BFQ

It's finished. Wabi-sabis and all.

Fall Light

I had the good fortune to get off work early one day a couple weeks ago, so I took the time to go to the Japanese Garden. I hadn't been in awhile. Now that I'm a member, I've vowed to go more often.

Here's what I term "the famous tree." I think there are literally hundreds of thousands of shots like this one scattered on the internet. Everybody had the same idea I did...all the people with their DSLRs and lighting tricks and stuff. I did the best I could with my little point-and-shoot and hoped for the best. Not so bad!

It looks kind of like Maleficent attacked it...not gonna lie. But it's incredible.

There was lots of this color in the garden...the orange-red burnt that really screams "Fall!" at you.

 

And there was lots of really intense light when I went...some of these pictures seem so bright, they make your eyes hurt. I wish you could have seen it in person...it was enchanting. But these pictures are unedited...straight from me to you...so soak the light in. I was struck by how cool these pictures look -- a little unconventional. Yes, they might have been more stunning, or more representative of what my eyes actually saw in different light...but they are still unique. Hope you enjoy!

Backyard Trompings

I haven't written in awhile because there have been Goings-On. I have been in the W of the Ashington five of the last six weekends, and frankly, there hasn't really been time.

On one of my excursions up the I-5 corridor, though, I did have time for a Great Tromping. I explored Two Ace's backyard, and played with my camera. It was a lovely misty afternoon.

Some of the leaves on the trees had started to turn colors early, and it made for quite the pretty photo op. (Or at least, I clearly thought so.)

My hand, uprooting a giant tree through the power of perspective.

Conjoined twins!











Me, through a spiderweb working overtime...

The boardwalk, which made me seasick, as sometimes it is literally over bogs (thankfully, the bog was not of the Eternal Stench ilk) and lots of water. I felt kind of squishy as I trundled along, and I admit, I felt a little queasy about 3/4 of the way through and was glad to be back on my land legs again when the walk was over.



Two sorts of flowers: one "colorful," one not. Just because a flower isn't a vibrant shade doesn't mean it's not pretty. Kind of like people who aren't obviously knockouts on the outside aren't the only pretty kind of person.








Loved the green floaties on the water. The light--the reflections, the natural placement of everything...I felt like there was a brush that was just painting everything in front of me and all I could do was just watch.

And finally, these looked a little like furry sloths to me. I thought that it was a little like an animal shedding profusely when I saw tufts of "hair" on the side of the boardwalk. Speaking of animals, check out that spiderweb overlaying the water!

Stickings and Huggings & Rememberings

I went to see Aunt B earlier this month (she's actually my great-aunt) as part of a recent trip to the southern portion of the motherland. (see picture). She truly is GREAT! She is amazing, and definitely qualifies as a Top Tier Auntie. I've written about her before, I think...but with such great people, it never hurts to talk about them again.

Isn't she beautiful?

Her husband's pretty great, too. He used to be a weather guy for the Army, and did air gliding as a hobby. (At least, I think that's what it's called.)

They told me the story of how they met. Aunt B was just 17 and Uncle D wasn't much older - maybe 20 or so. Aunt B went to a fireside with her friend, who knew Uncle D, so they all sat together, but the friend had to get up to play the piano. Aunt B says that she was sharing a hymnal with Uncle D, and he stuck her finger with a straight pin to get her attention as a flirty measure. Aunt B didn't like that very much, so she took the pin and stuck him right back. And, as she laughingly says, they've been stuck together ever since. She did say that the older folks used to grumble and scratch their heads a bit at the young folks' behavior, because her friend, who lived close to Uncle D, soon began "going with" a boy who lived near her. As there was a ten mile difference between B and D, and consequently between B's friend and D's friend, it baffled the elders why the youngsters insisted on trotting back and forth so many miles, when they could just switch the couples and eliminate all that fuel use, instead. But none of the four parties thought that was a good idea. They were practicing "cleaving unto" each other even though they hadn't gotten married yet. (Aunt B's friend did marry the neighbor boy, though, and they've all been happy ever since.) 

Aunt B is the kind of person I want to be. She's open and loving, and will hug me as many times as I want. All I have to do is ask. (Sometimes, she even asks me for a hug. :) Uncle D has assured me many times that his wife's life-force fuel is hugs. Forget food. She just wants as many huggles as she can get! So I try to provide her with a lot when I see her.) She's always interested in what I'm doing, and she always tells me I'm pretty, and she always tells me something new. She has many treasures (old, really cool things) and lots of stories to go with them, and will freely share.

She doesn't remember things quite like she used to -- when we went to visit, it was clear she knew who I was, and who I belonged to, but she didn't remember my name. She was really cute about it, though, and asked me, "And what do your friends call you when you're not at home?" I was thinking how getting older is harder, in so many ways...and how shocking it would be to not remember things. For example, what if a child of yours passed away, and you couldn't remember? Anytime anybody brought it up, it would be impossible to not feel a pang of heartwrench at the thought as a wave of fresh pain occupied your mind. And then you wouldn't remember, again, and so you'd have to feel the pain over and over.

Maybe I'm wrong, and there's a mercy in the forgetfulness -- that you don't have to carry the grief, but the emotion of the loss (or, I guess, the happiness) doesn't carry as much weight because you're not as connected to it. I can't decide which is worse -- to not be able to feel the loss of things you miss, or to not have the burden of re-living the pain of loss with every mention of it. I wonder if your brain gets dulled to it in time. Someone else will have to tell me that.

