Killing Time Until It's Bedtime

There is nothing good on TV at 4:30 p.m. weekdays. Oprah is unwatchable. Ellen is over by then. The evening news is not on until 7 p.m. around here. This is not helpful when I'm searching for mindless entertainment to help me decompress before my 6:30 p.m. bedtime. (This 4:30 a.m. work schedule is ridiculous, but tomorrow's my last day for a full week!)

I've taken to watching movies, instead. But during the last two weeks I've exhausted the collection of freebies at the neighborhood library and seen most of the interesting stuff in RedBox. Today I went to see a matinee of Mamma Mia! with a friend. I saw the Broadway show live in San Francisco years ago. I wore sparkly bellbottoms and platform boots and danced in the aisles during the finale. Diggin' THIS Dancing Queen, yes indeed.



Don't see this movie unless you like to squirm uncomfortably. Even if you really like ABBA, you will squirm. Pierce Brosnan was a devastating Remington Steele. A suave Bond. He's a DREADFUL singer and taking a male lead in a musical film remake was very ill-advised. I gave up trying to stifle my groans and just laughed loudly every time he opened his mouth. The old ladies who populate these chick-flick matinees on weekdays didn't appreciate that, I'm sure. They were probably admiring Meryl Streep's awkward dancing and overwrought vocals.

I'm probably cranky because I've been awake too long, but I think I'm ready for Hollywood to stop thinking it can do musicals better than Broadway.

Leave the singing and dancing to the pros, people.

Belated Birthday Wishes

For my one and only sister-in-law. My brother lured used his guitar to lure her from the soccer field before she was old enough to know better. It thrilled us to have her in the family, but we had to wonder if she knew what she was getting into. We're a high-octane bunch and can be a tad overwhelming.

She's survived to the point of thriving.

She gets my zany, mad-talented brother like I never have. She's always up for a fun time (once nearly going into early labor watching Japanese game shows online with me late at night!) She's the most amazing mother to my favorite nieces. She makes a killer grilled sandwich. She can run harder and faster than any girl I've ever known.

And even though she's probably one of the most talented soccer players in the country, she's incredibly, unbelievably - even implausibly - humble.

Happy Birthday Aleisha!

ZZZzzzzzzz

After yet another sleepless night on this ridiculous schedule, I'm caving.














Let's just hope I can wake up when the alarm rings at 3:30 a.m.!

Foggy, with a chance of suffocation

Just back from an early morning walk and I feel compelled to write another post about the weather. I know nobody wants to hear weather updates ad nauseum, but if you ask me how my transition to the South is going, the one thing I'll tell you I'm still troubled by is the climate.

I still can't look out the window and anticipate the right wardrobe for the day. At 6:45 a.m. this morning it was overcast and misty. The weatherman said it was only 73 degrees. My experience with overcast and misty is San Francisco, where I would need a windbreaker for the jog. Ha. "Steamy" would be a better description.

The air on days like this is so damp I have a little trouble breathing. No wonder the plants manage to be so green here, even when it doesn't rain. It also makes me wonder if it's possible to get pneumonia from this weather - I sure took in a lot of moisture during my one-hour walk. The steam seems to release smells, too. The caustic scent of a pile of pine needles they use like bark to keep out weeds in the South made my eyes water. I walked under a magnolia tree so pungent I sped up to get past it.

The windows on cars and homes fog up on the outside. I'll spare you details about what it feels to be walking around in this kind of weather.

You run the air conditioner to dry things out inside and keep the doors and windows tightly shut. I miss being able to put a fan in the window at night and letting the dry, desert air cool things down.

Darkest Brown

That's what the box said: "Darkest Brown." I plan to write the Clairol company and suggest they rename it "More Or Less Black." I was going for something a little browner than my natural color - something to cover up the proliferation of gray. I have only myself to blame, though, because my gut told me "Darkest Brown" was bound to be too much. I ignored my gut because I have a tendency to be impetuous - and a tad dramatic - when it comes to my hair. So now I have black hair, more or less. Which is not what I was planning on.


It's been a week since I did this to myself and I feel okay posting this picture (taken two days after the deed). I've grown accustomed to it, for the most part, though I'm still not thrilled. I've had black hair before and I always feel the need to wear darker makeup and clothes to match. Whether by imagination, wishful thinking or daily washing, the color does seem to be fading a bit. Hooray.

I didn't even read the box closely enough to find out if the color is permanent or semi-permanent. All I know is it was on sale. Will I never learn?

