiss eat well—all year round. And exponentially more chocolate—it’s considered food, 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.)

Rich, full-fat, full-flavor, real cacao chocolate. They even have real white chocolate.

All day long.

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.

Then a sweet snack for the trip home.

And chocolate fondue (after the cheese fondue for dinner) for dessert on the weekends.

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.

Different chocolates for every season, every occasion, and every possible taste.

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.

In my free time, I toured a couple of chocolate factories on my own. Like said Lindt. (Very stingy on the samples, they were.)

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.

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.)

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.

Every region in every country has their specialties—wonderful things, unusual things.

Things I might not be able to get ever again…

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.

I spent more than a year living on bread, and cheese, and chocolate, and…

I could go on and on.

And did.

Some really wonderful memories there.

Stuff that no cleanse can ever wash away.

And I think I’ll get my raclette grill out and invite a few friends as soon as this fast is over.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raclette

Not cured yet

2010-01-27T17:25:00.001-08:00

Apparently God does not mean for me to be a vegetarian.

I can go—and have—for weeks on just tofu and nuts, cheese and eggs at Tassajara.

And clearly, as I’m doing now, I can actually go for weeks without eating anything at all.

(Who knew?)

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.

It’s Day 23.

Books in the Bathtub

2010-01-26T21:08:00.001-08:00

Day 22.

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.

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.)

Or maybe I just need a better reading lamp.

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.

Sigh.

In the past week or two I’ve read, among other things:

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.

“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.

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.

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.

Ick.

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.

Ooops.

I now have a new only-paperbacks-in-the-bathtub rule.

And a whole stack of books, still waiting to be read.

Wild Weekend Women

2010-01-25T20:53:00.001-08:00

I had a absolutely fabulous weekend with a dear, fabulous woman that I’m grateful and honored to call my friend.

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. )

Not enough, though. Not enough.

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.

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.

And being back in surroundings that feel like home.

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.

And how glad and grateful I am that I live here, with open vistas of hills and trees all around me, instead.

Day 21.

You’re Boring the Dog

2010-01-21T11:10:00.001-08:00

I have a new idea for a reality show.

It’s called “You’re Boring the Dog.”

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.

But sometimes even he gets bored.

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.

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.

Bored.

Until I get up and do something more interesting again.

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.

And there hasn’t been a mixing bowl to help lick out in ages.

These days it’s just plain ol’ dog food, and cookie bones, and the occasional soft liver treat.

And just potion, potion, potion for me.

Even the dog is getting bored.

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.

I was boring the dog.

Day 16

2010-01-20T10:15:00.001-08:00

I’m really, REALLY tired of lemonade.

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, please 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.

And they didn’t pour lemon syrup over it, either. I mean, what ISN’T moist when you drench it in syrup?

Anyway, I’ve always loved lemons. And right now I’m so sick of the taste of lemons, I would almost rather not have anything than drink another glass of this lemon juice potion.

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…

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.

So, ‘cheating’ would mean getting to drink a glass of orange juice. Maybe some broth, if I really go off the deep end.

Not a slice of pizza.

And nothing about a glass of orange juice is worth it.

Or even that appealing.

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.

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.

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.

But now even that taste is getting tiresome.

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 almost gives my mouth something to do.

Cup number six went down completely plain.

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.)

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.

And I’m good to go again.

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.

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.

I hope everyone stays safe, and warm and dry. Well hydrated.

God bless.

Humbled

2010-01-16T11:04:00.001-08:00

This puts an entire new spin on the term, ‘craving chicken.’

I’m appropriately humbled. Grateful all over again for the many blessings I’ve been given. And grateful for a new twitter-contact, @AngeliasArt . 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.

Chicken a la Carte: http://www.cultureunplugged.com/play/1081?pf=rate:1081

Today’s Day 12. Maybe I will try for 40 days.

Just because.

I haven’t eaten anything in 10 days

2010-01-14T20:37:00.001-08:00

It boggles my mind.

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.

Now I know why God gave me the Frankenlemon tree.

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.

I’m more than a little mortified to admit it, but it’s true.

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..

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.

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.

I can’t believe I haven’t EATEN in ten days.

I bought a cute pair of boots (tall, black, suede, scrunchy. Sweet!) as a reward with the money I’m saving on groceries.

Which brings me back to needing and wanting.

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.)

I didn’t actually need them.

I’ve been thinking about how much I have, how lucky I am.

And starting to feel a bit guilty about the boots.

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 so 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.

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.

Here’s the link to the International Red Cross, if you’d like to contact them: http://www.redcross.org/

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?

I’m off to pick more lemons now.

And I’ve put it on my list to ask the local butcher how long it takes to order a duck.

And then there were Eight

2010-01-12T10:36:00.001-08:00

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.

Day 1 was no problem, but that first evening was ROUGH. It took two pieces of gum to get me through it, but I did it.

Day 2. 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.)

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.

Those, it turns out, I’m able to resist.

By Day 3 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.

On Day 4, 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…)

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)

Day 5—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.

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.

J was right: I DO miss chewing!

By Day 6 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…

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.

Day 7, 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.

And Day 8 is today.

It boggles my mind that I haven’t eaten anything 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.

You’d have to ask the people that have to deal with me every day, and so far, they’re not telling.

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.

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. I haven’t eaten in EIGHT days. 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.

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” http://www.vietworldkitchen.com/blog/2010/01/fragrant-and-crispy-duck-recipe-xiang-su-quan-ya.html…

It’s featured on every Chinese restaurant menu in England and almost none here, and I’ve been craving it since I left.

Anyone want to come over (after I’m done with my fast, of course!) and help me try it?

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.

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, healthy 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.

Did I mention that it’s going to an INCREDIBLE year?!

Fast the New Year

2010-01-11T14:32:00.001-08:00

The driveway wasn’t the only thing I fell off of last Monday.

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…

Darn me for being such a good cook :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.

And Monday was supposed to be my first day.

(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.)

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.

But I wasn’t going to let a little thing like pain stop me.

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.

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.)

Got through the day, got through the walk, got through the gym and even got through the hour on the old lady bike.

Then I got home and ate everything in the house.

I mean everything. 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.

And then another one.

And I wasn’t even hungry.

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.

Well, it’s not in the house anymore.

I finished the day with my cup of herbal tea and resolved to start again in the morning.

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.

And resolved to do better tomorrow.

Off with a Bang

2010-01-10T13:39:00.001-08:00

I started the New Year off by falling down.

No, not from any artificial impairment, and not from anything as exciting as a horse. This time I fell off my own two feet.

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.

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.

Sunshine….

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.

Rain…..
Then we had a little rain…. much needed and welcomed. Also slightly unexpected, torrential, and brief.
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

it got COLD….

Really, REALLY cold. So cold, in fact, that for a couple of days I could see real SNOW from my backyard!
(Have I mentioned that I LOVE living out here?!)

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.

Any day now.

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.

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:

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!

(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.)

(He’s curled up at my feet, under the desk, with his head on my foot, as we speak.)

Starting Christmas Day, the weather warmed up. And up. And UP. Which brings me to back to New Year’s…

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….

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…

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.

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.

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.

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.

Which, come to think of it, is true with most injuries and might warrant a discussion all its own.

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.

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.

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.

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.

NOTHING is going to stop me from having a GREAT year!

Octopus Hugs

2009-12-03T22:17:00.000-08:00

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.

What happened is this:

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.

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.

A couple of months ago, it was time for one of the octopus, a large female, to be released back into the Bay.

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.

The animal clearly understood what was happening to her. She “hung around” in the water near Sam for a few minutes.

As if to say goodbye.

Then she swam away and disappeared.

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.

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.

And suddenly the octopus appeared again, swimming toward her.

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 back.

The octopus swam right up to Sam, gently wound one long tentacle up and around her arm and, very gently, squeezed.

Once, twice, three times.

Then she slowly withdrew her tentacle, looked Sam in the eye one last time, and swam away.

The Viking and I, Part I.

2009-12-02T21:52:00.001-08:00

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.

I digress. Back to the giant kitchen. And the giant Viking stove.

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.)

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…

So, with the weather turning, and the holidays rapidly approaching, I finally got somebody out here to take a look.

Took me almost two years before it got so bad that I had to do something about it.

Took almost a week between me calling, and them actually showing up.

Took him almost fifteen minutes before he was packing up and writing up an invoice.

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, every single 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.

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?!”

(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 “Lady” that way) “There’s nothing wrong with this oven…”)

He did none of those things.

He told me, in slightly more detail than required, exactly what was wrong with my oven and 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, ever 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.

I almost kissed him.

The Rain in Liverpool Falls Mainly

2009-12-01T13:32:00.001-08:00

About those boots. The ones I hadn’t worn in years. The ones I bought in Liverpool.

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.

So it must have been the second weekend.

Anyway…

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.

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.’

Fair enough. Besides, she assured me, it was ‘just spitting.’

I found this recent image when I googled “Liverpool rain.” Just to give you an idea: http://www.pixdaus.com/single.php?id=188006#first_new

(It was a long couple of months. Really nice people, though.)

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.

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.

And her big brother’s borrowed barn jacket.

Just an attractive picture all the way ‘round.

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.

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.

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.

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.

This stuff happens. A more experienced rider (or maybe just a drier 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.

(It was actually kinda nice to have something blocking the rain for a minute.)

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...)

As soon as she saw that I was all right, she started laughing her head off.

I caught my breath, caught the horse, and got back on. As you do.

And went over the jump a couple of times—successfully—just because.

An hour after that, I was curled into the tiny hotel tub, tired, and SORE, but happy. And looking forward to going again.

I mean, having invested in all that gear, I kind of had to, right?

I got to wear the boots a few more times after that in Liverpool, then off and on after I moved to London.

And hardly at all since.

But now they’re out again. They’re ready.

Maybe even lucky.

Wouldn’t it be nice?

♥

Boot Scootin’

2009-11-30T14:54:00.001-08:00

I got stuck in my boots yesterday.

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.

Yesterday was one of those times.

It was a glorious Sunday, sunny and bright and I was muddling around the house, as my British friends would say, “happy as Larry.”

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.”

ANYway--

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.

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.

So off I went, hunting through the various closets until I found them.

And started to pull them on.

(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 unbelievable.)

No spiders. Good thing, because I didn’t actually remember to check until I was halfway into the second boot.

Barefoot.

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.
See if they’d stretch out.
Did I mention that these are rubber?
But rubber stretches, right?

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.

For a while.

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.

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.

Apparently my left foot is slightly larger than my right foot.

Or maybe it’s just that one toe.

In any case it was time to take them of and trade them in for a pair of running shoes.

But in the meantime I’d been walking for hours, barefoot and bare-legged, in tight RUBBER knee-high boots on a WARM day.

You get the idea.

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.

I couldn’t get them off.

Here’s where a guy would come in handy.

Someone to grab those boots by the ankle and PULL.

Of course, if I were really prepared for all this country living, I’d have a boot jack (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boot_jack) hanging by the barn door, ready for such an emergency.

Having neither boot jack nor barn, I was left to struggle on my own.

And struggle I did.

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.

And finally got it off.

Then I realized that now I had NOTHING left on my left foot to get the right one started.

