And keep it wild.

And keep it wild.

"If you think about it, they probably felt like they were doing a good thing," my friend John mused a day later.

Not counting the fact that he and I use the phrase "if you think about it" as a completely free-standing insult, John had shuffled through the order of events of what turned out to be quite a bizarre evening, and realized that even though we did the right thing and took the necessary precautions, we totally pissed off some good-hearted stoners.

We started our usual, try-really-hard-to-be-weekly night hike differently, this time. We caravaned to a new parking area, left one car there, and drove back to our usual spot. This particular hike is our favorite, so it was getting a little boring. We decided to do a point-to-point route, up and over the mountain. Easier said than done.

It was a total adventure. A really technical descent down an unknown route with no trail in sight. Our soaked feet slipped on wet rocks and our hands grabbed for anything we could grip to. Flora and fauna, obliterated by each wrong move. Ultimately, I felt free, strong, rash, and independent. Only a few times did I call ahead to John to find out where he had put his feet, not sure of the safest route over some fallen rocks.

"What are you most afraid of? Falling, or getting trapped and stuck?" "Dude. Falling," I answered, as the loose rocks I was about to step on tumbled down and out of sight. John then described how it was mostly an irrational fear. "We're actually more likely to get trapped." I then explained how even though I was more afraid of falling, getting trapped and stuck was a very close second and he wasn't helping.

We paused to shine our headlights on beautiful and rare plant life, mostly succulents sprouting forth from between rocks. Things I'd never seen in this area. The nearby sounds of rushing streams fed by the recent storm took us to another world. Something like the northwest, something distinctly un-San Diegan. A beautiful waterfall trickled down a rocky fissure. Slugs and snails shone blue in the glow of the bright moon and our LEDs.

We gradually found a somewhat official trail that switchbacked down the rest of the hill. A quick walk through the park and into the neighborhoods, and we were back at our car. Erik called me on my cell phone to ask where his burrito and wife were, and I sort of explained we got lost but left out the intentionally-leaving-the-main-trail part. Being a scientist and future park ranger, let's consider him better off not knowing about me trampling through muddy, forbidden terrain.

John drove my car back to the main parking lot, where his car and my legally-required-to-drive eye glasses sat anxiously awaiting their owners.

"Holy shit, there're people there," I warned John as we pulled up towards his little Subaru.

"That's my car," he said through my open window.
"No it's not," they snapped back.

Much confrontation ensued, with my sweet car moving slowly in reverse as they continued approaching us, trying to explain to John that his car was, well, not. The man reached into his pocket, and my fingers fumblingly typed 9-1-1 on my cell phone. "Should I call?" I asked. "Sure." Sure? What kind of response is sure when there's a 911 call involved? I needed affirmation. I was afraid of a spectrum of things, ranging from them whipping out a gun to the girl dragging me out of the car door and scratching my face and pulling my hair. It took me a while to be afraid of the camera-phone picture they snapped of my license plate, but I'm good and afraid of that in retrospect.

They told John that the people in the Subaru had walked off a while ago and it wasn't us. Yes, it was us. We were just much cleaner and dryer and were wearing beanies and camelbaks. They said someone else came up to the car while we were gone. You know, because they were monitoring the parking lot all night.

"So, what's the problem again?" the dispatcher said, slightly puzzled and very jaded. I knew it sounded ridiculous. I knew I sounded like I was the one on drugs, not the clearly altered couple denying John his rightful sense of automobile ownership. But there was no way I was even getting out of the passenger seat to drive myself home, much less let John get out and push through the loiterers to his car. Also, I needed my glasses.

I remember in college, we walked our friends home after a party only to find their front door smeared with blood. Drips led us across the complex to their neighbor's house, an old lady they knew was home alone this weekend. Her door was locked, also smeared with blood, and nobody answered. The police took over an hour to arrive. Before rescuing the seriously injured and weak-from-blood-loss lady, they took another few seconds to chide us for walking all over a crime scene (you know, our friends' doorstep).

This time, the cops arrived in 10 minutes flat. Nobody was mysteriously scattering blood around a neighborhood. Nobody was dying. Yet. All in all, the police confirmed that John's car was indeed John's car, and the couple sped away in their car. They were clearly on something.

We were convinced they were trying to break into John's car, but now we're not so sure. They were just harmless kids, enjoying a little chemically-induced paranoia and protecting our cars, trying to be good people. But we called the cops on them, pissed them off, and they have a picture of my license plate.

Muddy Patagonia-clad engineering workers vs. stoned parking lot protectors. Totally your average nature walk.

Light. Day.

Light. Day.
There are really no words to render the sadness about the earthquake and tsunami victims in south east asia. 44,000 people, dead. Millions more, who on that quiet Saturday had very little to being with, now have far, far less.

So instead of being another bourgeois, priviledged, slightly-rained-on-but-otherwise-safe-and-dry person struggling to find words, I'm going to make this post an homage to something completely and inappropriately different: television and commercialism.

For christmas, Erik got me, amongst 12 or so others, the Polyphonic Spree 2003 release, "The beginning stages of... The Polyphonic Spree." The song, "Light and Day" makes me smile and feel inspired every time I hear it, and I'm going to have to admit that my indie rock sixth sense didn't lead me to this song or this band. Instead, it was an iPod commercial. (And technically, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, but as the song came on last night, I immediately thought, "dude! the song! from the commercial! that I always comment on!" Ergo, rampant commercialism gets the credit).

Instead of trying to redeem this indie faux pas, I'm just going to resign myself to television and marketing ruling our generation, and confess other songs and artists that made their way into my heart via commercials. There aren't many, but still. And I can imagine that two thirds of all Nick Drake fans out there hadn't heard of him until, well, you know, so stop looking down your noses at me.

Nick Drake, "Pink Moon," VW/Cabrio.

Richard Buckner, "Ariel Ramirez," VW/Touareg.

Polyphonic Spree, "Light and Day," iPod.

Aaron Copeland, "Rodeo: Hoe Down", Beef: It's What's For Dinner. Circa 1980s or something.

Hooverphonic, "Renaissance Affair", VW/Beetle. (although I had listened to Hooverphonic before this commercial. In fact, Erik ditched me for a Hooverphonic concert the night of our first date. Long story.)

Postscript: I will say that there have been equally (if not more) common moments of happy recognition, followed by "those fuckers! stealing my song" in other commercials. Namely, the Hummer/Mojave3 commercial.

With that, I'm going to go and listen to "Light and Day" over and over again because I like the idea of following the day and reaching for the sun amongst the unfathomable sadness and grief in the world.

