Sultry

It is summer around here, all of a sudden. Not that insipid, dry, cute little kind of summer, but that moist, deep, hot, sultry kind of summer.

Just the way I like it.

Last weekend was all about sultry. It began, as many sultry weekends do, with a beer on a deck.

And then another beer on another deck. It was a double-decker kind of day.

And just like it had the night before, the moon rose in its full, fat glory.

It was even closer to full, though. Really close to full . . .

. . . and got even more beautiful as the sky darkened.

Oh, what fun Mistah has with the moon.

We're reached the point around here where it's just as warm at night as it is during the day.

Beth, you never have to put a layer on in the evening any more.

Oh, it's sultry around here.

Then on Saturday night we threw together an impromptu deck party with our neighbors, which somehow included steak and salmon and scallops.

Oh how I love steak and salmon and scallops. And spinach and salad and mushrooms. Neighbors? Oh we've got good neighbors.

Good neighbors with whom we shared a decidedly kick-ass meal.

We had a few more drop-ins later on Saturday night -- at one point the male-to-female ratio was 8:1. I was the 1.

Just the way I like it.

Of course I did have to take a nap on the ghetto couch on our front porch later that night. That's what front porch ghetto couches are for, afterall.

And the next day? Sunday? Hazy Hot and Humid.

Just the way I like it.

Mistah spent some time photographing Ledgie's much-ignored lighthouse brother New London Light.

But mostly we spent all day at Ocean Beach, watching the haze and the boats and Ledgie disappearing and reappearing and fully immersing ourselves in the Sultriness of Summer.

Sultry.

Just the way I like it.

for the ages

This weekend, we went to the OB street fair.

It’s always a nostalgic outing for Bill and me; we fondly reminisce about the days when the street fair was a two day event and one could walk around with a cooler of joy if one was inclined. And one was generally inclined.

Back in the day, we never paid a bit of attention to the kid zone up there at the top of the block, our place was at the water’s edge by the main stage. It seems like the buzzkill enforcement of stricter booze laws and the introduction of the beer jail garden coincided with the addition of certain underage players to our team. And while it’s not strictly necessary to be drinking while enjoying the street fair on a hot gloomy Saturday afternoon in June….. oh, who am I trying to kid?

These days, going to any one of the rotating summer street fairs in the neighborhoods of San Diego means pretty much the same thing: gross overpriced greasy food and stupid overpriced yet stunningly lame rides.

In OB’s defense, I do prefer throwing my $20 away on the FUN SLIDE rather than the traditional two spins of the round up.

But still, I am here to speak the truth: kid land is boring for grown ups, even if you are lucky enough to sneak off to the beer jail first.

Walking down to the drinking block was enlightening, and confirmed what we’d begun to suspect: the OB street fair is no place for kids between the ages of 5-21. We soon made the executive decision to eschew the pad thai, gyros and sausage sandwiches for the relative comfort of our favorite spot at the beach. We scored a great table and got our yellowtail on (my official beer this summer, it’s delicious).

The fish tacos arrived, and all was right with the world. I noticed that my boy had a weird blue spot on his lower lip, and he insisted that I take his picture so he could see it:

Wait, I need to zoom


There, see that? How weird.

She was there, too.

So was he. Mmmmmmm, yellowtail.

But wait just a minute, there is something quite odd catching my eye in the background of that faraway shot.

Let's take a closer look, what IS that?

Is that not a mullet for the ages?

He’s just a kid -he was sipping soda, that beer belongs to the woman I presume was his mother. Yet it’s so coiffed! Did he look in the mirror and think: “Oh Yeah!”

Why doesn’t his mother do something? Someone needs to tell him!

I thought about it, I really did. It would have been an act of public service.

If you know this soul, or another like him, please… do something!

Monday moaning

I feel al little bit crappy when I write “Monday moaning.” It’s whiny and petty and perhaps not the best way to spend my time, but it does feel good to bitch sometimes, doesn’t it?

Perhaps when I’m more self actualized I’ll write “Feelgood Friday” or “Thrilled about Thursday,” but until then, I’ll continue bitch on Monday mornings if I’m so inclined.

Rise and shine
I hate those mornings when the baby wakes up just when the dawn is breaking, which is 45 minutes ahead of schedule, but not so early that she’ll go back to sleep. Even with the new blackout shade that her dad installed a few weeks ago, she’s not fooled. If she can see any light, however dim, baby girl figures that it’s time to get up. And she’s not shy about letting everyone know.

