Feliz Ano Nuevo!

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Last year.

Two years ago.

Santa Cruz trip!

Perfect weather: a little cold, but it only rained at night, so we enjoyed clear skies. We started with some shopping on Pacific, and we had dinner at a place called Malabar. It was sort of Indian fusion, and I had lovely stuffed peppers. Zadie's dish was noodles, and when an older woman came to check on us, Zadie complained that it was spicy. We tried vehemently to assure her that it was fine, but she was back in about two minutes with some plain noodles, so that was really nice. Z and I went in the hot tub before bed. It was a rotten night's sleep, as Z woke up at 1 and didn't go back to sleep until some time after 3:30.

Friday, I took Z to the hotel's restaurant for breakfast while Sweetie showered. We had vouchers, because I booked the hotel through Travelzoo. It was called Hotel Paradox, and we have actually stayed there before, but when it was a crappy place. It's since been bought and re-done, and it's beautiful. We really liked it. The theme is sort of nature-meets-modern, so there's a lot of white, but the big front desk is a giant log, and there are little plaster squirrels everywhere. The restaurant was lovely, too -- more on that later.

Then we went to Cafe Brasil, where Sweetie and I had gallo pinto, which is eggs, a rice pilaf with black beans, tortillas, fried plantains, and a vinegary sauce called lizano. YUM! We were just in time to get to Seymour Marine Research Center, which is a small aquarium we've been to before. We took the tour, which is free, and we got to see the dolphins getting their teeth brushed. Next on the docket was our favorite beach, Natural Bridges. I sat and looked at the ocean a lot while Sweetie and Z made a canal through a little sand island, got soaking wet and cold, and made sand castles. So it was back to the hotel for dry clothes, a more focused shopping excursion that included Bookshop Santa Cruz (one of my favorite bookstores on earth, though I can't explain why), and dinner at Saturn Cafe. I had gotten us some cookies at Pacific Cookie Company, so we had those for dessert and all three of us played in the hot tub for a while before bed.

Sunday morning we had a lighter breakfast -- pastries and coffee at Verve. Then, because we couldn't quite decide what to do, I just started driving down the Coast Highway. I thought I'd go all the way to the Pigeon Point Lighthouse (and the beach nearby that is excellent for finding seaglass and exploring tidepools), but instead, we pulled into Ano Nuevo. There used to be a lighthouse there, but it also used to be Ano Nuevo Point, not Island -- so you can imagine how much the sea has eroded there over the years. My favorite display is of part of the burned hull of a ship: it had crashed, and they burned it so it didn't look so bad to have a shipwreck in front of the lighthouse! They were doing a walking tour and a seal census, but we decided just to lone-wolf it. Sweetie was a little disappointed that we couldn't go into the protected area where the tour was going to see the elephant seals, but I didn't know that until later. We looked around the visitor center, bought a long-tailed weasel toy, and browsed the books and things (my favorite was a scat-identification guide which asked, on each page, "Who shat that?"). Then we took a couple long walking loops. It was muddy, but not awful. We certainly did see a lot of scat, actually, as well as some unidentified intestines that were no longer attached to anybody. We made it to the end of the walking loop and decided to take one more walk. I stopped to pee and said I'd catch up. When I did, they were at the end of the path by a beach. Zadie was refusing to go further, and Sweetie was splashing a little in the tide. As I walked up, another guy walking from the other direction approached Sweetie, spoke briefly, and pointed. I tried to follow, but couldn't see. Shortly, Sweetie walked back up and told me there was an elephant seal right there on the beach! I got a little closer so I could see, and sure enough, he raised his head and looked around, then went back to napping. Zadie was NOT PLEASED with this sequence of events, and we couldn't convince her to go look. I think she believes they eat kids or something. Oh well. It was cool for us!

We stopped at Donelly chocolates, where Sweetie bought me some of their amazing treats (my favorite is the ginger chocolate -- I got two of those). Then we went to the falafel place for a late lunch, then back to the hotel. Sweetie gave me some time to shop without the Z-ster, so I got a few items of clothing, and then he gave me even MORE time to go do a wine tasting at Bonny Doon. She had been a bit of a pill, but I don't look a gift horse in the mouth! I didn't ask questions; I just went! It was lovely, too. I ended up buying three bottles, one of which is a sparkling Albarinho that maybe I'll open for NYE.

For dinner, we really couldn't decide, so we opted to try the hotel restaurant. I'm glad we did! Zadie said her vegetable soup was the best, and I loved my risotto with artichoke hearts. We also had good service. Heck, I think when they get a liquor license, that place is going to be hard to get into. It was called Cafe Solaire.

This morning we went to Cafe Brasil again. I can't believe that for such a small town, Santa Cruz has two Brazilian breakfast joints and Sacramento doesn't have even one. We popped into New Leaf market for some road snacks, then made our last stop: Natural Bridges. The tide was pretty high, and their canal and the island were gone. Zadie often expresses fear of the ocean, and today she didn't want anything to do with the water's edge either, but I finally walked her over and promised I'd keep her safe. We were within a few feet of where the foam was washing up the beach, while little sandpipers followed it out, looking for food. I told her that I loved watching the waves break, and I liked when they crashed on the rocks and the white foam crashed high in the air. Just then, a big one did just that, and Zadie agreed that she liked that. Baby steps.

Z at the new candy store, It'sugar. (I know.)

At Seymour.

 Seymour again.

 The dolphins are named Primo and Puka. I don't know which this is.

Exploring at Natural Bridges.

The little island.

Skulls at Ano Nuevo.

Ano Nuevo.

Elephant seal. We heard he had just lost a bro-fight.

Last morning.

And that was pretty much our trip, with one exception. We stopped in Walnut Creek for water, gas, and a bathroom. I put the gas nozzle in, and Z had gotten out of the car with me so she could go to the bathroom. Sweetie pointed towards the kiosk thing, and I was looking over there when a spray of liquid filled my vision. Zadie had taken the nozzle out of the car, and gasoline was spraying all over! The three of us all got some on our clothing, and Z got sprayed in the eye (we washed it out). The car smelled AWFUL, so I kept the air vents open so we didn't end up with brain damage or something. But  that was exciting.