In all seriousness,

In all seriousness,
Today I'm wearing a Patagonia Capilene thong.

It's seamless and "wicking," like the Capilene base layers we know and love. Wicking. My worlds are colliding.

Well, the English accent has faded again...

Well, the English accent has faded again...
...All thanks to about a half hour of pure Drop Dead Gorgeous quotations in my best Minnesotan Amber Atkins voice at the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport on Monday night. But It was totally strong the whole week. I literally couldn't speak in an American accent, not even to my husband. It was a little freaky, but hey.

We had an incredible time. I'm sorry that my guest blogger didn't work out, because she really is up there on my All Time Wittiest People list. I think this is the third time I've promised a guest blogger with it not working out, so next time I'm just going to stop promising and let you be pleasantly surprised. However, Tamara had saved a bunch of the things she had written to post and I'm totally going to have her post them later. And continue with my evil scheme to get her to start her own blog. MUAHAHAHAHAHA. Cue sinister dark lightening-flash-lit castle pictures with bats. Cue evil organ music.

The trip was nothing short of incredible. Funny that I used the word "short" in that last sentence, because that was the downfall. I'm going to space out my stories though so as to take full advantage of all this new blog fodder.

Until then, a few pictures to hold you over. The first two are from the Lake District. One is some lake or other. Loweswater? I can't remember, but Erik took the picture. Not only is he cute and sweet, he's also apparantly a demon with the digicam. Who knew? The second is at Egremont Castle, also taken by Erik. The last is the sun setting (at like 3pm) over Buckingham Palace on what was a beautiful and surreal sunny winters day in London.

Gone, she's gone.

Gone, she's gone.
Alright, we're off to sunny, tropical England for a week or so. I promise you lots of pictures and stories.

I also promise you a guest blogger. Her name is Tamara and she might just be one of the most entertaining people I know. I want her to start her own blog so that I can read it every day, so this will hopefully be a stepping stone. I'm quite selfish.

Anyway, Tamara is beautiful, successful, sweet, and witty as hell. She also has a husband with an excess of sports memorabilia displayed throughout the house and she makes fun of people who post on her local neighborhood crime watch bulletin board. I'm sure she'll keep you entertained.

Much love, dear internet, and I'll miss you until the 21st. Unless there are any cute and cheap internet cafes in our path.

Mother, remember.

Mother, remember.
The other night, we went to see Iron & Wine at the Belly Up Tavern in Solana Beach. First of all, he has my exact same Taylor, but makes it sound way better than I can even imagine making it sound. Good/sad times. Second of all, I actually teared up during one song. This guy is such a phenomenal song writer. Also, I was rapidly approaching the Girly Time Of Hormones And All The Crying. Incidentally, NPR also made me a little weepy earlier that day.



He started singing a song I'd never heard before, because I didn't have The Creek Drank The Cradle. The song is "Upward Over the Mountain."

mother don't worry, i killed the last snake that lived in the creek bed
mother don't worry, i've got some money i save for the weekend
mother remember being so stern with that girl who was with me?
mother remember the blink of an eye when i breathed through your body?

so may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten
sons are like birds flying upward over the mountain

mother i made it up from the bruise of a floor of this prison
mother i lost it, all of the fear of the lord i was given
mother forget me now that the creek drank the cradle you sang to
mother forgive me, i sold your car for the shoes that i gave you

so may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten
sons are like birds flying upward over the mountain

mother don't worry, i've got a coat & some friends on the corner
mother don't worry, she's got a garden we're planting together
mother remember the night that the dog had her pups in the pantry?
blood on the floor & the fleas on their paws
and you cried 'til the morning

so may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten
sons are like birds flying upward over the mountain

I bought the CD that night and have since been haunted by the song, which really means I keep pressing repeat and can't stop thinking about it and talking to my friends about motherhood and the beautiful part with the pups in the pantry.

I see a son's relationship with a mother that may be fragmented, at best. "Mother remember the blink of an eye when i breathed through your body." It's something that no amount of functional familial relationships or phone-call-ending "I love you"s could ever dream of showing a mother. Deep appreciation soars between the adult and his mother, the once-fetus and the womb. I realized that I don't think about pregnancy through the mind of myself as a baby inside my mother. I have never stopped to think of my relationship with my mother as that of a woman quietly listening to the heartbeat through the stretched skin of her belly, wondering what I was, how difficult I would be, who I would look like, who I would become.

My breath caught thinking about it, and thinking about how a mother could never, ever stop remembering her children in her womb. When they grow up and bring girls home or move out and then maybe she doesn't ever get to see the girls they're bringing home and they make rash decisions or she gets the police knocking at her door at 2am looking for her son, she grew that person inside her body and that detail never goes away.

And then the guitar breaks down to almost-silence and he very quietly sings "Mother remember the night that the dog had her pups in the pantry?" and there I am watching a private moment many years ago, a moment of huge joy and fear and excitement. And the little boy remembers his mother crying and the little puppy paws. And that is nothing short of beautiful.

I may have spent much my life forgetting who raised me, who cultivated my very life with their own, who taught me love and compassion and crying, but if, for one moment I remember this as an adult, as someone who will be a parent of her own some day -- if I realize that many years ago I shared the same blood and the same breath as my mother, then none of the forsaking and forgetting matters. That realization amidst the fleetingness of a child trumps any fathomable concept of gratitude.

"So may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten, sons are like birds flying upward over the mountain."

Dear Internet, I need you.

Dear Internet, I need you.

I need a hotel recommendation, please. More than one, actually. I like options.

Erik and I are going to England soon. Next week. Holy fuck! Anyway, so, while we're there, we're heading up north to Cumbria for most of the time, to visit long-lost relatives which will probably feel like meeting them for the first time for me, and also to show Erik around the little village of Thornhill that raised me, and the surrounding towns. We're staying a few nights with some relatives on a farm, and a few nights with The Amazing Bernadette. It's also going to be really cold (for us) and we'll finally experience an actual winter. There'll also be a spot of driving on the wrong side of the road. I'm ridiculously, unfathomably excited.

Regardless, before we fly back to America, we're spending two or three nights in London. Even though I grew up in England, I hardly even spent a weekend in London. A day or two max.

We've procrastinated looking for hotels, and now I need the internet to help. I know I can count on you.

We're not above staying at a hostel, but would kind of rather not. You know? I just want to keep my (sex) options open. Oh shut up, not that open. I'll keep it with the one husband, but I just don't know anything about hostels and I think there are bunk beds and shared rooms involved.