The one that was WAY too tight up around the calf to begin with.

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.

Took twice as long to wiggle my way out of that one.

Luckily, rubber is sort of flexible.

Luckily, so am I.

But a little help would have nice.

I left them standing by the door. Not back in the closet. Just seeing them there makes me smile.

Besides, I might need them sometime.

Soon.

Cooking with Books

2009-11-25T21:55:00.001-08:00

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.”

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.

The majority of them are here:

A couple of key volumes are in the kitchen, here,

and here,

-including a Simone Beck! (That one was a gift—I’ve never actually used it.)

The rest are in two mis-matched bookcases in the living room; some are stacked with the Christmas and Easter books (I love 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.

But I didn’t have that one.

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 almost 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.

And then I moved again.

I tried really, really hard to keep them organized as I was packing. How does that saying go? “We plan, God laughs.”

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.

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….

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.”

So I finally did.

And I did love it. It’s nice to know that a movie like that can still get made.

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.

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 looked like.) And since my cookbooks still aren’t sorted properly, it wasn’t where it should have been.

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 eighteenth printing.

Wouldn’t it be nice if I could say that about one of my books someday?

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.

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.

Bon Appétit!

Buy a Calendar, Save the Bees!

2009-11-21T12:30:00.001-08:00

I got the following email this morning, from Gretchen LeBuhn, an associate professor at San Francisco State University, and project leader of The Great Sunflower Project.

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: http://www.greatsunflower.org/en

In the meantime, they’ve had these GORGEOUS calendars made, with beautiful pictures and all sorts of interesting information.

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.

Calendar orders must be placed by November 30, and all proceeds go toward supporting this vital research.

FWD:The Buzz:
The Gorgeous 2010 Native Bee Calendar

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!

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.

All orders must be received online by Monday, November 30, 2009. Calendars will be shipped to arrive by the holidays.

Price: $14.00 (including shipping).
Buy the calendar now. You can use a credit card, check or paypal.

Sales of this calendar directly benefit the Great Sunflower Project

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving.

Gretchen
The Queen Bee

Meet the Man of my Dreams, or… How to Get EVERYTHING You Want

2009-11-20T10:28:00.001-08:00

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.

The exercise incorporates a lot of things we already know but I, at least, almost never put into practice.

1. ASK for what you want. Even the Bible, and a lot of writings a lot older than that—say, “ASK, and you shall receive.”

(NOT: “Hope your spouse/best friend/mom/boss/daughter/lottery office can read your mind and give you exactly what you were desperately, but silently wishing for…..and be sad/hurt/angry/resentful when they don’t.”)

Just ASK.

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 need. I wrote about this a couple of weeks ago (http://choose2bhappynow.blogspot.com/2009_09_24_archive.html), and it’ll likely be an ongoing effort.

And ASKING for what you want isn’t the all of it. You need to ask RIGHT. Ask for what you want as clearly, specifically, and with as much detail as you possibly can.

And since it’s harder to GET what we want, until we KNOW what we want,

2. MAKE A LIST….……..……..The 100 list ©

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.

NOT the 100 things that WILL BE wonderful WHEN you get what you want.

The 100 things that ARE wonderful, right NOW, when you ALREADY (as if you already) have EXACTLY what you want.

Beyond your wildest dreams.

You need to really FEEL it, to be it. Picture it, see yourself already there.

You can do this for EACH of the major goals in each of the major areas of your life, like

Your HEALTH or fitness goals;
Your WEALTH goals;
Your SPIRITUAL goals;
Your RELATIONSHIP goals;
Your PERSONAL GROWTH goals;
etc.

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.

It’s important to just start writing. Picture yourself already there, and describe it.

Part of my list might look like this:

My 100 list ©

1. I feel safe and loved when he wraps his arms around me and holds me tight.

2. He loves everything I bake!

3. I love that he makes me laugh so hard that it’s hard to breathe.

4. His butt looks great in jeans.

5. We go on lots of great diving trips—he’s my favorite dive buddy ever.

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.

This is not about changing someone into someone else.

This is about YOU.
ASKING for what you want.

Years ago, Debbie Ford told me something her rabbi (I think) had once told her:

“You are nothing but a speck of dust --
the whole Universe was created just for you.”

The 100 list is about creating your Universe.
Describing your world, the one you LOVE to live in!

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…

I can’t wait for you to meet him sometime.

Now start writing.

Holy mola!

2009-11-16T16:09:00.000-08:00

No mola molas, also known as ocean sunfish, 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.

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.

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.

Divers go into that tank in pairs. One to do whatever, the other to keep an eye on the Galapagos.

(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.

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.

This all happened last week, and I’m really sorry I missed it. By all accounts it was a sight worth seeing…

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.

I’m pretty the final score was Galapagos-1, Diver-0.)

But back to the molas. Or lack thereof.

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.

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.

And, head on, the wrinkled, toothless face of an old, old man.

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 flicking a young mola back and forth between them on the surface like a helpless, living Frisbee.

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.

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: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Mola_mola_ocean_sunfish_Monterey_Bay_Aquarium_2.jpg

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.

But in the ocean, sunfish grow even bigger. Much, MUCH bigger. One caught off Santa Catalina Island in 1910 weighed over 3,500 pounds. http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Enormous_Sunfish.jpg

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.

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.

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.

Maybe it’s this one.

Flying with Turtles

2009-11-13T09:29:00.001-08:00

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 he 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.

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.

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.

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.

The three of us, hand in hand, followed along behind.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

(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.)

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.

The other one trailed along behind, kind of hanging around the edges for a while.

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.

It was an experience I’ll always remember. As will D. Maybe more about her another time. For now, though, you should know this:

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.

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.

But she’s an wonderful friend.

It was my birthday, and she’d arranged this incredible surprise.

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.

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.

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…

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.

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.

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.

And more than anything in the world I wanted to say yes.

I said no.

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.

It would have been a wonderful afternoon.

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.

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.

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.

I was beginning to regret those biscuits.

(But watching him strip down for the wetsuit wasn’t bad. D. did rub off on me, a bit, at the time.)

(Come to think of it, if she lived any closer she’d probably have me married off by now, too.)

So the three of us went diving. Hand-in-hand, like schoolchildren, D. in the middle, and the two of us on either side.

And a big green sea turtle came right up, and welcomed us to his world.

It just doesn’t get much better than that.

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.

And a CHOCOLATE BIRTHDAY CAKE WITH MY NAME ON IT, and CANDLES, and EVERYTHING…

It was as much fun as it sounds. Maybe more.

It was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me. And certainly one of the best birthdays I’ve ever had.

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.

As if we could forget flying with turtles.

So a Kangaroo, a Sea Turtle, and a Great White Shark walk into a bar….

2009-11-12T00:17:00.001-08:00

I had started another post, but got sidetracked by this:

A chiropractor in Australia was “just swimming along” in the ocean near Cairns, Australia a couple of days ago when his left arm came crashing down on the back of a ‘very large’ sea turtle that he had somehow failed to notice swimming alongside and slightly beneath him.

The impact against the hard turtle shell hurt his shoulder.

I’m sure the turtle wasn’t thrilled either.

It was the same shoulder that the chiropractor had hurt the week before, when he accidentally CRASHED INTO A KANGAROO while mountain biking nearby.

No word on the poor kangaroo.

All these athletic exertions are because said chiropractor is in training for a marathon swim. He and a friend are going to swim about 1430 miles along the Great Barrier Reef next year to promote awareness of global warning.

(‘Promoting awareness’ on his part seems like a really good idea.)

He has elected, however, to do the swim without the solar-powered shark cage he’d originally planned to use for safety. He says the cage would be ‘too restrictive’ and the swim wouldn’t be as much fun. He’s also concerned that he could get trapped in the cage and be at greater risk for injury. Now he’s planning to use electronic shark shields instead.

Personally, I think it’s the sharks who should be worried.

VERY worried.

I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.

Here’s a link to the story in the local Cairns newspaper:

http://www.cairns.com.au/article/2009/11/12/75485_local-news.html

And a special thanks to all my twitter-friends in Australia, who just KNEW I’d want to know about this!

Some poor schmuck at the Aquarium has been sorting through sea turtle poop.

2009-11-10T10:03:00.001-08:00

Really.

It turns out that the sea turtles won’t be returning to the Outer Bay exhibit at the Monterey Bay Aquarium just yet.

The back of the giant, almost two-million gallon tank is covered in tiny tiles. Almost impossible for the public to see, but the turtles discovered them a while ago.

I don’t know if they were just bored, or hungry, or acting out. It’s not unusual for sea turtles to nibble algae, so that may have been it as well, although great efforts are made to keep those walls very clean.

Or maybe the turtles had an artistic vision—a kind of abstract, negative mosaic—in mind. Maybe they were spelling out a message.

Regardless, tiles began disappearing from the wall. And appearing (seems they’re not digestible) in turtle poop.

So some poor schmuck got assigned the task of collecting and sorting through the turtle poop and counting the tiles they found.

The good news is, careful turtle poop sorting was successful: they recovered exactly the number of tiles that had gone missing.

This is dedicated science in action.

The bad news is, that until the aquarists come up with a way to keep the tile-tasting-turtles from tasting tiles, the turtles will remain behind the scenes, in off-exhibit tanks not visible to the public.

Too bad. The turtles are a big crowd-pleaser, and a personal favorite. It would be nice if there were somewhere else they could be exhibited safely, without the dangers of them tasting tiles, or the occasional Great White shark tasting them.

The people at the Aquarium are the best in the world at what they do. I’m sure they’re already working on it.

And I’m still holding out for a mola.

Lasting Relationships, Changing Times

2009-11-09T10:21:00.001-08:00

I got a catch-up email from a childhood acquaintance who found me online. She wrote that after nearly twenty years of marriage, she and her husband are still ‘fond’ of each other.

Although it was stated positively, it seemed a slightly backhanded turn of phrase. But it wasn’t more than a few weeks later that she mentioned that for every one of her birthdays, for every Christmas, and for every Mother’s Day since their son was born, her husband has written her a love letter.

That’s a lot of letters. Wonderful letters. She has a whole box full of ‘em. And that, it seems to me, says a lot about a relationship, about a marriage, about what ‘fond’ means to her. And they’re still married. They still make the choice, every day, to spend their lives with one another. That says a lot right there.

I wonder if she knows how lucky she is?

Part of me is jealous. Part of me is just beginning to realize how completely I don’t understand the process.

But I’d like the chance to learn.

I spent a wonderful couple of days recently with a beloved cousin who’s the closest thing I have to a sister. She spent a measurable portion of that time pointing out how completely clueless I am. We’ll skip the part about my hair (I pull it straight, back and up; she says I should wear it curly, loose and down.) And the clothes (I like to be put together, and comfortable. She says I need to go more casual, lower, and tighter.) And the lifestyle: I’m a bit of a hermit…well, occasionally downright anti-social. (Although another friend pointed out last year that I’m not anti-social, I’m just discerning. It’s all about the spin.) My cousin wants me out on the dance floor. Or at least out of the house.

But aside from all that, she’s convinced that I don’t even notice when, in spite of myself, other people (read “men”) notice me. That I never have.

