Sheepy

I found this a little while ago on youtube and then forgot to post it. I challenge you to watch this without laughing; it sure makes me happy. It's all about unrestrained joy. And jumping. On beds.

Without further preamble, here you go.

Happy Thingy!

Whatever you are celebrating (or cursing) today, I hope you're having a good time. Light some candles, play with some kids, eat way too much food and watch 20-year old Christmas specials 'til you feel like barfing. What could be more Christmassy than a thick stack of syrup-drenched waffles? To quote a certain claymation dinosaur...

I have several recent and mostly non holiday-related reports for you: I am now a professional musician (by only the tiniest stretch of the imagination), stinky water feels really good, not buying Christmas presents is a soul-freeing and joyous exercise, and dry heat still sucks no matter what anyone else tells you.

This photo is how I looked on Saturday night; I feel it really doesn't look like me at all, which is supported by the fact that two people who know me were at the party and didn't recognize me without my glasses and with all that makeup and other stuff on my head. The occasion was someone's 50th birthday, and two other members of my dance troupe and I were hired as part of the entertainment that night. Since I am in no way good enough to do a solo dance, I just dressed up and played back-up drumbeats while my troupe mates danced some ethnic-y belly dance numbers. There were also three other drummers and a guitarist, all of whom were real professionals. I feel honored that they let me play along with them, and I cannot tell you how much I enjoyed myself. I so very much miss making music with other people. And I even got paid a little bit, which makes me a professional musician, right? Ha. I know that's somewhat of an exaggeration, but it's true enough that it gives my mom bragging rights so she can tout her daughter's successes to all her friends...

Sunday night, Alegra alerted me to the fact that there are hot springs in Jacumba, and that she was going there on Monday and I should go, too. I agreed that this was a fine idea, so yesterday morning four of us set out in her car to the high desert. Jacumba is a quaint (they have sundries! Doesn't that make it quaint?) little town in the mountains just before you drop down that long grade on the 8 freeway. The hot springs turned out to be merely warm on this occasion, but it was a great little place to hang out. Although stinky. The sign on the door to the hot tub claimed that it was "40% sulphur water." It certainly smelled like it, but were the contents of that tub really 40% sulphur? Wouldn't that kill you? Maybe they meant that the mineral content was 40% sulphur. Honestly, I wouldn't know enough about it either way. At any rate, it felt great. The water itself felt weirdly slippery, and it coated our silver jewelry with a changing rainbow of tarnishes, but it was extremely relaxing. We met a middle-aged couple who were originally from Croatia, but now live in Vista. They were both very sweet, excellent conversationalists, and experienced travelers and hikers as well. We all really enjoyed their company, and they may even come to visit me sometime at the brewery. The other guests were a bit more quirky, but that just fit the general atmosphere of the place. The decor was a mix of Mexican pottery, country antiques, giant fake flowers and weird plywood dioramas. But what else would you expect from a spa whose signage looks more well-suited to a cheap all-night diner? It was still a very enjoyable experience-- and the ivy-covered walkway was pretty cool.

After the stinky hot tub, Alegra and Diane and I walked out to the pool and laid out in the sun like lizards on the warm concrete. I actually got too hot, but it felt good compared to the chill of the shade. I had my beach towel draped over my face most of the time, and I noticed the most beautiful phenomenon. When I pushed the towel close to my eyes, the sunlight through the fabric made these shimmery circles of light appear and quiver like ethereal blue and green sequins, like fish scales, like I'm not sure what kind of gorgeous dancing light-refracting underwater-looking phenomenon. I really can't explain it any way that does it any justice at all but it was truly mesmerizing. As a consolation for my inability to convey just how beautiful that was, here's a cleavage shot for you. Alegra felt that my blog isn't sexy enough...