Here are our requirements:

Cheap.

Somewhat quirky, interesting, and non-cookie-cutter.

Somewhat close to the city center, or some point of Greater London-y interest.

Walking distance to the tube or buses.

Private rooms. I think we could hack sharing a bathroom.

Ready, begin.

Work highlights

Work highlights.
Last week, I joked to my coworker Craig that one of my product managers had called 8:30am meetings all of this week, and that I'm usually barely brushing my teeth by 8:30 on a workday. Isn't there some rule about not calling meetings before 9am? We decided that maybe I should show up in slippers with a toothbrush, and brush away during the meeting, spitting in the conference room trashcan.

Today, he walked past the open conference room door during said 8:30am meeting making toothbrushing motions. I about lost it.

Also in said 8:30am meeting, this sweet drafter (who sits on the other side of the cubicle wall to Jackie and I and therefore knows pretty much everything about us) just OUT OF THE BLUE turned to me with an array of colored highlighters and a huge grin on his face, and said, "want a highlighter?" It was great. We went on to talk about spicing up your highlighting or post-it-noting or tape-flagging with varying colors, and that I only really have yellow highlighters, which get monotonally depressing. I didn't bring up the time I traded my only green highlighter for my friend John's pink highlighter but ended up walking downstairs with a green highlighter and some Reese's Peanut Butter Cups from the upstairs vending machine, but walking back upstairs empty handed. How John convinced me that not only should I give him the peanut butter cups and the green highlighter, but that I should also let him keep the pink highlighter, I'm not really sure. Long story short, I'm a monotonal highlight-er because I'm a sucker.

After the meeting, I had to talk to someone else briefly before returning to my desk, but when I got there, my highlighter-comrade had left me not only a shiny new pink highlighter, but also an equally shiny new blue highlighter. Definitely the pink and blue highlights of my day.

Happy.

Happy.

These first few pictures are from our annual Thanksgiving morning sunrise hike. We've done this every year we've known each other, and it's a wonderful day to ground ourselves and be thankful for creation.







And later on, at my parents' house, my special Thanksgiving Tofu:



That's all. Stories later. Much love and thanksgiving.

I am thankful for a house full of tables.

I am thankful for a house full of tables.

To make up for my intermittent-at-best postage here, I'm going to make a post of all bullets and pictures.

Really, I'm just going to put the pictures in their own LI tag. It'll look a little strange, but I'm posting pictures of my dining table(s) and my butternut squash soup bowls on the internet, so I'm no stranger to strange.

Sunday night, we had 18 of our lovely friends over for a Thanksgiving dinner. In our tiny dining room. We had to get kind of creative with the seating, as shown in Figures 1 through 4, below. It was so beautiful and wonderful and delicious.

Table.

Yet more table.

The post-dessert funk. Also, some table.

And here's one of me holding Grace, for good measure. Near the table(s).

These people are as close as family to us, and we love them dearly. I'm so happy that we could find time to celebrate Thanksgiving with them, instead of hurriedly shuttling off to our respective families. I am indeed thankful.

The end.

Open Letters.

Open Letters.

Dear Cost Plus World Market,

"Minimum assembly" my ass.

Love,
Julia


Dear Scott and Sarah,

There are no words for how much I love you guys for bringing over not only your own turkey, but also your own cutting board, carving knife, and pot to warm up the gravy. I think all of our friends had pre-resigned themselves to a turkey-less thanksgiving and were delighted at the sight of the roast beast. I was also delighted to not have to clean it off my stuff. Also, thank you for raising Grace and having another baby on the way. You two make good babies.

Love,
Julia


Dear Starbucks,

It took a lot for me to come around to the dark side and buy tasty things from the imperialistic green mermaid. So why did you give me a cup of vanilla syrup today? I could barely taste the latte. I had to drink it down a little and top off my cup with Free Mystery Coffee from the engineering break room, therefore, you know it's bad. I think I deserve a free gingerbread soy latte next time I come in, okay?

With half the syrup.

Sweetly,
Julia


Dear Nacho The Groomsman, Who I Was Paired With For A Wedding On Saturday,

I love that you shaved off your 70s mustache for the wedding. That's true dedication. Also, I think you were the only other person in the bridal party who cussed as much as me. Actually, we were the only people in the bridal party who cussed at all, come to think of it. We were meant to be. Also, did you notice how we were always at the end?

During the bridal party dance, my heart pretty much overflowed with like-like when all you said was, "after this, I'm getting a white russian."

Love,
Julia


Dear Internet,

I know, I'm a terrible friend. I run away for a week and then come back and post like nothing happened and expect you to love me just as much. Please forgive me. After this post, I'm going to post again entirely in bullets and pictures.

Love,
Julia

And there was a great gnashing of teeth.

And there was a great gnashing of teeth.
Around 2:30am on Monday morning, Erik shook me awake. "Julia, you're grinding your teeth." This left me in a freak-out-induced hour or so of sleeplessness. I finally woke up again at 7am, noticing that my teeth were grinding again when I woke up. A dismal future of chewy plastic dental appliances flashed before my eyes.

Later that day, I mentioned the early morning rude awakening to my friend John, and he insisted that nighttime teeth grinding is an undeniable sign of stress. I just sort of brushed it off. Or I was interrupted by Joel. I'm sure it was a combination of both. Yeah yeah, Julia is stressed out again and it's causing freaky physical manifestations, blah blah blah. When I'm stressed out, I usually deal with it psychosomatically more than on an purely emotional level. This wasn't really that surprising to me.

However, the more I thought about it, the more I realized I couldn't think of any particular teeth-grindingly source of stress. I was going over this with Erik last night, listing the steady baseline of work stress and social stress but nothing really huge. I told him it was a little odd that I'd choose to start grinding my teeth right now, when I could easily list times in the past where stress had totally trumped anything I'm dealing with this week/month/year. I was actually wondering if there was something huge on the horizon that I was interpreting on a subconscious level. And then I started thinking about the word "gnashing" which always cracks me up in church when they read the part about Judgement Day. Most people are afraid of the Book of Revelations, but I'm always slightly entertained by images of a group of crazy people prancing around and gnashing their teeth. I digress.

Then Erik sheepishly said, "Oh. You've done it before, though." Maybe he didn't really have a sheepish tone, but I thought he should have sounded sheepish and took some psuedojournalistic liberties.

So it turns out I'm a habitual teeth-grinder. Thanks, person-who-has-slept-next-to-me-every-single-night-for-the-last-four-years-and-two-weeks-but-never-brought-it-up-until-now.