Arachnophobia

The itsy bitsy spider lives in my shower. Along with all of his children and their cousins and neighbors.

This is not as troubling as it sounds, though, since they seem to be the daddy long legs variety. A spider so lanky and frail is tough to fear.

But I can't figure out how they are getting into my shower. Every time I get in there's at least one clinging in the corner. Down comes the rain to wash to wash the spider out. Up comes the sun to dry out all the rain and there he is again. Except it has to be his sister or cousin or best friend, since I watched the original little guy swirl down the drain with my soap bubbles.
I always heard that nursery rhymes are based on fact. Ring Around the Rosy is about the bubonic plague or something, right? Whoever wrote the Itsy Bitsy Spider lived in the South. Possibly even in my shower.

Leo the Lion

This little guy only turned one yesterday, but he's already taught me some deep stuff. Like, for example, when you're try to get under someone's skin, it pays to be persistent - and clingy. When you want to show someone you're in control, keep your distance and act like she's as interesting and crusty pudding on the side of your high chair. When you want to melt someone's heart, be distant and coy most of the time, and then snuggle your head into the curve of her neck when she's least expecting it.

See? Good stuff.

Happy Birthday Leo. I'm your favorite, right?

Hey Mr. Sandman

I've never had trouble sleeping regularly. The occasional lunar cycle makes me toss. But generally I've been very, very lucky that Insomnia and I are strangers. I'm useless without a full night's rest. Grumpy, foggy, whiny. Can't write or speak as clearly as I'm accustomed. Can't handle stress.

But my sleep habits have met their match in this new 4 a.m. work schedule I'm pulling for the next few weeks. Tired to the bone, I roll into bed at 7 p.m., shades drawn, and read my book for a few minutes until my eyelids droop. Double check the alarms (I need two to wake up at 3:30 a.m.) Shut off the light. And toss. Turn. Shift. Speeding thoughts revving faster and faster. Sheet on. Sheet off. Too hot. Too cold. Turn. Toss. Then it's 10 p.m. and I'm still not sleeping and it's too late for a decent amount of sleep before I have to get up and do work that requires every ounce of concentration I can muster.

Please, please, please don't let this be a sign of how things will be for the rest of my days. I hear insomnia's impossible to get rid of once it's caught. My bed and I have always been the best of friends. I want that to be the case again.

Right now I'm growing increasingly desperate for one good night of sleep. I'd even settle for a solid nap.

Easy Come, Easy Go

This week I got a huge bonus by my nonprofit salary standards. And it was totally unexpected. Everyone at work spent the day talking about how they planned to spend it on new stuff they wouldn't normally buy, and I joined right in - "Yeah, maybe I'll take a trip or buy a new TV or kitchen countertop. . . "

And then I remembered that everytime I try to slow down on the freeway, my car feels like I'm landing a spaceship. So I made an appointment to get the brakes inspected, and just like that a big chunk of my bonus was gone. Now it feels like I'm stepping on pillows when I stop. I appreciate that. Probably safer, too.

But I notice that I never seem to get around to spending unexpected windfalls on fun stuff. There's always something to fix or a practical purchase to make like gas or groceries. I'm lucky I've never had to worry about making the bills, so I'm not complaining necessarily. . . Just reflecting on the fact that plain old, ordinary living is so expensive.

I sometimes fantasizing about getting rid of everything and living off the land. Not that I'd would last 10 minutes out there in the heat with the bugs.

Ever since I was a kid, hoarding my pennies to set up my first bank account, I've just always liked saving my money rather than spending it. I like watching it pile up on my bank statements. Even when I make a purchase that I absolutely enjoy and can easily afford, I feel a twinge when I see the money missing from my account. Of course, I can't not spend the money. That's why I earn it. And I absolutely understand that I can't take it with me in the end. But I'm strangely attached to it, and today I'm wondering why. That's all.

It's Mine!

Well, almost. The seller and I have agreed on terms and signed a contract. Of course, there's a lot of other paperwork and such to work out, but I expect I'll be moving in around the first of September.

I couldn't be more tickled. The price is very, very right (aka CHEAP!). The location is perfect. (Commute length stays the same. Church congregation stays the same.) And look at the view from my cute little private patio:



Oh, and a fireplace too! Not that it gets all that cold here, but I've never had a fireplace, so that's kinda novel. It's wood burning, so I doubt I'll be lighting it much. You never know.