In the meantime, I'm remembering the hope of sticking together and the hugging, and that will have to be enough til I find my sticker and get another hug from Aunt B.

First Day of School

Mom used to take us shopping downtown at the zicmee. We were lucky girls; we went to Nordstrom to get our shoes, GAP to get our jeans, and to the food court for lunch in between. There was just one shopping day a year. Of course, that doesn't count all the time we spent looking at catalogs from Lands' End and LLBean. But in terms of physical shopping, Mom took us a few weeks before and we had our shopping day and bought our new school shoes, and pants, and that was it. There was usually a separate trip for school supplies - we had a $5 budget, and after that, anything else we wanted, we had to pay for out of our allowances. (Back then, $5 went a bit further than it does now.)

If I were still in public school, today would be my first day back.

If I were Kathleen Kelly, I would make Joe Fox deliver on his promise to buy me a "bouquet of freshly sharpened pencils."

Somehow, today I am remembering something that happened more than twenty years ago. (!)

Mom bought me a big pink/magenta tote bag. It was huge. It was supposed to be my school bag. I have no idea what in the world I could possibly have put in there to fill it up. Heck, you could have put ME in there and still been able to zip it up. I don't know what possessed me to ask for it. It was made of nylon and had black handles.

This year, I was to start Kindergarten, so I wanted to be extra super specially prepared. I had been waiting for this moment - the moment where I could be like everybody else in their school-going glory - for so long! (I used to invent "homework" for myself so I wouldn't be left out when my older sibs were doing theirs. Yep. I was one of those kids.)  Mom had taken me shopping and I had bought new shoes. I wanted to keep them pristine for the beginning of school, so I elected not to wear them. But then I had some wavering thoughts, and I wanted to wear them beforehand, and I couldn't find them. It wasn't long before the week before school approached and we were doing our back-to-school breakfast routine...but still, no K-shoes were to be found.

These shoes were black canvas Keds and had polka dots of color on them. It was the late 80s gone bad: purple, yellow, orange, green, turquoise dots spotted the landscape. I couldn't find them, and I couldn't find them, and I couldn't find them...and then, the Saturday before school started, I had gotten desperate, and I was beginning to wonder where those shoes could have gone. By this time, it wasn't just that I wanted to wear the shoes, I was beginning to worry about the Wrath of Mom, as well, if I couldn't come up with them.

As soon as the pink monstrosity of a bag -- also the only pink accessory I have ever owned -- had been procured, I had carefully filled it with my school supplies long ago and hung it up on my hook in the closet, mostly to keep it from being poached by other family members. Now, as I was preparing to add the finishing touches of School Supplydom, I took the bag off the peg, because I'd organized my pencil box and wanted to put it in, so I would be ready, steady for the big day.

The bag wasn't empty though. Nope. I had, in my infinite planning mode, picked out exactly what I was going to wear to school on my first day, probably the very day that my new shoes were purchased, and had, in my squirreliness, stowed it carefully away in order to "reserve" the outfit for the monumental occasion. (Not being in charge of the laundry schedule, I probably had concluded that it would be best to be on the safe side and just not try to put it through any cycles until the Big Day had arrived.) I'm sure I pretended I was Anne of Green Gables and laid out  every combination of clothing I owned on my bed, and likely had my sisters help me pick what to wear.

I had rolled each piece of my outfit up carefully into little tubes, and shoved my socks inside my shoes. Why rolling, you ask? We had been instructed by Aunt E that the *only* way to pack things was to roll them up, because it preserved space and kept things from getting too wrinkly. She was sage (she had been to London!!), and besides, she was part of the Best Auntie duo, and so her word was practically gospel truth, bordering on law. There were my favorite pants! I rejoiced. I had completely forgotten that I had "reserved" the outfit, and I practically wept for relief, knowing that I had a good outfit and that I wouldn't have to go tell Mom I had lost my shoes.

I immediately put the outfit on, to try it on one last time, to make sure it had the magic a first day would need; but it will be completely unsurprising to more than a few of you to learn that, upon being tried on, my brand new shoes fit just a little too tight for comfort.

Of course, I wore them anyway! After all, a girl must have new shoes for the first day of school.

Berry Casual Analogy

I was blackberrying with some girl friends on Sunday. We were talking about dating. Apparently dating is a big thing, since it occupies much of the mindspace of many I know.

These girls, I should say, are beautiful. Strong. Good-natured. Intelligent. Opinionated!! Self-assured. I was pondering matchmaking for some people I know and as I was picking berries (which are really weeds here) I was thinking, gosh, why haven't they been "picked" yet?!?

So. Here goes. But instead of telling you the analogy, I'm just going to tell you that it is an analogy, and then tell you about blackberry bushes, and let the brambles speak for me. 


Plant Blackground
Blackberry plants are thorny. It's very easy to get snagged and snared and ripped and cut and punctured and slivered and get hung up on a thorn when you're trying to escape.

Maturity Cycle
Blackberry bushes have fruit at all stages on one branch. It's not impossible or improbable for there to be a blossom, a little nub where the fruit is just starting to grow, a little green berry, a greenish reddish berry, a red berry, a reddish purplish berry, a purple berry, a blackberry not quite ripe enough to pick, a blackberry ready to be plucked, berries that are mush, and berries that have simply come to maturity and then shriveled up from all the attention of the sun. (It should be noted that shriveled blackberries are not as in high demand as shriveled grapes.)