Update.

Update.
I know, I know.

I've had a few things going on that I just couldn't really air out on here. It's unfortunate, because airing things out on here is one of my favorite pastimes.

In other news, I have been recently alternating between giving up caffeine and deciding to start next week. My doctor highly recommended it, and I just keep reminding myself that my late-November appointment was cancelled and rescheduled for one last week. Therefore, I really shouldn't have heard her no-caffeine recommendation yet. So therefore, I raise my glass (cup) of hot tasty latte in thanksgiving for the gods of rationalization.

In other, other news, I was inspired by an old coworker, Kristin, to have a small gathering of close friends a few days before Thanksgiving. We always seem to neglect our beloved friends in favor of family at the holidays, and it's high time I did something about it. These people are as dear to me as family is, if not moreso.

Oh, and speaking of Thanksgiving, unless my icky cold develops into the flu or something, I'm going to participate in Oxfam's Fast for a World Harvest again. Every Thursday-before-Thanksgiving, they ask that you fast for a day and donate whatever you would spend on food to their campaign. Or, just cut something out of your diet, exist on simple staples, or participate in an fast-y event somewhere. I just can't bear to sit around a warm Thanksgiving feast when 842 million human beings are hungry. It changes the way I'm thankful for my own blessings.

And finally, we have a new bishop! I'm really excited. I put a lot of prayer and meditation into the decision of who to vote for (each church has 3-5 delegates, unless you're a huge church), and finally decided to vote for Canon Jim Mathes from the diocese of Chicago. He was actually my first choice from the get-go, before I even met them all. Just reading his profile, it appeared that he was the most likely to preserve unity, mediation, and the center of the church. Things got pretty nasty and political the few weeks before the election, and that's one of the huge things I refrained from writing about. I'm sure there was a lot of internet searching going on, looking up people's names and things like "bishop search" on google, and I really didn't want any search hits landing here. I was a facilitator for some small group discussions and Q&A sessions with the candidates, so it was probably a good idea to maintain a neutral image. That makes me laugh. Anyway.

I'm simultaneously looking forward to and afraid of the next few years as we adjust to new pastoral leadership in our very fragile little church community.

That's enough out of me for now. I promise I'll post tomorrow, too.

My heart is breaking...

My heart is breaking...

...with sadness and apathy and a little bit of fear that we re-elected Bush.

...with pity that John Edwards is now totally out of a job! I'd totally hire you!

...with amazement and joy that Donna Frye is doing so well as a write-in candidate in the San Diego mayoral race. Last I checked, she had 35% and the next place person (incumbent) had 33%. A write-in is beating the incumbent. Erik and I have always loved Donna Frye as a city councilmember, and generally turn to her to make sense of vague initiatives (WWDFD?). I heart her so much. Keep an eye on this race!

...with swooning as I witnessed my FightingForDemocracy! husband get home from work last night at 2:30am and walk around the bedroom wearing only his Registrar of Voters polo shirt and clearance badges and boxer briefs. Holy goodness. It's my version of the fireman fantasty.

...with despair, regret, remorse, horror, strife, etc., upon my recent discovery that Guinness, Newcastle, Boddington's, Murphy's, etc all use isinglass, a fish-based gelatin, as a fining agent. I had found out about Guinness, and told my coworker about it. He jokingly said, "I'm so sorry for your loss. Let me know if there's anything I can do for you." So I quickly fired back, "Yes, you can buy me a Newcastle," only to find out that Newcastle also uses dead fish to clarify the stout. I guess I'm stuck drinking expensive Belgian beers, then.

Walk humbly

Walk humbly.
Last week, I participated as a facilitator in my local diocese's bishop election "walkabouts." We're electing a new bishop in a few weeks, so we had all eight nominees and petition candidates come around to various places in the diocese and spend 20 minutes a pop with different small groups (~30-50). I facilitated two groups over the week, and feel deeply blessed to have been a part of such a process. The first night, I was focusing a little more on the facilitation than bishop-ness, and on how inexperienced and inarticulate and socially inept I am, and how everyone was going to think that Julia fucked up their chances of getting a solid, basic knowledge of each candidate. The second time around, sure, I was still all of those things, but I had a chance to actually pay attention to the answers a little more and try to process who I want as our bishop.

Interestingly, despite the frantic first night worries and concerns circulating in my weary mind, a response from Canon Jim Mathis from the diocese of Chicago pierced me. He asked us to fire back our own quintessential scripture message, something that defined our faith. I immediately thought of Micah 6:8. I hate to like, quote bible verses on here, but it's part of my story so hang in there. "He has told you, O mortal, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?" This is how I live my life. I don't feel like my God requires much else of me than to be a just, kind, loving, humble person, standing up for what I believe is the right thing, and doing all of this hand in hand with God. Were God to have hands, of course.

Other people responded to the question with the God-gave-his-only-son stuff. It suddenly struck me that as a Christian, maybe I should be concerned that Jesus isn't at the forefront of my faith. My "quintessential verse" is from the old testament.

I've spent the rest of the week and weekend in a mixture of wonder and concern, going back over the questions that I've gone over so many times before, thinking I'm a lousy excuse for a Christian. This time, though, I have a more mature view of scripture and spirituality than I did when I was first coming to terms with the whole Jesus business as a child. Jesus was the son of God. A part of God himself. He was a radical in his time and as followers, it's our duty to live Christ-like lives, loving everyone as we ourselves would wish to be loved, and feeding and clothing and caring for the less-fortunate long before feeding and clothing and caring for the more-fortunate. Etc.

But I'm not sure I fully believe in sacrificial atonement -- that Jesus "had" to die to forgive all of our sins, or that it was some sort of necessary sacrifice for the sake of worldy sin. I don't fully believe that "none shall come to the father except through [Jesus]," either. I'm borrowing this thought from someone else, but if I were to go to heaven, and find out that my non-Christian neighbor (whom I loved and who loved me and was a very good person) ended up not in heaven, heaven would then cease to be heaven for me.

If we take those little disobediences, and toss in that I don't even rattle off a Jesus verse first when defining my faith, then I really don't know what to think. I may be walking humbly, but I feel totally lost.

Okay, Fine. I'll talk about politics.

Okay, Fine. I'll talk about politics.

Erik and I used some literature from the (ELCA) Lutheran Office of Public Policy's California division to help weed through the many propositions. And for the measures that LOPP does not take a stand on, the descriptions of the propositions and the reasons they declined to take a stand ended up being quite discerning for us, too. I just like getting progressive Christian perspectives on this stuff.