I didn't get a picture of it, but it was pretty much like this;




Maybe without the explosion.



GIFSoup

"What hath night to do with sleep?"

--John Milton.

Parenting Zadie is... difficult. I mean, she's always been brilliant and creative and funny and curious and all the things you hope your kid will be. But she's also -- difficult. She's passionate, emotional, mean, kinetic, energetic, and so active. Oh, so active. I have frequently pushed aside the nagging thought that she could be hyperactive, clinically speaking, not hyperbolically. In toddler song-time, twenty kids would sit in their parents' laps, and one would do laps around the Clunie center. In library lap-sit story time, fifteen kids would listen to the story and one would run for the stairs. In baby-signs, toddler Spanish class, ballet, soccer, hip-hop, and pre-school, if you wanted to find my kid, the easiest way would be to look for the blur running away. She would want to do things like ballet, but she just couldn't sit still, so she would wiggle and run and change places and roll around and poke and hug and grab the other kids. It was exhausting.

And the exhaustion has always been exacerbated by the fact that we don't sleep very well in this house. She has had a few two-week phases in her lifetime where she didn't wake up at night, but it was rare. She kicks and turns and throws off the covers and yells "EMM! OH! EMM!" at 1am and 2am and 3 am, and sometimes by 4:30 we'd give up. Getting her to sleep at night often included taking the things away that she had gotten out to play with, reminding her to lie down and close her eyes, reminding her to stop singing and talking to herself, and assuring her that she didn't need another glass of water.

And then we would go places and she'd run for the hills and I'd stop my conversation with some kindly old gentleman so that I could run after her, bags and coats trailing after me, and they would always say with some sympathy, "Well, at least she'll be tired tonight!" And I'd smile my thanks, but it wasn't true. She never was.

We had a soothing bedtime routine, blackout curtains, a white noise machine. And the articles I read for advice always started by assuming we were the Honey Boo Boo family. "Maybe you should consider," they'd helpfully say, "not giving them caffeine in the evening." Oh, gee, maybe I should stop putting Red Bull in her dinner glass. For fuck's sake.

And besides the hyperactivity, she was really just a pain in the ass sometimes. She would hit. She would whine or grunt instead of asking for what she needed. She would say how much she hated everything. She called us names. She spat. She would accuse us of Doing Things Wrong. Again, the articles would advise things like, "Consider talking to your child about how she is feeling. If you use physical punishment, try time-outs." I read books: Setting Limits with your Strong-Willed Child. Positive Discipline. Positive Discipline for Pre-schoolers.

Finally my mom, who spends nine hours a day with her, said that she thought Zadie wasn't getting enough sleep. I wasn't entirely convinced -- after all, if she was tired, wouldn't she just sleep more? And we had done nearly everything in our power to help her sleep and it hadn't worked.

I tried one more thing. She's afraid of monsters and the dark, so she generally sleeps with a lamp on. I was convinced it was partly to blame for her staying awake when she woke in the night, so we convinced her to try sleeping without the light. We said it would be a seven-day test, and then we could re-evaluate. It would be like SCIENCE. She loves science, so she agreed. We tried it for two nights, and she did get more sleep and was in a bit better mood, but on Friday morning, Mom mentioned the sleep issue again, saying that kids Zadie's age are supposed to get 11 hours a night. Zadie typically got 9 or less.

I emailed the doctor. She recommended all the things we'd already tried, plus one: melatonin. I had run across that suggestion, too, but mostly for autistic kids. And when I looked it up, the first several reports were of that hysterical "ARE PARENTS DRUGGING THEIR KIDS?!" variety. But I found some good scientific articles that said it wasn't really a drug, just a hormone that some people don't make enough of, that there are no side effects, and that all it does is regulate your sleep cycle.

We bought some and tried it Friday night. She NEVER says she's tired. Never. But she did that night. She went to sleep easily and slept all night long, eleven hours. That morning, we went to get my car serviced and waited at a Starbucks. She sat on my lap for nearly the whole 90 minutes without complaining once. Both (the lap snuggles and the pleasant attitude) were unusual. I really enjoyed the snuggles. All the rest of the day she used pleasant speaking tones, she listened, she readily agreed to my suggestions. She even made me lunch. Wait, let me say that again: she made me lunch.

It was such a perfect day that at the end of it, I was a little sad. I know that's hard to explain, but those days are so rare that I thought it was going to be a long time before I saw another. That night, she fell asleep early, while Sweetie was still reading to her. She slept for only 10 1/4 hours, and we had a good day. Not the perfect listener, but she tried hard, was sweet and pleasant, and really seemed like she wanted to do well. If I had to ask her something twice, I might say "Oh darn, I know you can be a listener. Don't you want to be today?" And she would try.

We've had two more days now, and today at Grandma's, she apparently told them she loves them and that they're the best grandparents ever. Mom said she wanted to rest her eyes, so Zadie did several things quietly so as not to disturb her, then covered her with blankets and patted her. I teared up when I heard that, because her usual reaction would be to scream in Mom's ear, jump up and down on the bed, and take a flying leap onto her abdomen. Well, I'm extrapolating based on what she usually does to me and her dad.

The funny thing is, in the evening, she now wants to cuddle and she complains of feeling tired starting at about 6:45. She's so much more calm, body-wise, and so much more gentle and cuddly. One study I read said that kids who are sleep-deprived sometimes make up for the fact that they're so tired by trying to move their bodies constantly. It sounds counter-intuitive, but what do I do when I'm driving and feeling over-tired? Shake my head around, stretch my shoulders, wiggle my jaw... I guess it makes sense.

It's going to sound bad when I say this, but Zadie, for the last four days, has been acting a lot more like a normal child. One who gets a little fussy for a while after lunch, and who gets emotional at bedtime. And she's not any less brilliant and creative. But she's a lot more sweet and loving. Tonight as I kissed her goodnight, she said, "I love you ALL the numbers plus a googolplex plus infinity." And then she conked out.

