me and you and ellie

Go outside and get the stink blowed off ya

2012-01-27T06:00:00.000-08:00

Alternate title:
Dear Universe,
Please stop coughing on me.
Love,
Jacquie

I posted something on facebook last week about being sick of sick people. And I meant it. But then karma descended swiftly in the form of a cough emanating from the depths of a certain very cute girl of mine. This cough of hers was relentless, the kind of cough that transcends the distinction between loving mother and evil shrew at breakneck speed: arck arck arck arck arck arck "poor baby".......arck arck arck arck...........is there anything I can get you to make that stop?.......arck arck arck arck arck arck arckarckarck.............."oh my god shut UP"

She missed two days of school, which is like missing two years if you are my girl, just think of all the ~~learning~~ socializing that went on without her! It was nice to be home with her, she's kind of awesome, and it's a rare treat to just sit together without rushing anywhere. I accomplished some tasks around the house that are too boring for your standard weekend list, and she coughed and she coughed and she coughed and then she coughed.

The first day was rainy and bleak, a perfect sick day. The second day was, in a word, stunning. We don't question the weather gods here in San Diego, because doing so will promise torrential downpours upon all your visitors. But still, 80 degrees in January? That's spectacular. We must have done something really good to deserve this. So by the end half of the second day, we were done with the inside view of this pacaloo stand.

We picked up our boy after school, and then we went out into the D. A. Y. Just a few westward miles and parked on the end of the street here:

Recognize this spot from up high?

There's a bench right here. I dare you to find a better bench than this.

The bench sits atop a big set of steps, the steps take you right down to our beloved secret beach

See our little friendly pier over there? love.

The stairs take you to the cliffs, you're on your own getting to the sand

uncertain

Certain

When I told someone at work that I had the kids down at the beach for some fresh air, she told me that her mother would say "Go outside and get the stink blowed off ya!"

requisite mangy dog interlude

Here my boy is shoring up and fluffing the sand for a softer landing surface. He found the work tedious.

If only he had a slave.

Arck arck arck arck arck. Nothing to see here, folks!

You totally can't tell that I missed the shot and made them reenact it, right?

The slave found her own jumping place. She kept jumping into the same set of her own footprints.

No it is NOT your turn, slavedriver!

I'll just block your access....

Oh, dear.

Thanks for not giving me any brothers, mom.

It was a nice interlude. We're so fortunate to have this utopia right around the corner. The sun and the ocean are nothing but good for you, no matter how puny you feel on a beautiful Wednesday in January.

Feel better, baby girl.

BAM!

2012-01-26T09:32:00.000-08:00

When I was replaying the moment of impact in my mind Tuesday night, this is what came to mind.

Those good old fashion Batman sound effects, with big letters and bright colors. And, of course, exclamation points!

Accidents are weird, and scary, and so very disorienting. I have always dreaded the thought of an on-highway accident. With everyone going 60-plus miles an hour, no collision is going to be good. I gotta say, I got lucky.

Yeah, I know, how lucky is a car accident? Well, if this crosses the southern California highway accident off my life's list, lucky indeed.

I was only hit by one car, not several, and the car was tiny (even if it was careening into me at high speed), no one else was in the car with me, and the impact was on the passenger side. All fortuitous events.

In my peripheral vision, I caught the sports car coming straight at me, across the lanes, perpen-fucking-dicular. "Holy shit" went through my mind as I kept driving, pulling my car to the left, into the next lane, to try to avoid the collision, but it was impossible; the small car's backside flipped around and caught most of its passenger side against the front passenger side of my car.

It all happened so fast, yet there were a few seconds there that slowed down, simultaneously. I know that doesn't make sense, but that's how it felt. A second or two telescoping down into just a few thoughts, "We're going to crash." "This could be it." "Hold on." "Oh shit, what about Cappi?" and it was over. I found myself coming to a slow stop in the second lane of the highway, frantically checking my rear-view mirror to see who was going to now rear-end me.

But no one did, instead the cars that had screeched to a stop to avoid the accident started to find their way around my wrecked car, and the big black man who had pulled his giant SUV over to the shoulder to see if everyone was okay, gave me the thumbs up with a question in his eyes. "Are you alright?" they seemed to ask. He then smiled when I respond back with my own raised thumb, that yes, yes, I'm okay.

I am really not hurt at all. I am totally shaking, but I am not bleeding, there is no broken glass, there are no broken bones.

I am fucking okay!

I am so incredibly happy. I am alive and fine. Confused but fine.

The dude in the sports car seems okay too.

He walks over; he is visibly shaken, and there is some blood on his hand, but he too is so relieved, and relieved for me as well. He puts his hand on my shoulder, a kind-of fatherly gesture. The first words out of his mouth are "I'm so sorry. It was totally my fault. I lost control of my car."

Well, yeah, that much I know, but thank god the guy isn't going to try to flip this around or be a dick about it, or not admit guilt at the scene of the accident, which everyone tells you NOT to do. But of course, it was, it was his fault. He was sideways on the freeway, that's generally considered a no-no, and rarely goes unnoticed.

I figured he had already called 911, but asked just to make sure. "Um, no, no, I haven't." He is really more in shock than me (which on some level seems impossible), but does make sense, seeing as his last 5 minutes were more dramatic than mine. His car is completely bashed in and facing the wrong way on the freeway. His front bumper headed straight into traffic, which is steadily making its way around us by now.

So, okay, I need to make the call. Damn, it's hard to press even the large keypad buttons of the iphone while shaking like this. I succeed and am told there are already CHP on the way. I then very shakily call my husband too. He doesn't answer. I leave a message. I was on my way home from work, on my way to get my toddler from preschool. He needs to pick her up!

By now I can see a highway patrol car trying to make its way down the median by the center divide.

He arrives. And knows what to do. It's such a relief that me and this stunned man next to me are no longer in charge.

He sets up cones, his lights are flashing, we've got the left two lanes closed down. He asks if I can move my car; and although it does still start, there is no moving the car with the front right tire bent at that angle. He tells us to get our licenses, registration, AAA cards, insurance cards, etc.

Two more CHP officers arrive. We've now got three cop cars with lights a-flashing. I'm feeling a lot safer cruising around the freeway lanes with them there. (As an aside, it is very strange to be walking around the fast lanes of the freeway while traffic whizzes by at 65 miles an hour. Especially when they're all craning their necks to see what's going on.)

One of the officers, a woman, takes my statement and sort-of becomes my accident mentor. She has me breath, re-tell my story, verifies that she understands it correctly. She explains more than twice that the fast lane is lane 1 in these types of situations, and the slow lane is lane 5. (I fuck this up a lot in my statement apparently.) She explains I'll need to retell the story to my insurance company probably a few times. She coaches me a bit. Slowly explains what will happen to my car. What will likely happen after that.

I try my husband again. Still his voice mail. I text him. Nothing.

A tow truck arrives. It drags the sports car into the fast lane, closer up to my car. We wait on the other tow truck.

My CHP mentor takes me aside and gives me some advice. "You're going to be sore. There is no way around it. That sort of impact will make you sore. Here's what I suggest. You go home. You take an Aleve. You get in a hot tub. You drink a big glass of wine."

I really like her.

I text and call my husband again. Nothing.

She offers to drive me home.

Really? It seems kind-of weird. But the tow truck is still not there, and I need to get my child from school.

"Wow, that would be great." She tells me to grab what I need from the car, so I do. My car is full of stuff. I look around and settle on grabbing the fruit I bought at lunch and my yoga mat. I already have my purse.

So there I am, with my purse, groceries and yoga mat, getting into the front seat of the CHP car. Just leaving my car sitting in lane 2 of Highway 8 westbound.

It feels wrong and strange. But I have the number of the tow yard and my purse (and my completely intact body!), what more do I really need?

Let's go officer #16728. (I never did get her name.)

I climb into the front seat of the cop car and direct her to my house. She actually asks if I mind if we break the law a bit, speeding on the highway. How corny, I know. But it provides levity.

We're soon at my house, I climb out of the car with my stuff, happy to be alive and anxious to get my daughter...

To be continued.........

Warm and Sleeveless and Fancy

2012-01-25T05:00:00.000-08:00

Okay, okay. Maybe I've got a touch of the Winter Doldrums . . .

After a fierce snowstorm on Saturday, it was as warm as spring around here yesterday, it stayed light until after 5:00, and, well, the ol' Spring Fever Juices started flowing.

But then I remembered it's only January.

So I went to the Dutch Tavern.

Wait a minute, that's not me; that's my niece and nephew. In the summer.

Oh, there I am, with said niece. I like to hug her face when I hug her.

I came across these photos the other day, and was so struck by the summerness of them. Like, we knew we were in summer, we loved summer, we were happy it was summer, but we weren't jumping up and down for joy because it was summer, which seems odd to me because that's what I'd be doing if it were summer today.

I love the sun streaming in the window, shining on everyone's oddly-tilted heads.

Our little friend here was about to undergo some fabulous
head-fancifying.

And my nephew has grown a pint of Bass for a face.

Jacquie and her boy dropped the girl off with Jennie, and explored New London with Uncle Mistah Schleckah.

Downtown New London never looks better than it does from under the Whale Tail, don't you think?

Plus everyone's so warm.

Warm, and Fancified! But this isn't about the girl's hair, this is about her sleveelessness, and my sleevelessness, and everybody's sleevelessness, and how in summer you don't even think about sleeves.

Warm and sleeveless and fancy. Does it get any better than that? No, it does not.

Well, warm and sleeveless and fancy and at the Tavern.

C'mon in!

fightin words

2012-01-24T05:00:00.000-08:00

Despite recent evidence that might suggest otherwise, I've never been punched in the face.

I've never punched anyone, either, in the face or any other body part. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever really even seen a bona fide fistfight in person. That might not be true, though. I have a lot of fuzzy memories from college and NFL games. But I can't bring an eyewitness account to mind, so it seems like I've never seen a punch up close.

You should see me kick my own ass in the mirror at the gym, though. It's one thing to jump and punch along to Kei$sha in my beloved Turbo Kickboxing classes, but my favorite is the street fighting smackdown we get to simulate in the Muay Thai section of Body Combat. Badass. And 164 jabs? I die of glee. I was recently threatened by someone who wanted to fight, and this person (who shall remain nameless but let's just say that we have the same parents) even warned me that she owned boxing gloves. My response? "bring it on"

What's this about, this affinity for pretend punching stuff? I often wonder what I'd really do in a fight, or if I had cause to defend myself physically. I watched a news story this morning about a woman who'd been relentlessly beaten for years by her husband, and I felt awful that this type of story has enough precedent to not even seem overly shocking to me. She eventually killed him. Her kids testified on her behalf, but she's on trial for continuing to shoot him after he was down for the count. Larger issues aside, it got me thinking about how that woman got punched in the face. A lot. My new found understanding of the sensation of blunt force impact to the nose face made the realization that much more visceral. That shit hurts! I can't imagine that it's as easy as it seems in the movies to just shake off a punch and carry on.

So why is it so fun to play fight?

Huskaroo

2012-01-23T10:19:00.000-08:00

I may be a little neurotic, it's true. I think too much about too many things, worry when I really sometimes shouldn't, and at times have to work hard to let things go.

I'm finding myself striving for detachment more and more in my life. And I'm getting better at it. But.

But, I still obsess about certain things at certain times.