Their home page is:
www.lutheranpublicpolicyca.org/index.shtml

and a detailed look at each California proposition is here:
www.lutheranpublicpolicyca.org/alerts.shtml

And if that's not enough, here's a pretty detailed look at who supports and opposes many of the ballot measures. When the "for" and "against" arguments all seem to sound the same, it's always telling to then look at the list of supporters. i.e., what kinds of groups really want this ballot measure to pass/fail? And is what they want a priority for me and my community?
www.lutheranpublicpolicyca.org/supportoppose.pdf

Happy voting.

Campy.

Campy
I had a wonderful time on our little camping trip this weekend. It was great to pack up everything you need to survive into a relatively small container and immerse yourself in nature and your loved ones.

Quite possibly, one of the loveliest highlights of the whole experience was the way the early morning sun cast deep golden shadows across the rippling sand and jagged sandstone mountains. It's pretty surprising how drawn I feel to vast expanses of rocks and sand and more rocks and more sand. It's the little moments of light and shadow and effortless glory. The brevity of a warm soul through tired eyes and chattering teeth and a beanie'd head and fleeced body. Lingering glimpses of creation outlasting the fleeting taste of amazing coffee prepared lovingly whilst crouched over a trusty stove by our mother hen, Jackie.

My sweet coworkers kept joking about the little imperfections of the desert, and how God totally needed a retrofit kit ("a dash-9-0-1") for the terrain. As caught up as I get in engineering jokes [/nerd], I couldn't help but be fully overwhelmed that -- in every water-carved canyon, in every earthquake-rippled cliff, and in every wind-blown crevice -- God's creation is doing just fine on its own.

Well, it was, until we started digging little holes to bury our poop.

Right up there with the desert sunrise was having Erik spend time with the people I spend 8+ hours a day with. I adore those moments when all your little sub-worlds collide seamlessly. You know, like watching friends from different walks of your life mingle at parties or weddings.

Some shining pictoral moments:

On Saturday, Erik, John, and I hiked up to a little peak above some "underwhelming" wind caves. The views were majestic in all directions.


A group self-portrait:


Erik and I with his/hers camelbaks:


Ocotillo:


John with the coffee and that morning lighting:


Jackie taking care of us all:


Craig has amazing legs. Also, Jackie and I have decided to en-title him my "work-gay-best-friend." No, he's very much not gay. And sorry, ladies, he's very much not single, either.


Two persons, my ass:


Stop Plate Techtonics!


The elusive elephant tree, AKA: tree #14 of a poorly misguided use of taxpayer funds for fun numbered but not otherwise identified desert trees.


Finally, on the ride out of the wash, my sweet and dirty husband feeling the wrath of the Subaru's 8.5" clearance:

Yes mother, I packed a raincoat.

Yes mother, I packed a raincoat.

Tonight, we're driving out to Anza Borrego Desert to camp and backpack a scosh. I'm so looking forward to time out in the wilderness.

I'm going camping with the following people:

1. my sweet husband
2. my ex-work-boyfriend
3. the ex-work-boyfriend's girlfriend
4. my new work-boyfriend
5. my work girlfriend
6. Craig

Craig needs a title.

Erik will find out if he's accepted into the Ranger Academy VERY SOON. The academy runs from January through July, so if this all happens, Erik will be running away to Monterrey for six months, and then in July, we could very well be moving somewhere. We could very well end up at one of the many state parks in San Diego county, too, so I'm not really getting excited/anxious or anything just yet.

Someday we might live in a little log cabin amidst beautiful protected wilderness!

Or, we might live near Torrey Pines State Park. Oh, wait, we already do.

I really have no idea why I'm not blogging much lately. It's mostly being busy at work, but that can't be all of it. I can't really finger it. Sad times.

Most of it is that I'm trying not to write about politics. Which, right now, is completely limiting my genre selection to bulleted updates.

Work is good. Very good. I'm totally not being sarcastic, either.

One of Erik's high school friends is staying with us for a month or so. He's a riot. I love him to death, but one of the first things he said to us yesterday was "your neighbors in #335 are ASSHOLES."

Seriously, if you're going to stay with us for free because Erik found you a temporary job to earn enough to pay us back what money you owe us from earlier this year, be courteous to our lovely neighbors, please.

I think he made himself an Old Fashioned last night because he left his glass out with the ingredients. My only thought was, "oooh, those would be good for camping. I should see if I can fit the stuff for Old Fashioneds in my pack."

Tonight, Erik, John and I are driving out later than the rest and meeting them out there. Craig had this swoon-worthy idea of doing a GPS or topo-led night-hike-slash-hide-and-seek. They're going to trek out about a mile from our designated camp, and when we get there, we'll find a compass and a topographic map with their location marked. Then we have to find them. While Erik and I were both lauding this idea last night, and going over some details in our heads, I realized that this is totally a rescue mission waiting to happen.

I called the park HQ to ask questions about getting backcountry permits, and it turns out that we don't need to check in or anything. I couldn't believe this, so I kept asking her more questions. I finally just said, "okay, we'll just tell our mothers where we're going." She laughed and agreed that this was a very good idea. It's in everyone's best interests if I don't tell my mother about the midnight remote desert hide and seek, though. Pesky details.

I'll be back to my dear internet on Monday with pictures and lore, I promise.

Mountain Lions (etc.) In The Mist

Mountain Lions (etc.) In The Mist
Last night, my adventure-whore coworker John and I hiked up Mt. Woodson in Poway. Also last night, it rained a lot. And it was foggy. Starting about halfway up the mountain, we had probably only a foot or two of visibility. Combine this with John a) making the jungle-monster noises from Lost, b) telling me about satanic cult members who lurk in random near-urban forests in San Diego, c) choosing an "opportune" time to tell me how mountain lions stalk you, especially when you stop to put back on your outerwear on the way down, and you're a little edgy.

The trail at Mt. Woodson basically goes straight up, and is slightly paved once you get to the base of the mountain. It was actually the perfect trail for the night. My darling (and diligently working overtime last night) former-national-park-employee husband generally frowns upon hiking/running/biking on muddy trails, because the negative impact is insane. The trail will be chewed up forever, and future rainfall will just puddle up in the footprints. The damage you make to a muddy trail doesn't just go away when the mud dries up - it gets worse. I'm pretty sure you're technically not supposed to go out until the terrain is dry. Blah blah blah common sense blah blah.