Determining Ripeness
Sometimes, a picker might think that a blackberry is ready at the almost-ripe stage. After all, then the berry is black. But the berry is still a little tart. So you need to decide: is it better to have a tart berry or a berry that is maybe just a tad bit past the primo stage of ripeness -- a little messy, but with flavor that bursts in your mouth?

Harvest
After all, once you pick a berry, it's picked. So:
Is your basket full of tart berries?
Ripe ones?
Maybe you  accidentally dropped  a few of them on the ground while making the transfer to your basket, and it's regrettable?
Past-ripes?

Harvesting Purpose
I suppose what type of berry you're looking for depends on the purpose of your picking:
Are you picking for jam?
Pie?
Do you only want the biggest berries, for re-sale value?
Do you pluck the shriveled ones hoping that the plant will regenerate and bear berries again so you'll get a more bountiful harvest?
Or do you just watch other blackberry pickers as they wander up and down the side of the road, partaking of nature's delights?

Post-Harvest
Are you ever in search of the biggest, most flavorful, most attractive berry, so you eat them until you're sick to your stomach and swear off blackberries for awhile?
Or do you know when to stop eating/picking, and savor the sweet flavor of the last berry?

More Cowbell (and cows)

COWBELL:  I was 23 the first time I heard of Saturday Night Live. Yes, I just admitted that. The first short I ever watched had Will Ferrell in it. Maybe some of you have seen it. It's about the band Blue Oyster Cult. They were a one-hit wonder. and Ttheir song: "Don't Fear the Reaper."* The clip has Jimmy Fallon, Will Farrell, Christopher Walken, and some other guy in it. JF is terrible, by the way - can't keep a straight face at all. In the scene, BOC is in studio, and a famous producer, Bruce Dickinson, is telling them how he thinks they can improve the record. Basically, Bruce is a fan of cow bells. He just thinks there needs to be more cow bell!

Off the top of my head, I can't actually think of another song that has any cow bell in it at all. But it made me think: if Bruce Dickinson (Christopher Walken) was right, then more cowbell is the prescription for every song ill. (Maybe if the Black Eyed Peas had put that in their Dysphemism song, it would have made it slightly more palatable to the oral auditory ear?**) Maybe if BOC had put more cow bell into their subsequent songs, they wouldn't have been a one three-hit* wonder. We'll never know.

The point is, it made me think about other things that make songs and life better.

WHISTLING: Except for one glaring exception I can think of (that I've already written about on this blog), I defy you to name a song where whistling in a song detracts from the song value.

Instead of listing all my favorite songs, I will instead post a link that will let you hear some of them.  I admit I didn't know all of the songs he put on here, but I know most of them. I think it missed "New Day in the Morning" and "Clancy's Theme" from the Man From Snowy River, but it hit a lot of other ones. yay!

BANJO: I'm convinced half the reason Mumford & Sons has made it so big is because they have a banjo player. No lie. Banjo makes everything better...more soulful, more homey, more comfy. I love everything banjo. Even those two guys in the Geico commercials they show on hulu are less annoying because one of them plays the banjo in the little tag theme thing at the end.

ANVIL: The first time I saw The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey (which I wrote about on this blog already), I didn't like the version at the end of the dwarf theme...the mountain song. Then I heard it again the second time I watched it and I was hooked. I was too cheap to download it but I listened to it (legally!) over and over again, and read an article in Rolling Stone about the guy who wrote it and how his sons collaborated on it with him, and he said, "It needs more anvil. What song doesn't need more anvil?" In this case, hammering against anvils was used to great effect and I daresay I could use a bit more of it. Maybe I'll go take another listen right now.

COWS: You can't see a landscape that's green and obviously not growing crops without thinking pastoral, and you can't utter pastoral without thinking of cows.

I even go so far as to claim that every landscape painting that has a field of any sort in it -- that evokes the "pastoral" feeling at all - is more appealing - and dare I say  it? Better! than a similar scene without bovine life in it. Cows in pictures are calming. What's more homey and hum-drummy than a cow staring off into space chewing her cud? Of course since the cow is in the picture, and we do not have Harry Potter style pictures, we do not know if she is chewing her cud or not, but the calm nature of the beast seems to add a level of peace to a painting that is unmatched.

If you can't have a cow, then a sheep will substitute, but it's like eating tub margarine when you could eat butter. If a cow isn't available and a sheep isn't, either, a goat will do. This is the hierarchy.

May all your landscapes have cows in them, and may your life be full of whistling banjo songs. (Cowbell and anvil are optional.)

* I have definitely, most emphatically, been reprimanded about my lack of research for this post in the comments. I am rectifying the situation by retracting my statement that BOC was a one-hit wonder. It appears they actually had three hits. See comments for more details.

**This is It reference

Captions

Recently KS and I went on an adventure. It was the end of a long and somewhat disappointing workweek, and we needed a break. I had no idea what was in store for me. We were driving along, and had an uninspired lunch at a Mexican restaurant. (Rather, the food was uninspired.)

Then the fun started.

View this as a slideshow. Remember that old projector in Biology that made a "beep" whenever Doc was supposed to change the slide? Take each picture by itself, imagine the narration, and then hear the "beep" before you move on.
 

Fields, rocks, sprinklers, clouds.

Bovine, sheds, trees, fields, Sisters (three)

                                      

Sagebrush, juniper, rocks.

Smallish oxbow, sheer rock face, long trail, green short stuff.

Shade, trees, mountain, rock.

A few of my favorite things: river (Crooked) bridge, canyon, mountains, greenery.

Peter Pan's bridge; proof that water means life.

I would love feedback on what your favorite shots are. Thanks in advance!