If we were drugging her to make her change her personality, I would feel bad about it. If we were suppressing some essential part of her character to make our lives easier, this would weigh heavily on my conscience. But the little chick just doesn't make enough melatonin on her own. She needs this naturally-occuring hormone to help her sleep, so we're going to give it to her, just as we'd give her insulin if she didn't make enough of that. And the best part of all of it is that SHE seems a lot happier. It's almost like all the extra hugs and love and sweet words are her way of saying thank you.

I Guess I Was Punk Once

That is what the bumper sticker on my car says. I saw it in Eugene, Oregon, and I had to go online to get myself one. It perfectly encapsulates both my nostalgia and ambivalence.

But in a way, it's not true. In fact, in a way (and hear me out), I think I'm more punk now than when I actually sported blue-green hair, a lip ring, and my 8-hole Docs.

So how is that, you ask? Well, it's like this: I feel that the punk rock ethos is all about living by your own rules, creating the world the way you want it to be, and owning (in a metaphorical sense) the things you "shouldn't" be allowed to own. Punk rock, first and foremost, was about working-class kids who didn't have the money for guitar lessons just picking up a guitar, doing whatever they did to it, and playing something with a raunchy voice and just a few chords. "You thought I couldn't do it, and you wouldn't let me into your club. But here I am, doing it." It's why Sid Vicious covering Sinatra's "My Way" is so perfect.

But I know you're not convinced, because I'm not doing a damn thing that looks punk rock these days. I'm your average soccer mom with a house and a well-paying job with benefits. I make cheese for fun. At the very least, I was more punk when I was actually making punk music.

I know that "subvert the dominant paradigm" is kind of a bumper sticker-y thing to say, but it also strikes me as a punk idea. And the dominant paradigm is consumerism. It's a disposable society. It's having a ticky-tacky house in a neighborhood with CC&Rs. And within that paradigm, making cheese can be pretty damn subversive.

Why? Well, cheese-making is certainly a bit of a trend right now. Sunset Magazine will surely tell you how to do it. But if you are making cheese to avoid buying cheese, you are opting out of the culture at large. If you are making yogurt, growing your own fruits and vegetables, making your own jam, baking your own bread, crafting your own Christmas gifts, buying used clothes from the consignment shops... Well, that shit starts to add up. And what it adds up to, in our case at least, is a conscious shift away from the consumer culture. By participating in Buy Nothing Day instead of Black Friday, we were being subversive.

I follow a blog called Punk Domestics, which is part of what got me thinking about this. That, along with a book I read called Radical Homemaking, struck me as odd pairings. Since when, after all, is being domestic punk? Since when is homemaking radical? But if a big part of punk is saying no to the paradigm, saying you'll do things your way and on your terms, then I think you can approach almost anything with a punk ethos.

Years ago, a kid in a punk band used to hang around with us and come to our parties. He was railing on one night about anarchy -- he wanted to build a little anarchist community, and they would live all by themselves, and if they wanted food or something, they'd just go to a little nearby town and steal what they needed. The inherent problem in his plan, of course, (one of the problems, anyway) is that his version of anarchy still relied on there being a big old capitalist system nearby to leech from.

I participate in that capitalist system. I buy groceries, new clothes sometimes, kitchen goodies -- hell, I interrupted writing this blog post to go add a silicone spoon to my Amazon wish list -- and I am materialistic in certain ways. I love my stuff. But the more we opt out of the capitalist culture, the more we can opt into it in ways that we feel good about: we can go to local restaurants with minimal staff turnover. We can buy directly from the farmers' market. We can support locally-owned small businesses.

Have we sold out a little? Oh sure. We got an education. We have retirement plans. My biggest involvement in the Occupy movement was to take them some water and bananas. But we're also raising a kid who, with any luck, will see that we create our lives in the way we want them to be. We question the way things are done and choose what works for us. We encourage critical thinking in our kid, in our students. And we are making marriage, home ownership, parenting, and our lives work for us, making it all up as we go along.

So maybe once I listened to music real loud, looked more intimidating, wore band patches safety-pinned to my backpack, and spent less time at the playground or in the kitchen. But I don't think a punk mindset will ever be entirely behind me. Well, maybe if I didn't start every morning with The Clash...

Fit or fat... or both?

We were having a conversation at the lunch table about what time people got up in the morning, and what they did with the time. I said that I'm still getting up at 5 every day to work out at the gym.

"Oh yes!" my colleague clapped with enthusiasm. "You've been doing that for...?"
"About two years now."
"Fantastic! And how are you feeling? What has it done for you? Do you have more energy?"

I didn't want to disappoint my raw-food enthusiast friend, or the math teacher who's also a runner, or the health coordinator, or any of the other friends I share a salad with once a week, but the gods' honest truth is this: I'm not sure it's done a damn thing but rob me of an hour of sleep.

I mean, maybe I do have more energy, but I also rarely get as much as seven hours' sleep a night. So they kind of, you know, cancel each other out.

I'm not saying going to the gym has done nothing for me. I feel more muscle definition, particularly in my arms. And I haven't gained weight, despite the fact that I haven't been watching my food intake as carefully lately. But, well... I'm feeling pretty goddamn ambivalent about the whole thing lately.

See, sometimes I see my neighbors, who are bikers and runners and rowers, and I'd love to be athletic.

And sometimes I look at Michelle Obama, and I think, I just want to be toned.

And then I run across a lingerie ad and think, fuck athleticism and toning, I just want to be skinny and sexy.

And then I think, oh my god, what unhealthy, disordered thinking! Skinny doesn't mean sexy. I'm gorgeous and sexy as-is.

And then I see myself in a photo and I feel like an ugly lump. Like, I ran across this picture of me and Sweetie from his high school reunion, and I thought I looked super-hot that night, but it turns out that I looked like the Michelin man in gold lamé.

And then I think, I've got a kid. A daughter. It's my job to teach her to love herself, to love her body. To see that health and fitness are more important than body shape.