So, first, we had to find the trail in the adverse driving conditions. We pulled over on the side of the highway (let's call this Life Risking Decision A), and trampled around for a while, trying to find the trailhead through the meadows. Our headlamps weren't doing much outside of distracting passing motorists, which we can call Life Risking Decision B. We also decided to leave John's axe in the car, just in case we ended up accidentally trespassing somewhere and got caught carrying an axe and therefore being sinister. Decision C. (Did you notice that my coworker keeps an axe in his car? I think there was a sledgehammer back there, too. There are no words.)

We ended up finding the trail and all was well. John has had a ridiculously interesting life, so it's easy to just be quiet and listen to the stories. However, close to the top, he handed me a big rock he'd picked up from the trail, to carry just in case we were stalked by a mountain lion, jungle monster, or satanic worshipper. I think this was the pivotal moment where I stopped thinking "I'm sure I'm safe with John" and started thinking "Oh. fuck." That said, adrenaline is totally my drug of choice. The moments where I threatened to curl up into a ball, paralyzed with fear, were few and far between. Fewer and further between than usual, that is.

Rainy, foggy, half-lost night hiking is SO the new night hiking.

Nocturn

Nocturn
This morning, as Erik got ready for work in the dark, I woke up and started trying to chat away with him. Here's pretty much how the conversation went:

julia: "I'm awake! You can turn on the lights and talk! Yay!"
erik: [silence.]
julia: "I'm wide awake! I can keep you company!"
erik: [pause. I think he was spitting toothpaste out.] "I love you."
julia: "I love you."

julia: "Is that all? Do you have anything else for me?"
erik: [silence, glaring]

I think there's a special kind of person somewhere between a morning person and a non-morning person. Namely, me. I love mornings only when I spend them cozily and lazily tucked in a warm bed while the world moves around me. This is all well and good, except when I'm enjoying that luxury and rubbing it in someone else's rushing-to-get-ready-for-work-while-it's-still-dark wounds.

We're still recovering from the other night's crazyBadly Drawn Boy concert, that lasted until well after midnight and involved an increasingly-drunk Damon Gough alternating between calling certain audience members bitches and making up songs on the spot about how much he loved us. Oh, and a Yazz Flute! And in addition to that, I slipped back into insomnia mode while Erik was gone, lying sleepless in bed until well into the wee-hours every night. I seem to have no problems sleeping in the morning, just at night time when I'm supposed to. But now that Erik's back, and getting to work early in the mornings, the insomnia isn't improving. In fact, there's no net change in how much sleep I'm getting, but there's a definite increase in irritability and sheer disdain for people who can fall asleep when their heads hit the pillow but wake just enough to grumble that my itty bitty book light is "too bright" and the pages of my book are "too loud." If I stay in the other room, there's equal grumbling when I tiptoe into bed. So now I just sort of lie motionless and sleepless next to the hibernating husband.

I suppose this means I'm somewhere between a night-person and a non-night person, too.

Sleep, I hate/love you.

Likes.

Likes.
I had to make a little bio for a church committee the other day, and I just couldn't bring myself to make some sort of committee-resume. Instead, I opted for the following. I like it. (As hard as I try not to.)

I like:

hiking

vestry meetings

the internet

the church baby population

my husband

I try really hard NOT to like but am usually unsuccessful:

ebay

WB teen dramas

overpriced dark chocolate

Kirsten Dunst movies

Soaking

Soaking
If you don't want my rancid, week-old coffee or tea splashing and/or clumping (depending on the mold severity) onto your cup as I pour it down the drain in the office sink, don't leave your cup in the sink "to soak." And judging by the fish head smell percolating through the cubicle farm a few days ago, chances are coffee mold is the least of your concerns.

The Thrasher.

The Thrasher.



This is my sweet husband and sweet Gracie, our friends' kid. We watched the poor sickly baby while her parents had a much-deserved night out on Sunday. As difficult as it is to take care of a child sometimes, there was never a moment when my spirits fell. That child is genuinely happy, humorous, and loving. It's unbelievable and contagious. Also, she's drawn to guitars, and that gets an A+ in my book.

Also pictured: My First Guitar. When I had just graduated high school, my boyfriend Nick and his punkrockstar little brother took me to My First Guitar Center to fork over ~$150 for the cheap, shoddy, ridiculously high-actioned guitar. That same boyfriend projected neon orange vomit onto that same guitar from the top of his dorm room bunk-bed a few months before we broke up. After walking me through My First Joni Mitchell Song, My First Open Mic Night, My First Broken String, My First The Guitar Is A Tool To Meet People In Airports Experience, My First Yay, I Get To Write Sad Break Up Songs Now, and My First Witnessed Collegiate Bunk-Bed Barf, the sweetly awful guitar is now proudly possessed by Grace's parents for lots more My Firsts with her.

I've since cleaned up the orange barf and acquired a shiny new My First Taylor from my sweet husband. (It took a lot of appropriateness-will-power to not write "from My First Husband" there. Oh, oops).

It was hard to part with it for a while, but I realized that, shortly after rechristening it The Thrasher, I wasn't ever going to play it again. Yes, it sounds that bad and hurts that much. I have visitation rights and better callouses, Grace gets guitar-accompanied lullabies in the comfort of her own home, The Thrasher gets some regular action, and Erik and I gained some closet space.

Everybody wins.

Sleepless in Fifth.

Sleepless in Fifth.
This morning, while trying to get up to speed(ing) on the freeway, I stepped on the clutch pedal and started to move the gear stick, only to realize that I don't have a sixth gear. In fact, my car has never had a sixth gear. Nor have I ever driven a manual that has a sixth gear.

This means one of two things:

8:45am is indeed too early for me (especially when I lie sleepless all night, haunted by freaky things like white ghostly plastic bags seen circling off in the distance by my friend while night-hiking.) I'm a danger on the road. I need a doctor's note informing my doctor that it's a medical liability for me to be at work before 10:30ish.

My car is just a wound-up piece of crap.

First Cup.

First Cup.
Today, our brand new tech writer made me a cup of real coffee, using a coffee press. It was thick, foamy, and almost creamy. I've never had pressed coffee before. Just the filtered stuff, which requires vast quantities of a cream ingredient (preferably to achieve the HTML color code 996600 shade of brown) and a sugar ingredient in order to please me like a vanilla latte pleases me.

Pressed coffee is incredible! INCREDIBLE! I'm never going back. This is even better than a latte, for the love of all sacred things I never thought I could or would denounce.

Oh, and in other news, and we hired a new tech writer who makes phenomenal coffee. I'm sure he writes well, too, but ehhhh. I have my priorities.

Boy.

Boy.