Right now I'm concerned about my middle daughter's weight. I don't want to be concerned about my middle daughter's weight. I want to blow it off. She is a big girl, she has always been big. Sometimes she bulks out before she sprouts up. But.

But, I find myself monitoring what she is eating. I find myself really analyzing how her clothes or fitting her, or not.

I have to contain myself when she skips happily around the house in her leotard before gymnastics, her full butt cheeks peeking out from the bottom seams, her strong thighs much stouter than seems normal to me.

Is she fat, or just growing? Is she but another childhood obesity statistic, or is this simply her body type?

Is it just her body type?

This is her at birth. I'm not sure if you can read that scale, but it's displaying 46.70; convert that into pounds and you're looking at a 10 lb 3 oz baby. That was my youngest daughter's weight at 7 weeks.

She came out big, and has remained big. She has consistently stayed in the 95 percentile for both height and weight. It's good to be proportional, but are those percentiles too forgiving?

I try to feed my kids healthy food, I do, but I'm a lazy cook. I long to present only home-cooked organic-based meals, but that is the exception to the rule. More often dinner is quickly thrown together. You know, edamame, sliced apples, and a bagel. Or eggs and toast, or quesadillas and carrots. You get the picture. Not junk food, but not optimal meals either. Could this be it?

Or maybe she needs more exercise? But she runs in the mornings before school, takes both a yoga class and a gymnastics class weekly, and loves to play outside with the neighbors.

She spent the entire 2.5 hours of yesterday's outing to a local pool swimming with her older sister and Jacquie's girl. They were blue-lipped and wrinkled when we finally forced them out.

So why am I so worried? Am I worried about diabetes? Or about her getting hassled at school? Am I simply too caught up in the whole body image game? Am I being overly critical? Or maybe it is that her build is so different than mine. Am I freaked out because I've never had a round bottom like hers, or those meaty thighs, or those small feet with short toes? Do I worry she's a huskaroo only because she seems foreign to me?

It's an interesting question, one I need to think on. Thankfully, the bottom line is she's a happy, healthy, and beautiful child. And none of my internal strife can touch that.

Weekend 3-way: the dukes of hazard

2012-01-21T11:00:00.000-08:00

The occupational hazards of cooking.

The leisurely hazards of Sea World

The hazards of poor dental hygiene

What Doldrums?

2012-01-20T05:00:00.000-08:00

When Jacquie commented on the Big Fun we had at Mr. Dibble's house on New Year's Day, she said,

I think this might be the first ever Ellie post that is entirely 100% indoors.. not even a window to the outside! Winter is weird.

Jacquie momentarily forgot the two other posts about that day -- when we spent all afternoon outside on the beach, and then when we spent all evening outside around the fire looking like hellraisers.

(Jacquie did write further: "Okay wait, I take it back. There's a kitchen window.. and either a window or a glass front cabinet behind the couch. Incidentally, when I enlarged the busy snacking photo to check for windows, I couldn't help but notice that the guy next to you appears to be sleeping. Or dead*.")

*[he wasn't.]

But you know what? Jacquie's right: Winter is weird.

Last week when I was at the pool a woman was innocuously asked by another, "How are you?" "Eh," she replied. "January's not my favorite month."

"Not your favorite month?!" I thought, "So you just live through an entire month of your life answering 'Eh'"?!

I mean really. That is a terrible attitude.

I know January's not the best month; I know that. I know winter's not the best season; I know that too. It's the worst season. It's weird for the love of pete.

But still. At the moment? It's all we got.

Plus, look at all the *fun* one can have in one small winter month:

New wine glasses*! (Also from Homebound Treasures, Beth.)

*[Okay, so I agree everyone would be a lot more happy if they were full, not empty.]

Sun! And open kitchen doors! In January!*

*[Okay, that was a few weeks ago, when we had a warm day. But still, it was January.]

Kale, white bean and leek soup! French Onion Soup is not the only game in town 'round these parts.*

*[It may not be the only soup in town, but it's the best soup in town.]

A breakfast visit from one of my oldest* friends and her two spectacular daughters!

*[Noelle's not old; it's our 38-year-old friendship that's old.]

But do you know what one of the very best things about January is?

It's not my birthday!

Which apparently makes no difference at all. Because I've received not one . . .

I *love* them, Jennie.

. . . but two . . .

I *love* it, Julie.

. . . birthday gifts this January.

What Winter Doldrums?

schnoz

2012-01-19T05:00:00.000-08:00

“Come and see the cruise ship!” Mom called from the lanai.

I had my coffee in one hand and my phone in the other, I was about to call and book a whale watching cruise for later that day. It was the day after Christmas, and glancing out to where mom stood I could see that it was a lovely morning.

The kids were still sacked out on their respective bits of the sectional sofa, they’d opted to each take over a length of the L rather than pull out the lumpy sofa bed. One of my children suffers from a touch of the prince ss and the pea syndrome, and whenever we sleep away from home there is bound to be a great deal of attention paid to the procurement of an acceptable sleeping chamber for the young royal. This arrangement was working out great; there were plenty of linens and pillows in the condo that we used to transform the sofa into their beds each night. In the morning, they both folded up their bedding and stowed it inside the handy storage ottoman. The only problem with getting a good night’s sleep was that the ocean was too loud.

I know.

It was reported that the ocean outside of our 4^th floor unit, the ocean that we had so carefully chosen this very location in order to be near, did not sound like relaxing waves, it sounded like a tsunami crashing. How is a kid expected to sleep with a relentless tsunami crashing outside?! Our solution was to turn on the ceiling fan at night, and close the sliding glass door that occupied the entire leeward side of the joint.

I glanced at the still lounging children as I made my way toward mom to look at the cruise ship. It only took a few seconds to cross the room, I’m a fast walker and I wanted to hurry up and make that call. I said: “What a beautiful da……”

Mom says she can still hear the sound of my face making contact with the tempered glass.

It was so surprising to be stopped like that! The door was invisible. I didn’t pause or break stride as I stepped through the threshold, and the momentum of my thwarted trajectory was taken directly by my nose. I didn’t drop anything, I gasped and turned and walked back to the table and set down my coffee, cupping my hand over my face to… I don’t know… make sure it was still there? Stop the blood that wasn’t flowing? Oh, it hurt.

I went into the bathroom and had a look. At first glance, nothing was amiss. But oh, it hurt.

Upon closer inspection, there appeared to be a bit of a divot missing from the top of my nose. I watched as it quickly filled with blood. Shit.

It really hurt.

Mom got me an ice pack, Bill and the kids circled cautiously. At one point I said to my girl: “I know you’re worried, but please stop asking if I’m okay.” A mom can’t really answer NO to that question, a child asks it seeking reassurance. And I was okay, I was stomping around swearing and crying, it was just like any other Monday morning. But oh, it hurt.

And I was so pissed! I was halfway through the vacation we’d all been dreaming about for so long, we had just rented snorkel gear for the week. I was in the sun and water at all hours of day and night. How was I going to manage with a busted up nose? The thing about icing the bridge of your nose is that you can’t really do anything else, and the mind tends to wallow. So I did that for a while. I wallowed in the pit of despair. When that got boring, I started to think about the possibility that I’d get a black eye or two from smashing my nose that hard – then my thoughts naturally turned to Marcia Brady

I hadn’t cut it on anything, the divot was from a bone meets glass interaction. When I mentioned that to mom she said that would mean that my nose had bent to the side. We looked at the offending door and there it was, a perfectly placed smudge of my bent sideways schnoz.

Every morning after that, I would wake up and take a photo of my face while still lying in bed, and then look to assess the damage. I thought I would post those photos here, but then I looked at them. I'd rather have you think of me as the flawless beauty that you know and love. I got off easier than poor Marcia, she really looked like hell out on that dreamy date.

And the baseball cap that my kids got me for Christmas came in quite handy for shielding my schnoz from the sun and camoflaging my monstrosity.

my husband looks like a lunatic here, which is the main reason I chose to use this photo

Oh, my nose. It still hurts.

Fancy pants

2012-01-18T04:00:00.000-08:00

I got the word(s) last Thursday: "She's ready."

Really? Are you sure? I'm bit skeptical, but hey, she actually spends more time at preschool than she does at home, so, okay, we try it your way.

I informed the girl. She was in.

Saturday morning arrived, we were ready.

Bring it on.

I think.

Hello, Target!

Uh oh, slim pickins.

But it's really only between these two, anyway.

Well, maybe there are a few other contenders...

No, I think we're good.

I think I'm going Princess

Yep, the winner is Disney (of course).

Yep, happy with my choice.

Thank you, thank you.

I AM two, you know.

A quick show to my dad before the moment of truth...

Oh dear!

There we go.

Uh huh, baby, I got this.

I got this princess fancy pants shit x 7, yo.

Frenchie Onion Soup Bliss

2012-01-17T05:00:00.000-08:00

Last week Mistah and I were at the grocery store and I noticed a sale on onions: buy one 3-pound bag, get one free. I love onions as much as the next person -- I start most meals with a glass of chardonnay, a head of garlic, an onion, and NPR -- but does anybody need *that* many onions? Still, they were free. And I love free. "Sigh," I said, "if only Dad were around to make us French Onion Soup."

My Dad became a cook after he recovered from kidney transplant surgery. He spent many of those convalescing days in front of the tv, and was drawn to the cooking shows; he became Rachael Ray's biggest fan. She ate at the end of every episode! The food she had cooked during the show! Dad was smitten. (MB said to me then, "I watch cooking shows. But that doesn't mean I cook!") And one of Dad's specialties? French Onion Soup.

But none of this was helping me with my six pounds of onions. Because French Onion Soup is an ethereal thing that Dad made, and Dad was no longer here to make it, and I was bereft.

Still, I bought the onions.

I shared my onion travails with my family, and Mom -- bless her heart -- emailed me Rachael Ray's recipe.

An Ah-Ha moment! *I* could make French Onion Soup!

The ensuing email discourse:

Ellie: Yum! Thanks Mom. Going to have to buy sherry, which is an idea that delights me. Thanks!

MB: Awesome. I don't think I've ever bought sherry. On Frasier the brothers used to sip it out of those cute little stem glasses...

Mom: I have some cute little stem glasses, and some authentic onion soup bowls....

Me: I know you do, Mom. I'm making up an image of Dad sipping dry sherry from a cute little stem glass whilst making French Onion Soup in those awesome crocks........

Mom: um, I think dad would be sipping vodka, but I do have sherry in the fridge....

Me: I know, but I *made up* that image because I think it's awesome. Plus, he would think it really funny.

Which is all fine and good, and entertaining and heart-warming, that this is actually what Mom and my sisters and I email about every day, but still, I had bigger fish to fry: I had no soup crocks of my own.

But then? Look what I saw sitting in the window of the Homeward Bound Treasures, right in downtown New London, two bucks each:

Pretty rocking, right?

Bring it on, baby. I had the onions, I had the sherry, I had the crocks; I was ready.

A couple of years ago, Jacques Pépin came to New London during Sailfest, and did a cooking show/demonstration. Outside, under a tent.

And the very first thing he did, before he so much as crushed a garlic head, was pour himself a glass of cold white wine, in front of the audience.

Who am I to argue with such sound cooking technique?

I love you, Jacques Pépin.

Okay, getchyaselves some onions*.

(*preferably, the "buy one 3-pound bag, get one free" kind.)

And chop them.

Chop a lot of them.

Oh dear. Those are some pungent free onions.

Stir . . .