I try the stealth entrance, then refrain from eye contact as I find her pacifier, shove it back into her mouth, and place her back into sleep position. But it rarely works. Sigh.

I guess it’s one reason to be thankful the daylight hours are getting shorter.

Be the Buddha
It’s such a joy kill when I’m lying peacefully in bed, reading a good book, with my faithful cat lying on me looking like a slanty-eyed Buddha, peacefully vibrating with love and good karma, and my husband busts in as says, “Get that thing OFF of our bed!

Here’s what she’d say to him if she could


Who’s the fairest in the land?
I agree with Jacquie when it comes to the local county fair. I loathe it. It’s hellish. But unlike Jacquie, I don’t even like the carnies. I really can’t think of anything I like about the fair. The beer? Okay, yes, I like the beer, but it’s $17 for two microbrews. I have a hard time shelling this amount at a nice restaurant, but at the fair? It’s crazy making. I do it, of course (I have to in order to survive the fair itself), but I hate it nonetheless.

The rides? Hate them. The games? Ugh, even worse. The food? No thank you. The people? Way too many of them, moving too slowly, toward some awful ride, or game, or fried food (I kid you not they are selling fried butter this year). The farm animals? Cute, but is anyone mucking out those stalls? The entertainment? Sometimes. If it’s these guys, then sure, I like it.

But if it’s Blue Oyster Cult trying trying once again to make a comeback (July 5th!), then no, no I don’t.

The competitions? If it’s this competition

and my husband is a participant, then okay, I guess so. But geez, he didn’t even win. Don’t you guys know quality when you taste it?

Weekend 3 way: hot stuff

Summer is officially here -- the kids are out of school (sorry, Jacquie), Memorial day is a distant memory, and the summer solstice has passed, which means the days are already getting shorter (but we won't dwell on that just yet).

Summer means swimsuits and sand and sunsets and sangria, and well, sweating, sometimes.

So when the temperature rises, what are your favorite ways to beat the heat? And if you can illustrate your methods via photo, all the better.

Ellie:
I love the heat. So instead of trying to beat it, I embrace it. Summer is such a fleeting blink-of-an-eye season in these parts, it would be downright silly to try to wish it away. Plus I believe one can complain about either the cold or the heat, but not both. I choose to complain about the cold.

That said, there is nothing, nothing like a bike ride or Westy ride down to Ocean Beach, 2 miles away, on a hot sultry summer afternoon and a dive right into the water. Ahhhhh. Then there is nothing like sitting on a beach chair and opening the cooler to see what it brings. Beers? Chardonnay? Vodka and ruby-red-grapefruit?

Ahhhhhhh.

Beth:
I love the photo, Ellie! And I agree with you, who the hell wants to beat the heat? Not me, well very rarely anyway. (So why did I pose the question? A lack of imagination, that's why!) It has not yet even begun to get too hot in these parts. In fact this morning is gray and cool.

But I love summer. I can't wait for it to heat up. My very favorite thing about summer is when it's so warm that you can stay outside in your tank top at night. Sadly, that's only about a week or two around here, but I eagerly anticipate it every year.

If it does somehow get too hot to handle, I too, love to go to the beach, Ocean Beach (west), or otherwise. That ocean breeze takes the temp down at least 10 degrees, although I'm such a wimp that actually going into the ocean is reserved for child rescues and bladder emergencies.

And a cooler of cold, cold beers always helps (most everything, really). And if all else fails, I can sneak away into the evil air conditioning of my bedroom, which my husband insists on having, and which I relentlessly bitch about, except, of course, if I'm too hot. And I am hot.

Jacquie:

As Beth said, it really hasn't gotten hot yet around here. These are the days that give San Diego its reputation for having the perfect climate, it's lovely and sunny and comfortably warm. I do not like those fleeting weeks Beth speaks of, those too hot to sleep (if your room is not air conditioned) nights. I like this. By the time my kids do get out of school, it will be time to beat the heat. I live by the fans, either on the ceiling or pointing at my face. I firmly believe that hydration keeps me cool, so I like to have plenty of cold beer on hand. And I keep as much of my body submerged as possible, we spend most summer days in the water either at the beach or a pool. It's mostly about the beer, though.

Ellie again:
Beer? Did somebody say something about a cooler of beer? Here you go, girls. Have one on me.