She’s not the first one to point this out.

(Every since she fell madly in love & got happily married years ago, she’s wanted the same for me, bless her. If there were any less distance than the thousands of miles there usually are between us, I’m sure she would have managed it by now. She’s a real go-getter, that one.)

But left to my own devices, I seem to be falling short. And according to her (and everyone else I know) it IS for want of trying.

So maybe I shouldn’t have moved to a town the size of a very small private college and opened a business directed almost exclusively to women and children.

At first I was too happy and busy to notice that I was single. Too relieved to be in one spot for a while, enjoying a five-minute commute and coming home to my own bed every night instead of getting on another plane, and waking up in another hotel room, in another time zone, on my way to another meeting with another group of overgrown boys pushing and posturing their way to the top of the corporate heap.

When it did finally hit me, I looked up and realized that everyone around me was either “newlywed or nearly dead.” Or already married to their high-school sweetheart, a shiny happy little family with two-point-three kids, a dog, and a SUV (yes, it’s that kind of town), so the point immediately became moot. I got on with my life.

In my defense, I have met BOTH the single men in this town, and one of ‘em still has all his own teeth. (That might be exaggerating a tiny little bit. Not much.)

For a couple of years there, it was a little hard. A little lonely. A little desolate when all of your friends are married and their idea of a good time on a Saturday night is a Little League game and then pizza with 30 screaming kids at Gianni’s. I’ve been to more than my share of birthday parties, and ballet recitals, and really awful amateur theater productions. And I’m still not old (or desperate) enough to hang out at Mission Ranch. (Sorry, Clint.)

But lately things have been changing.

Toddlers are turning into teens and heading off into the wide world, leaving their doting everything-revolves-around-my-children parents at loose ends.

Friends whose weddings I remember are getting divorced. For some it’s a relief, a blessing. For others it’s not. For all of them it’s a change, a huge upheaval in life, and a sudden (or not so sudden) veering away from, or sometimes back to, the road originally plotted.

Even more tragically, in the past few years several dear friends have had terrible losses—spouses, parents, and most tragically, a child. A beautiful, beloved, magical, only, child.

So all of a sudden, almost ALL of my friends are single. Suddenly they ALL have time to play—all the time. They all want to go out, or to lunch, or to dinner, or the movies. And can’t figure out why I don’t always have time for them.

Because in the meantime, I’ve filled my life with other things.
I’m busy.

But maybe I’ve changed, too. I’m ready to meet someone special. Now. Someone to share my life with, someone to laugh with, someone to dive, and dance, and travel with. Someone to cook for. Someone who can fix the door in the my office. Someone who loves horses, and dogs, and curling up on the couch in front of the fire.

Someone who writes love letters to me.

I suppose it’s natural at this time of year to be thinking about the things that change. And the things that don’t.

For now, I’m single. It would be nice if I wasn’t.

But I have cousins who are like sisters to me, a mother who’s a saint, and the best extended family anyone could wish for. I have a sweet, funny dog who’s always glad to see me and sweet, funny, wise, wonderful friends. For all seasons.

Family and friends. And faith. My life is full. And happy.

And I’m giving notice that there’s room for more.

The Discovery of Coffee

2009-11-07T08:34:00.001-08:00

It’s maybe a little late, but I’ve finally discovered coffee.

I have an aunt who would tell you that she’s never been on a diet in her life—and she’s never needed to. She has a cup of coffee at quarter to dawn every morning, a cup or two for breakfast, another cup for brunch, and then one or two cups between that and the cup she has for lunch. She’d also tell you that, while she doesn’t eat breakfast or lunch, she snacks constantly. She does. All of half an open-faced sandwich here, one or two home-baked cookies there, (she’s an incredible cook), maybe an apple, or a piece of cheese. If there’s any excuse at all to make a second pot, she’ll have another cup or two of coffee in the afternoon with a couple of cookies or a piece of fresh pastry.

Of course, she hasn’t slept well in years, but she has the figure of a cute nineteen-year old, boundless energy, a kind word and helping hand for everyone, and gets more done in a day than any four other people I know put together.

I figure it’s worth a shot.

Bye sharkie, sharkie.

2009-11-05T20:23:00.001-08:00

There’s now one more Great White shark in the waters off California.

Yesterday, the Monterey Aquarium released the Great White shark they’ve had since August. She’s visibly grown in the two-plus months she’s been here, thrived, and had recently been spending more time nearer the top of the giant Outer Bay tank, instead of down in the depths where I first encountered her.

But she’s apparently also been getting restless—you know teenagers!—and the decision to release her was made on Tuesday after she exhibited some “aggressive behavior” toward the other sharks in the exhibit over Halloween weekend.

Youch.

The local news joked that the surfers currently competing in the Cold Water Classic surfing competition on the north side of the Bay might want to keep their eyes open.

Realistically, though, she’ll probably head south, like her predecessors, toward the warmer water in Southern California. Maybe as far south as the tip of the Baja peninsula, and then maybe north up into the Gulf of California/Sea of Cortez. Researchers are still not sure if that’s a Great White breeding ground, or a nursery, or just a place the juvenile in-crowd likes to hang out.

But it’s a popular Great White destination and researchers are doing their best to find out why. This Great White was fitted with two electronic transmitters before she was released, and her progress will be tracked via satellite. Rumor has it that last time they released a Great White, some of the most venerable of the Aquarium founders and staff camped along the beach in Baja, hoping for a glimpse. (Or a beer.)

An interesting tidbit here: surfers and swimmers in Southern California have about a 50% chance that any Great White they encounter in the water will be a juvenile, “only” about five to seven feet long.

In contrast, surfers and swimmers in Northern California have more to look out for: most, if not all of the Great Whites sharks up here are older and much, MUCH bigger. It’s not until the Great Whites get to an impressive size that they start preferring the colder water and rich feeding grounds north of Santa Barbara.

Of course, Northern California is also culturally superior, but that’s another post.

For details on how they isolate and catch a Great White shark from a two-million gallon tank that has also has lots of other sharks in it (VERY carefully), how they lift her out (How do they pick who gets to hold the biting end?) and transport her safely—like most tourists, she took the scenic route, right down Cannery Row—to the boat, to the Bay, and to an appropriate release point, you can check out the last two Aquarium blogs here:

http://montereybayaquarium.typepad.com/sea_notes/white-shark/

They’ve got details about the scuffle with her tank mates (one of the Galapagos sharks now has a NASTY-looking five-inch gash and a couple of tooth punctures behind her right fin), some great pictures of the her release, and a good link to the just-published findings about Great White movements along the California coast. Turns out that Great Whites do occasionally swim INTO the San Francisco Bay, as well as along their more well-known routes down to Baja in the south to as far as Hawaii in the west. And congregate in what’s known as the “Great White Cafe” in between.

Now that the Great White is gone, I’m hoping the two sea turtles will re-appear. They’ve been kept in some holding tanks off-exhibit for the duration of her stay.

Just in case.

But it turns out this shark was a picky eater—the piscine equivalent of that phase where teenagers will eat anything, as long as it’s pizza. It’s not that pizza isn’t nourishing. It’s just that a little variety doesn’t hurt. Maybe now, back out in the ocean, she’ll expand her palate.

No more mackerel-on-a-stick for her, darn it. I wonder if she’ll think back on that fondly?

They’d already added a small school of mahi-mahi, or dolphin fish, to the exhibit with her last week. Bright, colorful, funny-looking things, with their odd-shaped heads, and, as it turns out, curious natures.

But what I’m really hoping for is a new mola mola.

More about that another time.

My Wild, Wild West

2009-11-03T11:51:00.001-08:00

I'd been living out here for about a year when my friend Sarah came to visit from London.

We were driving home one afternoon after having lunch in town when she started to giggle. I asked her what was so funny. “Every time we drive out here, I feel like I’m heading into the real Wild West,” she said.

I must have looked at her in complete disbelief.

Don’t get me wrong. This is no metropolis, but it’s not exactly the Badlands, either. I think of the Wild West as open, empty vistas, tumbleweeds, and…well, ok, I have to admit that we do have rattlesnakes. And coyotes. Not a lot, though. The occasional mountain lion. But I live in a neighborhood; there are houses on three sides of me; the electric and cable service isn’t any worse (and sometimes a lot better) than in the towns of Monterey, or Carmel, or Pebble Beach, or Pacific Grove (especially Pacific Grove); and most of the roads are paved—although not recently.

True, she admitted. Then again, none of her neighbors in London have geese. She said this just as we were heading past the last, and one of the most successful, business in the Village—the Saloon—so I let it go.

About a month later I drove into the Village center to pick up a few things at the market. It must have been rush hour—all four parking spaces in front were filled, so I backed up a bit down the road to find an empty spot.

It’s common wisdom (every fictional detective from Sherlock Holmes to Morse quotes it at some point) that people don’t look up. Which is why in science fiction films the slimy alien with the reptile face and poison claws leaps DOWN on the unsuspecting victims from his perch at the top of the warehouse, or from where he was glued to the ceiling of the dark passageway between the engine room and the crew quarters.

I guess it’s true. Pulling into a parking space just a couple of doors down from the market I’d been going to about once a week for a year, I happened to look UP. And was taken completely by surprise to see a sign in front of the upstairs rooms—a sign that has clearly been there for some time—that said Gunsmithing.

Really.

And it isn’t a small sign, either. It stretches over the equivalent of two storefronts underneath, written in a kind of graceful, outmoded script. The sign is slightly faded, but from the size and location of the space they inhabit on the coveted second floor—up the rickety wooden steps on the side—it’s clearly a thriving enterprise.

I parked and got out of the car. To my right, the woman getting into the bronze Bentley and the “dog” in her arms were dressed in matching pink Jackie-O Chanel. (Cropped jackets. Contrasting trim). Hers looked original.

To my left, a giant black and tan bloodhound straight out of Mayberry with droopy eyes and even droopier ears, was glowering over the top of my car at them in disbelief from atop a dusty white half-ton pickup truck with mud on the wheels and rodeo tags on the bumper.

Next to him, a spotless, forest-green late model Subaru station wagon had a crate of prize-winning chickens in the back. Not that I know from prize-winning chickens, but I’m pretty sure that’s what all the blue and red ribbons hanging from the side meant.

I stepped onto the covered walkway, sidled carefully around the massive German Shepherd sprawled snoozing in front of the Art Gallery and glanced at the new notices on the bulletin board:

New Yoga Class starting!
gentle, stretching, some Pilates
Community Chapel
BYO mat
Call Tristan

Mobile Farrier Service The Middle Way
20 yrs. experience Zen in the 21st Century

Overwhelmed?
Chakra Balancing
by Compassionate Professional

Best price
Dry Oak Firewood
You split, you haul

Brad—you can come back. M

ONE NIGHT ONLY!
The ORIGINAL
Creekridge Rollers at the Running Iron Saloon
Beer & Barbeque

I resisted the urge to look through the pile of ‘read & share’ books in the weathered bookcase underneath. Every available surface in my house is covered in books waiting to be read as it is. I did pick up an old copy of “Horse and Rider” to page through. Just wishful thinking, at this point. But wouldn’t it be nice?