Boating

I had a conversation with my friend RaWa about boats. She said she always wanted to have a boat. I told her she could marry a guy who owned a boat and I would come over and go boating with her sometimes. I'd donate generously toward the gas fund, in return for a day of fun.

I am thoroughly of the Kathleen Kelly (You've Got Mail) mindset. There's a scene where she and Joe Fox ("F-O-X. How cute!") are wandering through an outdoor market together, discussing (among other things) the significance of 152 in her mystery man's email address and also deal-killers for her. (She does not know that Joe is her mystery man.) "Well, besides the married thing, and the jail thing, there's really only the boat thing." Joe winces. "Boat thing?" Kathleen shrugs. "I could never be with anybody who owned a boat." Joe puts a fake smile on his face and says, "I own a boat."

While I think owning a boat would be fun, boats are TONS of work. Even when we went boating on Saturday, it was a ton of work. There was the gas thing, and the buoy thing, and the rowboat thing, and the anchor thing, and the coming close but not too close thing, and then there was the getting everybody on thing...it took awhile before we even got going. But once we did, it was amazing!!!

Rule #1 for going on a boat: Always wear beach shoes. Especially when you're on the Sound, since otherwise your feet will be cut to smithereens by blistering (not blue) barnacles within seconds.

Here's a bridge! You know how I feel about bridges. And if you don't, you know now: I love them. 











Rule #2: Bring a sweatshirt/jacket. I have never been on a boat where it didn't come in handy. This boating day was no exception. This little guy went in the water and then wished he had one. (The water was about 48 degrees.)


Here's CM chillin' with the dog.We had to tie him up because he tried to go over the edge so often. (Kipper, not CM. CM was whining the whole time about how cold the water was.)

-->This is what athletic people who have never been wakeboarding can do, with zero instructions, the second time they try to get up.

Rule #3: Don't bring anything on the boat that you care about. Chances that it will get wet, blown away, eaten by someone else, or generally done away with/altered in some nefarious fashion are better than average.

<--Here's The Conrad, showing off her moves. She always goes down elegantly--just lets go on her own timing, and plugs her nose as she gracefully sinks under the wake. 

Rule #4: Put on sunscreen. I didn't, on my feet, and two weeks later, you can still see "suntan" marks from where my sandals were. Ouchie! I'm glad I reapplied several times, or my entire body would have been a hurtfest. Don't rely on someone else to bring sunscreen, either.

-->Here's CF, who was the most enthusiastic of all the wakeboarders. He got some serious air...enough that a few times, it looked like it really had to have hurt. As an aside, it seems I know a lot of tall, athletic people.

Rule #5: Bring sunglasses and a hat. Be careful of the hat, though...wouldn't want it to be blown away.

 

I had a good time boating. Perhaps my favorite bit of the day was exploring a little island that we ran across.

I got out of the boat and explored a little bit. I had the wrong shoes on...I needed mountain goat shoes to make it up a little incline into the "forest." Seems like the perfect place for an eight year old to play...enough trees to make finding your quarry difficult, but not enough to make you despair of ever finding your way back to shore.

This last little one is actually not just of clouds. If you look closely, you'll see that the thing in the middle is actually a 14,000 foot tall mountain. It just looks like a cloud from this angle. So it just goes to show: it's all a matter of perspective.

Swings and Misses: MLD

Pre-Game:
Once upon a time, back in the 60s, in sunny SoCal, there played a man - a Dodger - named Rob Fairly. Fairly was a big first baseman who had a way with a bat. One season, his magic touch failed him. He was in a horrible slump, and no matter what he did, he couldn't seem to figure out how to get out of it. For the life of him, he couldn't seem to hit a change-up, and it was really frustrating him.

His batting average got worse and worse, and finally, he was desperate. The Dodgers were in Washington DC, playing the Senators. At the end of his rope, not knowing what else to do, he approached the Senator's manager, Ted Williams. (Williams, by the way, is commonly regarded as one of the game's greatest all-time hitters.) He told Williams his situation: huge slump, demoralized, really wanting to master the change-up but striking out (literally) every time.

Williams just said, "If you can't connect, then stop swinging at them."

Simple advice, right? Maybe a guy with less of an ego would have just left his jaw on the floor for random tobacco juice rebounds to collect (ok, that was gross, but it gets the point across), and written off such a basic strategy. But Fairly took what Williams said and acted on it, and stopped swinging at those darn change-ups.

And you know what? Within a few games, Fairly came out of his slump.

Game Time:
Turns out that baseball is a lot like dating. If you are swinging your bat a lot and just not connecting...
Don't swing at pitches you can't connect with.
Lots of people, like Fairly, go through big slumps in their dating careers. But if, as a hitter, there are some pitches that you just can't make connections with this season - like Fairly's change-up - then don't swing. It could be the perfect pitch, but if you routinely can't make a connection, then stop trying so hard to hit every ball of that type that comes across the plate.

Have realistic expectations.
Don't expect yourself to be able to get on base every time you're at the plate. (Even the bestest of them rarely hit better than one in three at-bats, much less every time!)

I'll say it again, in case you thought I didn't mean it: Have realistic expectations.
Some dating hitters not only expect themselves to be able to get on base with every at-bat, but they also expect to get on base with the first pitch across the plate. And to add even more pressure, some hitters tell themselves that it's within the realm of possibility that they will only hit home runs. Newsflash: Not. Going. To. Happen.