I spent the day today (after visiting all the kitties I am babysitting over the holidays) up at my brother's in-laws' house. I had a fine time, as I usually do. Carmen always cooks enough food to feed the entire state of Arizona, and I did my part to try and help diminish the mountains of edibles, but I don't think I made much of an impact. I came home with a bunch of cookies and these really yummy things that Mona made out of figs, feta cheese, and fresh basil. The small amount of time I spent there not eating I filled with watching the latest Pirates of the Caribbean debacle with Gracie, playing Scrabble, petting the hyper puppydogs, watching Emmy being ridiculously cute, and playing Guitar Hero or whatever that video game is called with Zach. It's actually pretty darn entertaining, as long as you don't really know how to play guitar already. Ken kept complaining that it was messing him up because he was trying to play along with the music. Huh. I think it was a case of sour grapes because I apparently have better eye-hand coordination than him. And my avatar was cuter.

Today was truly a fine day. The only thing that besmirched my mirthful mood was the weather. The Santa Ana winds are in town, and it's hot and dry. Blech. Hot at Christmas! This is just wrong. And the dryness makes it so much more unbearable--I don't care what all those people say about "dry heat!" What's good about your skin itching and your hair being all staticky and shocking innocent animals when you try to pet them? I do agree that summer in the south is a terrible and oppressive thing, having been briefly exposed a few times to the unbreathable, cloying air of North Carolina in August. But just because too much moisture and heat are so nasty doesn't mean in any way that by providing the opposite extreme of humidity that you are making an improvement. They both suck! And heat of any kind is just wrong at Christmas--unless you live in New Zealand. End of rant. To cheer you up a bit, here is the Albert Einstein action figure I discovered at Kiki's house the other day. I thought he'd look more authentic in sepia tones. Isn't he great? He's even holding a tiny piece of chalk so you can pretend to have him scribble quantum physics equations on your wall.
Happy Christmakwanzukkahsolsticeeid thingy to you!

A Restless Wind Inside a Letterbox

I am so positively overwhelmed with joy right now. Yes. I’m not sure exactly from whence this came, but when happiness decides to shower its reckless zig-zaggy light all over you, you would be a fool to question it. So I don't.

However, in an effort to explain, and for those of you who are less impressed by the esoteric machinations of the universe and more inclined to savor cold hard facts, here’s how my morning went: everything went right. Simple as that. I woke up early to take my car to the car-fixing place and get my oil changed, something I have been neglecting for far too long. The mechanic I went to is located exactly one block from one of my favorite coffee houses, Twiggs, so I went there to wait. The time I spent waiting for my car to be finished was more like a gift than a chore. I snuggled down in a dilapidated overstuffed chair, savored a Mexican mocha, and finished reading an amazing book.

Let me tell you about this book: it’s about a mouse. It’s a children’s book-- technically speaking. I think far too many grown-ups are robbing themselves of some of the greater joys in life by avoiding books with pictures in them. This was a true beauty of a book. It's called The Tale of Despereaux. About a mouse, like I said, but what a great little mouse he was--a small quivering hero of a mouse, a poetic little mouse with a love of romance and art. The language of the book is sheer golden wonderment to read. Truly, it’s beautiful. I am happy that I am not the kind of person who feels self-conscious reading children’s literature in public. You should try it sometime; it’s liberating. Being a grown-up is so often utterly boring and unrewarding that you really ought to put more effort into being childish. This is one of my most cherished philosophies in life. When people tell me that I am like a little kid (as I approach my fourth decade in life) I don’t take it as any kind of insult or negative criticism--no matter how they intended it. I think some people might be jealous, as rooted in their stalwart grown-upness as they are. What a shame. Go swing on the swings! Stick your tongue out at a coworker. Laugh in public for no earthly reason. It’s not that difficult to shed the confines of adulthood, and I highly recommend it.

At Twiggs, I also had the extreme coincidental luck (if you believe in that) to sit down next to an anthropology student who is studying under the tutelage of my brother-in-law. Archaeologists revolve in such small circles that this doesn’t surprise me in the least. We had a very friendly chat about the perils and the joys inherent to the profession of archaeology before I went back to my mouse book so she could finish her presentation. After I picked up my car (it sounds so happy now!), I stopped at Henry’s to pick up two things and of course bought over twenty. They had my favorite green juice on sale! Bliss, I tell you. And then, to top off all my successes of the early day, every single traffic light on the way home was green, except one. And then I was only stopped there for about six seconds. My trip home was such a fast easy breeze it seemed like I got there in no time at all. In fact, I believe I actually got home before I left.