Balanced on a stool at the tall table outside the Market, the celebrity owner of a local winery was debating whether smoke and ashy run-off from the summer’s wild fires would affect the taste of next year’s Chardonnay. And the problems he was having keeping wild boar out of the vines. I nodded to the wooden Indian standing guard at the door, and went inside to pick up a loaf of sourdough.

Sarah may have a point.

Bumper Bees

2009-11-02T16:29:00.001-08:00

I just reconnected with one of my best friends from high school. It seems we’ve both been looking for each other and still have a lot in common. On the one hand, we can’t believe it’s already November, and how fast the time, and years, go by these days. Sigh.

But we can’t be anything but grateful when it’s November and 85 degrees in the shade under a cloudless, deep blue sky. All up and down the state, apparently—he lives almost 300 miles south of here. We got almost four inches of rain two weeks ago—more than half of last year’s annual total in just fourteen hours—so my dry, brown garden and the surrounding hills are now covered in soft new green. All of a sudden, everything is growing and blooming!

For the past couple of days the little creeping rosemary bushes I planted by the front door last year are covered in blossoms and HUMMING with honey bees. There are a lot of bees out here in general, for which I’m very grateful. During the summer, the buzzing of the bees in the pepper trees outside my (closed) bedroom windows is so loud that it wakes me up almost every morning. Sometimes I just lie there for a second, grinning like an idiot, and rooting for every bee.

I don't know if you can see the three bees in this snapshot—it’s not like they’re willing to hold still, even for an instant. Rosemary must not be a particularly productive flower (keep that in mind, farmer Andrea). Or maybe bees are just super efficient. They barely alight on a blossom, poke around a bit from every angle, then take off again for the next, better flower. Buzzing around so frantically, pushing and shoving each other, that it's like watching an aerial game of bumper cars. Or news footage of women at those East Coast wedding gown sales.

I haven’t been particularly productive today, either. And not anywhere near as worried about it as I maybe should be.

Sunshine, old friends, and happy honey bees. Life is good!

The Physics of Floating

2009-10-30T16:14:00.001-07:00

One of the great gaps in my education is that I’ve never taken a physics class. (sigh) So I don’t know why the flowers in the big bowl by my front door refuse to float in the middle. Instead they wander off to one side or another, sometimes huddling together, sometimes drawing apart in a huff, occasionally lining up like obedient school children along the rim. I center, I straighten, I shove. Every time I change the water, I check again to make sure that the bowl itself is level in its stand. And all to no avail.

Sometimes it works, for a little while. For a brief instant the flowers float exactly in the middle. For that moment or two, everything looks picture-perfect. Peaceful. Calm. And then off they go again.

It’s a source of some small frustration and greater amusement to me. Kind of me vs. Zen.

At least I (mostly) don’t worry about setting them exactly in the middle of the bowl in the first place anymore. Now I usually just drop them in and let them float away…and watch them move in strange, otherwise undetectable currents that I can’t control. (Who says I’m not making progress?)

But yesterday morning the bowl was empty. I’d taken out the last couple of flowers the day before and forgotten to replace them. So as I was dashing off to a slightly-too-early in the morning breakfast meeting, I broke a beautiful, incredibly fragrant yellow rose off the bush by the deck and dropped it into the bowl on my way out the door.

When I got home last night, I was through the hall and halfway to the kitchen before it registered that the yellow rose was still in EXACTLY the same place where I’d dropped it that morning. I backtracked to check. Yup: just a little off center, nearer the edge of the bowl closest to the front door.

I reached into the bowl to gently encourage the rose over to the middle.

I can’t help but keep trying.

And noticed two things.

1. The water in the bowl was a just a little low—just slightly shallower than normal. Certainly not enough for anyone else to notice.

2. Since I’d broken, rather than cut, the rose, it had a little bit of stem left on it…..

Just a little stem, not very strong, but just long enough to reach down and touch the bottom of the bowl. Just barely touching. Just enough to provide a tiny, tenuous, support to keep the rose in place. I stood there, with my hand in the water, cupping fragile petals, breathing in the sweet, old-fashioned scent, and let the realization wash over me in waves.

Just a little stem (and maybe slightly shallower water). Just enough to reach down and touch firm footing, provided all the support that rose needed to keep it EXACTLY in place.

Forget about physics, that may be the answer to LIFE.

We push, we shove, we try desperately to balance. Whenever we refill our bowl—whenever we adjust our schedules, take another meeting, add a commitment, or change an appointment, we check again to make sure that our bowls are level. And then despite our best efforts, we keep losing the center. We get shoved side to side, back and forth, by forces we can’t control.

When all we really need is a little stem to stand on.

For some it’s family, or faith. For some of us its a person we love, or a goal we strive for, or a cause we believe in. Sometimes it’s different things at different times in our lives.

What’s important is that we have one. Something to hold onto, something to provide that little bit of support, to keep us on our feet. To keep us centered. To keep our course steady, no matter what happens to, or around us.

To keep us from drifting away on currents we can’t control.

In the very strong shifting currents and uncertain riptides of the Monterey Bay, Giant Kelp grows as much as 15 inches PER DAY from a tiny base, called a holdfast, on the ocean floor. A holdfast: where the roots of the kelp wrap tightly—not down into the earth, not around a massive boulder—but typically around a rock about the size of a man’s fist. It’s enough. That’s all it takes.

In the even more uncertain currents of our lives, that’s all we need.

Not an anchor—just a little stem. A lifeline, reaching down and touching our base. Remembering the why. The what’s important.

And maybe just slightly shallower water…maybe letting just a few of the things we fill our bowl with evaporate away. Not even enough that anyone walking by would really notice. But enough to make the difference, to make sure that we’re not in too deep.

Just a little bit of stem, touching firm ground. And slightly shallower water.

The physics of Center.

Apples to Apples

2009-10-17T12:27:00.001-07:00

If you believe what they say about me you’ll know that I moved out here for the fruit trees and and the pool. The house that came with them was just a bonus :) For the past two months or so we’ve been watching the apples ripen on the wonderful old trees here. The larger is a Golden Delicious—the apples start out tiny and purple, turn red as they grow, and eventually ripen into very sweet, golden-yellow apples early in September. The other, slightly smaller tree somehow gives the impression of greater age. These apples start out hard and green, and ripen, a little later in the season, to a bright, almost unlikely pinkish-red. Not quite as sweet, they have a very crisp and bright flavor. I prefer the red ones for eating; the yellow are great for baking and drying.

Last year a friend from London was visiting just as the yellow apples started raining down and revealed a love of apple crumbles—what, on this side of the planet, we call an apple crisp. I put this recipe together for her. The topping is especially yummy.

Carmel Valley Apple-berry Crumble

4-6 medium apples
1 cup blueberries*
1 cup cranberries* (*If using dried berries, soak in warm water until soft. Drain off any excess liquid before using.)
Lemon juice

Topping:
1 ½ cups oatmeal
1 ½ cups light brown sugar
1 cup flour
¾ cups butter
½ teaspoon ginger
1 teaspoon cinnamon
½ teaspoon nutmeg
¼ teaspoon salt

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Preparation:
Peel and slice apples—enough to cover the bottom of a 9”x13” baking pan, overlapping slightly. Sprinkle apple slices with lemon juice (and 1 tablespoon sugar, if desired. I don’t add any sugar—those yellow apples are very sweet!)

Sprinkle mixed berries evenly over apples.

Topping:
Using a pastry blender, cut all other ingredients together to form moist crumbs. Distribute crumbs evenly over top of fruit mixture.

Bake approximately 30 minutes. Let cool before serving.

Especially yummy served with cream! (TIP—let HaagenDaaz Vanilla Bean ice cream melt to form a rich vanilla cream sauce.)

2009-10-12T09:54:00.001-07:00

The path I was following
twisted;
the force of the cosmos at play.
The Possible
suddenly shifted.
The Universe, tilting my way.

Great White Beauty

2009-10-07T09:39:00.000-07:00

I haven’t had time to write, or do much of anything lately but work on a project that’s due the 15th. But tonight I had to take time for this:

As a kid, there was a book I loved (and yes, I still have it--and I know right where it is!) called “African Great Cats.” There’s an anecdote in there I’ve always remembered:

A tourist on safari hears a growling cough in the dark beyond the tent, and, frightened and excited, asks his guide, “Is that a lion?” “No,” says the guide, “that’s a hyena.” It happens again, a low growl in the night. “But that MUST be a lion!” the tourist says. “Still a hyena,” the guide responds. It happens again. And again. “You’ll know when it’s a lion,” the guide says. Disappointed, the tourist finally falls asleep. Suddenly, a growl begins, in a register so low that it makes human blood vibrate before human ears can register sound, and then the roar of a lion splits the night wide open.

“See,” says the guide calmly, to the tourist who is frozen, dumbstruck, bolt upright on his cot, “when you hear a hyena, you may think to yourself, ‘Is that a lion?’ But when you hear a real lion, you have no doubt. You didn’t even have to ask.”

It’s after 10 pm and I just got back from the Monterey Bay Aquarium. At night—when there’s almost no one around—the Aquarium is a very different place. I’m looking forward to spending more time there.

But tonight I got to see, for the first time, the Great White shark that’s been on exhibit since the end of August.

The huge Outer Bay tank was dark. They’d just switched off the lights, and for long moments we just stood there, watching tuna and silvery barracuda flash by the giant window in the faint light from the viewing area. A shark swam in a curving line up from the depths. “Is that her?” someone asked. “That’s a hammerhead,” someone else replied, and as it came closer we could see the distinctive-shaped head. There are two or three hammerheads in that exhibit, and each time one appeared someone asked—“Is that her?” No—each time. A Galapagos shark came up—also no. And then again, another. Still no.

And then the Great White shark rose, in a fast, clean line from the dark below and NO ONE had to ask. When a real lion roars, you know it. And when you see a Great White Shark, rising, turning in the blue depths before you, heading straight at you for a breath-stopping instant, before veering up and away in line with the curving window and passing so close overhead that you could reach out and touch her through those inches of window glass… you don’t have to ask.

She’s beautiful. I mean, drop-dead, take-your-breath-away BEAUTIFUL. She’s young, and ‘only’ about five or six feet long, and so perfectly adapted to her environment that even in an aquarium tank, even with the lighting turned off (which makes the tiled back wall of the tank very obvious), I felt a shiver. A thrill of fear, or just a primal acknowledgement of power. Of grace. Of beauty.

She’s darker above, and lighter below, and the tips of her fins look black, and no one could ever mistake her for anything but exactly what she is. (That might be a life lesson right there.) And she’s perfect—still young enough that there is hardly any of the scarring we’re used to seeing in those open-jawed, feeding-frenzy Discovery documentaries. Her skin is smooth, glowing. She glides through the water with no visible effort, and is gone. Disappears. The tank isn’t THAT big. Each time she reappears again, materializing suddenly, I can hear, or feel, the gasps from the handful of people around me. Maybe it’s me. I could stand there and watch her all night. I keep forgetting to breathe.

If you have a chance, if you’re anywhere near Monterey, go see her. In 2004, the first time the Aquarium had a Great White on exhibit—the first live Great White EVER on exhibit anywhere—Peter Benchley came to see it.