"Small ball" wins games.
It's the hitters that consistently get on base with grounders, pokes, and lucky drops who have the best averages (generally). Besides, just remember this: there's got to be someone on base before any RBIs can be counted, and there need to be THREE in order for a grand slam to occur. Solo home runs are fine and good, but it's the grand slams and slides that really make the game interesting.

A note on Perfect Pitches:
The pitch could be a fastball up the middle, perfect height, and you could miss it every single time. It could be a pitch that every other MLD(ating) player could - and would - blast out of the park -- but if you can't, then it's not a perfect pitch for you, and you should pass.

Don't be afraid to pull a Fairly:
If what used to work for you doesn't anymore, switch it up. Chase a curve or a slider. (Please, don't embarrass yourself by leaning into the pitch so you'll get beaned and get a base, though. Also, don't chase wild pitches. Bad idea.) Look at every pitch individually and decide whether to swing. Use your gut. And if your gut doesn't work, use your mind. And if your mind doesn't work, consider asking an expert, like Fairly did. It worked for Fairly...it just might work for you.

Panda time:
So before your next at-bat, think about your strengths and weaknesses. Think about not the pitch that you want, but the pitch you can hit. Sometimes, it's the pitch that's down and out that you connect with for a grand slam. Just ask Pablo Sandoval.

Post-Game:
If you can't hit the change-up, don't panic and swing at every pitch. If you do, you're liable to get a shoulder out of joint...or at least, a lot of strikeouts. Be patient. If you can't make connections like you used to, refocus and try different pitches. Just work hard and practice and hopefully your manager will see it and not demote you to the minors. (O, horrors!)

Famous Last Words:
But remember...even if you do get sent to the minors, at least you're still in the game.

Solstice

I went to the beach on the solstice.

It was beautiful.

When I was picking my way through the brush path, I got to the top and came down, this is what I saw. It immediately reminded me of Anne of Green Gables.

I was talking to a friend of mine who lives on the east coast, and shot over a few pictures. He commented that it now seemed odd to him to see the sun set over the water...as for him, when at the beach, the beautiful thing is to see the sun rising. I had never even thought about that before. Sunsets on the beach just seem so natural.

It occurred to me that almost my whole life, I have had easy access to seeing the sun set over the water. You can see the sun set on the water from the front porch of the house I grew up in. I have lived within a few miles of water for most of my life after leaving home, and so I could easily make the effort to see the sun set over the water if I wanted to. There's nothing like it. (Now, I'm kind of curious to see what the sunrise over water looks like...but chances are I won't be curious enough to actually get up in time to see the black to grey to pink to yellow of the dawn. At least, I assume the sunrise pinks. (Horrors, what if there is no pink?!?!)

I feel the urge to note that these have not been photo-shopped at all, seeing as how I don't have the software, because, as we have mentioned before, I am a little too much like Scrooge for the Bob Cratchets in my life.

Here I am, looking at the beach, sitting on my newly-finished quilt. Now it has sand all over in it. I suppose it was a good maiden voyage. Now I won't worry about whatever else gets on it in the future because I took it out, and it survived the Sandy Beach test. So bring it on! Many more adventures will be had on this quilt, I'm sure.

My favorite part of the night was talking to my friend Peeks. It was her birthday party, and her car, like many others, got stuck in the sand. (Why they ever decided to drive on the beach, I will never be quite sure, but there were at least 20 cars on the sand. It doesn't seem very environmentally friendly to either the beach or the cars, but hey, whatever...) In fact, while we were walking toward the party, we saw a car drive by and splash itself in the water....seemingly just for the fun of it. My car and salt water don't really like each other, but I guess this is like the cat that likes to go swimming.

We were talking about silly boy stuff and then I said, "there's no need to sully this sunset with such nonsense" and she just looked at me and proclaimed that I had been speaking Shakespearean not-sonnets to her and laughed. As we watched, the sky turned an almost steel blue, and a line of six pelicans came and were swooping up and down over the water in a delicate, almost mathematical curve. Up and down, never diving...skimming close to the water, rising about ten feet above it. Pelicans are big birds. Even the brown ones (which I'm pretty sure these were), that are the smallest of all pelicans, have a wingspan averaging seven feet. It was a treat to see them, wings unfurled, undulating up and down on the air currents I could feel, but couldn't see.

Aside: I think I'd have to be very trusting to be a bird. After all, you're being kept aloft by something that you assume will keep going, that you can't see, that's unpredictable, that you have zero control over. So while you're learning to fly, trust is a big deal. It's not like you can hold it against your mommy bird that the doldrums suddenly decided to appear and that you plummeted headfirst tens of feet toward a flat hard surface before wildly squawking and somehow finding purchase (or not, with my luck).

The moon was so bright and beautiful. The stars were small and, though visible, seemed far away because of all the light. It was gorgeous...no flashlights required. :) Though with my little point-and-shoot you can't see the details of the moon, they were there...it wasn't just a ball of reflected light upon which no life can be sustained. It was an embellishment to good times with good friends.

Life is Like a Drama

So, I started watching a T-drama last night. It's one that I've seen before...one that was the perfect medicine for me during a hard time in my life. Since I've kind of been struggling for the last couple of weeks, I thought it might be fun to revisit it.

Some of the episodes are hilarious. Others are so painfully cheesy that I just want to gag. The swelling of the mournful music as the lame ex-girlfriend (or girl who wants the guy but clearly isn't going to get him), and the happy, upbeat theme songs...there are many things to like in dramas; also many things that will make you want to roll your eyes.

But this drama has had a lot of nuggets in it.