Internet, meet Lucas. Lucas is both beautiful and crazy. Crazy, like, genius crazy. In fact, if you ask him, "Lucas, where's the excavator?" he'll point to the picture of an excavator truck amongst a page full of other dump-truck looking things. Dude, I didn't even know what an excavator truck looked like before a 20 month old pointed to one for me.

Before Lucas was born, I referred to him as "baby lu." Depending on which sex he ended up, he would be a Lucy or a Lucas, so "Lu" worked as a gender-neutral catch-all. The whole time his mother was pregnant, I had this vision of baby lu being cuddly and gurgly for a long time and then all of a sudden being in school and being a boy. It turns out that Lucas stopped being a baby lu long before being a grown-up. And it turns out that the inquisitive, becoming-a-person, genius toddler stage is even better than the cuddly gurgly stage. Totally better.

Here he is shining in the sunlight and investigating a non-digital camera. I love you, baby lu.

One down.

One down.
This whole first anniversary weekend was magical and lovely, except for the fight we had about cleaning the house for the party. (I was, however, impressed with our communication in the Fight Aftermath. You know, less “shut up, damn it,” and more “____ made me feel _____.”)

We spent much of Saturday getting things in order and cooking for the party, and then we spent a lovely evening with our friends and family. Sunday, we went sailing with my precious coworkers after church. All was beautiful and your standard sunny southern California sailing experience until the mast cable broke, sending the sail plummeting onto Erik’s head. His head broke through the canvas. I’m serious. In fact, after we pried him out from beneath it, we decided we had just missed a prime photo op and then staged a reenactment. There was much commotion and hullabaloo and two of my friends held out a towel to pick up the wind and carry us ashore in the absence of a real sail. I don’t think I could pick a better bunch of friends with whom to find myself shipwrecked.

That night, we shared a lovely dinner at Galoka, home of amazing all-vegetarian Indian food, fantastic art, a mostly organic wine list, and kick ass music. I pretty much cleared my plate. Except for those carrots. I once ate some carrots that tasted like dish soap, and I haven’t been able to forgive carrots since.

The anniversary weekend ended bittersweetly, with Erik driving back to Ojai this morning. SAD TIMES. However, the rest of the day was peppered with the following little gems:

Erik found out that as soon as he gets back into town from his National Forest job, he is starting up again at the county for election season. Thank you, sweet gods of employment.

Sarah came over tonight and we mastered “Cedar Tree” by the Indigo Girls. I had to tune my guitar down to DGDGBD and it sounded so beautiful I’m considering leaving it that way permanently and limiting my repertoire to drop-tuned songs.

Sarah was recounting a story to me from earlier in the day, in which she quoted herself as saying, “my best friend Julia…” I can’t even describe how lovely this makes me feel. Call me twelve, but I adore being a best friend.

As I retreated to the boudoir, I noticed that my sweet departed husband had left a mix-CD for me on my pillow. On my PILLOW! It’s a mix of sweet songs very dear to our hearts. (I totally feel like I’m being wooed by the main male character in a WB drama. A mix snuck onto a pillow is so Dawson and Joey.)

Never felt magic, crazy as this.

Wild Horses

Wild Horses.

While listening to that Sundays CD with the freaky looking baby on the front, I realized that, actually, wild horses probably could drag me away from Erik. I'd also get scratched up and break a few bones. Regardless of this physical and maybe even mental vulnerabilty for separation, it was really comforting to know that Erik would find me again, meeting me in the emergency room ICU after the wild horse dragging. We're pushed and pulled in so many different directions, physically, emotionally, etc., but the good news is that if I happen to be walking through some tough times on my own, my sweet husband and I will love each other the whole time and then we'd have the happy reunion of the long distance relationship variety, and rush to tell each other breathless stories with massive run-on sentences and kiss a lot and hold hands even in the car.

Today, I took a shiny new route to work which shaved off about 7-8 minutes from my commute. This makes me ridiculously happy. Granted, there's a highly convenient Peets Coffee and Tea on the way, which in turn adds about 10 minutes. This, too, makes me ridiculously happy.

This weekend, Erik and I are having a big party because in a few days we'll have been married a year! A FUCKING YEAR! I really can't comprehend how this year has flown by, but frankly, if the rest of our lives are like this, we'll get our "seven year itch" around our golden anniversary. I couldn't imagine another life, even now with the distance because then I wouldn't be getting my sweet groggy whispering phone calls while lying in bed in the wee hours of the morning (i.e. 8am).

Yesterday, my coworker John drunk-emailed me back and forth all morning. I'm going to wait until this sentence to tell you he was in the Phillipines for work, raiding the company-funded minibar in the wee hours of his time zone, because a mental image of a bunch of drunken engineers in midday suburban california with an empty minibar in their cubicle is really entertaining.

My very-different-from-me carpool buddy Matt just came back from Cancun, where he was PHOTOGRAPHING SWIMSUIT MODELS FOR A CATALOG. I'm completely serious. No, he didn't have any photography experience before this, and his pictures are actually quite good! And yes, he's bringing his new swimsuit model girlfriend to the party this weekend. Words fail me.

Sweet Jackie is dangerously high on my list of Favoritest People Ever, because while I was away from my desk for a few minutes yesterday, I received four emails from her. The first one informed me that David Sedaris, my dream (gay) man, is coming to town and that we must go. The second, third, and fourth were all about how SHE JUST BOUGHT TICKETS FOR US ALL AND GOT INCREDIBLE SEATS. Jackie, I love you.

See the above three bullets for reasons why I love my job these days. Air delivery systems and thermal control and vibration analysis and alignment just get sweeter by the minute when there are scheduled tea breaks and car rides home and night hikes to look forward to with the best coworkers in the world.

I'm such a fucking sap.

Sail away.

Sail away.



This is the sail of my friend Greg's boat. About a month or so ago, we took it out onto Mission Bay in San Diego. I was completely taken by how beautiful the whole situation was. The glistening water, the movement, the giddy children, and this vast, solid sail swaying slowly above us.

Earlier, Greg's sweet wife, Shawna, had been talking about how they'd retire the boat after this summer; it was too much hassle. I could understand this. They had to load not only a toddler into their van, but also load up the boat trailer and the boat. And it was quite old and tattered and always needing repairs.

But lying on the edge of the boat as we skimmed across the water, fingertips breaking the surface, I whispered to Greg, "don't ever get rid of this boat."

Matchy-Matchy.