. . . whilst pretending to drink sherry. In a tiny, stemmed glass Dad would be proud of. Or at least Frasier would.

Okay, then really put the sherry in. This was a breakthrough. I am always going to cook with sherry from now on. It's so fun!

Beef stock? In.

Yum.

You see this surface of the Vulcan we use for extraneous things, plus as extra counter space? Well, look at it now:

Cleared off because we are torching up the broilers, baby . . .

Whoo Hoo! It's like the Fourth of July under there.

And over there, on the other side of the Vulcan:

In . . .

. . . she . . .

. . . goes!

Are you enjoying this as much as I am?

Because I am *loving* this.

Okay! Next! Toasted baguette.

Really, I'm having such fun.

Next! Swiss cheese. Rachael Ray told me to put shredded swiss (or gruyere) cheese on top, but I'm going the good old-fashioned, cheese-dripping-down-the-sides-of-the-crocks route . . .

Two slices each.

And then -- you guessed it -- innnnnn........

......they go!

I've bragged about our Vulcan ad nauseaum. Two ovens? Six burners? I know: blah blah blah. But this night? It was better than ever. Because it's just so pretty in there!

And out they came! Annnnnnnd . . . Mistah told me they needed more cheese . . .

. . . so more cheese they got . . .

. . . and back in they went. Lucky them: it's like a 1970s disco in there.

Done! And Hot.

And Bliss.

Double hot molton lava bubbly Bliss. With a little homegrown oregano sprinkled on top:

And how was it, you ask?

Oh, Dad. It was good.

Hawaii Hodegepodge

2012-01-16T05:00:00.000-08:00

You've gotta love a long weekend in January. There's only so much of the indignity of work after whatever loveliness the holidays have offered each of us. This year was admittedly extra lovely for me and mine, and the return to our co-called real life has brought a relentless barrage of illness, mess, and disrepair.

I miss Hawaii, and I'm sick and pale beneath what lingers of my tan, so let's get our Uncle Merv on and take a look at some of my vacation photos!

Shall we?

Lahaina harbor

To celebrate mom's second night on Maui, we splurged on a beautiful luau. It was a gorgeous night and the scene was so idyllic, it was impossible not to pose for endless photos.

I could do a whole post on the ways I ruined otherwise perfect photos. It's a gift.

The kids haggled for hand carved weaponry of some sort

The show was beautiful, and the occasional rain made it feel all the more tropical. Of course we had beach towels in the car, so we stayed warm and dry.

White boy with wahine

Brownish girl with kane

Some of my favorite moments on the trip were completely random, yet utterly unforgettable. On Christmas Eve, my girl and I walked down the beach for a gander at the neighborhood. Suddenly, the sky opened up, and we were close to a resort that was two hotels down from our condo, so we ducked inside.

It was such a completely awesome find, this bar! I tried to call my boy, my man, and my mom but no one picked up their cell phones. So I did the next best thing and called Ellie!

Another great moment:

Christmas dinner!

I think my favorite beach day would have to be our day at Kapalua bay

There were so many beach days to enjoy, I loved them all. On one of our last days, we returned to Kaanapali and took advantage of the opportunity to dork out

There were trade winds most afternoons this trip, and they would whip up pretty fiercely in the afternoon. One day after lunch, Bill and I both dozed on the beach. We woke up looking like shake-n-bake cutlets

There was no shortage of great spots for afternoon power naps. Everyone needs a little rest after a long hard day at the beach, especially when happy hour started at 10:00am!

hammock=happy place

This is the view from the hammock. I had my eye on that slanted palm tree

And this is the view from that slanted palm tree, where I enjoyed more than one opportunity to ogle the sunset

The only sunset that didn't fill me with joy was this one, our last day. Their last swim.

Mahalo, Maui. Uncle Merv misses you.

Weekend 3-way: up, out and over

2012-01-14T11:00:00.000-08:00

I crack myself up!

I put myself in disco time out

I'm over the moon.

Fiction Friday: what dreams are made of

2012-01-13T09:59:00.000-08:00

Genevieve silently slipped into the chair next to Ferdinand. She wasn’t so late that she would be reprimanded, but she detested being late at all, and even more so hated to be the focus of attention.

Her playing was mediocre within this group, which thankfully saved her from both great praise and rebuke. Among some circles she would be considered quite accomplished, but among these peers, these sons and daughters of the aristocracy, she was but adequate. No matter -- she didn’t have hopes of becoming a concert pianist, though she knew that some of her classmates did. It was unlikely at best, even among the best of the boys, but childhood dreams are like that.

Her dreams, in fact, were so outlandish that she could not utter them to anyone, not even her servant-maid, who had been with her for as long as she could remember. For if she did, and it ever got out, she would not only be the laughing stock of the community, but also likely treated with laudanum for hysteria, perhaps even sent away to a sanatorium for a spell.

Keeping her desires secret was hard, although she did find some release in the fictional essays she was required to write for Mr. Temple, her teacher of letters, whom she was lucky to have. Her father, unlike most, saw no harm in her learning the basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic in addition to her sewing, piano, and singing. Mr. Temple found her writings “humorous” and “imaginative.” One comment scribbled hastily the top of her paper even read “delightfully preposterous,” which, she decided in an attempt to console herself, was at least better than calling it deranged.

Not On A Stick

2012-01-12T05:00:00.000-08:00

Our New Year's Day groaning board may not have featured foodstuff on a stick -- sigh, unfortunately -- but we did have not only one:

but two . . .

. . . cool and awesome retro gas stoves . . .

. . . oh, that Mr. Dibble.

He and his lovely innamorata Elizabeth hosted all the crazy freaks who swam at Watch Hill on New Year's Day, as well as those of us who kept our cool heads, and drank champagne on the beach instead.

And we had ourselves a Lovely Time.

Mistah Schleckah sometimes forgets women of a certain droopy-eyed age -- like me -- like far-aways*. Our young girl Jennie, though? Gorge.

*as opposed to close-ups. I just invented that. Awesome, right?

We were lucky enough to have the blue-eyed brigade with us that day.

And we had Mr. Dibble's adorable niece . . .

. . . and adorable nephew kicking some butt on the bowling machine.

The so-called adults, in the meantime, were *very* busy snacking and drinking . . .

. . . and applauding ourselves. Yay us!

. . . while the wee folk just kept on bowling . . .

Strike!

Spare!

Gutter Ball!

It was *such* a lovely day, and we're so thankful we keep getting invited back, despite our behavior.

Merry New Year!

mervus interruptus

2012-01-11T05:00:00.000-08:00

We interrupt Uncle Merv's relentless blathering for a little festivus of the New Year's variety!

We arrived home on the morning of Dec 30 after a night of travel that included a missed flight, an airport sprint at 4am, and missing luggage. We were happy(ish) to be home, and just a little weary. We were beyond thrilled that our bestestest neighbors and friends were hosting a family friendly New Year's Eve celebration that we could walk on over to join. It was a great group of friends and families, and we wouldn't have dreamt of any better way to ring in the new year. The invitation was simple and straightforward: bring whatever you like, and put it on a stick.

A fun and festive table was set, and as each of us arrived, we added our impaled foods to the smorgasbord.

I made the mozzarella/kalamata/artichoke numbers.. skewered ON thyme springs, mind you! Becky's righteous caprese sticks are over there on the top left.

Candace and Hector made pizza on a stick!

Those were goooood.

Salad on a stick!

It wasn't all about sticks and food, though. It was, after all, New Year's Eve! And we were thirsty. The fab five of us had gotten together just a few weeks prior, if you recall, for a night of dangerously delicious cocktails, and a couple of us contributed a variation of those new faves for this auspicious occasion.

My contribution was a faux La Pinta, wherein the part of fancy infused pomegranate tequila was played by Puerto Vallarta Blanco with some pom juice dumped in, shaken with ice and lime then poured into a glass of champagne. Result: y.u.m.

Desiree was much more ambitious - she undertook none other than the cotton candy cuban!

The artist formerly known as "raw sugar fairy floss"

Here's Desi daintily filling glasses with cotton candy without sharing any with our chagrined children

Photo bomb.

Watch the magic as she pours a bucket of booze on top!

I love science.

Meanwhile, back at the sticks

There were things wrapped in bacon, green beans and tofu... each one of us brought enough to feed an army. My NY strip kabobs didn't even hit the grill until 2012.

Tanja made thai chicken satay that was insultingly delicious, and Desiree's honey mustard chicken was to die for. There are my sausage/shrimp in spicy cilantro glaze on the left.

Corn dogs have sticks!

It was such a fun party, complete with maniacal toddler dances

an obligatory show

And bodacious babes everywhere you looked!

My friends are so gorgeous!

You know what happens when gorgeous people procreate?

Gorgeous Grrrrrrrlz

At midnight, we rushed outside for our annual pots and pans parade of bashing and kissing

And then we went back for more... more sticks, more dancing, more bodacious babes

But no more 2011.

I don't care how many digits are in the date, I'm still wishing everyone a Happy New Year.

I've got a good feeling about 2012.

xoxo

To infinity and beyond

2012-01-10T08:33:00.000-08:00

I promise this is the last Cabo post. I promise. But I really did like the hotel where we stayed.

This sliver of a vista opened up about 4 rooms before ours, and made me smile everytime I walked by.

This was the veiw while waiting for our elevator. Not bad either.

This is a shot from our balcony of the roof of one of the casitas, which we did not have the pleasure of staying in, although a friend of ours did, so we had access anyway.

Morning walk vista

No, that is not our second home. Sigh.

I have to say, though, as beautiful as the coastline was, my happy place was the pool -- seemingly infinite, no?

In the pool with a michelada, does it get any better?

Ah, yes, it actually does, fresh ceviche delivered poolside. Muchas Gracias.

Fire, No Ice

2012-01-09T05:00:00.000-08:00

New Year's Day was gorgeous around these parts.

Have I mentioned that?

We had a spectacular day at the beach but can I tell you what? The party afterwards was fabulous. Sublime. Only Mr. Dibble would have the best party of the year on the first day of the year. He's just that annoying. But thankfully he brings his friends along, and they create their own kind of chaos. And Mistah? Well he was there to document the whole shebang:

It wasn't Mexico or Hawaii . . .

. . . and we didn't have our own towel-clad hero to light the mountain torches for us . . .

. . . but we certainly had our own population of worshipers paying tribute to the God of Fire . . .

It's the 9th. Which is *not* too late to say Happy 2012, peeps.

And hey, let those fires burn bright.

Weekend 3-Way: New Year's Day

2012-01-07T11:00:00.000-08:00

Fisherman, Watch Hill, New Year's Day

Hair of the Dog, San Diego, New Year's Day

New suitcase after a taxi to a plane to a bus to a trolly to a taxi, San Diego, New Year's Day

aloha mornings

2012-01-06T05:00:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer: there's so much good stuff to share from Hawaii, when I looked through my 857gillion photos for a few to illustrate the story of our mornings, I couldn't draw the line anywhere! I just kept uploading the images that went along with the running story in my head, which perhaps I can rehash in some manner of cohesion here. Probably not, but hey, it's photos of Hawaii so who really cares? love, Uncle Merv.