If you can’t make it, you can learn more about her on the Aquarium’s Great White Shark blog: http://montereybayaquarium.typepad.com/sea_notes/white-shark/

or read the press release here: http://www.montereybayaquarium.org/cr/cr_whiteshark/whiteshark_ours.aspx

Ninety-eight percent of the living space on this beautiful planet is underwater. And for millions of years the shark has been the apex predator there. I’ve been in open water with sharks; one of my favorite dives ever was 100 feet down, where there were sharks as far as I could see in any direction—20 to 30 of them at any one time. Three, four, maybe five species, ranging from little blacktip reef sharks at three to four feet, to lemon sharks and nurse sharks over nine feet long. It was an incredible experience. The more so for being completely unexpected.

But tonight I’m grateful for glass viewing windows, and for people who dedicate their lives to preserving the planet and all the creatures who live here, and for coming face-to-face with Great White beauty.

Changing Friends, Changing Seasons

2009-09-24T10:52:00.001-07:00

I asked a question about friendship the other day and it seems that I’m not the only one struggling with this issue. Not by a long shot. I appreciate the wonderful, supportive, and thought-provoking responses I received. Thank you for every one. Some came from unexpected places, like far-away tropical islands and, in an odd bit of synchronicity, some came from old friends and acquaintances I’d lost touch with, who’ve found me recently because I’m finally online, spilling secrets and thoughts that I’ve always kept hidden.

So the world turns…

This is a topic I’m sure I’ll return to. But in the meantime, these two thoughts:

1. Reading the comments and experiences that you’ve been sharing with me, it occurred to me that this situation, like so many others, is really about integrity. That’s a big one. About being true to yourself, first, before you can be true to others. That unless you’re true to yourself, you’re really lying to everyone else. That’s a really different way of looking at it for me, and important enough to say twice: If you are not being completely honest about YOUR needs and wants, you are LYING to everyone, ALL THE TIME.

How’s that for terrifying? If I think about it too much it makes me cry. Because it contradicts such core beliefs, and the way I’ve lived my life. I have always considered myself to be a person of high integrity, and it is a trait I value highly in others. But I’ve always, “honestly” believed that in order to be a good person, you must put others first; that their needs, their wants, supersede my own. A result, I suppose, of my Christian upbringing, but not an uncommon value across many belief systems. I’ll keep working on this one.

2. My experience, and the responses to it, have also made me think about the nature of friendship itself, how we define the word friend, what it means to different people. Facebook uses the word ‘friend’ to mean…what? Anyone who has ever known you, ever known anyone who has ever known you, or has even a passing interest in any topic you might ever have been interested in? At best, that’s just creepy.

But at worst…..

More another time. I promise.

For now I’ll leave you with this poem, which seems appropriate for this experience. The original author is unknown—this is my version. My Buddhist friends would remind me here of two things, I think.

Impermanence – all things change

Remain in the present – appreciate what you are, where you are, and the loved ones with you, right NOW.

Reason, Season, Lifetime

People come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. When you figure out which it is, you’ll know exactly what to do.

When someone is in your life for a REASON, it is usually to meet a need you have expressed, outwardly or inwardly. They have come to assist you through a difficulty, or to provide you with guidance and support, or to aid you physically, emotionally, or spiritually.

They may seem like a Godsend, and they are! They are there for the reason you need them to be.

Then, without any wrong doing on your part, or at an inconvenient time, this person will say or do something to bring the relationship to an end. Sometimes they die. Sometimes they just walk away. Sometimes they act up or out and force you to take a stand.

What we must realize is that our need has been met, our desire fulfilled: their work is done.

The prayer you sent up has been answered. Now it’s time to move on.

When people come into your life for a SEASON, it is because your turn has come to share, grow, or learn. They may bring you an experience of peace or make you laugh. They may teach you something you have never done. They usually give you an unbelievable amount of joy. Believe it—it’s real. But only for a season.

And like Spring turns to Summer, and Summer to Fall, the season eventually ends.

Some people come into our lives for a LIFETIME. They make our souls dance. Even through distance, we remain close. These are the relationships we should cherish and hold closest to our hearts. Lifetime relationships teach lifetime lessons: the things we build upon in order to have a solid emotional foundation and create a life of worth.

Reason, Season, or Lifetime, friend. In each case, our job is to accept the lesson, love the person, and put what we’ve learned to use in the other relationships and areas in our lives.

-Author Unknown

And the seasons are a’ changing.

♥

Losing a Friend…Getting Something Better

2009-09-23T09:04:00.001-07:00

Ever think to yourself, ‘I need new friends?’

I’ve been going through an odd time, for a little while now. I’m basically happy, busy, and healthy. And at the same time, I feel like I’m in limbo, stressed and worried about all sorts of things, and mostly, incredibly frustrated that I’m not doing more with my life.

More and more I’m feeling like it’s finally all coming to a head. And that something REALLY incredible, really GOOD, is just around the corner.

If I could just GET there already!

That feeling’s been so strong lately, that last night, very late, I decided to go to the office and check my email one last time. Just in case. (?!)

And found a note from a ‘friend’ who said she didn’t want to be my friend anymore. Not exactly what I was expecting.

We’ve been friends for more than ten years. Like all friendships, you take the good with the bad. She’s critical, has a VERY selective memory, and, like most of us, wants everything on her terms—because she’s the only one who knows how to do anything right. I love her anyway. I make excuses for her; she “means well.” She’s the friend that can always be counted on to tell me the truth—not just the ‘you’re wasting your life and doing it wrong” variety, as well as the occasional “You’re too fat to wear that.” She’s also the “your eyes/hair/skin/smile look beautiful today” and “that was really clever.” She DOES mean well. She has lots of really wonderful qualities. I’ve treasured her friendship.

Without going into all the gory details, the inciting incident was that her husband behaved abominably, shockingly, UNBELIEVABLY, badly at dinner at my house. During the incident, my friend kept a bland, slight smile on her face, and watched me, not him, while he carried on and on. She said nothing. Did nothing. I’m a VERY good actor. I pretended to make light of, and diffuse the situation, while doing my damndest not to cry. I have never experienced anything like this before. I felt attacked— violated and betrayed—in my own home. I was embarrassed in front of my guests. The rest of the evening was strained, and it was a relief when they left. For the first time ever, I couldn’t walk them out. I couldn’t stop shaking.

She left a message the next day, apologizing for her husband’s appalling behavior. She hoped that I wouldn’t “never want to see” her again because of it. I called her back, to accept the apology and belay her fears. In that conversation, and in a subsequent email where she asked if I was avoiding her, I explained that I was hurt, and really rattled and needed a little break. I suggest that we could wait another week or so for things to settle down and then get together when her husband had left town. I let her know I was still dealing with a big problem at work 24/7. She didn’t respond.

Several weeks went by. Not unusual for our friendship—she often travels for weeks at a time, then comes home, calls me to either say she has no time to see me, or has a specific slot or two when she’s free and would like to see me at that time, before leaving for another week or two. I was still busy with the problem at work, and didn’t worry about it. In between, as is also usual, I sent her a couple of emails, articles I thought she’d be interested in, a book I’d ordered for her, and left a note on her car when I spotted it at Safeway. By the last email, I’d started to get worried and said I hoped she was ok.

And last night she responded. She wrote that by saying I needed some time, I had “not acknowledged” our friendship, instead having a “snit” and “shunning” her. She calls my behavior “sophomoric.” She thanks me for the things I’d sent, and says they show what a “dear and caring” person I am. She wishes me a long and happy life, but says “I think I’ll stay out of it.” That the friendship has “run its course.” (And could I please let my mom know, because she’d like to remain friends with her!)

Her husband never did apologize for his behavior.

As I’ve said, the last year or two has been an odd time, a time of transition for me. I’ve spent too much of my life trying to make other people happy. When I’d finally had too much, I withdrew. Almost completely. Farther and farther from my life, from people and places and activities and even professions. Even physically moving, twice, until now I live just one mile marker short of absolute nowhere. And then I worked on healing, and figuring out what I want. What makes me happy. I haven’t figured it all out yet, but I’m working on it. I’ve come out of hiding.

And I’ve learned, once in while, to stand up for myself.

So I’m going to let what was becoming a toxic relationship go. Not without some sadness. And a little relief. I’m trying to forget that earlier that same, disastrous evening, my former ‘friend’ started moving a collection of cookie molds around that I’d recently put up in my kitchen, telling me that I’d arranged them WRONG. I told her how much time and effort I’d put into arranging each beloved piece into just the right place. And then, when I left the room for a moment, and after specifically being asked not to, she RE-ARRANGED them, so “it would look a little better.’” Not much, since according to her, the whole thing was set up backwards, anyway.

I realize that I’ve internalized her constant criticisms, the way she liked things done, to an unhealthy degree. It’s made me resentful, and increasingly reluctant to spend time with her.

In sharp contrast, I had dinner a few nights ago with a dear friend that I also hadn’t seen in a while. She’s wise, and warm, kind and considerate, intelligent, and incredibly generous of spirit. It was a really nice evening. We had a great, real, conversation that gave me lots to think about. It was an evening that left both us feeling strengthened and nurtured by our friendship.

Maybe my former ‘friend’ is right. Maybe our relationship has run its course, and the mature thing to do is to move on. To leave behind the clutter, the things that don’t serve us anymore. Or maybe I’m in denial. (Or shock.) Except for a high school girl who once sent me a note saying she ‘”would never be my friend again” because the boy she liked had asked me to the Prom, I have never heard of anyone else cutting someone out of their life this way. But I probably shouldn’t have been surprised. This woman, by her own account, has cut a number of friends and even family members out of her life over the years. She’s told me some of the stories—even referenced one in her email. So maybe it was inevitable.

But by removing herself from my life, she’s left a hole. In my heart, in my head, in my calendar. And a hole is just SPACE. Which means that now there’s room for something new. Something BIG, something incredibly, unbelievably exciting. Something wonderful.

I can hardly wait!

A Little Lost in the Dark

2009-09-18T11:03:00.001-07:00

I had a really rough night after an odd day. I finally gave up around 5:00 am this morning, got up, and went frantically ricocheting around the dark house for a couple of hours (opening windows, among other things, to let in some still-cool, fresh air). All of a sudden I noticed that something had changed, and I stopped dead, panicked in mid-bolt, to figure out what .

Then I realized that, despite my fears that the world is crashing down around me, outside the cold, dark, scary night was lightening as the sun rose slowly over the mountain. The first few rays lanced across the Valley and hit the Range on the other side. What had, all night, and until just a few moments before, been menacing shapes , looming in almost impenetrable darkness, turned into mountains, and trees, and houses. Houses where other people live, and work, and worry. And draw together in times of need.

And I pulled myself together—just a little—and remembered to breathe.

So today I’m grateful:

1. That the sun comes up every morning. No matter what. And that I have nothing to do with it. That “God is in His Heavens, and all is right with the world.” Even if I can’t see it right now from where I’m standing here in the dark.

2. For waking up in California: the sky is unbelievably blue, the air is fresh and clean (love those sea breezes!) and, in the middle of September, it’s over 80 degrees, and climbing. For waking up each morning, period.