And my health is good. I'm fit.

But fat.

Are fit and fat even opposites? I mean, I work out, I ride my bike, I can hike and walk long distances, I can lift weights. I can hold my own in Zumba class*. My cholesterol and blood pressure are both very good. I'm overweight, but I don't suffer from any weight-related health issues.  But would I someday?

My Facebook feed has links to blog posts from moms who say out loud that they themselves are beautiful, just as they are. And links to articles about how anyone could lose weight if they really wanted to and tried hard enough.

I unsubscribed from Livestrong's newsletter after about the fifth article in a week that said if you were fat, you were making excuses and not trying hard enough.

I want my body to be able to do cool stuff, like karate or capoeira or dance. I feel great when I dance. I wish I had the time and money to go back to ballet.

And I could probably lose the extra weight, and I know exactly how. It involves Weight Watchers. My metabolism has changed a lot since I used to drop weight easily on the WW, but I could still do it. What it would mean, though, is skipping desserts except on days when I had carefully planned for them. It would mean skipping the cocktails at poker night. It would mean having a salad when we go out to dinner, dressing on the side. It would mean being hungry a fair amount, and craving things that I could not have. It would mean planning every last detail, paying attention to every last bite, and often going without things that I like. And I really like food. Honestly, cheese? Man, cheese makes me happy. It would make me unhappy to skip the cheese. So is it worth being unhappy to lose weight?

I know people who are that careful with their diet. My mom is probably a perfect example. She knows when she's invited to a birthday party that there will be cake, so she has extra-light other meals that day. I envy her self-discipline. I don't even think she's unhappy. And I don't think she likes cheese less than me. I think she just wants it more than me -- wants not to be fat. I think I like cheese more than I like thinness. But I don't know. Because thinness looks pretty good, too.

And it's all complicated by the fact that we may, someday soon, think about actually giving Z that little brother or sister she keeps begging for, and why would I lose 40 pounds just to gain 40 pounds again? Even though starting a pregnancy fat is riskier than starting a pregnancy at normal weight.

You see? It's complicated. I want to model healthy attitudes and healthy eating. I want to model joy and self-love and self-esteem. I do not want to model obsessiveness and calorie-counting, or indulgence and sloth, and I do not want to model self-hatred. I think a fine line exists in there somewhere, but I'm having a hard time finding it, and I suspect it will be a hard one to walk, too.





*This is modesty. I straight-up ROCK at Zumba.

Indigo Girl

     I took Zadie to the gypsy market, but not, as you might expect, to sell her to gypsies. They were selling little knitted things and handmade jewelry and whatnot, and there were occasional performances of dancing and hula hooping. We passed a small table with a crystal ball and a woman seated behind it. Zadie peered at the ball, asked a few questions, and then settled down to watch the dancing.
    "You know she's special, don't you?"
    "Yes, thank you. She's very special to me."
    "She's an indigo child*. Have you heard of those?"
    "I have."
    Another woman nearby nodded knowingly, and a man leaned in and offered, "She's what we're all trying to become."
    "Well, she's certianly unique. And often very difficult."
    "They always are."

"You're Zadie's mom?"
This time we are at the park.
"Yes."
"I wonder... She reminds me a lot of my older son. Have you read, by any chance, The Mislabeled Child? It's about how some kids who are gifted get labeled hyperactive."
"No, I haven't. It sounds interesting. She certainly does have a lot of energy."
"And she says the most amazing things. She's definitely gifted."
"Well, she's different. We've certainly wondered at times, whether she was hyperactive or had something like sensory processing disorder."
"Oh yes! Does she love movement? My son does, too."

The truth is, we get stopped pretty frequently by people who want to tell me how Zadie is an old soul, gifted, indigo, special in some way. And some of my deepest concerns revolve around the fact that she is different from the other kids in noticable ways. She is active. She has a hard time sitting still. She is passionate, intense, emotional, sometimes mean. She is extremely physical, wiggly, fidgety. When she was still a toddler, I found this article and thought it apt.

My ego as a parent of course wants her to be special. Special in a good way. And I don't want her to be different in the bad way. There is a huge part of me that would love to embrace the gifted label and reject the hyperactive label. The book sounds PERFECT. But I don't want to label my kid at all. I want her to just be who she is. Active, imaginative, verbal, funny, physical, curious, and a thousand things more.

She's very special... to me. That's plenty for now.


*I actually find the tone of this Wikipedia article about indigo children pretty hysterical: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indigo_children

Bein' a Dad

"But I have no idea how to be a dad. I never had any example."
Around nine years ago, in the middle of a grueling and completely un-fun conversation about Where This Was Going, Sweetie revealed his main reason for not wanting kids: he was afraid he wouldn't be any good at parenting. In a testament to both my unflagging optimism and my bullheadedness, I assured him that parenting is an instinct; it just comes to you. He'd be great. I talked him into it, as a far-future possibility, and eventually, as the years passed, into a reality.

And maybe it did come to me by instinct or maybe I had internalized my own good parenting to the extent that it felt natural, but parenting does come pretty easy to me. Not to say that it isn't hard, or that I enjoy sleep deprivation, or even that I don't completely lose my shit sometimes. But here is the unvarnished truth of the thing: he was basically right.

From a very young age, Sweetie's dad was not living nearby. That doesn't mean he wasn't a good person or anything, but he was not around. Sweetie really has no idea what a dad does. And to be even further unvarnished about it, the parenting example he did have, on the maternal end, left rather a lot to be desired. As far as I know the best parenting example he got was from early 80s sitcoms.

But (you were hoping for that but, right?), even though it didn't come instinctively, he has been willing to learn. I'll read a parenting book, tell him the Cliff's Notes version, and within a day or two, see him employing the principles of it. Their personalities are very similar in ways that cause the two of them to butt heads a lot, but he knows he needs to build a bond with her, so he would read her bedtime stories, alternating with a story from me. Earlier this year, he started reading her The Hobbit. Then they read Fellowship of the Ring. Now they're in the middle of The Two Towers. He's been the bedtime story guy for months. It was a huge improvement in the amount of time they spent together.