We arrived on Maui late in the day, and with no moon to speak of in the sky it was impossible to see what our view would be from the hotel we'd bargained for on priceline. On the flight over, I had reminded the family that we got a great deal, so we couldn't be picky about the room. It might not have two beds, and it was definitely going to be some "garden" view of a dumpster or the back of a building. We were there for the beauty and joy of the resort itself, so there would be no bitching about the room or so help me God, I'LL TURN THIS PLANE AROUND. When we finally got there, the bellman led us at a sprinter's pace through such a labyrinth of breezeways and stairwells that I really had no idea which direction our room was facing. I had an inkling that we were on the right side of the joint, but I assumed that the dumpster or building would obscure our view. Once we got everyone settled in their respective king sized dream bed or pile of linens on the floor (it's good to be king), I woke frequently throughout the night, and eagerly anticipated the light of morning when I could catch the first glimpse of my beautiful Maui.

view from our lanai - honk if you love priceline

Bliss! That first morning was so exciting, we couldn't wait to get out into the day and start getting our aloha on. We hadn't had a proper meal since lunch the day before, so we picked up a breakfast menu, but ultimately decided against the $25 omelets and hit the lobby starbucks instead for various coffees and peppermint frothy things and muffins and such. It was the most I've ever spent at a starbucks, including catering. But I digress!

The kids and I were first to get our suits on and head down to the pool and the beach around 9. We came across one of those "today's activities!" signs and I quickly notified my husband and all of facebook that happy hour was from 10:00-11:00 am at the Mai Tai bar! It was hard to wait, but soooo worth it.

Oh... okay. Yes, I'm still talking about mornings in Hawaii. And yes, I'm still on the first day and the post is already long. Get comfy, grab a mai tai. I'm determined to blah blah blahg until I can explain all of photos I haphazardly uploaded.

We spent two nights at the Sheraton, and it was just like a big happy playground for all of us. The room was great, especially for the kings, but we had plenty of open space for various uses like floor beds and bananagrams.

soundtrack: "Mom, is wr a word? Is ue a word? Is xcdrf a word?"

When we eventually left the hotel, we checked in to the condo that we had rented for the following week and ran right out to the grocery store/beach/bar/I have no idea and suddenly it was time for the ride back across the island to fetch a certain someone from the airport!

As you can see, the children are clearly possessed. Or perhaps that glow is shimmering rage from the unimaginable traffic situation that forced mom to sit at the airport by herself for over an hour waiting for us. (Yet as difficult as that gridlock was to endure, our suffering is nothing compared to the friends and family of whoever was in the awful accident that caused it)

Once again, we drove past those breathtaking cliffside Maui views in complete darkness, and once again we settled in to our new digs without a good look at what our view would be, although the sounds of the night were pretty a good hint. The ocean was so loud that my boy asked me to close the patio door so he could sleep (cue ominous and foreboding music).

Once again, it was kinda awesome.

View from my bed. The girl was an intermittent obstacle.

The only bad thing about our master bedroom was that while it was listed as having a private lanai, as you can clearly see in this next photo, the owners had inexplicably enclosed said lanai for some dumb reason.

I know! Poor me.

But the whole front of the place was chock full of lanai, and this is where we enjoyed our mornings.

Specifically, it went like this: Mom woke up at the crack of dawn's ass and brought her coffee out to the lanai, which ran the length of her bedroom and the living room where the kids slept. There was a soji-like sliding door to separate the spaces, and mom had her own sliding door. The kids' door was closed (dun dun duuuuun) so Mom could whoop it up out there if she so desired. Eventually, people would start to wake up and make their way out to see what was what and start contemplating the day.

The official pastime of a Hawaiian vacation is to spend an hour paging through 54 free magazine/coupon/calendar things (as mom and my girl are doing above) and then casting them all aside in bewilderment and just doing whatever the hell you feel like doing.

That looks nice, let's go there!

Aloha!

So once we'd all gathered on the big lanai, we would look around to see where the sky was bluest, then we'd go there.

Oh yeah, one of our mornings was Christmas!

Oh, Tenenbaum

Hey, it's Christmas morning! That looks nice, let's go there.

There's Mom in her coral colored shirt, the kids are checking out new underwater electronics in the shallow end. The turtle is painted on the bottom of the pool, reportedly in some homage to Kelsey Grammmar? Don't ask me, I wasn't really listening.

Hey, our front yard looks nice! Let's go there.

(confession: I just deleted 3 photos that were really just too ridiculously unrelated to anything even remotely resembling this fraying thread of connectivity)

Most mornings in our little slice of Kahana heaven, some of us would take little walkies down on the beach. It was so unbelievably beautiful, and there were always interesting places, people, and things to explore.

Like a rope swing!

The water. The water! Would you just look at that water?! And it's warm.

Look, a sea turtle popping up to say aloha!

Aloha, honu!

Sea turtles weren't the only majestic aquatic creatures we had a good look at, we went to sea one day and watched humpback whales frolicking with their babies

But wait a minute, wait, wait, wait just a minute.... that was NOT in the morning.

Uncle Merv is just gettin' warmed up....

Lap of luxury

2012-01-05T09:31:00.000-08:00

My husband and I just went on a quick, quite unexpected vacation. Accommodations and food were all paid for, and my mother graciously agreed to watch the kiddos while we got away; all we had to do was get ourselves there and back, which we did, albeit flying in and out of Tijuana for the lower price last-minute tickets.

It was well worth it. I mean,who doesn't enjoy an almost free vacation in sunny Mexico?

Probably someone, people can be funny about Mexico, but I love the place. It's got such amazing coastlines, warm people, great food, blah, blah, blah. It's also got some fine resorts. They may look uninspiring from the road, but once you pull up to that valet, once you've really arrived, they are typically amazing.

Call me unsophisticated if you must, but I just love it when you walk into your hotel suite to find this kind-of swag:

Your very own slippers

and thick, cotton robe.

Nothing but the finest reading material, of course,

as well as the finest in toiletries.

Your papel hygenico is all wrapped up like a present!

Right below the mandatory bathroom phone.

And then there's the glory of the magic cubby

that is silently graced with fresh fruit, pastries, and coffee every morning, before you even open your eyes.

And when you order more fruit to accompany the morning treats, this is how it arrives

Now, I realize that this is all completely unnecessary, but, damn, is it nice!

Splash a la 2012

2012-01-04T05:00:00.000-08:00

In 2009, the New Year's Day Splash at Watch Hill was frigid.

In 2010 it was much warmer, and that merry ol' gang of freaks had themselves a ball. As did we beach-huggers*.

*(hey, somebody's got to stay on the beach, taking photos and popping champagne. I volunteer to do so every year for the rest of eternity.)

In 2011 I really don't know because, clearly, I was terribly hungover.

But in 2012? Oh what a beautiful day. It was downright balmy at Watch Hill, and we had ourselves a Time.

We were late, but so was everyone else. I resolve not to be late in 2013 . . .

This must be the biggest group of swimmers ever. Have there ever been 7,023 swimmers before?

And, as every year . . .

. . . they're off! . . .

. . . and then . . .

. . . they're back!

Katie and Sasha joined the fun this year . . .

. . . as did Theo.

Lynne is always there for the fun.

Constance and Dawnie . . .

. . . Whaler Pride . . .

. . . our own Mr. Dibble . . .

. . . and Mistah with our girl Kimmie. Oh, the fun we have.

Yay, Mistah!

And Yay Kimmie! Here's a family photo to start off this exciting year:

Hey there, Miles.

Oh, the beach is so beautiful . . .

. . . as is my new red jacket . . .

. . . Thanks, Mom!

But wait! After everyone left to find safety in the hot tub and in Mr. Dibble and Elizabeth's notoriously groaning board, Dave showed up . . .

. . . and ran right in the ocean.

And he's off! . . .

. . . Splash! . . .

. . . and he's back!

A few minor details like being an hour-and-a-half late, and showing up at the wrong Rhode Island beach aren't about to stop our Davey . . .

. . . oh, no-siree.

Lynne acted as Towel Girl. Yay Lynne!

Yay Dave!

And as for you, Watch Hill . . .

. . . how we adore you . . .

. . . how we thank you . . .

. . . and as I say every year . . .

. . . we'll see you this summer.

happiest hour

2012-01-03T05:03:00.000-08:00

This is the first photo I took in Hawaii:

Oooohhhh, that water. Warm and clear and sweet. If floating in that water doesn't rejuvenate your soul, nothing will.

And look up, it's black rock! So beautiful in the early morning light over Ka'anapali, where we lived large for the first couple of nights of vacation.

If you need a change of pace from sand and sea, there's always the effervescent blue of the pool.

Where it's happy hour from 10-11 AM at the Mai Tai bar

Fruit! Juice! Breakfast.

Oh, those were lovely days. The thing about Hawaii is that you need a couple of days to get your Aloha on, to forget the bustle and stress of the days leading up to your trip, to reset your trajectory to a pace that a sloth would covet. Hawaii shouldn't be rushed. Hawaii is about this very moment. And this very moment. And you can be pretty certain that every savory moment will be followed by another one just as rich.

By the time you've slept off your morning happy hour, it's 3:00 and time for another! Black Rock at twilight puts the happy in happy hour.

There you ~~lurk~~ sit, eyes drawn to the sea, the sensation of thirst a distant memory.

Then this guy shows up

And holds court for a little while

before heading on down to the beach and making his way to the rock

lighting torches all along the way

When the last torch is lit, our hero stops

He pays tribute to the sea

He pays tribute to the mountains

And then he dives

And there's no need to check your watch, because they are all happy hours in Hawaii.

Feliz Nuevo Ano!

2012-01-02T09:37:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year to one and all!

My carefully laid plans of ringing in the New Year here in Pacific Beach were thoroughly thwarted by niebla. Yes, fog. Lots of fog here on the Pacific coast. So much fog, in fact, that the plane from Tijuana was unable to fly down to Los Cabos full of passengers, unload them, and pick up our crew of passengers for a return fight to Tijuana.

Of course the airline didn't let us know this for hours and hours. "An announcement" was always forthcoming, always "in fifteen minutes." Rumors and bits of overheard information were discussed in English and Spanish, often quickly translated from one language to the other for the benefit of those monolinguals sitting close by.

9:15 pm, the rescheduled late time posted on the monitors (from the original 6:45 pm), never changed, but when 8:30 pm arrived and the plane had still not taken off from Tijuana, well, it wasn't looking good. Our happy plan b, of hitching a ride to our friend Mayte's house, then borrowing her car to drive home, was looking less and less likely. And we all knew that the flights on January 1 and January 2 were fully booked, hence the reason we had all decided to travel the night of NYE in the first place. Admittedly, my plan a, of arriving at 8 pm in Tijuana on NYE was a little crazy. Wouldn't the place be a mad house? Plenty of people crossing from both sides of the border in search of the ultimate NYE party? Wouldn't the border line be impossible? Probably, but again, it was our only real option for making the Cabo trip at all, so we booked it. It would be an adventure.

Well, an adventure it was.

Long about 9:30 pm, they finally canceled the flight. Because it was weather related, there was to be no compensation for hotel room, or cab ride, or meals, etc. But, unbelievably, there was going to be a plane ready to fly us north the next morning at 9:35 am. (I was actually deliriously happy about this. Don't get me wrong, I love Cabo, but my youngest was at a babysitter's house, and I was anxious to get back to pick her up)

Plus, as I mentioned, we were with my friend Mayte, who publishes the Baja travel magazine, Baja Traveler. She is resourceful, let me tell you. She knows a lot of Cabo peeps, and she had us all lined up before the cancellation call was made.