3. For having clean water to drink—a BILLION people on this planet don’t.

4. For having clean water to swim in. I know it’s an incredible luxury, and I’m incredibly grateful every time I get the chance. The chances increase with the temperature: another reason to love Indian Summer.

5. And for my little dog, too.

What five things can you be grateful for today?

ps: Here’s something, if you haven’t seen this yet this summer: Mars is still giving away FREE chocolate bars (your choice) every Friday @ https://secure.realchocolate.com/ They’ve extended it until October, and you can get one coupon each Friday, 4 per household. I’ve already eaten mine :)

Sharing the Wealth

2009-09-15T13:23:00.001-07:00

Took some of the Franken-lemons off the tree on Sunday.

Debated:

1. Throwing them all away—most of the neighbors around here already have more lemons than they can use—and their lemons are nicer.

2. Squeezing and freezing the juice.

Option #2 won out—naturally. But only temporarily. We piled them into boxes and bags, schlepped them around the house, and filled my mom’s car before she headed back home.

By noon the next day, her friends, neighbors, the entire staffs of both her bank and my bank, and the ladies at the thrift shop where she volunteers had relieved her of ALL of ‘em.

She did manage to keep a couple of the little ones for herself. And called me to make sure I didn’t mind that she’d given the rest away—there’d always be more, right?

Absolutely.

I’m pretty sure now that the Frankenbush started out as TWO separate lemon trees. The little ‘normal’ ones grow on the right side (this is the first year I’ve had any one those); and the big ones on the left. None came close to the GIANT ones we had last year, but they’re big enough. And they’re HEAVY – there were a number of branches that looked like they were ready to break. And this year, under that inch-thick rind, they’re pretty darn good. Which is where we got the idea for juice…

So instead, now a whole bunch of people are enjoying them. Not even discounting the novelty factor!

And I still have the lovely ones from my neighbor, and am still thinking about that new lemon bar recipe…

So go out, and have a bright yellow day! Think about the riches that you take for granted, that someone else would be happy to share.

And if there’s a little bit of sour, that just makes the rest all the sweeter.

Clarity

2009-09-09T08:42:00.001-07:00

The number of out-of-focus pictures I take, (with a more or less automatic camera!) is mind-boggling.

And then, once in a while, I get one like this.

The Ultimate Goal

2009-09-03T09:08:00.001-07:00

It’s 8am and almost 80 degrees under an impossibly blue, blue sky. Still a coolish breeze teasing around, but it’s going to be a very warm, beautiful day. I love mornings like this! Time to walk, breathe, be grateful. Not stress over GAINING a pound and a half this week, instead of losing. Despite staying on plan. Despite going to the gym faithfully. Despite swimming for hours after work. Despite not having had any chocolate in….well, days and days at least.

I saw an old college friend a couple of months ago and one of the things that came up was keeping your eye on the ultimate goal when confronted with obstacles. In a professional situation, that has always meant I get smart, I get more focused, and I get results. For whichever large organization I’m working for at the time. Yay for them.

But it’s not something I’ve always been good at personally. If it’s “just” me, I get frustrated, I get my feelings hurt, I get defensive. I retreat. I make emotional decisions. And in the process of trying to “show” them, (what am I, four?!) I end up hurting myself.

Tuesday afternoon I was at the funky little gym here in the Village. The one that’s only open Monday through Friday, and then only until 6pm.

Barely.

Let’s call the proprietor Moody Mike (MM). Because he is. Very. And Moody Mike gets bored, sitting all day in the funky little gym. Understandable. But woe betide anyone who comes in after 4:30 for a workout. Or heaven forbid, close to 5:00, which is what I did Tuesday.

I signed in at 4:50. An hour and ten minutes is enough for a decent workout and some cardio, doncha think? But by 5:30 the only other guy in there wrapped up his loud, lengthy conversation with MM and left.

And then the glowering starts (MM’s a BIG guy. It’s intimidating.) MM wants to go home. Waves of resentment (?! He’s the one with the OPEN sign on the door) start rolling off him and hammering at me, quietly cardio-ing away in the corner. I try not to notice, but the heart monitor in front of me registers higher. I don’t mind if he switches off all the lights. I’m THRILLED when he switches off the bone-jarring music (don’t get me wrong—I love music, but the gym is really LOUD in a really small space and the mostly older members or already-deaf younger members with ipods in their ears YELL to be heard over…you get the idea). I don’t mind when he empties the trash or starts mopping the floors.

But at 5:50, when he closes the doors and turns off the machines I’m USING, it’s too much.

I try to unclench my jaw, and leave.

And I decide not to go back.

I think about checking out the ‘other’ gym again. The ‘real’ gym, in Mid-Valley, about seven miles away. The one with better hours, that’s open on the weekends, and has showers and lockers, albeit a bit primitive. The one close to the grocery store, and the bank. The one the ‘guys’ go to.

The one my (female) neighbor calls an unprintable name, and says smells.

I also think about the unused equipment in my garage. And living room. And walking shoes. And my dog. And whether I need to go to a gym at all.

So I don’t.

I didn’t go to the gym yesterday. It’s a month-to-month membership and yesterday my check was due. I hadn’t made a real decision on the other gym, but I had decided to take at least this month off from this one.

That’ll show him.

And then I thought about Lisa, and the Ultimate Goal.

So I’m going back to the gym today. Like a big girl. I’m going to pack up the TWELVE sales I had yesterday, take them to the post office on the way and get them mailed out. Maybe I’ll make it to the gym a little early – not for Moody Mike, but for me. I don’t need the hassle. And I’ll hand in a check for another month.

Because that gym suits MY purposes. It’s close, it’s cheap, it’s an important component on the way to my Ultimate Goal. MM is a good trainer, and he can help me get there. I want to be fit again. I want to be strong, and healthy. And look hot in whatever clothes I choose to wear.

Besides, maybe I’m imagining the whole thing, and MM doesn’t mind at all that people who’ve paid to use his gym actually do so.

It doesn’t matter. I’ve got my eye on the Goal.

And I’m not buying any chocolate, either.

Grateful for Sunshine and Sales!

2009-09-02T10:26:00.000-07:00

Sorry it’s been so long again. I’ve been having serious computer problems, grrrr! And keeping busy with my etsy shops. I ‘ve been listing new items like crazy in both shops, and was rewarded this morning with a big ArtTile order. I’m SO grateful! And still always a little amazed :)

In the meantime, I wanted to thank Michele from By Your Side for the suggestion to use LiveWriter. I started using it with my last post and it’s already been a huge improvement. Thanks, Michelle!

More soon, I promise. Hope you’re all enjoying these beautiful, late summer days. We had crazy hot weather Friday and Saturday (104!), coolish Sunday in the 70s, then 80+ Monday, a smidge over 90 on Tuesday…who knows? Gotta enjoy it while it lasts!

A special prayer of safekeeping for all the firefighters battling horrific blazes across the state. And compassion and healing for all those affected. ♥

When the neighbor hands you lemons….

2009-08-17T12:20:00.000-07:00

It’s another beautiful day (although it’s already half over, and I still have WAY too much to do.) Last night, my neighbor Beth brought over a bag of nine, beautiful lemons from what sounds like an incredible tree on the other side of her yard. I haven’t seen it yet. She also told me to come over any time to get more if I wanted them. So, asap—either tonight, as soon as I get home, or tomorrow, first thing, I’m going to try a brand-new slightly lower-cal recipe I recently found for LEMON BARS. Which I love. Who doesn’t?

Watch this space—I’ll post as soon as I’ve tried them and let you know.

On the flip side, I gained a couple of pounds last week. NOT the direction I want to be heading! So much for the No-Pudge Fudge Brownie Mix from Trader Joe’s. Oh, well. They were pretty fudgy, though—fun while it lasted!

So this week it’s salad, chicken breasts, and no carbs. Well, except for Lemon Bars! (does that count?!) :)

ps—If anyone has a great Lemon recipe to share, I’d love to add it to my stash! And, with your permission, will share it here. I’ve been looking for AGES for the perfect Lemon Pound Cake or Bundt Cake Recipe: moist, yummy…mmm! Anyone?!

And in the meantime, I’m off to the gym. Making that a priority these days—even if it means that not every single thing on my list gets done that day. At least I’ll be fit and healthy to tackle it all again tomorrow. :)

Grateful

2009-08-15T09:47:00.000-07:00

It’s a beautiful morning, bright and blue and clear, with just a little hazy smoke around the edges and just the slightest scent of smoke in the air. A day full of hope, of promise, with just a hint of the fall soon to come. A day to count blessings, and be grateful.

For a time, I used to keep a sort of journal where each night I would write down the five things I was most grateful for that day. A nice reminder to notice, and appreciate the good. And attract more in the process! So today--

1. I’m grateful for a beautiful day, in a beautiful place, on a beautiful planet.

2. I’m grateful that Trader Joe’s sells good German and Swiss chocolate for a reasonable price, and that I have to go in to town today and right by there anyway...

3. I’m grateful for the new (to me) little toaster oven from my friend Emily, that I can use to make myself dinner, without heating up the big oven & the entire kitchen. While I’m at it, I’m grateful for my wise and wonderful friend Emily and her calm, clear take on life.

4. I’m beyond grateful for my wonderful, loving, supportive-in-spite-of-all-the-stupid-things-I-do mother. I love you, Mommy!

5. I’m grateful to alive, to be healthy, to feel (even when it hurts), to be given the opportunity to do better.

It’s hard to believe that just up the coast the fire has doubled in size again. A special wave of gratitude to all the firefighters and the incredible work they do to keep us all safe.

Have a wonderful weekend! Laugh, love, play, pray. Life is good.

Smoke at Sunset

2009-08-14T12:50:00.001-07:00

It’s that time of year. There are fires burning all over California. Earlier this week we had a day or two of high, smoky haze from the fires in Los Padres National Forest, but nothing compared to the smoke from the much closer Lockheed Fire that started two days ago. Made for an incredible sunset last night, though.

On the news last night they showed a satellite image of the smoke plume stretching 600 MILES down the coast of California, all the way to Baja. I’ve had to keep the windows closed, despite the heat. This morning dawned dark and grey and smoky, with a heavy acrid stench in the air. Between the weather, wind, and smoke cover, the temperature’s dropped about twenty degrees since yesterday. As the day goes on, the air here is starting to clear, but I’ve decided to more or less stay indoors, get caught up, and WRITE this afternoon. And count my blessings.

My prayers go out to every one in Bonny Doon, Davenport, and the Santa Cruz Mountains who’ve been affected—and evacuated—by this fire. And their animals. May they all be safe, and have homes to come home to.

Choose Caramel Cake

2009-08-13T09:28:00.001-07:00

I've spent my whole life wanting to write--and I'm not doing it. Not even here, where all it takes is a tiny segment of time out of each day. So I'm surprised and sad to find that it's been weeks since I've posted, and my beloved blog has become one more weight in the big 'should've' bag I'm dragging around behind.

1. Add this to my list of things to do (again): LOSE the 'should've' bag. Ugly, heavy, and NOT an attractive accessory.

2. While I'm at it, stop being sad that I haven't worked on my novel for more months than I'm willing to admit out loud and just start writing again. Before all those words and images crammed in my skull explode out and make a yucky mess.