Deep Thoughts by Lola Fitzgerald

Some ruminations on highway signage and language conventions: what’s up with “City Limits” and the perceived menace of landscaping? To elaborate, when approaching the end or beginning of a city, roadside signs tend to say something like “Blubbersville City Limit,” which I find to be perfectly reasonable--I mean a far as the word usage goes; I'm not so sure about the town of Blubbersville. It sounds like a very silly (or full of whale fat) place to live. So anyhow, in contrast to the signs, people in conversation or even in writing nearly always refer to city limits. Plural. This makes no sense. How can you have more than one limit to something? If you have more than one, then the first one really wasn’t a limit at all, now, was it?! A pre-limit? A probational limit that hasn't gotten it's official license to limit things yet? Hmpf.

And then there is my constant bafflement at the highway institution’s insistence that landscaping is something to be afraid of. If we have nothing to fear from artificially arranged vegetation, then what is with all those orange signs by the side of the freeway warning us direly that there is “LANDSCAPING AHEAD.” ??! Well, thank god they also have the follow-up signs letting you know when you can stop clenching the steering wheel in a death grip and begin breathing normally again--you know, the signs that say “END OF LANDSCAPING.” Whew! I always feel so much better knowing that my life is no longer in immediate danger from a bunch of hooligan shrubbery and misguided ground cover...

My last observation of the day is completely non-philosophical; it's pure amusement wrought by some poor well-meaning Christians whose attempts to spread holiday cheer went horribly awry. But in a really funny way. When I work at the brewery, I always drive south on the 15 to get home. As you go down the hill leading to Via Rancho Parkway, by Lake Hodges, there is a house all decked out in lights with their roof proclaiming in six-foot high letters “JESUS IS BORN.” Or at least, that’s what they are trying to say. Because of the angle of the roof, or perhaps due to something blocking part of the last word, it looks like it is telling you “JESUS IS PORN!” I’ve driven by it over seven times now and it never fails to make me laugh out loud and dissolve into a five-minute bout of snickering. Those poor people. If I didn’t have so much fun reading that every night on my way home, I’d find their house and tell them about the corruption of their spiritual message. I’m sure they’d be appalled. But honestly, they should be proud, and take heart in the fact that they are spreading good cheer and joy during this holiday season, albeit in rather a different way than they originally intended.

Non-cancerous Blog Post

On Wednesday I went to see my dermatologist for a follow up visit. He had done a biopsy on a red spot on my forehead that was looking forebodingly like some kind of non-malignant skin cancer. It was acting just like the spot I had on the side of my face two years ago that did turn out to be skin cancer. But the good news is that this time around, it was totally benign--not even pre-cancerous! Whoopee! Now I don’t have to worry about having them carve out a chunk of my forehead leaving me with a big Frankenstein scar right in the middle of my face. I'm actually rather partial to the inch-long scar on my left jaw from my last bout with basal-cell carcinoma--I try to pass it off as a relic from a knife fight with pirates. But having a scar right smack between the eyes would not be as fun. Nothing glamorous about that. I’m relieved as can be that all I have to do now is wait and see if it will go away by itself, which the doctor told me should happen.

What I have on my forehead is a keratosis, which I’ve already had a few of in other places, but they looked totally different than this one. Evidently I’m maddeningly susceptible to the keratosis thingies. The other ones I have tend to look kind of like warts, which is nasty. I had him freeze a few of those off while I was there. Not a fun process, but I look forward to being growth free. And I don’t have cancer! Life is good.