We ended up in a sweet boutique hotel in San Jose del Cabo, all comped, ringing in the New Year in a festive, happening Italian restaurant close by (also all comped).

It may have been cold at midnight, especially with no outdoor heaters, but they were handing out blankets to chilly guests, so we happily ate our pasta, drank our bubbly wine (okay, so it was sangria and not Champagne), and enthusiastically rang in 2012.

Feliz 2012! May it be full of adventure and good fortune for all of us.

Tiny bubbles

2011-12-31T08:00:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year!

A Ride in the Subie

2011-12-30T05:00:00.000-08:00

Boxing Day is not only Sister Photo Shoot Day, East Coast or West Coast Style . . .

No, as everybody knows, Boxing Day is also Let's Take A Ride In The Subie Day!

I drove; my happy band of reprobates joined me.

The Subie is no Westy, but she's a solid, dependable, zippy, excellent little machine.

Even with the reprobates.

See?

That's better, Dowd.

MB took over the camera in the back seat, and had her own little photo shoot with Mistah.

Mistah looks like he's suffering from a little Ellie / Aunt Kitty / Chapel Hill Girl Droopy Eye Syndrome.

Aw, there's my little Schleckah.

As the shenanigans went on around me, I kept my eye on the prize and on the road, I kept my focus and I kept my hands in the perfect 4- and 8- o'clock position, and showed my passengers some of Milford's famous sights . . .

Oooh, Stonebridge!

Oooh, a werid Santa-hat guy!

C'mon! Hop in!

Jacquie, regurgitated

2011-12-29T05:05:00.000-08:00

Tasty title, huh? The night before I left on vacation, I told Ellie that if my guest bloggers didn't pan out, I'd throw something up for today's post. Cue barf jokes, because we're very mature.

This post is not especially good, but it has the most hits of any post I've ever written! Score one for Jane Fonda. I share it as a shout-out to the resolutioners, who will sign up for the gym tomorrow and undoubtedly try to take my spot.

Friday, July 11, 2008

Let's Get Physical

Labels: by Jacquie

I work out at the gym.

I had that little spell with running, but my preference has always been a 60 minute class at the gym with loud music and a motivating instructor. My affinity for the guided workout was born in the basement of my childhood home with her:

You've just gotta love Jane Fonda. Look at her hair! Her horizontal stripes! The perfect angles of her toasty warm legs! She had it going on.

Then there was a period of time when I worked at the YMCA, and had the chance to participate in real live aerobics classes. I fancied the low impact variety, and I rocked my footless tights and colorful leotards.

During college, I joined Family Fitness here in San Diego at a rate of $14 per month. That, my friends, was a lifetime membership to what is now 24 Hour Fitness, a membership that I have maintained by making those $14 monthly payments for the duration, even that one time when I forgot to go for 5 years.

As a new member back in the late 80s, I discovered the appeal of Step aerobics, but my girlfriend Aline and I were humble about the dizzying scope of our badassness. In fact, we showed off quite a lot of that ass badness wearing leotards that shot straight up our cracks, with bike shorts underneath. Then I got distracted by marriage and pregnancy, and slowly but surely the bad of my assness turned into the fat of my assness. At some moment of blind optimism, I procured a step of my own and a bunch of newer videos that promised to transform my various jiggly bits into steel. But then I had another baby and I just stayed jiggly, and happy with my babies and my snacks and my beer.

Right around the time that my youngest turned two, the wife of a local morning radio talk show host that I listen to dropped dead of a heart attack. They had two young kids. She was 39.

I went back to the gym.

Many things had changed during my hiatus, but many more had stayed the same. The fashion, thankfully, had become more about comfort and function than asscrack. I got back into Step, and it was a great way to improve my health and get out of the house for a couple of hours at a time. I kept up with my champion skill at snacking and beer drinking, so I stayed jiggly. I was jiggly-fit, though, damn it.

I maintained the status quo for several years before finding the motivation to lose weight. I’ve been significantly smaller for a couple of years now. Although I do have a pretty little gut roll that really likes me, and comes back to visit quite regularly. In fact, I’m pretty sure the little cutie is planning to stow away inside my pants for the upcoming visit to Connecticut.

But I digress. What has NOT changed at the gym is the weird subculture of the people. There’s the guy who struts around the front of the room talking loudly, greeting people by name, and just oozing cool confidence. I once saw him stocking the shelves at Albertson’s, and there was an audible thump as my worlds collided. There’s also the issue of territory in the Group X room, and the politics of saving steps, and maintaining the proper distance between your step and your neighbor’s. I’ve recently added kickboxing to my gym repertoire, and the space issue there is even more intense without the step itself to mark your real estate. And people are kicking and punching in there!

And there is the issue of how to deal with newbies. We’ve all been there at one time, obviously, but we regulars block those memories out as soon as we get the hang of whatever class we are learning. We go to our spot and we do our thing, we watch ourselves in the mirror and steal glances at the beautiful or hideous bodies around us. We are conspicuous in our horrified chagrin when someone passes gas, so everyone will know that we would never do that. We send silent supportive vibes to the newbies so as not to attract attention to them. As long as they stay out of our way, we will pretend to ignore them while laughing at them deep down inside, where it counts. If we don’t make eye contact, they can’t be certain that we see them. Just like the story my parents love to tell about how Ellie once walked across the room during their cocktail party with her hands over her eyes so no one would see her.

Awwwwww! They all catch on eventually, just like Ellie must have.

Boxing day west

2011-12-28T04:00:00.000-08:00

Well, as everyone knows, Boxing Day is Corey Sister Photo Shoot Day. But it just so happens that this Boxing day was also photo shoot day for another set of sisters.

This we'll call Boxing day west, Balboa park style. With hats. And flowers. And a few solo shots thrown in for good measure.

A Very Dowd Christmas

2011-12-27T05:00:00.000-08:00

On Christmas, since Mom bailed on us and went to Hawaii, harumph, her local daughters needed to get together, if for no other reason than to marvel at Mom's audaciousness at leaving us behind.

Luckily, MB and her man The Dowd were already hosting his family for Christmas, and so Mistah and I jumped right in . . .

. . . and found ourselves right in the middle of A Very Dowd Christmas.

The Dowd women look pretty great bookmarked by a couple of Corey women, don't they?

Aw, our illustrious and inimitable hosts.

We had a lovely time, it was a wonderful party, the food was outrageously delicious, MB and The Dowd were nothing but gracious and generous and hospitable, and the whole Dowd Clan was a pretty excellent substitute family.

But the best part? Well, as everyone knows, Boxing Day is Corey Sister Photo Shoot Day, and we made the most of it . . .

Thanks for the wonderful time, MB and MD!

Autumn comes back to play!

2011-12-26T05:00:00.000-08:00

Last time my girl Autumn wrote a blog post for me, it was in response to a text I sent her from an airport in Hawaii where we'd just been rebooked on a new flight and had thus earned a bonus day. Autumn was my 11th hour hero! This time, I asked her for the post about a month ago, and I'm so thankful that she delivered... at 2 am this morning. Love that woman.

So. I have 14-year-old. AND a 12-year-old. I'd like to point out the teenagerness of those ages. SO. I have two teenagers. And frankly, I'm not really enjoying the vicissitudes by which teenagers run their lives. Not one bit.

And so I'm not putting them in my Christmas cards this year. I would, but I can't get them to look good, be happy (or just not angry), cooperate, or wear anything decent at the same time. Also, they wanted $5 each to sit for the photo. Really?!?!!

Here they are. How freaking cute are they here? Adorable and laughing at their funny mommy. They even let me put them in matching clothes for crying out loud. Excited for Christmas and Santa. One of my favorite Christmas cards. I didn't know it, but this was bliss. Let's look at another Christmas card picture.

Loved each other. LOVED me. Cuter than hell, no?

There it is. Again, with the kind of matchy-matchy that make Christmas cards so awesome and mommies so happy. Liv let me do her hair for this picture. WITH patience and gratitude. And Conor had absolutely no problem putting that old man sweater on. Only took 15 minutes to get this picture (minus hair time) into Ritz.com.

I could put up picture after picture, just like these. It used to be so easy. Maybe a little hassle, and always a little late because my name is Autumn Houston. But totally doable.

BUT, as aforementioned, I now have two teenagers and it is not easy. Not one bit. Borders on impossible, actually. Oh, I've tried this year. In fact, Olivia let me do her hair twice on two different occasions, albeit with angry outbursts from both parties, in hopes of taking said Christmas card picture. However, after we made her beautiful hair more beautiful, and whilst I was getting my camera ready, she dabbled in very much, too much much make up. It wasn't worth the argument, people. I didn't care at this point. And Conor wouldn't get out of bed because it was only noon. Only our precious Coco kitty was cooperating.

You get the idea. It wasn't happening.

Here is a sample of the types of photos I'm able to capture of my teenagers:

These are lovely. Is that a gang gesture?

This was so close to being a cute picture. Conor was just about to acquiesce. I just knew it.

Nah. He wasn't.

So, this year, Coco gets all the glory of being the Houston representative for Christmas.

Right, Coco? Right.

Merry Christmas all.

Merry Christmas!

2011-12-24T08:00:00.000-08:00

May your days be merry and bright . . .

Merry Christmas, Everybody!

Pinkies up

2011-12-23T09:59:00.000-08:00

I've blogged about my work parties before. Some of them got a bit crazy -- cases of wine in the limo and such. But this year, well this year we were highly civilized. Completely evolved.

We attended high tea at the Hotel Del Coronado.

And I must say, it was lovely.

Stunning, really, isn't it?

Mmm, Champagne, with fresh pomegranate juice added table side

Every one of those little finger sandwiches were delectable. (Well, except the ham, perhaps.) And the tea, of course, was delicious. Each of us pouring our own chosen brew from our own ceramic tea pot. Mandarin Orange for me please.

Next, this tower of treats arrived. Although they called them 'petit sweets.' Of course they did.

Ben, it appears, is going to try the blueberry tart

I tried most everything. It was hard to pick a favorite. So I didn't. But I will say the chocolate opera, lemon curd, and ginger sugar cookies were among the best of the best.

My boss cracks me up. He photographed not only the historic blurb about Victorian tea at the Hotel Del, but also filled in the 'keepsake' section with all our names and what we talked about: yep, kids, pets and TV, now that's what one talks about at tea. Right? Pinkie up!

A Christmas Miracle

2011-12-22T05:00:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago my sister-in-law Kelly asked me to copy our Christmas music for a party she was having. "Sure," I said. "I'd be glad to!"

I'm just that kind of sister-in-law.

So I looked for our Christmas music, which we've had for years and must have played when we were last here for Christmas in 2009.

I couldn't find it.

I looked in the Christmas boxes, I looked in with our other music, but those ol' Christmas CDs of ours were nowhere to be found.

Now, I must admit, I'm not a huge fan of the genre. Most of it makes me want to off myself. But we do own some pretty good Christmas music -- or, I guess, did, since it seems to be gone forever.

Hmmmmm, maybe I did shitcan it all back in 2009. Which, frankly, is fine with me. But it didn't do Kelly any good.

But I was able to come up with two CDs for her. One that was in our computer:

Sugar Plums: Holiday Treats from Sugar Hill, which is really the only Christmas CD anybody ever needs, because it is awesome . . .

. . . and . . .

Christmas with The Rat Pack, which MB burned for me last year.

Kelly thought she was getting about 10 CDs and she got two. Hey, whaddyagonnado?