3. Share this today:
Yesterday I baked a really good Old-Fashioned Caramel Cake for a friend's birthday. I've been wanting to try one for a while, and was having a hard time deciding which of several recipes I'd ferreted out to use. Yesterday I finally had a chance, and the choice of which recipe was dictated by the ingredients I had on hand. So, despite the 90+ degree heat (FABULOUS weather at the moment! VERY happy) I baked the following for our dear friend Jane. Maybe the heat was appropriate, as Jane is also approaching 90... bless her.

I first met Jane in 1992, when I'd just bought my little house in Pacific Grove. Every minute I was home (which wasn't often in those days--I got sent to Liverpool, England "for a week or two" and ended up spending most of the next three years overseas) I'd be out working in my first, VERY OWN garden. Once or twice a day I'd see Jane and her husband Cliff walking by, a lovely elderly couple, hand--in-hand. It was enough to renew my faith in humanity, and in love. One day she stopped to compliment me on the work I'd been doing, and I learned that my first house had once been THEIR first house. And that in that house, more than fifty years earlier, their son had been born.

Years later, my mom moved to town and was immediately greeted by her new neighbor across the street...Jane. When my mother brought up that her daughter lived nearby, Jane informed her that she already knew me--I was living in her old house! They've become fast friends in the ensuing years.

Happy Birthday, Jane! Glad you enjoyed your cake :)

Old-Fashioned Caramel Cake

2 cups brown sugar, firmly packed
1/4 cup butter
2 tbsps water
1 1/4 tsps salt, divided
1 cup evaporated milk, undiluted
2 tsps vanilla
2 1/4 cups all purpose flour
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 cup shortening
1/2 cup milk
3 eggs

Grease and flour the bottoms of two round cake pans.

To make the caramel sauce, in a medium saucepan, mix together brown sugar, butter, water, and 1/4 teaspoon salt. Stirring constantly, cook over medium heat (234 degrees) until soft ball stage. Remove from heat and and stir in evaporated milk and vanilla; cool.

In large mixing bowl, sift together flour, baking powder, baking soda, and remaining teaspoon of salt. Blend in shortening, milk, and 2 cups caramel sauce. Beat thoroughly approximately two minutes. Add eggs and continue beating another two minutes. Pour into pans and bake at 350 degrees 35 to 40 minutes. Cool before frosting.

I used the frosting from another recipe--it sounded yummy, and was.

Caramel Frosting

1 cup white sugar
1 cup brown sugar
1 stick butter
1 14 oz. can Eagle Brand milk
1 tsp. vanilla

Combine all ingredients in saucepan and cook 2 minutes, stirring constantly, until thick and
bubbly. Remove from heat and let cool until fairly thick. Makes enough for filling between layers and frosting sides and top of cake. (Repeatedly dipping your knife or spatula into a glass of hot water will make spreading the frosting easier and give it a smoother finish.)

Ceramic ArtTiles and Ornaments in Progress

2009-07-17T12:48:00.000-07:00

Here are some of the things I've been working on instead of blogging (or figuring out how to lay out the pictures in a blog) for the past few weeks.

After working on them for so long, I get so attached to some of the tiles at this stage that I almost don't want to fire them! They're in the kiln now. For the most part the colors will get MUCH deeper, darker, more vibrant. And shiny, of course!

These are some of the ArtTiles from the Sea Life collection:

Here are some of the ornaments:

And here, some baby ArtTile sea turtles, hatching from their shells!

Thank you all for your MUCH-appreciated suggestions on how to edit/format my blog posts & pictures. I'll be checking your suggestion this week as soon as I get some orders out of the kiln and in the mail. (This time I couldn't even get the photos to display next to one another! And now, instead of ADDING random line breaks, I can't even get the ones I put in to show....lol Even some of my old posts have re-arranged themeselves, darn it!) The 'compose' display looks great, the 'preview' display looks great, and then I hit 'publish' and it all goes >kersplat!<

Into the Fire!

2009-07-13T11:11:00.000-07:00

Haven't fallen off the face of the earth. Busy, busy. Here, leaf bowls drying in the sun, and loading into the kiln....

Happy Fourth of July!

2009-07-04T07:38:00.001-07:00

Happy Fourth of July, everyone! Be safe, be grateful, be happy!

Photo Wrangling (and failing, for the moment...)

2009-06-23T10:54:00.001-07:00

On a whole separate note, I still haven't sat down and puzzled out all the ins-and-outs of blogger. Haven't figured out how to put pictures where & how I want them, or how to keep random extra lines breaks from being added each time I post. Any advice / hints / tips would be appreciated! In the meantime, scattered willy-nilly and completely randomly below, are a couple of pictures of some of the tiles and ornaments I've made in the last few days, in various stages of drying & cleaning.

2009-06-23T09:45:00.001-07:00

It's another beautiful, sunny day! Was almost feeling guilty yesterday that I spent most of it indoors--I've spent the last several days cutting out new clay ArtTile shapes. VERY concerned at the moment--I still have lots of ideas, but am running out of clay! I've conned my dear, patient Mom into coming out this afternoon and helping me clean my creations. Wasn't too hard to do--there's a higher rate of attrition when I clean, and that upsets her no end. I won't tell her that a big pelican ornament bit the dust (literally!) last night. I also made a tiny little bowl--I mean TEENY tiny--last night. I don't know what for, but I love it! It's just big enough to put a pair of earrings into--you know, when you finally fall, exhausted and grateful into bed, turn over, and ouch! Realize that you forgot to take your earrings out and now are getting poked every time you move your head. So I guess I do know what that bowl is for. So there!

And yes, Debbie, and thanks for asking: I went to the gym again yesterday. Have been going almost every weekday. Probably not staying as long as I should, but still getting a workout and some cardio in. Kinda thrilled that I'm actually doing it...:)

Grey, clay, and chocolate chips :)

2009-06-21T09:04:00.000-07:00

Brand new blog, and already I've fallen behind. It's grey and cold today (what happened to summer?) but a good day to spend in the studio, cutting out clay whales, and cats, and birds, and leaves, and acorns... Came up with some pretty cute spotted seals yesterday, a couple of big, goofy mantees, a cool new way to do D.'s beach fence, and two cute hummingbirds. Finished most of the sheep, and have started on the angels.

Would be a great day for some baking. I may not have time (and every surface in the kitchen is covered with clay at the moment!) but in case you do, here's a great blondie recipe from my friend Jeanne, via Alyssa. The first time I made it I goofed, and they turned out terrible, and I refused to try again for a couple of years. Silly me. Finally had Alyssa send the recipe again, made them (they're super-easy: I have no idea what I could have done wrong that first time!) they were FABULOUS, and now I make them whenever I can. Sometimes I put in 1/2 cup of nuts, as well.

For the person who asked me the other day what 'blondies' are, it's like a giant, soft chocolate-chip cookie / bar in a pan. This recipe makes one 8"x8" pan, but you can easily increase it to make more.
YUM!

Best Blondies

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Melt 1/3 cup butter and set aside.

Sift together and set aside:
1 cup flour
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/8 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt

Add 1 cup light brown sugar to melted butter and mix.
Add 1 teaspoon vanilla to 1 slightly beaten egg, then add to brown sugar & butter mixture.
Add flour mixture, a little at a time, mixing just to blend.

I put about 1 cup of chocolate chips (and/or 1/2 cup of nuts) in at the last minute and just barely mix in. Press dough gently (it'll seem like there's barely enough) into an 8" x8" pan. (I use glass.)

BAKE at 350 degrees for 20-25 minutes. (Don't overbake)

Enjoy!

2009-06-03T21:55:00.000-07:00

Went to the gym again today--third day in a row. Better than eating my way through the house out of frustration/agitation with a certain individual who keeps being dishonest and is both bullying, and taking advantage of, me.

The GOOD news: heard from my new bestest etsy customer last night w/ a custom order--that I'm excited to start--AND got another new order from a brand-new etsy customer today. :)

Also: (this is a big deal for me) scraped up my courage (mostly out of desperation, but still..) and called a very dear, much loved friend and ASKED FOR HELP. Very scary! And you know what? She HELPED me. Bless her.

It is a beautiful world. And tomorrow's going to be even better.
xoxo

2009-06-02T10:57:00.001-07:00

Another sunny, blue, blowy day! According to my mother, the weatherman is holding out hope of some rain later in the week. Wouldn't that be a surprise and an incredible blessing!

I'm off to the GYM--for the second time in as many days. Finally made it--only recently heard about it!--to the little gym right here in the Village yesterday and it was a really good experience. The owner is fabulous! Gentle, kind, knows what he's doing. Notices every single person that comes in. Or doesn't...which is what I need: some accountability. He seems to give lots of personal attention to everyone & knows them all by name. I'm motivated! And no excuses--it's right down the hill.

Might be a low-key way to get to know some more people out here too, although he has a lot of older members. (Hard for anyone with a regular work schedule to get there--he's only open weekdays, and then only til 6pm.) So once I start working in town, I may not be able to continue. I'm thinking of it as an opportunity to take NOW: to take advantage of my current 'open' schedule to ingrain a good habit. There's no initiation or commitment, just a monthly fee, so that made the decision easy.

Hope you have a good day, too. Here are some more roses from my garden to make you smile.
xox

The Australian Government Wants You to be Happy!

2009-05-28T23:00:00.000-07:00

Here's most of the email from my MD friend in Australia.

And some roses from my garden :)

"Hello everyone--
I thought that I would tell you of my recent attendance at the "Happiness and its Causes" conference I attended on 14 and 15 May.

Sonya Lyubomirsky has conducted research in how to become happier. Her definition of happiness is "experience of frequent positive emotions" AND "a sense that life is good". She concluded that 50% of happiness is genetic, a different "set point" (some people are just naturally happier), and 10% of happiness is situational (most people feel worse after a diagnosis of cancer); but that leaves 40% that can be altered by deliberate acts. These include scheduling a variety of acts that feel right to you, including: deliberate acts of kindness, writing letters of gratitude, savouring past happiness, counting your blessings, trying to find the optimistic interpretation of what is happening to you (naturally happy people do this anyway), and deliberately acting happy (smiling, laughing; apparently one small study found Botox applied to the frown muscles helped relieve depression because they couldn't frown!)

Her analogy is, like becoming fitter and slimmer, one has to exercise regularly and eat healthily, and so happiness can be achieved but it takes regular work.

A Buddhist nun, Robina Courtin, talked about how meditation can help you develop concentration, so that for example if you start feeling angry while driving in peak hour, you can realise this emotion starting and back off from anger, by changing the emotion to recognition. A Buddhist psychologist defined the good life as living a life we understand, cultivating public and private virtues according to the values we truly desire, and that this can't occur in isolation from society.

Educator Marva Collins was fantastic, telling her story of teaching deprived children the classics and producing a very high standard of literacy and academic achievement. She bases education on values as the "thread that hold societies together, including integrity, honest, industriousness, friendship, and loyalty." After studying Goldilocks and The Three Bears, the students hold a trial and accuse Goldilocks' family of letting her roam the woods! She teaches the children that they are all born to be winners. If they misbehave, they have to write one hundred reasons why they are too bright to perform the task asked; and if they scream at her "I hate you" she will react with a hug "I love you too, child". She uses Tolstoy's three questions: Who am I? What am I here to do? What is the most important thing on earth to do?