In other cranio-facial sort of news, one of my old ear tubes just fell out. You may or may not know that these things are standard procedure for me--because of the goofed-up cilia thing, my ears are highly prone to infection and just generally always plugged up and uncomfortable. Ear tubes are little bitsy plastic grommets that are inserted through the eardrum to allow drainage and prevent all that from happening. The one in my left ear had fallen out of my eardrum several months ago, which I was almost immediately aware of because my hearing decreased and the pain got worse. I'd gotten somewhat used to it the past four months or so. But just recently I had a nasty head cold that totally stopped up that ear--what I didn't know was that this ear tube was just hanging out in my ear canal and further obstructing my ability to hear. Well, now it's gone! I'm amazed at how tiny those things are. For a few seconds I considered taking a photo of it for you, but it wasn't very pretty after all this time and I realize that most of you don't have the childlike fascination that I do for medical procedures. Here's a stock photo of some ear tubes for the curious (mine was like the little white one with the red measurement above it). I didn't include the picture of an ear tube actually inserted into an ear drum out of concern for those of you who are delicate squeamish types. I try to be nice.

Dante's Tour Guide

Last night I had the weirdest tour ever at the brewery. Ken told me afterward that he and the guys who work in the store were watching the group assembling beforehand and said to each other (with a note of trepidation), “This ought to be interesting!” Yeah, lucky them, for not having to be the brunt of all the ensuing interestingness. One man in particular, wearing camouflage and a weird light-blue eyebrow piercing, was horrifyingly uncouth and challenging. He told me before the tour (using small words) that he was a trucker and that he was going to spend the night in our parking lot. Joy. Thankfully, he kept his mouth shut for most of the tour, but it was a strain nonetheless.

The other tour-goers included an intimidating tall guy with long dark hair, clad all in black, wearing some gigantic sort of tooth on a leather thong around his neck and a long black leather trench coat. Also, there were three giddy young kids, one of whom was sporting a pierced cheek (I didn’t know you could do that!) and one black and white striped eye, courtesy of a Halloweeny-themed contact lens. I also got to host a goofy antediluvian couple zooming around on a very large go-carty thing; the wife was standing on the back most of the time behind her husband. It was quite cute, actually--the rest of the time they spent snuggled on the front seat together. Fortunately, there was also one middle-aged couple whom I am eternally grateful to for gracing me with their rapt presence. They were my anchor. Whenever the rest of the crowd gaped at me in stony silence when I made my increasingly infrequent attempts at humor, I looked at this couple and was fortified by the expressions of gleeful anticipation on their faces. They were right there for me the whole tour. My rock, my salvation! I told them so afterward, too.

The guy in the trench coat actually turned out to be very nice, and asked some interesting and thoughtful questions. The young folks remained weird and silly, and the trucker dude continued to escalate his uncivilized behavior to the point that I nearly asked him to cut it out. I would have if I hadn’t been so afraid that he would have tried to fight me. Anyone who belches vociferously after downing each beer sample like a shot glass and then proclaims loudly “Bleach!!! Now I need a cigarette to get the taste of that shit out of my mouth!” is not someone I anticipate reacting docilely to a request to desist or vacate the premises. As Ken said, he most likely rounded out his evening guzzling Bud Light in his cab and muttering at his cowed girlfriend. I was not sad to see him go, which was sooner rather than later, thankfully. The nice couple stayed afterward for a long time to talk, which also made up for all the preceding discomfort.

In other news, I now have a spiffy new (well, pre-owned, if you must know) kitchen cart sitting next to my stove, courtesy of my friend Liz. No more cardboard boxes on my floor functioning as my inconvenient pantry! And I have extra food prep space, to boot. I am blessed to have such good friends. Barbara’s boyfriend Zack told me on Saturday that he would come over and finish up all the remaining jobs that need to be done around here so I can finally feel truly moved in! I still have uninstalled bathroom fixtures, curtain rods and blinds need to be put up, and two of my kitchen cabinets need shelves made. He’s even going to fix that ridiculous one-inch gap under my front door that lets all the cold air in. What an absolutely swell guy. I already liked him anyway; he’s one of the best huggers I’ve encountered in my entire life. And nothing is better than a good hug. Zack hugs you like he’s trying to break something, and he doesn’t let go until you’re on the verge of suffocation. But I like that.