I casually mentioned my plight to my family in an email and guess what happened?

No, Santa didn't deliver -- he's busy these days, you know.

No, my two favorite Mixologist Elves pulled through: my sister MB and my brother-in-law Mr. Can-O-Beans.

Just look what they sent me:

Christmas (aka MB Christmas Mix 1)

Christmas Music (aka MB Christmas Mix 2)

A Very She & Him Christmas

Christmas, Chris Isaak

X-mas Mixie Poo 1

X-mas Mixie Poo 2

It's A Christmas Miracle, 2011 style.

(And Kelly, I've got you covered for 2012.)

Mary comes back to play!

2011-12-21T05:00:00.000-08:00

I'll be out of town for the holidays, and my eyeballs will be filled with wonders too rich to sully by casting them upon any electronic screen. So please enjoy a visit by our friend Mary! It's not her first rodeo here on Me, You, and Ellie, and now she's back to regale us with more hilarity. When Mary sent me this post, I replied: "I wish my kids were as scared of me as I once was of my mom." It's not that she was scary, per se.. it's just that we didn't really consider any option other than to do what she said. When I get back from vacation, remind me to figure out how to be more like Mary's as my mom.

I am one of five children. A child of the ‘70s where we were often told to “go play outside!” and knew that meant “don’t come back ‘till dinner.” My father was a pilot for United and was often gone for days at a time which meant my mom ruled the roost (well, she ruled it when he was in town as well)! If she told us to do something, we did it, and usually right away! She didn’t care to hear our opinions on the matter.

One day, when my dad was out of town, my mom ~~asked~~ told my brother and I to pull some weeds in the backyard. I was probably 10 or 11 making him 7 or 8. She gave us one of those large, black garbage bags and a small shovel and we knew not to come back inside until the job was done. It must have recently rained because the dirt was soft and the weeds came out pretty easily, however, they came out with large clumps of dirt attached. Being kids with tunnel vision and hearing, we didn’t remove the dirt clods (she said “pull the weeds” after all….). When we were finished clearing the area and filling the garbage bag, we tried to pick it up but couldn’t. It was HEAVY!!! I mean, it would NOT budge!! So we went inside and told our mom we couldn’t move the bag of weeds. She looked at us like we were aliens from another planet and said: “What do you mean you can’t move it?!?!? Put it with the garbage cans!!!” (The garbage cans were located on the side of the house towards the front yard.) Knowing better than to talk back, we retreated to the backyard while mumbling our grievances under our breath. I don’t recall how long it took for us to devise a plan, but eventually we found a large piece of plywood and we were able to roll the bag onto the plywood and then drag and push the whole caboodle over to the cans.

Days later, when my dad was back in town and it was trash day, he went outside to put the cans on the curb. I don’t know what transpired outside but he came back in and said to my mom: “What the hell is in that garbage bag? I can’t even lift it!’

O tenenbaum

2011-12-20T09:25:00.000-08:00

Tis the season. Whether a silent night or a sunny day, it's that time of the year. Festivity and frivolity aboud. Shoppers scurry to and fro. Kids anxiously wait for Santa, and you see trees, trees everywhere.

Snow covered Dr. Seuss trees

Blue tinsel penguin trees

Sea shell-clad trees

Trees in homes

Trees on cars

Trees suffering Santa seranades

But the very best tree I've seen? The one that beats all?

This one. Cheers!

Silent Night

2011-12-19T05:00:00.000-08:00

In the hustle and bustle and hullabaloo of the season, it helps me to look up and gaze upon ol' Moonie, and take a deep breath.

Moonie always makes me feel calm . . .

. . . and centered.

Aw, Moonie.

Even Rotten Groton looks good bathed in Moonie's glow . . .

. . . and so do the cranes.

It always helps to have Mistah around, taking mad photos . . .

. . . and it also helps to have a peaceful home to relax in.

Happy Season of Peace.

Weekend 3-Way: The Beasts of the Earth

2011-12-17T11:00:00.000-08:00

"Hey, don't blame us; we don't dress ourselves."

Mangey manger

Sisterhood of the Travelling Glass

2011-12-16T05:00:00.000-08:00

Last month on my birthday, my great friend Desiree gave me a lovely crystal martini glass festooned with birthday love. Here's a photo of me with two crazy eyes, one freaky chin, and the glass:

Here's a slightly more normal photo of me and my happy glass

normal is a relative term

I knew right then and there that this glass would not be sitting in a cabinet until November 19, 2012. This glass was going places. Places like bars. Bars where my friends and I inevitably gather to celebrate each others' birthdays.

Desiree herself was next in line, her birthday was a couple of days ago, and I proudly presented her with The Glass from which to imbibe.

Oh, we inbibed allright. Des had a mission to get us all a round of this very unusual drink we'd tried at a recent happy hour.

It sounds gross.

It maybe even looks gross. But it is the polar opposite of gross. It is pure joy.

It is the cotton candy martini.

And yes, you get a martini glass full of cotton candy! Weird? Certainly. Weirdly awesome? Most definitely. Because those precious little shakers for one contain the happy juice, which when poured atop the fairy floss..

The bartender did the honors for Des, the birthday girl

renders it into little more than a hint of raw sugar to sweeten the jug-o-booze that finds itself in your pretty glass.

We ordinary girls were left to our own wiles

Cotton Candy Cuban
Dark Rum, Mint, Sparkling wine, lime juice, raw sugar fairy floss
Get yours here

Next on the agenda was another fantastic stop where our mission was to procure the plantain carnitas, so the drinks were left to our imagination

La Pinta Sparkler

La pinta pomegranite infused tequila, champagne, lime squeeze

And then things got a little interesting

Barrio Michelada

Tecate beer, fresh lime, worcestershire sauce, pepper with a chili-pepper flake salt rim

Pictured? Perhaps. Enjoyed? Oh, yes.

Can't anyone come up with another birthday before March?

Secrets

2011-12-15T09:35:00.000-08:00

"A new brand of all adult passion"... Secrets Marquis Los Cabos. Can you picture it? Of course you can. Those glossy photos of the amazing property, the glistening sea, the stunning spa, rooms, and views? Yes, we've all seen those adult (and/or family) all-inclusive resort advertisements.

The images are fabulous, don't get me wrong, and seeing gorgeous models frolicking in the blue tropical waters during the depths of winter can be amazingly tempting.

But there is still a palpable cheese factor. Those photos and TV ads are too perfect. You never see the overly intoxicated fat guy, the crying baby, the bitchy wife. No, you see a mirage of sensuous tranquility, an ideal that only your mind bent on resort porn could conjure up.

But my husband and I are headed to one at the end of the month for a few days -- a quick getaway to paradise.

But we're keeping it real.

Here we are on arrival. Look, we have the whole place to ourselves!

A quick embrace by our private pool after our dip in the sea. Oh, and is that Champagne? I really miss Ellie right now! What an epic game of CHD we could have if she was here!

Amazing how quickly our hair bleached out in the desert sun, isn't it? And, wow, look at my ass! Hey, is he going to bite me?

Don't think we only stay poolside. No. We rock climb. And pose. And always, always, always have our bodies touching.

Here I am luxuriating in some private time at the spa. Now you see everything but my fine ass.

And this, my favorite shot, of us embracing in the dying rays of the sun setting over the Sea of Cortez.

See? We have absolutely no elevated expectations. We are keeping it real.

The Holly Jollies

2011-12-14T05:00:00.000-08:00

It takes me at least until December hits double-digits.

It takes until we get a tree . . .

. . . and we string some lights around the house . . .

. . . and the whole family is involved.

It takes until then, but then it happens.

The moon comes up . . .

. . . and the lights are a-glowing . . .

. . . and Mistah and Westy are at the ready . . .

. . . and Bam! it hits us.

We've got the Holly Jollies.

fun and games

2011-12-13T05:00:00.000-08:00

On our recent trip to Arizona, we had no shortage of fun. I find that by surrounding myself with great people, I can usually guarantee that fun won't be far behind.

Take, for instance, these two great people:

My cousin and her husband, on the day after Thanksgiving, enjoying a cranberita on the front lawn.

Quiet, unassuming, content.

And then the sun went down, and someone found his inner street performer and pulled out a box o' fun while someone else rushed to increase her homeowners' insurance policy

Everyone got in on the fun, because really, what's more fun that fire?

That cute blond using the practice stick represented the colliding of worlds as my husband's side of the family joined my side of the family for this post holiday pyrofestival of love and laser tag.

And after the transitional joining of forces, we headed over to the other side for our last night in the ole A-Z

I hesitated to share the following photos, because for all intents and purposes they make it appear as if our children were overindulging in dark beer from cough syrup shaped bottles. But then I went ahead and posted this abomination:

So I guess the gig is up. And for the record, only the big people overindulged in the apothecary beer. And cookies.

We were having so much fun visiting and catching up with these fine young peeps, and you know what goes really well with fun? GAMES!

We played some mega jenga on our hosts' hand made set, and then made a few attempts at actual boxed games, but if you know anything at all about my husband's family*, you know that in the end, it's all about the drinking games.
*how is it possible that I have no blog post about the drinking games played in my very own driveway this very summer? Raise your hand if you suck at blogging. [waving]

You know this game, everyone writes a famous person's name on a post it, then hands it to someone else to affix to their face. You take turns asking yes or no questions to determine the identity of your face's post it.

nice fillings

Everyone else's is always really easy, and your own is always really hard.

Spelling doesn't count.

If you guess wrong, you drink.

An age appropriate beverage.

Preferably from a mustache glass.

Don't we know how to have fun?

And games.

Mom of the year

2011-12-12T09:30:00.000-08:00

I'm feeling incredibly guilty right now. I'm fretting away here at my desk, on this very wet, chilly December morning.

First off, it's my husband's birthday. My older two girls will be at their dad's house for the next two nights, so this morning was the only time they had available to celebrate in any way with their stepdad. But I woke up 25 minutes late. I wasn't out of bed until 7:22; we leave at 8:00 am sharp for the bus stop. This never happens. I always wake up prior to 7:00 am, and even if I don't I have a 2 year old that does. But not today.

The plan for a leisurely breakfast in bed for my husband was foiled, instead it was a frantic: get out of bed, get dressed, get your own cereal, brush your hair!! - kind of morning.

We did manage to throw some sausage, eggs and toast at the man, and to quickly shove two presents into grocery bags and holler "open them." But it was rushed, and stressful (for me anyway), and the whole time I'm barking orders for what still needs to be done before we can get out the door.

And get out the door we must because I have committed to be in the office by 8:30 to let two sets of contractors into our office space to bid on office improvements. It's pouring outside so any thoughts of making up lost time on the road are out.

We should be leaving early to accommodate the wet stuff.

But we don't.

But we do leave on time. And we do even manage to find an umbrella in the girls' room.

"Happy Birthday! Goodbye, goodbye," we cry as we hurry into the wet.

"Out, out, girls!" I command when we arrive. I know there is another umbrella (mine) in the back. "Here, take it." And there they are, just like that, cowering under their respective umbrellas. I take a breath, we did it.

"Mom, I forgot my jacket!" exclaims the oldest. One look at the other, and yep, I know she has forgotten hers too. For once I'm ecstatic that my girls find it impossible to take into the house what they've earlier brought into the car. I dig around in the front seat and come up with two, warm (their very warmest, in fact) jackets. One for each.

They put them on. They look barely less pathetic under those little umbrellas than they did before. But I have to go.