Even so, a lot of the pre-bedtime hours were still her and me, and he would be in his office. A few times over a short period, she would tell me something that included this phrase: "Daddy was in his office... as usual." That struck a weird chord with me. I didn't want her to think of our lives as one where Dad was available primarily for 20 minutes just before sleep. I brought it up to him, and he was defensive, arguing that he was with us for dinner time, too. Also, she could go into his office any time she wanted, and she chose not to. I mentioned that his office isn't very comfortable for guests, particularly guests who like to touch stuff. He huffed at me a little and didn't answer immediately, but the next day when I came home from work, he was moving her little desk from her room into his office.

It worked. Now, she spends some time with me, some time with him. Sometimes they paint or draw together. Sometimes they listen to audio books. She never complains about his availability. I think he's happier to have a better relationship with her. I'm happy that I can do my own thing sometimes without my (wonderful, charming, attention-seeking) constant companion.

In sum, I meant to write this for Sweetie's birthday. Sure, he's been a man for a long time; we own a home, he's got a job and an education... But he's been slowly growing into this fatherhood thing, and working hard at it. And I love my Dad, and he's a good man, too, but I don't think it's a secret that I don't have a lot of experience living in a household with a mother and a father co-parenting as partners. So we're both making it up as we go along, working on instinct, and consulting the books when we don't know what to do. And I'll probably never stop being optimistic and bullheaded, and I just steamroll him sometimes, but he's getting awesome at this whole thing and I couldn't ask for a better partner.

I survived

Okay, that's not true: I thrived. Driving home from Tahoe, I had on a mixed-up playlist, and a Pretenders song came on where Chrissie Hynde sings, "You've changed... your place in this world" and I sang along really loudly.

So here's what happened. After a bit of dithering, I got on the road just before 4, and I made excellent time. Really, like "was I speeding?" kind of excellent. The cabin was easy to find, and I could see by the GPS map that it was very close to the lake itself. It was a charming little place, and I parked, grabbed my bags, and knocked.

I was warmly welcomed, and I soon sat down to talk with the other three women there. I don't think I need to hide their first names, so I'll just use them. Jennifer is the woman whose cabin it was, and she set the tone and the agenda. She was a lovely blonde in her fifties with two teenage sons, and when I Googled her later, I learned she had been in the publishing industry for years, written something like fifty books, and been an editor. Pam was in her late sixties, had nine children, and wrote mostly journalistic stuff -- articles on parenting and the like -- but was working on a sort of memoir about her childhood home. And Colleen was ten years younger than me, but quite successful. She had gone to film school and works for the company that made The Lorax and Despicable Me in their development department. In fact, I promised that I wouldn't tell, but she shared a file with me of a novel that hasn't yet been released. The author is someone that several of my friends would absolutely pee themselves over. She's writing and illustrating a children's book that I found charming.

We drank wine and ate crackers and cheese while getting to know one another, and then we had a late dinner of a frittata and homemade bread. After dinner, we walked to the lake. It was only a few blocks away, and although it was dark out, it was nice just to smell the air and hear the gentle lapping of the waves. We then walked back and re-convened around the wine to set official goals for the weekend. I thought about writing for a bit then, but it was actually quite late, so I retired to an upstairs room with a daybed and a small desk. I wrote down a couple notes, then read a couple pages of "Beautiful and Pointless" and went to sleep.

In the morning, we enjoyed coffee and a light breakfast (cereal, yogurt, bananas), then did some writing to two prompts. I ended up with a very short story that Jennifer encouraged me to submit somewhere right away. Then we were free to write for a few hours. I had been so nervous about not being able to write anything, but in fact, I wrote three poems in that time. Lunch was curried pumpkin soup and cheddar-apple panini. Jennifer apologized for the soup -- it hadn't blended quite smooth -- but everything was delightful. She then walked us to the meadow. I was thinking, "meadow? Meh." But in fact, it was a lovely windswept amber expanse with views of the mountains and the lake, trees turning yellow and red in the distance. And we followed the path all the way to the lake, where there was a very narrow strip of sandy beach. The water was cold, but I can't resist getting my feet wet. We walked back and wrote for a few more hours until dinner. I spent some time outdoors in the backyard, but it was a little windy and sap was dripping from the pines. I also walked once more to the lake via the street, but it was cold and I thought of something I needed to write down, so I wasn't gone long. And I actually completed my goal of six poems early!

That night, Jennifer told us that at our cocktail hour, a friend of hers was stopping by. I actually found that a little odd. Wasn't this our writing retreat weekend? But as it turned out, not only did I genuinely like her friend Kim, she is the owner of a small press, so we got to talk about both sides of publishing, and we questioned her at great length about what she did and what her upcoming projects were. Dinner was getting very late, and at length Jennifer walked her out to her truck (she declined to stay, as her dog was with her). She came back in and reported that Kim had a lovely time, and was surprised that we didn't have a hidden agenda in inviting her. And although it doesn't seem to be something we could, in fact, capitalize on, I think it added to the overall interest of my weekend. And I got a chapstick with her press's logo on it!

Dinner was pot pies from a local bakery, plus a nice salad and more wine (her pillows on the couch read "Write by the lake" and "drink by the lake," and they weren't kidding!). Again, it was quite late, so I just read for a bit and went to sleep.

Sunday morning I slept quite late (well, for me). I had awakened in the night and couldn't get back to sleep, especially after I discovered the cool light-up blanket on my bed! It sparkled when you moved it. (I realized in the morning that it was static electricity.) We had coffee and breakfast, and then writing time. Of course, I had actually finished what I wanted to write*, so I instead decided to do part 2 of my organizing project. Part one was taking the mishmash of unnamed and duplicated files from three different places (an app I use, my Word program, and Google documents) and giving everything a discrete file name in a folder called "writing." I at that time also created within that folder four others called "works in progress," "ready to submit," "submitted -- pending" and "published." I felt good about being able to drop ten files into that last folder right away, but the others I hadn't touched. So part two was moving things around a bit. I knew that some could go into "ready," and all the rest should visit "in progress" for a while. But once I did that, I started opening up and polishing some of the "in progress" ones and moving them into "ready." And at that point, I still had some time before lunch (I could smell something wonderful, but I could also hear Jennifer periodically informing Pam, who was also downstairs, that the vegetables were taking much longer than she expected), so I went ahead and submitted a few poems.