I'm thinking about hanging a flat panel TV over the fireplace - I suppose there's a brick flue there, though. Wonder if that's possible? It'd be a nice space saver if it is. I'll probably be re-doing the kitchen cabinets and counters, too, just because I can. And I'm sure I'll paint a brightly colored wall (or several) as is my habit.

Just don't let the small size of the place turn you off visiting me! I've got an air mattress. (I'll sleep on it and let you have the bed, of course.) And besides, there's not all that much to visit in Charlotte, except me. Once you get here, we'll hit the road for something much more interesting. Like Charleston.

Taking the Plunge

The primary reason I shop for clothes at thrift stores is that when I find something that suits me perfectly, I can't resist. No need to obsess about it, lose sleep or feel guilty, because I can always afford $4.

Apparently the same applies to condos. I've been very happy in my cozy little rental, but always in the back of my mind I planned on buying something this summer. I started scanning the listings casually a few months back, waiting for a condo to meet my very specific list of criteria. When one finally did yesterday, it surprised me. Less than 24-hours later, I've got an offer out.

The price is very right and it's exactly where I wanted to be - about 6 blocks from where I currently live. There's a great little tree-enclosed patio off the living room, and more kitchen counter space than I've had in at least ten years - which isn't saying much. Oh, and let's not forget the pool. I'm not a big pool-lounger, but this summer heat just might make me a convert.

Don't look for the place on the pages of a Modern Living magazine. But if it all works out, I'll slowly be buying it from the bank soon. My grandpa's always saying property is the best place to invest your money. It worked for me in Utah. We'll see if Charlotte does the same.

Doing the Charleston

The travel guides warn against visiting Charleston, SC in the middle of summer. They say humid heat will spoil your trip. Luckily the guide books aren't always right. On Friday night two of my coworkers joined me for a road trip to the 4th busiest port on the East Coast. It's about 3 hours from Charlotte. We stayed at a dive hotel and then got up early to visit one of the historic forts when it opened at 9:30 a.m. Fort Moultrie is across the harbor from the more famous Fort Sumter. It's primary advantage over Sumter was that you could drive there, rather than taking a one-hour ferry ride. We were short on time and not too interested in getting seasick. Fort Moultrie was an active battle station during the Revolutionary War, the Civil War and World War II! We saw relics from each period and even saw a couple of underground controls rooms with vintage stuff from the 1940s. Very, very cool. And incidentally, though it was hot, a lovely seabreeze kept the day bearable.

The Fort is on the beach, where we wandered after the tour, stumbling on a wedding party hastily moving their gauze-draped chairs as the tide rapidly came in. A bunch of locals were standing in the shallows fishing flounder right off the shore. One of them was in her 50s or 60s, wearing a one-piece suit and aquasocks. She had the tattoo of a flounder on her inner thigh. Yes, I was staring at her, but you really couldn't miss the tattoo. We headed a few miles north to the Isle of Palms to see the waves (since the Fort and fishing were on the harbor side.) We didn't swim, which turned out to be lucky since a guy got bit by a shark there later that day. We just went to dip our toes in the water - the Atlantic is like bathwater compared to the frigid Pacific. Who knew? And the waves were decent enough for some surfers and boogie boarders to have fun. I'm definitely going back to camp on the beach and boogie board soon! (Must remember to pack a knife for warding off shark attacks.)

Food was next on the agenda - food is always high on the agenda when I travel. It's a family thing. We headed to historic Charleston 20 minutes away and over a nifty suspension bridge that looked like a ship. Boiled peanuts come complimentary with your meal at the legendary Hymans Restaurant. (I know it's legendary because it's in ever guidebook and because there are signed pictures of every star under the sun on the walls.) Boiled peanuts are a deep-south specialty, I guess. Slimy and soggy, but I like all kinds of peanuts, so they worked for me. So did the fried cornbread dough (hushpuppies) that came with my seared tuna. Sated, we set out to wander through the historic downtown: through the markets, into the French quarter and over to the part of town where one mansion after another featured double verandas and enormous windows. The entire city is under the protection of the historical society. Even changing your blinds requires city approval. But my is the result amazing! We came back along the harbor walk where yet more people were fishing - crab this time. You can tour about a half dozen of the historic homes in Charleston. One is 25,000 square feet or something insane like that.