"You have your phone, right? Call me if you need to. Call me if the bus is late, or if it doesn't show, or if there is any problem."
I drive away. They are not going to melt. It's just a little rain, right? But no other kids are at the bus stop today, and if they do show up, surely their mom or dad will let them sit in the car until the bus actually arrives.

I speed off, I grab my phone in case the bus doesn't come, or they call for some other reason. I see their dad has called twice and texted me. He wants me to relay a message to them. Too late, pal-y.

It's now 9:30 am, school started 25 minutes ago. I gotta assume that the bus arrived, carried them off to school, and they are now sitting in a dry classroom with the rest of their classmates, right?

Right.

But I wish I knew this fact. I texted my girl 3 times. I got nothing back.

I'm sure they're fine.

Yes, surely they are.

That's the logical conclusion.

That's what happened. Yes, it must be.

Weekend 3 way: Scenes of the season

2011-12-10T08:00:00.000-08:00

Nothing says Christmas like a.....colorfully illuminated mutant giraffe?

.......a snow-covered Dr. Seuss tree.

....or a blue tinsel penguin tree

The Transportation Hub

2011-12-09T05:00:00.000-08:00

New London is a Transportation Hub.

And if that sounds grand, well, it should. We have rails, we have buses, we have interstates out the wazoo, and we have the grand and glorious Thames River which meets the Long Island Sound, and therefore we have ferries. Lots and lots of ferries.

One (i.e. me) can take all this industry and moving-forwardness and hullabaloo for granted. But then a certain Mistah Schleckah will do a late-fall, late-afternoon stroll, and the effect of the resulting photos of the bustling awesomeness of New London can feel like one (i.e. me) getting hit in the back of the head with a 2x4.

Let's join Mistah on his stroll, shall we?

Oh, how I love a train.

And oh how I love a ferry.

Because ferries will take you here and they will take you there, and they will bring your car, if you so desire.

And oh how I adore a tugboat. I have an everlasting softspot in my heart for tug boats.

And how I love a boat called Chief.

And I do love a vessel called Pamela Ann.

Eileen Rita?? Brittany Eryn?? Oh, please count me in.

I love the Hub's beauty against its backdrop of efficiency and utility*.
(*Because I really love schedules.)

But the tugboat? Its bold red with the Big Bad Bridge in its background? Gets me every time.

Oh, how I love a Hub.

to confuse and to frighten

2011-12-08T05:00:00.000-08:00

Everything about this photo makes me laugh. And weep.

Sincerely yours

2011-12-07T10:02:00.000-08:00

I sometimes feel the need to mix up my letter closings and email goodbyes. Actually, who am I kidding, I hardly ever write letters anymore. Almost all my work correspondence is done via email. Thankfully.

I'm pretty much a "Sincerely" gal, at least on the first email go around. But I hate to keep signing the same extremely pedestrian "Sincerely" all day long.

My next go-to closing is "Best regards." It's solid, right? Professional yet hopeful. But after those two, well, I don't really have a next move. I looked up some correspondence closers the other day. Here's what I uncovered (with my very well thought out comments following):

•Yours sincerely (way too goofy)

•Respectfully yours (good for a stern great uncle)

•Faithfully yours (only good for a lover)

•Yours truly (sounds like Charlie Brown's closing)

•Kind regards (too nice)

• Best regards (!)

•Warmest regards (good for the holidays and winter months, perhaps)

• Kind thanks (Have decided I'm really not down with "kind" at all)

• Truly (seems like its missing something)

• With appreciation (very limited in scope)

• Very truly yours (sounds like Lucy's trying to out do Charlie's closing)

• Sincerely yours (solid, but "yours" is unnecessary)

• Yours sincerely (see above)

• Have a nice day (that is perhaps what my 7 year old would write)

• Thanks (solid and often appropriate)

• Many thanks (the above should suffice, plus has Chinese restaurant connotations)

• Hoping to hear from you (too desperate)

• Warmest personal regards (blech)

• Your pal (was last used in the early 1950s)

• Later (was last used in the late 1990s)

• Very sincerely (you're either sincere or you're not, right?)

• Devotedly (went out in the late 1880s)

• With love (okay for family and friends)

• Very truly (what? very truly what?)

• Cordially yours (blech)

• Regards (Hmm, now here's an option)

• Best wishes (I like this too, although it's kind of ethereal for work, I suppose)

• Warm wishes (holiday/winter only)

• Cheers (quite used these days, I've noticed, but has a ring of "lush" to it)

• I am, Sir, Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant (My very favorite so far!)

• Your friend (only used with childhood foreign pen pals)

• Ever yours (went out in 1904)

• I have the honor to be (Ha! Seriously? This is the cockiest closing ever!)

• Your obedient servant (only used by Mormon wives #1 - 5)

• Thy humble servant (only used by Mormon wives #6 - 10)

• Warmest and most sincere regards (too overachieving)

• Peace out (Was never really in)

• Best wishes for your future (would get folks a bit paranoid, wouldn't it?)

• I look forward to speaking with you (gasp! Never, I don't want to speak to you. Email me back, dude.)

• I look forward to hearing from you (use this in some situations)

• Thank you for your consideration (has its time and place)

• Godspeed! (super PC!)

• Onward and upward (perhaps if I were a geologist, mountaineer, or outdoor explorer of the late 1880s)

• Hugs and kisses (great for grandparents)

• Smell ya later (can you imagine?)

• Later alligator (always a classic)

• See you in the funny papers (Used only by youth in the 1950s - 1960s)

• Shine on! (love it! Could it be my closer #3?)

• May I always live to serve you and your crown (very, very few people you could send this to)

• Loaves and fishes (it speaks for itself, right?)

• Keep it real (Was never ever really in)

Sir Mix-A-Lot, Redux

2011-12-06T05:00:00.000-08:00

Remember my brother-in-law Mr. Can-O-Beans? The premier, preternaturally-talented, über-mixed-tunes-making genius?

Well, he's back.

He's back, and he's better than ever.

When we last visited with Mr. Can, he had bestowed upon us
Girl Mix 1 and Girl Mix 2 . . .

. . . and Untitled 2 and Various 19 Songs. I guess officially that'd be Various 19 Songs 1.

But then Mr. Can had a creative burst, and, well, he shared the wealth. Not only did Mr. Can give us Mayer Hawthorne and Josh Rouse and Amos Lee mixes, he also went to town on new mixed-tune-conpilations . . .

Wait, make that CAN-pilations. 1 and 2.

(you can click on photos, always, to zoom in on details . . . )

And Jubilation Compilation and Serenade and Marinade (doesn't that sound fun?)

And It's a Sunday (which will always, always make me think of Mr. Can on a Sunday afternoon after a Chargers and/or Padres and/or Chardres victory) and Summer Simmer 2010. (As Can would say, "Simmer down, now.")

And, in that great Sir Mix-A-Lot tradition, Brand New Mixie Poo.

But with all this great new stuff -- put 5 of these bad boys in a CD mixer and let 'er rip and then you'll know what I mean -- there's one CD I'm most excited about . . .

A Mixie Poo of our own.

My life is now complete.

road warrior

2011-12-05T09:27:00.000-08:00

Ellie and Bill are the original Westy Road Warriors. Our paltry west coast adventures are mere spit in the breeze when compared to the years those two spent traversing the countryside to and fro. Whereas we camp in the thing, they lived in the thing! The Westy is a marvel of invention and the very model of efficiency, but it is no small feat to organize your self and your stuff to live out of its assets.

Yet while Ellie and Bill are heroic in their fortitude, Westy- (and other) wise, there are a few factors that make our particular brand of Westy adventuring a bit.... um.... let's say.....~~crowded~~ ~~chaotic~~ tricky.

Factors like these two

And oh yeah, this one

Two medium sized children and one ginormous dog make for some very creative packing and arranging inside of one's Westy. The children can be reasoned with, sort of. But the dog really has no idea what to think when we set out in the Westy. From the moment we start to pack up the rig, she frets. She eyes the front door for any opportunity to bolt our of the house and into the Westy, where she will park her substantial arse and try to become invisible. She seems torn between wishing none of it was real and that she could just slink back to one of her many beds to sleep the day away, as is her custom; and adamantly insisting that no adventure is going to be undertaken without her participation.

Once we set out, she continues to fret. She can't relax, she wants her head out the window but she also wants to sleep. What's a girl to do?

She loves a campsite, though. Look at the Queen of Sheba back there in her happy spot.

Once we arrived at our destination, Moki was in heaven. Our hosts just so happen to be foster dog dads, so their house is a veritable pooch haven. Why didn't I take any photos of Moki enjoying her stay at Casa Flatley? What, exactly, is wrong with me? Just picture it in your mind's eye. Warm beds, fenced grassy yard, bones and treats around every corner, and most importantly, hosts who are actually pleased to see a 100 pound furball slinking around the hallways in staunch avoidance of the scary appliances.

On Thanksgiving day, we left the beast at home in that happy palace while we headed over to a household that prefers dogs of this variety:

By the time we reached our final destination, Moki had begun to roll with the punches and maybe even start to suspect that we weren't trying to ruin her life. At Meg and Sanjay's, she even had a little friend! Oh, what fun she had trying to fit all of Charlie inside of her mouth. Good times!

And look how she started to smile!

But wait...

Is the oven on???

Oh my God, what the hell is THIS?

What da???

So many new breeds of friend to discover in Arizona!

but the old familiar goofs are around, too.

A wed wose. How womantic.

Awkward Family Photo.

It was an excellent adventure for both human and beast. We heart our Arizona peeps, and can't wait for the next visit!

Weekend Photo Project:

2011-12-03T11:00:00.000-08:00

Nothing like a little holiday fire spinning among friends and family

Or fake present wrapping...

. . . Or a good old-fashioned round of CHD.

Fiction Friday: Luisa Eduarda Gil de Torres

2011-12-02T10:02:00.000-08:00

Luisa dreaded the trip, but accompanied her father faithfully each weekend, never letting on that Montjuic made her skin crawl and did not make her feel any closer to the mother that she only vaguely remembered. She was often told by her father's friends that she was the very image of her mother at her age, with her thick dark hair and extremely pale skin, her diminutive stature and eyes set just a bit too close together.

Luisa regularly examined the few photos of her mother that remained. She considered her mother quite pretty. She was not beautiful in the way a magazine model was, but something about her close-set eyes and overly full lips, about the way her face wasn't quite symmetrical left you with the feeling that she was not only attractive, but approachable.

Did her resemblance make her pretty as well? Possibly, she supposed, but that's not what she saw when she looked at herself. Instead, she saw a weak girl; an adult in years, but still a child, living at home, with no end in sight. She hated herself for always giving into her father, for wearing a mask of filial love, while almost all the time seething with bitterness.

Would it have been different had her mother not died so many years ago? Would she have been her daughter's champion, insisting that she get out and see the world, perhaps even get a job? Would her mother have used her wiles to free Luisa from the stifling limits her father set?

What did it matter? Thinking about the impossible only made her feel more desolate, more isolated. If she were going to change her circumstances, she would have to do it herself.

But her outside contacts, those not loyal to her father, and therefore bound to tell him of any plans she might be making, were few. Less then few, she thought, as few implied more than two, didn't it? Well, more than one at least, and one was all she had.

Putting the Fun back in Monday

2011-12-01T05:00:00.000-08:00

Mondays used to be Fun.