At that point, I shut down the computer, packed my things, stripped the bed, and brought down a glass and a mug and the sheets. Lunch was on -- some lovely roasted veggies with apples and grilled cheese sandwiches. We shared a few of the things we had written, said our goodbyes (and our keep-in-touches, which I hope we will), and I packed the car. It was only two, but I had nothing I needed to do, and I missed my family. I drove the short distance to the lake, stood for a minute and took a couple pictures, and then I hit the road.

And so I'm always a teacher and a mom and a wife, and those things are important, but I'm a writer too. For real. I've changed... my place in this world.

*For reference, I was working on a series of thematically-linked poems called "Eleven or so songs for a disorganized mind." It just struck me as funny to use such an un-round number as eleven, undermine even that by adding "or so," and have the theme be disorganization, then write all the poems in strict form and meter. It is probably remarkably stupid to have written eleven poems as a series, because nobody publishes more than about five or less than a book. Still, that's what I wanted to do and I did it, so if I want to market it, I'll have to be creative. 

Fingernail-biting-time

So... I read about this writers' retreat. And before my rational self could talk me out of it, I asked Sweetie and emailed the lady and wrote a check.

And it's this weekend! I leave in two days! And I'm FREAKING THE HELL OUT. Because I'm not a writer, I'm a teacher. I'm a mom. I don't deserve to spend a weekend in the quiet, scribbling in notebooks. How ridiculous. What nerve. What gall to even fancy myself a writer.

I started organizing some of my poems for submission, and I put the published ones into their own folder (most places won't take previously published work). And I realized that of the things I submitted this last year or so, I actually got more published than were rejected. And I did win a contest put on by the Sacramento Poetry Center. Okay, actually, I won both first and third prize in that. I've given multiple readings and had positive receptions.

Maybe I'm a real writer, maybe I'm not. But the check is written, the childcare is arranged, and I'm going.

Coffee!

I love coffee. I actually started drinking it in junior high on a semi-regluar basis (if you don't count the kid coffee I was occasionally allowed). Back then, I'd get it at the McDonald's by my junior high. In high school, I drank my first good coffee, a Sumatran, from the Java City downtown, and I was soon drinking cafe mochas at the Village Express coffee and doughnut shop by my house.

 In college, I had an espresso machine, and I would basically make four shots and call it a cup of coffee. I soon realized I needed to cut back, and by my late twenties, it was an occasional thing, but I didn't have a coffee habit. I had actually moved back to my old neighborhood and was still grabbing a cup at the Village Express a couple mornings a week.

Then I met Sweetie. He is a coffee guy, and sometimes I would wake up at his house to the smell of bacon (what can I say, even some vegetarians can understand the appeal of that smell) and toast and coffee. I've been a regular drinker since with a brief caffeine-free interlude while I was pregnant.

We used to use a French press, and then we got an AeroPress. It's a little tricker, but faster, too, and it makes great coffee. Our regular beans are from Naked Coffee, a roaster in Oak Park. I used to buy the beans at a coffee shop called Tupelo, and one day I saw a sign indicating that their coffee was half off on Mondays at the roasters. Ever since, I've tried to make it a point to get a few pounds when I have time on a Monday. It used to be $6 a pound, and now it's $7. They're nice guys, and pre-baby, I sometimes took a book, let them make me an Americano, and read outside on a dingy thrifted couch.

We've always gotten occasional bags from elsewhere, including Temple, which is highly regarded for their beans. But Naked Coffee is our staple coffee. The owner also owns a cafe called Orphan, and there, they have a couple different coffees on the menu. I'd read the descriptions and tend to go for ones that said things like "warm and nutty with hints of chocolate." But I never liked them as much as the ones that said "citrusy and bright." I decided I'd set myself a taste test: I'd try coffee from every local roaster, and to keep the comparisons among fairly similar coffees, I'd try to pick South American ones with "citrusy" in the description.

I began with Capricorn Coffee, which actually isn't that local -- it's from San Francisco. But they sell it two blocks away from here, so ya know... It was $11 a pound, and I found it very smooth and tasty. We were off to a good start. They only sold half-pound bags, so it didn't last long.

I bought a bag of Naked Coffee, at $7/lb. It is perhaps my ideal coffee. It has a rich aroma, is a little citrusy without being at all acidic, and tastes like I think coffee should taste.

Then we went to Insight and tried their Guatemala. It was very acidic and fruity. It had a great flavor, but it was so overpoweringly acidic that I thought it would be a better occasional weekend coffee than an everyday brew. Sweetie noted that it wasn't a good match for his preferred cup -- which is white with half-and-half.

Then we tried the Orphan Columbia. I loved this one. I found it both citrusy and bright without being acidic or bitter.

Next up was Chocolate Fish. I got their Panama, and it was one of the more expensive ones we tried, at $14.95 for 12 oz. I find that 12 oz bag thing to be a little deceptive, even though it's clearly labeled. I mean, usually a BAG is a pound. So it takes a little math to discover that a pound of their coffee is actually about $19.95. OUCH. I wrote in my notes, "very tasty, light citrus, not at all acidic. Great flavor." Sweetie disagreed. He was on about week three of coffees that he thought practically curdled his cream.

I then picked up a bag of Old Soul Guatemala. I thought it had good flavor and a nice balance. Sweetie thought it very acidic, but I was shocked. Acidic? This one? No. But the next day, I had to agree. It was quite acidic. I wondered what the difference could have been and realized that on the first day, I drank it while it was still hot, and on the second, it had cooled off. Sweetie always drinks his cooler. So I mentioned it to him and the next day, he drank his before it cooled too much and had to agree -- the acidity was much more pronounced when the coffee was cool. For whatever that's worth.