Ingrid Poulsen spoke on how she survived tragedy (her estranged husband killed their two small children and her father) by choosing to ask the question "How well will I survive?" and realising that "life goes on" whether you want it to or not. And most of the time there is no good reason "why" something happened, and it is practical to focus on "what now" and "how do I do it?". Her book 'Rise' is on resilience. She also commented that it is acceptable to recognise that some days you won't cope with watching the tragedies on the news, and may even need a "doona day"! (duvet day for those in the northern hemisphere)

Norman Doidge wrote a book 'The Brain that Changes Itself" about how deliberate acts can change the brain's function, such as exercises to prevent age related cognitive decline. I loved his story of Dr Paul Bach-y-Rita's father Pedro who had a severe stroke at age 60, was sent home to his son George after hospital rehab did little, learnt to walk and talk and so on, then while mountain climbing (!!) at the age of 75 had a fatal heart attack: his brain was dissected and the motor tracts were almost completely destroyed by the earlier stroke yet he had formed new connections in his brain in order to be able to function at such a high level. "Novices who use their imagination to mentally rehearse practising a melody on the piano systematically develop the same brain circuits as novices who physically practise the melody" which certainly implies that if you practise behaving happily, you may become happier. He commented that trained neurons fire faster and stronger, so it is hard to break a bad habit, but if you practise the good behaviour over and over you can develop a good habit that is hard to break!

Daniel Goleman spoke on how happiness is contagious, with his bus driver cheering up a whole busload of people every trip. His presentation included the New Haven school intervention system of traffic lights to use when upset: stop and calm down to think before acting, yellow is to pick the best action from a range of options, and then green trying best option to see how it turns out.Angry people have more activity in their right prefrontal cortex, and calm/happy people have more brain activity in the left prefrontal cortex (of their brain). And talking to a very calm person makes you have more activity on the left!

Daniel Seigel used his "hand" model of the brain to show how the prefrontal cortex is close to the hindbrain, hippocampus etc., etc. and how if you get angry or frightened you may "flip your lid" and the connections come apart and you function from the lowest part of your brain. His talk on choosing the higher functions of the middle prefrontal cortex showed that these can be created by a loving interpersonal relationship between parent and child; and also by mindfulness such as meditation. His biggest tip on how to become a better person is to develop capacity to sense your internal world (thoughts and emotions) and become more receptive.

Irving Kirsch gave a controversial talk on the unpublished research on antidepressants: very little evidence for their efficacy for many people (not all, and he strongly suggests that those on antidepressants speak to their GP rather than stopping their medications). Effective techniques for depression include exercise, altering diet and sunlight exposure, and psychotherapy (short term cognitive behavioural therapy is as effective as antidepressants in the short term, but much more likely to result in long term mood improvement after being ceased than the medications were), as well as social change (unemployed, poor and uneducated people are more likely to become depressed).

Ian Hickie from the beyondblue foundation agreed with the social and non-medication approach, but commented that medication may be appropriate in the initial stabilisation, a little like insulin may be appropriate for initial management of type 2 diabetes mellitus, while diet and exercise and weight are improved in an attempt to later be able to cease medication, though some will require medication long term.

Ruth Gawler added that the holistic history would also include hobbies, friends, social skills, family, supports, sleep, drugs/alcohol and that the client feels listened to; and that treatment could include support and clarifying the diagnosis and symptoms; and meditation and yoga.

Brian Rosner commented on the life of Dietrich Bonhoffer who wrote from prison how he managed to stay cheerful, despite knowing his death sentence was due for plotting against Hitler: Bonhoffer focussed on people rather than money/possessions, believed in God, was grateful for what he had (being able to write and walk around his cell), yet accepting that he would not achieve all his desires; and encouraging his friends to "spread hilaritas" (cheerfulness).
Tom Denson and Cynthia Morton spoke with Norman Swan about how to control anger so that you express calm assertion rather than aggression or submission. She recommended finding an "employed elder" to teach you on how to become more emotionally literate (she teaches maximum security prisoners). His research found that ruminating about anger increased aggression, and distraction decreases aggression (so if angry in the car, turn on a pleasingly distracting radio station rather than fuming about it all the way home and exploding at your family).

Suzy Green of the Positive Psychology Institute spoke of coaching to become happier, like any other task. Are you ready for change? Define the Goal, then prepare specific measurable realistic actions in a time frame that can be measured; then reward success! She commented that there are four main emotions which have a range from normal to abnormal, such as happiness (extreme is mania), fear/anxiety (caution is normal), sadness (extreme is depression, but can also be healthy reflectiveness), anger (ranging from assertion to rage).

Tony Buzan's talk on mind maps was an excellent show on creativity, but less obviously relevant to happiness; though perhaps since creativity is easier when you are happy (on average), perhaps I missed his point?

John Gottman gave an excellent discussion on divorce prediction and "the seven principles for making marriage work". Happy couples provide lots of positive feedback and agreement relative to disagreement and negatives (at least 5:1 if not 20:1). His tips were: build friendship by asking each other open ended questions (and remembering the answers!), building fondness and admiration, and noticing what partner needs and acting on it; as well as developing shared meaning together "the story of us"; and calmly accepting that some differences are unresolvable.
David Rock talked about how neuroscience affects leadership: status is so important that low ranked monkeys die younger than top ranked ones. It is "easier to cause aggravation (activate an avoid response) than it is to help others think rationally and creatively (the approach response)"... but leaders need to learn how to use the approach response as the outcome is better for the business as a whole. This involves reappraisal, recognition "oh that's just my mind reacting like that." Camp Quality uses the signature strengths questionnaire (of Seligman) to screen applicants for positions in order to hire optimists and suit the position to the person, recruiting for the skills they need.

Rob Donovan presented some excellent marketing used for the Mentally Healthy Western Australia campaign:
- Act (keeping self physically, socially and cognitively active)
- Belong (being a member of a group or organisation)
- Commit (involvement with some activity or organisation that provides a sense of meaning, eg volunteering to plant trees in a group)

It seems an excellent method to help a population become happier on average (even though the aim was to decrease mental ill health).

Sherry Strong spoke on organic slow cooking on a budget; Ruth Ostrow on simplification. and the quest for happiness including the quest for meaning; Cath Armstrong of cheapskates.com.au on living on a budget as spiralling debt may make you less happy (though money per se is not linearly associated with happiness: ask Kevin to expound on this, and consumerism also); and the importance of company and connection to community was also mentioned.

Laugh yoga at lunch time was excellent.

When I read Martin Seligman's "Learned Optimism" earlier this year I found a few points helpful:
- optimists think of good things as permanent and bad things as temporary; pessimists the reverse;
- optimists think of good things as affecting everything and bad things affecting only that specific experience; pessimists the reverse;
- optimists think of good things as being due to them, bad things as being due to external events; pessimists the reverse!

He recommended working on hope and self esteem to improve one's own happiness (and those of others like children). He also advised trying to find some meaning in life, such as religion, that gives you attachment to something larger than yourself; and avoiding self-preoccupation, e.g. by giving time and self as well as (or instead of) money to charity, such as working in a soup kitchen. He also gives more detail about what to do when in a bad mood, such as distraction, and disputing a negative belief (getting more evidence about yourself and being able to change your opinion of your own unworthiness). His website "Authentic Happiness" is excellent (.org I think).
I forgot to mention that Sonya Lyubomirsky also concluded that happier people are more productive at work, better leaders, earn more money, are more creative, and are less likely to die of cancer or strokes (summarising lots of other people's research) so happiness is not just selfish, it is also useful for society.

So Your Country Needs You To Be Happy.

So what does this mean for me now? I'll be working on meditation, and actively working on saying positives rather than negatives, knowing that I'll need to practise every day. And being grateful for what I have and the people who have helped and loved me."

Thanks, Andrea. Me, too.

2009-05-27T10:24:00.001-07:00

Apparently I'm not the only turtle lover! Will have to make more next week when I'm clay-ing. Three or four are on their way to new homes already.
:)

2009-05-26T10:32:00.000-07:00

Thinking about Thailand again reminded me. This is from my trip notes:

...months from now I will turn a pair of shoes,
and see a fine trickle of moonlit sand,
and remember Thai beaches, far away.

Choose Joy

2009-05-26T06:53:00.000-07:00

I didn't have time to paint, or post (here, or on etsy) yesterday. Madly dashing about the house, cleaning & tidying for some pending houseguests. As if an old friend from University and the two teenage boys she was bringing were going to care if my drawers were organized and the floors were clean! Driving my mom, who'd come to help, and myself, to the brink of crazy.

On the other hand, it's a good thing I do get guests on a regular basis--each time, my house gets a little cleaner, a little more organized. I unpack and put away a few more boxes. I moved into this house about a year and a half ago--it's a process! When the countertops are clear it feels like there's more air in the room. I take deeper, calmer breaths. And yes, I'm happy.

Have been thinking about joy a lot lately. A part of me that I'd never separated out and addressed by name until about five years ago. It was on a beach in Thailand, a day or two after the tsunami. Yes, that tsunami. I wasn't affected, not in a physical, direct way--I was on a different island, in a different ocean. But it was a trip--a journey--that will affect me for the rest of my life.
More about that another time.

The topic now is joy: Choosing happiness. I met a wise, wonderful, beautiful young woman on that island. A doctor, a writer, a thinker. A brave and sensitive and lonely soul, looking for more joy in her life. Yesterday she sent me a wonderful email, about a 'happiness' conference she'd attended in Australia. I hope she'll let me post it here. It seems the whole world is re-evaluating what it means to be happy--how, and why, and the vital role played by conscious choice. I don't know her well, and I haven't seen or talked to her since Thailand, although we stay in tenous touch with occasional emails. She had no idea that I'd started this blog, or that I'd named my online business Choose2BHappy. But it wasn't until I met her on that stretch of white sand that I realized what a gift it is to live with joy.

More soon. In the meantime, pay attention to what makes you happy. Notice the things that make you smile, that make your soul hum, that make you feel warm, and safe, and loved. That thrill you, that bring tears to your eyes, that make your mouth water.

And start practicing. Choose happiness.

You deserve it.

2009-05-24T10:23:00.001-07:00

I'm tempted to say that there just don't seem to be enough hours in a day. But I know that's not true. It's all about how I use the time I'm given.

I'm working on it. Promise.

Crazy, really, one of the things I've wanted to do (and have done) the most for my whole life is write. I have a stack of manuscripts in the bottom drawer. And a fabulous novel almost done on the computer, that keeps calling...

In the meantime, I've gotten my etsy shops up and running and am trying to get great photos with the digital camera I've borrowed until I can buy my own. (thanks, Sheryl! xoxox) Because painting is way up there on the list of things I love to do, too. Things that make me happy.

http://choose2bhappy.etsy.com/
http://arttilemosaics.etsy.com/

VERY excited about an order of Christmas ornaments for an adorable shop in Alabama. Which means my hands in clay all next week. Tactile, sexy, zen.

Happy Sunday.