There's a guy who's a lawyer (has his own hotshot firm at 32ish) and he's had a long relationship with an actress who has insisted on keeping their relationship under the table. He meets a girl we'll call Adorabella who is a 10 in personality but not quite the brightest kid in the class, but of course she is hard-working and diligent and loyal and adorable. Long story short, Hotshot realizes that he doesn't want to be with someone who shoves him under the couch whenever company is over, so he breaks up with her, saying that a few hours of happiness doesn't make up for months and years of loneliness. As Chris Titus would say, you don't get a rebate on life, so you shouldn't stick with someone who's always belittling you or who isn't fully supporting you in a relationship.

Of course, Adorabella is full of insights into people, so she is always noticing when people are angry or happy, how they're dealing with problems, and how they take their coffee. So how she gets to be so unobservant that she doesn't realize Hotshot is into her, I will never know. But Hotshot's best friend, who used to like the actress, likes Adorabella, but uses her to get back at Hotshot by pretending they're in a relationship. Adorabella likes the best friend, but she feels caught in a lie and eventually everything becomes clear and it comes out that Hotshot's friend was using her because he secretly still liked the actress and he wanted her to be happy, so he was using Adorabella so that Hotshot would realize she was taken and that he should go back to the actress. Not going to happen, since the actress is annoyingly petulant and almost stalkerish, which you think she would know to avoid since she is a big-time celebrity and has people following her all the time.

So.

Don't be with people who don't appreciate you.
Don't pretend to like someone because the person you really like is longing for someone and you want them to be happy so you bend over backward trying to make something that isn't going to happen, happen.
Just don't do stuff that will make you miserable.
Don't do stuff because you think it will make someone else happy, but makes you miserable in the meantime. ASK, for heaven's sake!
Be yourself. 

End of story, but not end of drama.

long day, not in reseda

A few weeks ago I made a trip from P-town to Sea-town. Oh, city on the water, how I love you!

It was a long day:

0600: wake up
0615: out the door
0725: call nephew/niece. IGPM told me the story of the Tortoise and the Hare, but he modified it. He had a storytelling project at school, and his mom helped him pick the story. He rehearsed it, and then decided that he really didn't like the traditional ending. So he changed it instead, and although the hare does fall asleep and the tortoise passes him, the tortoise and the hair cross the finish line at the same time, so they are both winners, and they are friends! (This is with no encouragement from the teacher, or his mom.) I wonder if Aesop's Fables lose their potency when changed?
As an aside, I talked to IPGM on Monday and he told me that he and K had gone a whole day without fighting. I said that was most impressive. He said he wanted to go TWO WHOLE WEEKS without fighting. I wished him best of luck. He promised me a hug when he sees me in October. I'm going to hold him to it.
0912: breakfast at Toulouse with MLB
1035: haircut!
1145: bellsquare shopping w/ Two Ace
1400: thai food
1500: migrate to Seattle again
1600: purchase every bottle of DRY cucumber soda the local QFC had
1700: meet RW
1745: score an awesome parking spot, courtesy of truck driver
1800: Mariners vs. As.
2100: Bases loaded in the 8th, one run behind, leads to nothing
2200: back to QFC
2230: EC's house
2300: Surprise!!!!!! Here are my ladies. We're all a little tired in these pics. It was like girls popped out of the woodwork. RoJo and Ronron surprised me, at the request of EC. They came over and we got caught up. But first we sat in chairs with swimming noodles and snuggies and laid on the floor. We laughed, and laughed, and laughed so hard. I don't even remember what about...except for one thing that will always be an inside joke: "Is she, or isn't she?"

And then suddenly, even though only five girls live in the house, there were ten girls in the room and a movie was going and I was dying, dying, dying of tired. I managed to make it until 0045 and then I just made room for myself on the couch and turned my head to the cushions. Girls giggling, lights on, movie going...I didn't care. I was so tired I barely even stirred as they all left. EC woke me up at 6 so I could sleep in her bed (she's an angel) and I slept until 10!!!!!! I never do that anymore. But I kinda needed the sleep. It was such a long, good day!!!

Rolling

So...last night I had A Cultural Experience: I went to Roller Derby.

It was loud. The speakers were like to blow my ears out. I felt sorry for the teeny tiny baby five rows in front of me. Her mother's bangs were in a doubled-over ponytail. I also felt bad for the girl in the charteuse plastic pants, mostly because they didn't fit well and because her top was something a six year old should never wear. I saw all sorts of characters. I'm just glad Derby ended when it did so we missed the naked bike parade that P-town experiences every year.

It took me one "bout" to figure out what in the heck was going on and how it was scored. Both teams saw wild comebacks. There were some mean girls! I am telling you, I would not want to be a jammer for love or money. Some of the names were slightly risque, but I was actually rather impressed at the cleverness of some...especially the ones that looked one way on paper, but when you said them out loud, you "got" it. There were a lot of animals featured...Scald Eagle and Blast Unicorn were just two.

Readers Digest Roller Derby 101: (skip if you are not interested)
There are two teams of girls wearing roller skates and protective gear. Each team fields five players...1 "jammer" (basically like a running back in a run-only offense), one "pivot" (the relay anchor), and three blockers.

The jammers have stars upon thars -- that is, they have little shower cap looking things on their heads with big stars on them -- so the blockers know who to block. All the blockers start together in a "pack." The jammers start about ten feet behind. Whichever jammer bullies her way through the pack and passes all players first is the "lead jammer."