I have Mondays off. Which is a grand and glorious thing. One can swim at East Lyme High School in the morning, do a few errands -- the ones that the working stiffs have to do on Saturdays -- and get home in time to do Fun things. To have Fun.

Monday is Watch Hill Day.

Monday is Ocean Beach Day.

Monday is Deck Day.

Lately, though, I find myself going not only to the grocery store, package store and CVS, but Home Depot, Target and the P.O. too. And the library. And Babies Be Us. Then I get home at 3 starved, dehydrated, and having to pee like a racehorse. By the time I get the groceries away and eat luncheon, it's starting to get dark.

The other day after such a marathon Monday of errands I said to Mistah, "Mondays used to be Fun!" And I decided it's got to end, it's got to stop right here.

So this past Monday I woke up with a mission. With a mandate: It's time to put the Fun back in Mondays.

The Westy and I drove out to East Lyme High School, as planned . . . and the pool was broke. Not Fun! But we were not deterred in our mission. We drove home (after a quick stop at the grocery store. Okay, okay, and the package store, too. But that was it!), I got on my bicycle, and did a late-November warm-weather bike loop.

Fun!

Then I raked our tiny yard and picked up leaves and did the last-of-the-season mow. Which may not sound Fun to you, but *is* Fun for me.

Fun!

And then I took a shower (oh, what Fun) (seriously) and sat on my deck, and then the Fun really started.

My girl Jennie came over and although neither of us suffers from tuberculosis -- as far as we know -- we wrapped ourselves in blankies and sat on the deck and had ourselves a good old-fashioned rest cure, Thomas Mann style.

We watched the phenomenal sunset . . .

. . . and although Mistah was inside working, he came out every once in a while to refill our wine glasses and photograph the sunset.

The Heavens put on quite a show for us, a show I'd describe as, I don't know . . .

. . . Fun!

Oh, we're putting the Fun back in Monday, allright . . .

. . . one glass of wine at a time.

after Thanksgiving dinner...

2011-11-30T05:00:00.000-08:00

Ah, Thanksgiving. It's so great and delicious and quirky, isn't it? Every family has such unique rituals and demands, there are certain things that each of us just must have on the Thanksgiving plate. For some it's ~~disgusting~~ creamed onions, for others it's ~~overrated~~ turnips, and for many it's some other unexpected veggie like a rogue salad (which looked delicious, cousin). I was in charge of the ~~normal~~ veggies this Thanksgiving, which was a no-brainer. Peas and green beans. My wee family has evolved to include the quintessential peas 'n carrots combo that can only be found in the finest grocer's freezer, and the green beans speak for themselves. Except... I had a horrifying last minute thought around 10:00 on Thanksgiving morning, so as I tore into the Safeway parking lot for a couple of last minute items, I called my cousin to shriek: "You weren't expecting green bean casserole, were you?!" Thankfully (on many levels), no one expected anything other than the pure goodness of steamed fresh beanies, and they were delicious even without the gahlic that would have made Uncle Paul holler in bostonian.

Our meal was sublime, and soon after we turned this

photo credit: my boy, on his phone. the kid was born to blog

into this

photo and pig credit: me

We had the chance to explore the traditions and rituals that various family members engaged in after the Thanksgiving meal was done

The floor nap

a yum dessert of pie and/or a bowl of whipped cream

And the obligatory walk around the block

Walk is a relative term

Especially among relatives

But they're nothing if not fair

not pictured: the 5 seconds just before this shot was taken, when my boy dumped them all right into the street. Look at Owen rubbing his poor bum. And look at my boy laughing.

It was a really nice Thanksgiving, and the after dinner frivolity carried on right into the next day, when we gathered once more to enjoy Turkey soup and a very special ritual that I'd been anticipating since the first time I ever heard the word a few year ago.... CRANBERITAS!

The only things Sheila measured for this recipe were the tequila and the triple sec, yet I did not ask or notice what those measurements were. Some and then some more?

Then she squeezed up some limes

And dumped in some leftover cranberry sauce

and a splash of OJ

To create this most lovely and refreshing, perfectly tart and divine leftover Thanksgiving treat!

Cheers!

The right way to BBQ

2011-11-29T08:54:00.000-08:00

I am not a vegetarian, no, I'm not. I never have been, except for 6 weeks or so in the mid 1990s. But I'm also not a big meat eater. I prefer nuts and beans, and you, know, pizza. So for me, the below photos illustrate the correct and best way to utilize your BBQ.

First gather the necessary ingredients

Next, get some poor sap to roll out the fresh dough

Then, add plenty of tomato goodness.

Make sure to include all the other toppings before placing it ever so gingerly on the pizza stone that has been warming on your BBQ.

Cook until just the right combination of toasted crust and melty toppings...

and, viola! Meatless Monday night BBQ

30 Years Later . . .

2011-11-28T05:00:00.000-08:00

Saturday night was my 30-year high school reunion.

Shocking, I know; you thought 40 years, right?

I went to high school with a bunch of smashing knock-outs.

We gathered for a little pre-fun love at Denise's house . . .

. . . and then we headed to a bar in the hopping SoNo district where nobody took a photo until the end of the evening because we were all so busy yakking. Then Jill and Emmett got busy with their camera and for that I am eternally grateful since Mistah and I were woefully cameraless.

Somebody had the great idea to gather for a group photo . . .

. . . and I've got to say, I especially love the lit-up hands in front . . .

It was such a love fest in that room. Everybody looked great, and had a smile on their face, and had to scream to hear over everybody *else* screaming.

With my girl Kimmie.

Gail and Ann and Doreen and Nancy.

My girls Ann and Noelle.
(I honesty don't remember my classmates all being such shrimps.)

Jimmy with, um, some classmate guys.
(What? 30 years is a long time!)

Laurie and Scott and Dennis.

Jill and Greg. I'm telling you people. This is a good-looking class.

Aki and Jane.

Jane and Peggy and Jill.

With my girl Jill.

Which reminds me of one of my very favorite parts of the night. We're the Norwalk High School Bears. As every person in the room knew. And if we forgot, well, there a bear was, right on our name tags. What we didn't always remember was someone's name. Which was also on the name tag. Under the bear. In really small letters.

Everybody in the room was 48; nobody can see really small letters anymore. Especially in a dimly-lit bar. But by God, not one of us forgot we were the Bears.

But really, my favorite part of the night? My girls.

My fabulous, fantastic, gorgeous, awesome girls.

Yeah, the boys were pretty fun too.

Weekend 3-Way: Scenes from T-Day

2011-11-26T10:30:00.000-08:00

With my wingman, Dave the Gravy-Master.

"The only bad thing about an oven malfunction on Thanksgiving is that you have to go next door to smell the turkey roasting."

I have no turkey photo. We had no turkey. But we did make it to the beach, where I found my first ever Mission Beach sand dollar ;-)

scenes from a road trip

2011-11-25T05:00:00.000-08:00

First, let me back up. A special message to anyone who read my last post: I did not make up those spelling gems, but I forgot to include this photo of the program:

Please revisit if you are prefer perfection.

Thank you. And now, on to a sneak peak at our Big Road Trip!

All packed up and ready to go

Go Westy, Go Westy, Go Westy, GO!

Someone's getting a serious case of stink eye. Don't make me turn this Westy around!

A great night of camping to kick things off right

And then miles and miles and days and years of this

But then, this!

This!

And most of all, this.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Happy Thanksgiving!

2011-11-24T04:00:00.000-08:00

Last year, Jacquie provided us with 4 minutes and 56 seconds of required Thanksgiving viewing.

This year we're gonig to watch an updated snippet of the same video. Enjoy!

So Far . . .

2011-11-23T05:00:00.000-08:00

So far we've got . . .

. . . a turkey . . .

. . . yes a turkey!

. . . and stuffing . . .

. . . yes stuffing!

. . . and turnips . . .

What??!

Yes, turnips!

. . . and taters.

Yes, taters!

So, yes. Yes, please.

Bring it on.

The show must go on! (updated)

2011-11-22T05:00:00.000-08:00

Who could resist?

the program, criminally absent from the original post

Reserved front row seats!

We VIPs were catered to by the magnifasent artist herself!

Bottle service, baby!

Oh dear.

Opening Act: Metatating. Indeed.

Act Two: forchen cookies.

Audience participation!

Three: Intermishon

Act Four: taP danceing!

a girl's gotta hydrate

Act Five: danceing. And how

Act Six: bye bye ceramoni. In which the audience is required to write down their favorite part of the show.

In a word?

Magnifasent.

Humble pie

2011-11-21T09:02:00.000-08:00

I almost killed myself yesterday. It was awful.

I decided on Saturday, after having a celebratory mimosa with Jacquie on her birthday in the late morning, that it was so delicious I was going to pick up a bottle of my favorite ruby cuvee and drink it that evening.

I also decided on Saturday that I needed to use a yoga groupon that I had purchased a few months back. The expiration was quickly approaching and the owner of the studio was teaching the 10 am class. Perfect.

Well, the champagne was delicious, I enjoyed it immensely. I felt okay when I woke up, a bit dehydrated, so I was careful to drink a few glasses of water before leaving for class.

I checked in, which was quick because I answered yes to the "Have-you-ever-done-Bikram-yoga-before?" question.

I entered the studio, picked out a spot in the center second row, and waited for the class to begin. I was looking forward to it, It had been more than 6 months since my last Bikram class, and I was hopeful that the proprietor/teacher would be inspiring and make me remember why I sweated and toiled through so many prior Bikram classes.

The breathing exercise went okay, but I got this crazy tingling sensation in my arms during the first posture. Stroke came to mind. But I decided it was actually the opposite of the lack of feeling that often accompanies a stroke. I pushed through the next 5 or 6 postures, but it was hard. It was difficult to keep my breath under control, and was feeling worse and worse. I sat out a posture. Then another few. We switched from the standing postures to the floor postures. I managed to do the first 4 out of 5 of these, but that was it. I could go no further. I wanted to hurl. My head was spinning, I could do nothing but lay there. Even that was a struggle. It was so hot. I wanted to flee. But honestly, I didn't know if I could make it to the door. I was immobilized. I was beyond even feeling embarrassed for being such a milksop. I was just trying to concentrate on feeling better.

Class finally ended. A cold lavender-scented towel was given to me, and promptly placed on my over-heated face. It was helpful. The cold towel changed to room temperature. Still I remained. Eventually I dragged myself to the dressing room, where I proceeded to sit on the floor -- getting my clothes out of the cubby and onto my body seemed too much of a feat. Most people were gone. One woman who remained asked me if I was okay. Reflexively I said yes. I should have asked if she would carry me out to my car.

I did finally get up, pull on my clothes, and shuffle to my car. After a minute or two with my head resting on the steering wheel, I started the engine and drove home in a weird zombie-like state.

Upon arrival, I made it to the bathroom, promptly laid on the floor, and enlisted my husband to turn on the shower and get me some cold water. He thought, by the looks of me, a bath might be a better idea. ("Sure you can stand up in there?")

I survived the shower, put on robe, picked up a book at fell promptly asleep. I am not a day napper.

When we met friends at Pizza Port, a local brewery and pizza place, for an early dinner last night, I opted for orange soda. Orange soda! They have a bazillion craft beers there.

Oh my, my, what a chastening experience. I am not the yogini I imagined myself to be. My fears of joining the circus and not being able to then make it through a Bikram class have come true. I am no longer a bad ass.

I guess there is nothing else to do but eat my pie.