Giant Spider Attacks and a Feminist Rant

Last night when I got home from work my new plant stand that I had ordered from Target was waiting on my doorstep. Yay! I got it for a super reduced price because it was supposed to be a Halloween decoration; it’s perfect for me as a permanent furnishing because I like creepy things. It’s wrought iron with black metal spider webs and spiders all over it. I think it’s adorable. I love spiders. Although this turned out to be a little too portentious... It was nearly 9 p.m. by the time I got home, but I was determined to set up my new home for my Christmas cactus. So I un-mummified the stand from its box and set it up in the corner of my porch, and went downstairs to retrieve my plant from its current exile by the fence. There were so many thick spiderwebs on the outside of the pot that it took me several minutes of wiping them off with my hands to disentangle it, compounded by the fact that it was very dark down there and I was using my sense of touch rather than looking at what I was doing. Those were some heavy duty webs!

After I got up to the top of my stairs and set my Christmas cactus down on its new station of honor, I was cleaning away the remaining webs and leaf debris when I saw a HUGE black widow spider crouching under the lip of the pot. Right next to my hand. I had spent all that time clearing her webbing away in the dark with her right there inches (or less!) from my fingers. Yikes! She was more scared of me than anything, however, and just curled herself up in a tight little ball when I scooped her up and tossed her into the tree. If there were children living in my apartment complex or the one next door, I would have killed it, but I’m glad I didn’t have to. She’s just going to have to go spin another one of her unbelievably strong and messy webs somewhere else.

Today I had to stop at the auto parts store to get some new windshield wiper blades--they hadn’t been replaced since last year sometime. In southern California, it makes absolutely no sense to get new wiper blades until you’re certain it’s going to rain in about five minutes. Otherwise, they just bake in the neverending sun and are useless when you finally need them. A big rainstorm is blowing in as I write this, so I wanted to get those wipers taken care of before I ended up installing the new ones outside in a downpour.

Finding the ones I needed was easy, and they only cost ten bucks for refills. Putting them on was a bit more challenging than I remember. First of all, I have no tools these days, so after shredding my thumbnails trying to pinch the little metal clampy things together I admitted defeat and asked the nice folks in the store if I could borrow a pair of pliers. They loaned me some, which made taking the old blades off a breeze. But trying to get those new ones on was a bitch. Yes, I said bitch! It’s okay to say that as long as you’re not talking about anybody in particular and it’s an inanimate object that has no gender...Yeah. So anyhow, I kept having to re-thread them over and over because on one side the blade would slide in through the appropriate groove, but the claws on the other side would be in the wrong place. And the situation reversed when I tried again. It wasn’t my fault! It was those stubborn grooves. I know what I’m doing, even though I’m a girl! Sheesh.

When I went inside to return the pliers, the woman behind the counter (who had told me she herself does not know how to put on new wiper blades) said “Hey, we were just about to send out a search party for ya!” Very funny. And the entire crew of the store was gathered behind the counter watching me. Apparently, a woman who knows how to fix absolutely anything on a car all by herself is something of a spectacle. I have to admit that I have a fairly hefty chip on my shoulder about this. My sense of pride is in overdrive when it comes to being able to do anything mechanical--I feel like I’ve got something to prove, which is totally ridiculous. But it’s also ridiculous that we still seem to cling to this outmoded notion that Y chromosomes somehow bestow innate mechanical knowledge upon the men who inherit them. I know how to use power tools, dammit! And why am I yelling?!

I apologize for being defensive about this, but it does still pique my mood if a man asks me if I need help checking my oil. It’s a matter of what you’ve learned, pure and simple, not what kind of equipment you were born with between your legs. More women do need to gain their independence in this matter and learn how to perform basic auto maintenance tasks themselves. Otherwise, men will continue to assume (justifiably!) that we’re incapable and we’ll continue to be taken advantage of by auto mechanics, and all my bluster is for naught.