The whole time, everybody is skating forward. The jammers skate around the rink and catch up to the pack again (since they're a pack, they move more slowly) and they score 1 point for each person they legally pass after they make it through the pack the second time. (Going outside the lines isn't legal. Shoving someone down and stepping over her isn't legal. A host of other things, including use of elbows and kicking legs out from under bodies, are not legal.)

Each Jammer has her own ref who skates around and around in the innermost circle, counting the points the jammer racks up. Every jam session is 2 minutes or until the lead jammer calls it off by putting her hands on her waist. (Strategy tip: If you make three points and someone else is about to make five, you call it off first.) Then you line up and do it all again. "Bouts" consist of two thirty-minute halves. There are 30 seconds between each jam (mandatory) while the players line up. There are also time-outs and "official reviews" and lots of other nonsense.

One minute minors are served in the penalty box for each illegal block. Yes, jammers can get put in the box, too. When jammers are put in the box, it's a power jam, since the other team doesn't have any way to score any points. But both jammers can't be in the box at the same time (or else the blockers are out blocking nobody) so if both jammers get minors, the penalty is over for the jammer who is already in the box. Even if you only have two blockers skating in the rink, every time the jammer passes you, they get five points.

After, I had a pulled pork sandwich with cherry cole slaw on it and a fresh strawberry shake. Yum. And then we had a discussion about possessives and "'s," and the significance of "ye olde" and j and i and other linguistic historical factoids. Basically, it was a crazy evening! But at the end, when I actually had figured it out, and there was a major upset about to happen, it was really actually fun to watch. Not sure I'd do it again, but it was definitely a Cultural Experience.

Of Sheep and Taxes

This is what a sheepish girl's hair looks like when it's shorn.

If this were England in the 1500s there would probably be a tax on it.

Baa. 

"I like your shirt."

Rule #1: If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all.
Rule #2: If you can't say something that would sound nice on paper without snarling in anger or jealousy when you utter words, don't say anything at all.
Rule #3: Run the filter three times before speaking...kind of like Mom's "how many times you must wash the vegetables before eating them" rule.

This morning, I was thinking about being warm. My phone says it's 43 degrees outside. In the motherland, and Austin, and (it seems) pretty much everywhere else, it's 73 degrees (or higher). I wore a coat to work today. And I wished I had another blanket last night. Being 1 blanket short is never fun.

Thinking about being warm made me think about two days ago, when it was warm, and I complimented someone on her shirt. It was cute -- a salmon baby-doll style contraption I probably would wear if it was in my closet. And then I thought about warm summer nights on the porch in the homeland.

Thinking about warm summer nights on the porch in the homeland, and shirt compliments made me think of An Incident.

About ten years ago I was sitting with a boy on a porch on a warm night. It was his porch, not mine...though we had spent many hours sitting on my porch. It was a fairly rare occurrence for me to be sitting on his porch, and I didn't really love to do it, as the first time I did, I got stung by a bee, right between the eyes. But that's another story for another blog post.

*Background: He always sat to my left. I always leaned against the post. Eventually, I would move down from the top stair and start dead-heading the petunia bush that mom always kept by the front planter. We would talk until it was time for him to go home or until he got bored of sitting still and wanted to go for a walk or a drive.*

Earlier that evening, I had been telling him a story about a mutual friend of mine.

**Interruptus: I was in high school when this happened, and I could be kind of mean-spirited. Please keep the folly of youth in mind as you read this. Also, I hope everyone in the story forgives me for telling it here.)**

The story went like this: A few weeks ago, I had been walking with said friend in the foyer of our high school. A boy I had known for years, but who was a relative unknown to her, approached her and started talking to her.

**Interruptus: Looking back, he reminded me of Napoleon Dynamite. He wore sweats to school four days out of five, and moon boots every day in the winter. This particular day, he was wearing a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles shirt that had definitely seen better days, and a pair of green sweats. He was tall and gangly, and had Nerd with a capital N written all over him. He's the sort of guy who will never let go of his LEGO collection and can be a little awkward in social situations, but has phenomenal brainpower and can solve crazy hard math problems in his head. He'll probably win awards someday, if he hasn't already. I liked him -- liked to talk to him, and I thought he was interesting, though at the time, I thought of him as an intellectual equal and not as a creature with a y chromosome...if that makes sense.**

The boy approached my friend, who is very pretty. He said "hi" to her. I'm not sure he looked her in the eye -- he rarely did so with anyone, and I got the impression that he liked her, so he would have been intimidated. He was probably looking at a spot just over her shoulder or at the floor. (This girl, it should be known, was so captivating that one time when she was out, her date was so busy staring at her that he forgot to drive, and subsequently was in a minor car accident, which put a slight damper on their outing.)

My friend looked at him and said, "Hi," in her friendly way, and then she said something that (at the time) completely flabbergasted me: "I like your shirt." I don't remember his response. I just remember thinking..."what the ?!?!?! Girl, what are you thinking? His shirt has at least three holes in it, and considering he was probably at least half a foot taller than he was when his mom bought it for him, it isn't the most glamorous of looks." He moved away, past us, down the hall toward the band room (which thankfully I only had occasion to enter twice in my whole high school career) and I turned to my friend and said, "Did you really like his shirt?" I couldn't help it. It seemed completely incredulous to me that this girl, who had probably never even seen an episode of TMNT in her life, would be complimenting his shirt. Her reply, "No. But he looked like he needed a compliment."

I think my jaw dropped. The idea of telling someone you liked his shirt when you didn't actually just seemed to be sticky icky...a form of lying. If you think he needs a compliment, tell him you dig his curly hair, or tell him you like his posture, or tell him it's good to see him, or tell him something that's true...but don't tell him you like his old ratty shirt when you really don't. It could be his favorite, yes. But you're not doing yourself, or him, any favors by making false statements.