Next up was Temple's Brazil. Temple makes a delicious coffee. I haven't had a bad one from there. They're expensive, too, but good. It's $14.50 for 12 ounces, too, and they have even more expensive roasts than that.

Finally, I went to Coffeeworks. I go there a lot for a cup on my way to work if I have some spare time, $2, and it's a second-cup day. I actually don't like a good number of their coffees: I think they're over-roasted. The French and Italian are right out, and their signature blends, like Dark Star and Jump Start aren't my favorites either. On the other hand, I've enjoyed an Ethiopian Sidamo from there, and I always look forward to the day they have Nicaragua brewed up. I was hoping to buy a pound of the Nicaragua, but they were out, so I opted for Honduras. They don't have descriptions of the coffee up there, but I'd venture a guess that this'd be on the "warm and nutty" side. I thought overall that it didn't have much character. It was... just fine.

I made a few other observations: Chocolate Fish, though I probably wouldn't buy their beans regularly, seemed like a really pleasant place to sit. Old Soul had GREAT food and terrific people-watching, too. They also sold coffee in Mason jars, and you could re-use the jar for a discount. Temple was crowded and was the only place they didn't ask how I wanted my beans ground (that's not to say that every other place offered to grind my beans, just that if they did, they asked how fine). Insight offered me a free shot of espresso with my beans, which I took them up on. I like the decor, but their furniture seems like they went to Intentionally-Uncomfortable-R-Us. I really like Orphan's breakfast and lunch food, so it's worth it to go there for a meal and pick up some coffee, since their deal is that if you buy a pound, your cups of coffee are free (well, two cups).

I als
There was no need, really, for me to declare a winner. I was on an exploration more than anything. And yet, there was a clear winner. Not only was their coffee good, not acidic, full of character and great for every day, it was the cheapest by far -- half as much or less than almost every other place. Naked Coffee, Monday at the roasters. The taste test is over, and I bought two bags today. Can't wait for my cup in the morning. It will feel like an old friend.

Fall

Hi all, I'm not entirely ready to let go of this blogging thing yet, although it's definitely taken a back seat to other things. But sometimes I just want to tell people stuff, and also to write it down so that I can go back and look at it later, so here it is.

I love summer. It is far and away my favorite season. So fall kind of gets the shaft in my affections, because it's the one that replaces it. I'm sad when fall comes. But there are things I love about it.

• Going to the apple orchard.
• The smell of the leaves.
• Hot tea.
• Re-introducing winter foods like squash and soup.
• 75 degrees. 

As much as I love summer and the heat for the things you can do in it, like swimming, there's almost no better temperature for just existing than 75 degrees. A little too cold? Stand in the sunshine or grab a cardigan. Been on a bike ride and got sweaty? Just stand still in the shade. That's what this weekend has been like, and it's delicious. 

I took out most of the summer garden, rescuing a few green tomatoes in the hopes that they'll ripen in a box lined with newspaper. I also granted one plant a reprieve, as it still had quite a lot of fruit on it (plus, it's my favorite one, the black cherry tomato). I also gave the eggplant a reprieve, as it has one itty-bitty fruit left, and I want to see if it can get bigger. I harvested the other two. 

I also planted stuff -- lemon balm and lemon verbena, a cauliflower, six broccoli, a cabbage, and 12 chard starts, plus twelve sugar pea starts and a bunch of nante carrot seeds. 

I took out a basil and am drying the leaves in the dehydrator right now. 

I think all this gardening and canning and such has changed me a little. I am appreciating fall a bit more  because I'm intentionally living more seasonally. We put up tomatoes and pears for winter. We foraged plums and made jam, and then ate the jam, but that's okay -- I saw the first kiwis at the market today. Just a couple years ago, if I saw a recipe that called for oranges in May, I wouldn't have hesitated to just go buy oranges. Now, I may still buy some things that aren't local or seasonal, but it's not my default. I am looking forward to oranges because they will be most delicious when they're actually ripe and fresh and from my mom's backyard. So there's an excitement in the change of seasons. There are things to anticipate. 

Another change is that I've never been exactly wasteful -- I mean, I read "50 Things Kids Can Do to Save the Earth" before the term "climate change" was on everyone's lips -- but I did take things for granted. You do just have too many grapefruits on the neighbor's tree, so they get chucked into the yard waste pile. No big deal. But today I drove by a big cactus I always have my eye on, and the plentiful cactus fruit is starting to shrivel, and I thought, "Are you people crazy? Are you not going to pick that and use it? You can make JAM out of that, folks!" And I even very briefly entertained the thought of asking them if I could pick it. But I haven't changed that much... yet. 

Camping 2012

[There are a billion photos at the bottom. I won't be hurt if you scroll there first.]
As you can tell, I've really been procrastinating on this post. For one, as you know, I've been posting a lot on Facebook. For another thing, I didn't take very many pictures, as my phone (which I use for a camera) was sucking up battery charge. And finally, there was something a little harder to explain.

We had the best camping trip I've ever been on in my life. And we also did almost nothing that was noteworthy. Part of me wanted to keep it to myself and those that were with me as a private, lovely memory. And part of me couldn't figure out how I could say something like "then we just lolled about on a rocky beach for five hours" and have it sound as wonderful as it was.

But someone has been bugging me to blog about it, so I'll do my best.

Our days followed a routine pretty closely. We woke, made breakfast, cleaned up, had a little quiet reading time or a hike, made a simple lunch, went to the river, came back, made dinner, had snacks and played games, and went to bed.

There were exceptions. The first two days we were there, Zadie and I went to Junior Rangers, a free program for kids seven and older. Of course, I didn't know that (and apparently, neither did many of the other parents), so I took Zadie, and after I realized it, I asked if it was okay, and the ranger assured me it was fine. That program is fantastic. The educators are great with kids, and the activities were lots of fun. One day, they made plaster molds of animal feet, and they studied tracks. Then we went for a walk down to the river and saw some tracks there. The next day was about the water table, so they learned a little song and dance about it, then did a project with paper, pens, and spray bottles to see if they could predict where water would run.

