froggy

Last week was a busy and tiring re-entry after the luxurious long Christmas break, and my kids celebrated the weekend's commencement by sleeping away a beautiful Saturday.

Then I came home, and commenced the shaming ritual that inevitably succeeded in luring my lazy spawn up and out of the house by the crack of 3pm.

My girl was a bit under the weather, and we'd been out late the night before singing every single line, so we opted to forgo the previously planned beach/surfing adventure for a less wet pursuit.

As I said, it was a gorgeous day. Hot and sunny and summerlike. I had seen a story on the news about humpback whales being spotted from the tip of Point Loma the day before, and although we'd missed low tide by a couple of hours we thought it would be fun to spend a couple of sunny afternoon hours tooling around Cabrillo National Monument.

To get to Cabrillo, you drive out to the tippy tippy top (bottom) of Point Loma. See?

Cabrillo puts the point in Point Loma

So we take the 8 freeway, see it? then we take Rosecrans to Canon to Catalina and follow it all the way until we fall into the ocean, stopping only to pay $5 per vehicle at the National Park entry gate. along the way, we drive past Fort Rosecrans national cemetery, a hauntingly beautifully creepily cool place if you're into that sort of thing. We are.

On this particular day, we experienced the common yet relentlessly frustrating phenomenon wherein we drive out of the sun and straight into the soup of a thick marine layer. I couldn't even see the end of my car, it was so foggy. When we got to the gate, I told the guy we were just going to turn around. He said: "ohhh, you're the first person to do that today!" smartass.

Rather than just drive home to our boring, sundry albeit sunny life, we made a couple of pit stops.

First, we pulled over at the cemetery to take a little gander.

Put your phones away

Act like you don't know I'm taking a picture

There it is

Then we drove into OB, because I was to be damned if the entire outing passed me by with nary a peep of my ocean. 

Wait, where'd the ocean go?

And what'd they do with the pier?

It was so weird. I've lived here a really long time and I don't think I have ever seen it this foggy

It was cuckoo nuts is what it was.

Suddenly the sun peeked out.... but it was still cuckoo nuts. These photos are posted in the order they were taken, during about a  20 minute period.

looking south

looking north

Crazytown

love.

The pier! The pier! They put the pier back!

Cuckoo nuts.

The Gathering

Hey, let's welcome back, guest blogger, Pat/Mom!

The Gathering, a restaurant in my neighborhood that has been a local institution for 28 years, is closing tomorrow and it makes me very sad. It is most aptly named, truly a gathering. 

 

I have made friends there, I am comfortable there. Jack, the jovial bartender, knows how I like my vodka tonic with Absolute and not much tonic, and my beer on ice.

Hi, Jack!

 

I can go by myself and not feel alone, knowing that there will always be lively conversation. This is an "old fashion" (whatever that means) place. There is a magician on the weekends-- a magician for heaven sakes. Who does that anymore? And they love children and old people from the senior living center around the corner--walkers and canes are welcomed and accommodated. There is also a guitar player on the weekends who plays my music--music of the 60's. But he also plays music of the 90's and everything in between, and young and middle-aged people frequent the bar, although it clearly tips in the AARP direction. There is a fire house across the street and when a fire engine comes out with sirens blaring, drinks are half price for two minutes.*

We "regulars" have all been commiserating together--where will we go? How will we find each other? Yes, another restaurant will open in the same location and more new restaurants are coming to my neighborhood. But they will be loud and trendy and most likely have a revolving cast of 20-30 something bartenders.

 

It is not just the closing of our local watering hole that makes us so sad. It is the end of a life that was slower and quieter, more private and more personal-- life before smart phones and email and Facebook. This closing is vivid reminder of all that has gone before and is no more, a lifetime spent thinking all was possible.

I know that change is inevitable. My grandchildren are constant reminders of future possibilities. But I also know that come next weekend there will be a hole in my life and an ache in my heart.

 

 

* I  took the liberty of italisizing this part because it is so awesome.

Clouds 4.0

Hey, you wanna see some clouds?

Yeah, I like clouds, too.

Especially when I'm driving to Mom's on Christmas morning, and Mistah Shuttahbug is in the passenger seat, taking note of the sky above . . .

. . . I love clouds, I do. But Mistah sees the clouds through his own inimitable Mistah cloud-eyes, and they become magical, right before mine very own eyeballs.

I mean, who can make a smokestack look beautiful?

Mistah can.

Mistah and the clouds, they can.

Magical.

Sawooooooooon

I have very specific inspiration for recycling this particular post today. My girl and I are on a roll and our pace is increasing. Last year we saw Wicked, Billy Elliot, and Hairspray on stage and many many musical films including Les Miserables and Hairspray with a side of Grease, Moulin Rouge, and The Sound of Music (do not even think I am referring to that Carrie Underwood puke fest). I also saw American Idiot, but with grown up girls. My girl and I love our musicals, they are the soundtrack of our lives, quite literally. Tonight we will be seeing Beauty and the Beast, next Friday is Fiddler on the Roof, and I have just procured tickets for the show of all shows: JOSEPH. I can’t wait til June! We’ve also got The Book of Mormon (for grown up girls) and Once on deck to finish out this amazing season. The only way we could step up our game is to find our way to NYC for NPH as Hedwig. sawooooooon!

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Every. Single. Line.

Labels: by Jacquie

Behind the wooden slats of the built in cabinets in our orange shag carpeted den, my parents had a really cool reel to reel stereo. The music was so appealing in its white boxes with my dad’s handwritten labels in black. There was opera on Sundays, classical always, but most compelling were the soundtracks.

We were a Musical family.