Hobnobbing

Mistah and I spend a lot of time at the beach and on our deck and, well, at the Tavern. But that does not mean we don't get our glad rags out every once in a while and hit a fancy party.

Yesterday was one of those times.

We were at the beautiful Branford House at beautiful Avery Point in, well, beautiful Groton.

It was a stunning afternoon and look who was with us, out there in the river.

That's right, ol' Ledgie. Ledgie likes a fancy party now and then, too.

There was a giant thunderstorm earlier in the day, and the crazy dark clouds never quite left . . .

. . . which made for lovely photo-ops.

See? Lovely.

I maybe shouldn't have stayed out quite so late the night before . . .

The food was fabulous -- my personal favorites were the rare rare tenderloin station and the smoked salmon -- and the bartenders at the open bars poured with a heavy hand. My father-in-law would have approved; he used to say "I make every drink as if I were going to drink it myself."

Mistah spent most of the party like this. He's a working man, you know.

But if you've got to be a working man, The Bran's a pretty nice place to ply your trade.

I mean, look at this place.

Here's me again.

And here's Bill again.

And look! Here's me again. With the moon rising behind me.

It was a beautiful big fat moon, and a stunning evening.

I'm starting to like crossing that bridge.

I am awesome.

You know the glance you get when someone is clearly checking you out? When I was hotter younger, I generally took it as a compliment when someone’s eyes cast up and down my bod, even in the middle of a conversation. I’d tell myself: “I must look great, s/he can’t even help looking me over!”

It’s different now. Just a few minutes ago, I was having a perfectly normal conversation with another adult in my workplace when she clearly checked me out. Now perhaps in a different setting I might wonder if she was checking her gay-dar to see which team I played for; and I’d take it as a compliment. But this was work, and this person is clearly not interested in me that way (not that there’s anything wrong with that).

I had a total nervous breakdown, deep down inside where it counts. Is my stomach sticking out, is she wondering if I’m pregnant? God, why did I eat that second enchilada? Is my shirt riding low and revealing my scar? Did I shave my legs? Is my fly unzipped? Are these shoes too young for me?

The upward glance is just as bad – my roots must look awful, did I forget to pluck something? Is she is wondering why I've worn a ponytail for the last 5 days in a row? She can tell that my hair is a greasy mess, or she can see my dandruff.

It occurs to me how significant it is that I no longer assume that I’m hot when someone checks me out! That is such bullshit. I’m in the best shape of my life, and while my hair could always use a little work, it’s mostly presentable.

I am going to start doing daily affirmations to reverse this disturbing phenomenon. I am totally meeting the gaze of my own eyes in the reflection of my monitor right now, and I’m saying this out loud. Ignore the snickering of my family. They have low self esteem. Not me:

I am hot!

The sit ups are working!

My hair looks fabulous!

I don’t need a boob job!

Those laugh lines give my face character!

My breath smells great!

I am awesome!

There. Now go knock ‘em dead.

Recipe for disaster

This sign has been causing some consternation. At least it has been causing me some consternation. Does it worry you too? I'm not sure exactly when the "tsunami evacuation route" signs went up, but they now line Sea World Drive, a thoroughfare that is quite close, but yet east, of my home.

I'm pretty sure people are going to instinctually head east, away from the giant walls of water, but what do I know. Maybe we need signs.

More upsetting than the pretty blue signs advertising tidal waves, is the new design of our street.
.
Last week, literally overnight, our street when from its normal, flat driving surface to this:


There was an earthquake last Tuesday night. Not a big one, I didn't even feel it while in the shower, actually, but my husband and many of the neighbors did, and headed outside to gab about it, as folks are known to do.

By the next day, we've got this going on:


Can you say holy shit?

That same week we get the bill from these guys:

Can you say good timing??

Jelly Roll Revisited

It's been weeks since we've checked in on young Jelly Roll. Actually, it's been weeks since young Jelly Roll visited us. But all that changed yesterday . . .

We had a lovely afternoon on our deck. Margies (the drink not the person), salsa and guacamole and chips, pizza and salad and wine. And ol' Jelly Roll was the star of the show, as usual. Plus he's an equal opportunity baby -- he does not play favorites -- well he's kind of partial to his mom, but he loves when anyone holds him. Mostly, the kid's a little bundle of love.

Let's take a look shall we?

Jelly Roll's gotten so big he's practically a teenager. We made him promise to come back and visit us again soon, and to bring his peeps with him. And we've got the tequila next time.