Interruptus: People who know me know that I'm not shy to give compliments to people about their clothes. I'll tell strangers in the elevator I love their coat, or shoes, or luggage. I'll tell people I hardly know that the color of their shirt matches their eyes. I'll walk past guys at church and make eye contact and then move my fingers down my chest in an outline of a tie and make a thumbs up. But only if I really like the article of clothing!!! Perhaps I am so free with compliments in part because of this friend; although I did not/do not necessarily agree with her method, I did appreciate the fact that she thought about someone else and what kind of day he/she was having and if he/she needed a pick-me-up, and my friend wanted to help.

So I was sitting on this boy's porch, telling him this story, and laughing a little about it...asking, "why would she have done that?" And then, out of nowhere, the girl (who happened to like the owner of the porch I sitting on...most of the time) drove up. The boy and I looked at each other. (He happened to like her back...most of the time). He was wearing a red shirt with the logo of a nearby university on it (#1), which had a bitter rivalry with another nearby university (#2)...and her family were staunch University #2 fans. The look on her face as she got out of the car and walked toward us was priceless. She clearly was wondering what I was doing there, and why I was sitting on the porch with him. (There was at least two feet of space between us, as there always was whenever we Porchified.) She seemed a little irritated, but seemed equally determined to hide it. She walked up the sidewalk toward his house and said, "Hey, (boy). I like your shirt." If the word "shirt" was venom, it probably would have been lethal-injection grade if she had been close enough to get the needle in.

It was horrible.

It was horrible, because sometimes the Sneaky Snark comes out of me. I really don't like it when it does. But this time I let it slip out: I turned to him and said with a straight face, "Yes, (boy). I like your shirt." Between my tone, and a raised eyebrow, the boy got what I was digging at and we started to laugh hysterically. I had literally just finished telling my tale of shirt-liking-fakery, and then she appeared, and told he of the university #1 shirt that she liked his shirt in a tone that said she didn't care a flying fig about his shirt, but she wanted to know what he was doing sitting there with me. And it was even more horrible because she had no idea why we were laughing. I couldn't very well tell her, but I knew she would ask, and "nothing" was definitely going to be an insufficient answer, in addition to being untrue. I said something that slightly mollified her, but I still felt horrible inside. At least she had good intentions when she told TMNT boy that she liked his shirt. I was being nothing but petty by telling Boy She Liked about the story. (There were lots of relationship politics between the three of us. Frankly, it would take too long to detail, and I really don't want to go there.)

I don't remember if I got up to leave, or if she did, or if the three of us sat there awkwardly (for it surely could have been nothing but awkward) for awhile. I am kind of glad I don't remember.

So, for Rule #1, it's okay to compliment. Just mean whatever you say.
Rule #2 is still a challenge sometimes. Sarcasm in all its forms is a touchy thing, and should be used sparingly.
Rule #3 will help with both Rule #1 & #2, and will help you avoid feeling horrible like I did at the end of The Incident because I was snarky in response to someone not following Rule #2.

But you can be sure that if I ever tell you I like your shirt, I really do like it.

Journey in a Truck

Four weeks ago I went for a road trip. With my boss. In a truck.

(Waits for those of you who actually know me to recover from your boggled brains.)

My boss told me he bought said truck with the idea to buy the smallest truck possible to haul the maximum amount of cargo he'd ever need to haul at one time. When he said "truck," I was thinking something like a Toyota Tacoma. Then he told me that he was going to pick me up in the truck for the weeklong road trip. I was, admittedly, not very excited about the prospect of riding in a tiny cab. It became obvious to me as soon as I saw him standing next to his vehicle that he is not from the South or from Texas or from anywhere else but New York. I say this because in New York, "quarter" is qwah-tah and water is wah-tah. His truck was a Honda CR-V.




These scenes remind me of the "Hanover Winter Song," wherein the ice-gnomes from "long - forgotten Norways" march. It was a bit late in the season, but the way the snow fell on these trees made me think of thousands of arboreous (yes, that is now a word) soldiers were marching in their Norways, the snow elegantly sticking to their backs as they crested one ridge and resolutely marched down the other side. No undignified windmilling of arms or galloping down the hill for these chaps. Nope. None at all.

We drove hither and yon: over hill, bridge, and dale. Through mountain passes and fertile valleys, we wended our way. We chatted and schmoozed and did our road show approximately twelve times.

I can now do it in my sleep.

Here's our arrival to our second resting place, and the sun setting over it:

Here's the view from my hotel room (below).

Then on the way back, I saw something beautiful: what looked like it was a former river bed. I also ate a fresh strawberry shake at a place that was right across the street from this sign: I wonder if you read it the way I did. I kind of hope so. My boss thought I was kind of lunatic because I laughed so hard and insisted on taking a picture of it with my camera.

Clearly, he didn't read the sign the way I did.

Then, we drove and drove and drove some more.
Basically, the whole day was about eating and driving. We got caught in a microburst and pulled off the side of the road. I really wanted to get home as soon as possible, but under the circumstances, it was probably safer to pull off the road for a few minutes.

It just so happened to be our luck that the nearest pull-off was Multnomah Falls. So I looked at the falls through the windshield, and then, ten minutes later, after the rain had abated somewhat, I rolled down the window and took a picture that was clear...that is, so the waterfall looked like a waterfall and not like spilt milk.