Not a musical family as in a family who makes music, no. With the exception of piano expertise that diminished exponentially with birth order, we did not play instruments.

We were a Musical family, as in musicals. On stage and screen.

We did not act in musicals, no. We sang to be sure, and we could recite the scripts of many productions, but when I say that ours was a Musical family I mean that our family was into show tunes.

Where did it start? As long as I can remember, there were musicals. Godspell was an early favorite, as were The Sound of Music, Annie, and Jesus Christ, Superstar. It wasn’t all wholesome and bibles though, I can still say every single line from the soundtrack of the original broadway cast recording of A Chorus Line, although Dad did edit out the provocative “orchestra and balcony” number. And Pippin – remember Pippin? We had a video recording of a stage production with Ben Vereen as the narrator and the guy from the Greatest American Hero as Pippin. He was so smoking hot in that net shirt.

Our biggest show had to have been Joseph. Ahhh, Joseph. We saw it on stages from junior high to Broadway. How many times did we go to the Downtown Cabaret Theater to see Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat? Every. Single. Line. Just ask Beth, who once had the distinct pleasure of transporting three drunk sisters across the international border in her Spud McMod while we serenaded her from orchestra to curtain call.

As we grew older, and the shag became berber and the reels became cassettes and then CDs, our penchant for musicals remained. Ellie and I once did a three month lap around the country, and belted out every single line of Little Shop of Horrors at least 3 or 4 times a day. Once we treated a relative stranger in St. Paul to the whole rendition, pausing only long enough to inform him that his kitchen cupboards were organized all wrong.

My kids enjoy a musical, one kid more than the other, at least on record. They’re products of the Disney machine, and the soundtrack of their early childhood was sung by Simba, Ariel, Mogli, and Cruella; but they have an ear for the oldies as well. When my boy was little, he was known to sport a jaunty hat and dance around yelling “Step in time! Step in time!” And my girl’s heart was broken by Dorothy’s plight, so much so that she has yet to make it all the way through to the satisfying click of red heels.

They are also products of their mother, and have their own favorite songs from the soundtracks that have been known to reside in my car stereo for months after I see a show or a movie, like “the uh oh song” (track 3 from Moulin rouge), “the growling song” (track 7, disc 2 from rent) and “oh man, not THAT one again!" (any track from Mama Mia), and yes, even a select few from Hedwig, but certainly not every single line.

Life should be more like musicals. Wouldn't it be effective if, in moments of extreme emotion, we just burst into song? Did you see Enchanted? I love when Giselle suggested that Robert sing to his estranged girlfriend, otherwise how would she know his true feelings? Imagine the staff meetings if we sang the really important stuff. Imagine how much more enjoyable it would be to break up or make up with someone, to teach your kids an important message, or struggle with a difficult decision. I wish I could sing this post to you, to illustrate my affection for musicals. A singing blog... now we're talking.

My long lost friend

So on Friday a few weeks back while I was going through the mail at work, I came across this creepy, strange postcard.


A glittery, oversized Las Vegas postcard. Not the typical mail we receive at my office.

Oh look, and it's for me.

And it's from my friend of 16 years! Wtf?

No signature from the sender; no last name for me, just Beth; the address of the building next store is scratched out then my building number written in; and the hastily-written-looking text that contains factual errors....

Who would send this to me, and why? And should I be scared?

This Is Not About The Polar Vortex.

The weather is interesting and dramatic, yes, and a Polar Vortex is as exciting and fabulous a weather pattern as you're going to get, absolutely, but I am not going to focus on the weather today for two reasons:

1. I'm tired of talking about it.

2. Here in Southeastern Connecticut, we completely lose the weather contest. I mean, New London isn't even the coldest town in Connecticut, nevermind these our United States of America.

Okay, one weather map, to capture that Polar Vortex for prosperity posterity:

(Mistah and I have been in both Southern California and South Florida when similar weather patterns have taken hold of this, our great nation, and let me tell you something right here right now: it's better to be in those places than it is to be anywhere else.)

But we are not talking about the weather today.

Instead, let's talk about onions:

 What I love about Mistah?

 Among other things?

 Is that when he takes photos of onions . . .

 . . . he goes for it.

We could talk about the moon . . .

 . . . or is that too much like talking about weather?

Oh, I know! Food!

New Year's Eve food, to be precise . . .

 A triple olive appetizer . . .

 . . . followed by linguine and clams. If that's not an auspicious start to 2014, you tell me what is.

We can talk about Harry Corey . . .

 . . . and his new blossoms . . .

 . . . and how he stares longingly out onto the world, wishing he could bust out onto the deck . . .

. . . oh wait, that's weather. Weather's the reason he's in-not-out.

Food!

Mistah also made a video of these very mushrooms he was sautéing, if you're interested . . .

They ended up in his famous cauliflower-and-onion-(and-mushroom)-pasta concoction, which is one of his specialties.

We can talk about sunsets . . .

 . . . and how awesome they are around here in the wintertime . . .

Wait, is it discussing weather if I use the word "wintertime"?

Okay, let's get back to onions.

Onions and Christmas trees have a lot in common . . .

Very "It's A Wonderful Life" no?

 . . . in that when Mistah photographs them . . .

 . . . he goes plumb crazy.

Oh, hello, Ledgie.

We can talk about how mere days before this cold snap Mistah was outside, basking on the deck.

December 21, 2013.

When just a few days later . . .

January 3, 2014

Polar Vortex, baby.

Wait. Weather! Sigh. It's unstoppable. It's taking over the world.

Okay. Let's talk about this, then.

No matter how tall and lovely and badass and willowy and athletic and gigantic my wee-no-more-niece is . . .

. . . she still has the best jazz hands this side of the Mississippi.