One day we went to Garberville, and that was a funny experience. I remembered it from my early teen years, and in my memory, it was a small throwback hippie town where I once found a beautiful, wrap-around raw silk skirt. And there were things that had changed, and there were things that hadn't, but I realized there were things I had forgotten, too. For example, I really only remembered the main drag, but the town itself was more than that, and I had completely forgotten that. It was still kind of a gift shop-laden tourist trap, but I still loved it, too. It has more than its tiny share of toy shops and places to get handmade jewelry. It reminds me in some ways of Santa Cruz' main drag, but smaller and with a smattering of bait shops run by hoarders.

On another day, we hiked across the river, farther than I remember going, and found an abandoned homestead in a sunny clearing filled with wildflowers and poison oak. It was marked only by a rusted bedframe and the stones of a fireplace.

We went to the nature center on one day, and I bought some postcards and books, plus a fun game Zadie and I like to play now. I saw from across the room a postcard of a fireplace, and I wondered if it was the one we'd discovered in the woods, so I asked about it, but it was actually something else -- a Julia Morgan designed monument only a mile away! Now, I am not exactly an architecture junkie, but there are certain architects whose work I enjoy, and Julia Morgan is one of them. I could not leave there knowing I'd missed a change to see something she had made, so Zadie and I drove there and took a few pictures on an afternoon when I'd had enough sun.

So what was our routine like? Well, we generally woke when the sun was up and the birds were chirping. Some sounded like an electronic alarm. Then we ate our cereal, danishes, coffee, and most importantly, whatever my dear sister-in-law made. Pancakes, French toast... Oh, she makes the BEST pancakes. If you're not a camper, you may not be aware that something about the fresh air and your hunger makes camping food taste better than the same food at home, but it does. Beyond that, though, M makes her pancakes in about half a pound of butter, so that the edges get crispy, and that fat salty flavor infuses the whole pancake. Delicious.

Doing dishes while camping can be a pain in the ass -- you have to boil water, be careful to not get the water too filthy, dump the water later -- but it wasn't on this trip. First, as there were a number of adults there (it's funny to think of my nephew as one, but he is), we easily took turns without even discussing it. And better, there was a big sink with hot water right next to our campsite.

Our quiet time was nice. Zadie often went exploring with her auntie, and they found a big tree and named it Fort Zamale. They went there almost every morning with the dog, and were sometimes gone for an hour. I read a thick book.

Lunch was a little haphazard. Sometimes we made sandwiches, and sometimes we just grabbed granola bars and apples and water and took them to the river. The walk through the woods to the river made me feel ashamed. When I was a kid, we rushed through it, eager to jump in the water. I didn't appreciate how utterly beautiful the landscape was -- tall redwoods, fallen trees covered in moss, light slanting through the trees, horsetail growing tall...

At the river. The river may have been the best part. It wasn't too cold, it didn't move fast, and there were swimming holes everywhere. Each day, we walked a little further and found an even better spot -- more private than the first day, more comfortable than the second, more fun than the third -- until we settled at a big tree with a rope swing. It was a terrible swing. To get there, you had to shinny two ways up a steep, wet log, and then, the rope was hanging almost vertically already, so all you could do was swing out a few feet before you hit the water, lost momentum, and went straight down. Nevertheless, it was great fun. We also ran into the same funny, toe-nibbling fish I remembered from 20 years ago. We found out they are called the Sacramento pike minnow, and they're the same invasive species they've been trying to eradicate near here. In fact, there's a bounty on their head! Fishers are encouraged to catch as many as they can, bash their brains out, and throw them onto the shore for the birds. This pursuit entertained much of our party for many hours.

Zadie did a little fishing and a lot of floating in a tube. I did no fishing, a tiny bit of floating, a bit of swimming, and hours and hours and hours of reading on the beach. The single drawback to the beaches there is that they are rocky and therefore not particularly comfortable. Sometimes you can find a sandy spot, but it's mostly closer to the plants, which means there are a lot more bugs. But it didn't really bother me. Other people I loved and trusted were watching my kid, and I got to read in peace, uninterrupted, in the sunshine, and with a soundtrack of laughter, for a long time. Basically, it was heaven.

When we got back, we started cooking dinner. We had pasta twice, chili once, "Yum bowls" once, lentil tacos once, and burgers once. My two favorites were the Yum bowls -- basically a rice bowl with avocado, cheese, tomatoes, and tahini sauce -- and the chili, which I made in a cast iron pot and which was perhaps the best chili I've ever made.

A few nights, we made either s'mores or popcorn. Sometimes we had time before bed to play a game called "Hiss" with Zadie.

In the evenings, we'd put Zadie to bed (Sweetie was reading her Fellowship of the Rings), then generally the grown-ups would play Uno or a game called Munchkin, which is both very silly and very fun.

And that is basically that. There were episodes that stood out, of course. One morning we got to watch a garter snake eat a fish. We saw a trio (I think) of otters in the river one day. We watched with bemusement as the campers across from us put their tent in a hollow tree. We let Zadie wake up our nephew, which is always funny.

And beyond that, there wasn't much. Weather was lovely, not too hot, and barely too cold at night (I was comfortable, but I had a nice sleeping bag, so Sweetie, who only had a blanket, was cold).

The game we got.
Sweetie grew a beard.
Zadie really enjoyed getting some auntie time.
Most ginormous banana slug I've ever seen.
Trees are tall.
The Julia Morgan monument in the Women's Grove, commonly referred to as the Four Fireplaces.
Z climbs a tree.
The beach at the river.
Sorry for the fuzzy picture, but it still captures perfectly Z's joy at getting to hang out with J and L.
Some people felt it was chilly in the mornings.
We did exactly one tourist stop on the way back from Garberville. I would have done more... I actually like driving through trees and buying postcards made of wood and junk like that.
One of the Junior Ranger programs.
At fort Zamale.