We picked the more modest Aiken-Rhett House because it's in a state of "preservation" rather than "restoration." Never gave much thought to the difference, but rather than gussy the place up to look like it did in its heyday, the historical society has just left the place as is. You can see the same wallpaper and furnishings and remnants of Civil War life in nearly every room - albeit in various states of deterioration. Much of it was seriously damaged during Hurricane Hugo in the late 80s.

In all, Charleston more than met the raves - even in the middle of July. I'll be heading back soon, since our one-day whirlwind tour only scratched the surface of homes to tour, waves to ride and deep-fried food to inhale.

It's been too long

This tent is one of my prized possessions. And like my other prized possessions (lovely heirloom jewelry I’ve been given and the antique gowns I found at the thrift store) it hardly ever gets used. The church girls and I pitched it inside the meeting house the other night for a “Camp Out” activity (complete with guitar-accompanied camp songs and fire-building exercises with pretzel-logs!) The stale, smoky smell of my last night in the woods came whooshing out when we unzipped the nylon flaps.

I can’t even remember where or when that last outing was and it makes me sad. I’m told there are great places to camp around here, though none as spectacular as the Wasatch or Uintahs, I'm afraid. I’ll give the Smokies a fair shot, though. I swear. First I need to make a friend who likes to camp. And then I need to wait for this abominable heat to cede. I just can't imagine it's much fun blowing flame into a campfire or burrowing into a mummy bag when all you can really want is to float on your back in an icy pool.

Ay Carumba!

Mangoes covered in chili powder do not sound good. But I tell you it's a miracle there's anything left in that there bag because these spicy little thinfs are delicious. I have no idea why I didn't try them before now . . . goodness knows I've tried much crazier in my wanderings.
The neighborhood kids I tutored back in the Bay Area were always eating candy dipped in chili powder. It's a Latino food thing and they seemed to like it a lot. I balked and chalked it up to a cultural difference. Give me my chili with meat and beans, thank you.

But then that yummy film Chocolat came out. Okay, Johnny Depp was the yummiest part of the movie, but those chocolates with cayenne pepper did sound intriguing. Now they've en vogue at gourmet chocolatiers. And they're good. But they're nothing like the sticky sweet heat of a mango in chile. Trust me.

The God's Must Be Crazy in Charlotte

It's been awhile since I gave a weather update and this moment merits one. Thor and his cronies are whipping it up big time right now. I've never seen so much lightning flash directly over my house. These cracks of thunder are so deep and strong they make my heart flutter. In the 15 minutes since this excitement started, a river has formed down my street. Glad I live on a slight hill!

Will someone answer me this, though? Why isn't there an air raid whistle going off for this storm? The locals will cancel school at the mere threat of a snowstorm but mosey right on through Armageddon, I guess. Personally I think thunder, lightning and/or these dreadful 92 -degrees-with-92-percent-humidity summer days are all excellent reasons to lock the doors and stay home.

We Shall Never Surrender!

I got A's in history during high school and college, but that doesn't mean I learned anything. I certainly didn't retain it, at any rate. So when I signed up to interview Winston Churchill's granddaughter this week, I raced to the library for some material to cram. Now I'm discovering that I missed a really interesting chapter back in history class!

Did you know Winston Churchill had a lisp as a child, wrote novels, won a Nobel Prize for Literature, had his paintings displayed in the Louvre Museum, invented the army tank and is the namesake of Winnie the Pooh?

And then there's the big stuff like becoming Prime Minister of England on the eve of World War II and seeing Britain through its darkest hours. Makes me wish I was around back then. Not for the air raids and death and all, but just to sit by the radio and hear Churchill's amazing speeches crackling out over the BBC airwaves.

P.S. If you have any suggestions on what I should ask his granddaughter, please share!
P.S.S. It's hip to admire Winston. Even Angelina's doing it!

Excuse my sniffles

I rarely ever cry in church meetings or watching sappy movies. Just ask my mom. But today in church, the president of the local mission was giving the women a lesson on how to share our testimonies and beliefs with friends and people we meet. I've heard it a million times before, so no real reason to get all mushy-eyed. He played a training video the LDS Church uses now to train missionaries. It was documentary-style and seemed pretty unscripted. They followed some sisters around to a meeting with some members of the church and there was lots of cheesy spiritual music running underneath. But suddenly - seriously out of nowhere - I started crying. Suppressing sobs, in fact.

It was completely weird. I have no idea if I was nostalgic with flashbacks to my own missionary experience. Or if the Spirit was trying to send me a message about the need to be a little more open with people about my religious beliefs. Or maybe I was just tired. Whatever it was, it completely surprised me without a tissue. Strange. Certainly fodder for reflection.

Expensive, but worth it.

I'm talking about the haircut. . . not me. I was a certified bargain at McGuire Air Force Base Hospital. $28 and change. Mom and Dad saved the receipt as proof.

This haircut cost significantly more, but since I only get them once every 5 or 6 months, I don't mind. In between high-priced salon cuts, I let the flunkies at SuperCuts or GreatClips trim the ends. That just makes the salon experience more of a treat, with nice-smelling shampoo and floors that look like they've been swept just last hour, rather than last month.

However, Clarissa at the the salon seemed fixated on my gray hair and how there's no reason to have gray hair at my age and wouldn't I like to schedule an appointment for a very expensive color and highlight? I've noticed the gray sprouting more prodigiously through my bangs in the last few years, but kind of thought it wasn't that noticeable. Can't see them in the pic, can you? Even if you could, I sort of think they make me look mature and that's helpful in my line of work.

Clarissa got to me, though. It's been a few years since I colored my hair. I've done all shades of red, black, purple and various highlights too. When I save up enough money - and it grows out enough to merit another expensive cut - I'm thinking maybe I'll go with just a nice, dark chestnut color. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to cover the gray.

American Girl vs. Iron Man

The American Girl Dolls and their companion morality tales came too late for me. I was obsessed with Cabbage Patch dolls that came only with birth certificates and silly names like Quintilla Jobina.

For real, that's the name of the doll I fell in love with at the toy store when I was around 11 years old. Too old for dolls, but not too old to feel like I really wanted to adopt a life-like replica I could rock and read stories to. Yeah, life-like is relative. But my nephew Haston has the cutest big baby head I've ever seen - and he's the spitting image of a Cabbage Patch. I really, really wanted to take "Tilly Jo" home, but do you know how expensive those dolls were? My parents got me a much cheaper knock-off for my birthday instead. Turns out having the doll was a lot less fun than fantasizing about having the doll.

I think I would have definitely been an American Girl doll type had they been around. I saw the new movie Kit Kittredge today and thought it was cute. Abigail Breslin (aka Little Miss Sunshine) was the only reason I bothered. Then I caught Iron Man, which was starting up right next door as I left the theater. A lovely way to spend an oppressively hot July 4th afternoon.

Iron Man rocked by the way. I should have gotten into comics as a kid. Bet that would have been way more fun than Cabbage Patch kids.

Where have you been all this time?

I'm checking out peaches at the grocery store and this couple next to me starts complaining about how the strawberries just aren't sweet enough.

I'm like, "Yeah, must be a bad season."

And the lady says "No honey. The ones at the farmer's market down the road are amazing. But the cantaloupe. . . the cantaloupe is to die for!"

"Wait. There's a farmer's market? Here, in my neighborhood?!"

"Just down the street. It's open today in fact."

"Now? You think it's open right now?"

"Yes. And those cantaloupe. I just can't get enough."

I flipped that plastic bag upside down right then, let all those pathetic mushy peaches tumble back onto the produce pyramid, and left the store. Sure enough, not a mile down the road I found the market, careened into the parking lot and tumbled headlong into produce nirvana.














Peaches, tomatoes, squash, lettuce, berries, apples, plums, grapefruit. And cantaloupe, of course. All grown in the local region. And all HALF THE PRICE I've been paying at the supermarket lo these many months.

I loaded up my shopping bag in a frenzy and spent less than 20 bucks for two week's worth of snacks. It's all delicious too. I know because I tried one of everything during the short drive home. Except the cantaloupe. I would have tried that too, if I thought my teeth were strong enough to break through the rind.

Can it be that the ridiculous price of oil has finally made locally grown fruits and veggies more affordable than the stuff shipped over from Peru for sale in supermarkets? There is a silver lining to this gas-price nightmare! And it tastes amazing.

Rolling Along in My Automobile

With gas at $4.05 and climbing (yes I'm aware it's much more expensive in California!) this is a pretty clever place to advertise something with a lot more fuel efficiency. Not that Harleys are the most fuel efficient two-wheel options . . . before long I expect to see bicycle shops advertising on gas pumps.

And speaking of bicycles, it's that time again! The Tour de France starts Saturday. Sure wish I had cable so I could watch it. I guess the internet will have to do. Besides, there's hardly a rider left to race with all of these doping scandals. Nevertheless, Vive le Tour!