Matchy-Matchy.
In recent years, my sweet long-lost friend Katie introduced me to the term "matchy-matchy," designating overly and misguidedly coordinated outfits. Sometimes, copious color coordination looks great, like when the swank lady at my church wears a black tank top with a turquoise skirt and black shoes and a turquoise necklace and earings. Most times, however, it's easy to go overboard. Like wearing turquoise shoes. Or something that was black/turquoise-y patterned. (Ew, patterns.)

I had always been conservative when it comes to shoes - just a good solid pair of brown shoes and a good solid pair of black shoes and maybe some birkenstocks or flip flops for saturdays, and I was happy. Well, happy up until about 4 years ago, with the Great Tall Boot Purchase of '00. I was late on the tall boot bandwagon, but it was as if I'd discovered sex in shoe form. I had a new leash on footwear. I ripped my shirt open and let my hair down and wrote erotica and ate oysters with champagne. I became a bonafide Shoe Ho.

Now I have red shoes! pink shoes! green shoes! heels! pointy-toes! peekaboo-toes!

I always take care to walk the line between put-togetherness and matchy-matchy. If I'm wearing all neutral tones or all black, the shoes and one other accessory will suffice. And of course, some days no amount of shoe color coordination will save me from frumpiness.

However, this morning, as I pulled on my yellow cardigan and dark grey skirt, I pretty much jumped the shark when I thought to myself, "man, if only I had yellow shoes."

Sadness, Failure.

Sadness, Failure
I really hesitate to talk about this, because I'm ashamed and I'm afraid of hearing that I'm doing the wrong thing. This weekend, we decided that our home is far from the best home for sweet Franklin the cat. We've taken a few steps to find a new happy home for him, and we're probably not going to take him back to the shelter. Who knows if someone would pick him?

Looking back, I think we realized that it wasn't a good match from day 1. We've been mulling over this for over a month now.

I always hear about people giving puppies and kittens back to the shelter and it had always irritated me, like maybe the owners jumped into the decision irrationally. They should have thought about this beforehand! They should have considered all the consequences first!

As much as I tell myself that yeah, we did think about all this beforehand, and yeah, we considered the consequences first, I still join their ranks. I'm one of those people. I teared up at lunch today when a coworker told me that he's also a failure because he threw away his compost heap.

A glimmer of a silver lining is that if he were still in the shelter, he wouldn't have been treated for all of his little sicknesses - the parasites, the eye infection, the tapeworm, what have you. I do feel like we did make a positive difference in his life for just a short period.

But, for the long term, we failed.

The hard life of a lonely spouse.

The hard life of a lonely spouse.
I'm actually really happy at this moment, but I have to say that it is REALLY rough being physically and communication-ally apart from my husband. I haven't talked to him since a whispered, too early Monday morning phone call.

Stupid little things are really getting to me, like the (normally wonderful) fact that his side of the bed is always smooth and doesn't even need fluffing or folding in the morning. Like the fact that the soap in the shower is lasting me at least three times longer without him using it. Like the fact that his boy-cosmetics and deodorant aren't lined up on the counter right next to the sink where my elbows hit while washing my face, even though he has plenty of space in the medicine cabinet. Like the fact that the last grown-up/non "c'mere kitty" tone of voice the walls of the house heard was probably sometime mid-afternoon on Sunday. Like the fact that when the small of my back is cold in the middle of the night, I can't just wiggle over to his usual 400°F radiant sleep-heat. Like the fact that putting conjunctivitis ointment in Franklin's eyes is way easier with two people.

The hair on the bathroom floor is all long and blond. There are no boxer shorts or My Neighbor Totoro t-shirts in the washing machine. There's no cheese in the fridge. The CDs are piled up and EVEN THOUGH I PROMISE THEY'RE TOTALLY "ORGANIZED," look like they're in total disarray and not filed away in our cabinets alphabetically per genre, chronologically within each artist. I saw my coworkers kiss last night and while it was really OH MY GOD MY SWEET COWORKERS ARE KISSING AND ARE SO HAPPY, the way their lips touched made mine ache.

These negligible things expose absense and lack and I just want Erik to come home so I can feel his lips on mine and mess up the bed and watch him alphabetize CDs.

Lycophilic

Lycophilic.
The other night, I picked my very first home-grown tomato and opted to end its life and eat it. I cooked up a little seasoned tofu, smothered some rosemary bread with vegan cream cheese, extra rosemary, black pepper, and some sliced tomato, and sunk my teeth into something I actually grew myself. It was a moment of great pride, as well as tastiness, in my life.

So of course, I had to document the occasion. Click to enter:



first fruits: the first organic tomato crop. late summer 2004.

Step 1: Please select your software's Fuck menu...

Step 1: Please select your software's Fuck menu...
Today just called for a "custom" menu.

I'm gonna rock you like a...

I'm gonna rock you like a...
Last night at the spur-of-the-moment-let's-go-to-the-Dave-Matthews-concert, my dear friend Sarah and I were standing on the back patio, relieving her tired, pregnant body of the blanket of smoke covering us at our seats. We listened and watched the people around try in vain to bob to the jagged rhythm. Sarah, laughing, asked, "what is this, 5/8?" Close, it was 7/8. We then decided that 7/8 meter makes for pretty bad sex music.

If I had to pick a favorite, I'd say that a moderately paced (andante!) 6/8 is the best sex meter. 123456. You can count out every eighth note for rousing movement, or, kind of like how music directors sometimes chose to conduct 6/8 in 2, cutting the pace in half for a slower, sweeter romp. 1--2--. Conductors do this if the pace is too fast to conduct every eighth note, or if the feel of the piece just calls for a cut-time lilt.

Radiohead's Nice Dream is in 6/8, and while it's a little too fast to "conduct" (bwah) all the eighth notes all the time, there are definitely moments. (Also, that's one of my favorite posts linked there.)

And then there are times when sexing to a particular music meter seems contrived, or maybe one party is TOTALLY NOT CAPABLE OF IT, so then you're just going to have to settle for Hooverphonic's entire amazing album "A New Stereophonic Sound Spectacular." Spectacular indeed. It has the whole gamut of meters that are still ridiculously sensual even if ignored.

Update: The comment box is now the Favorite Sex Soundtrack box.

Iron Mountain

Iron Mountain
Last night, my coworker John and I raced up and down Poway's Iron Mountain after work. It had to have been the most invigorating and entertaining run/shuffle up a mountain ever. This guy cannot be quiet, but that's a good thing when you have lots of stories about alone-in-the-wilderness close calls and mishaps to tell.

The Iron Mountain trail has a beautiful, rocky, sometimes steep ascent that twists around the back side of the mountain, winding through sagebrush and something that looks an awful lot like holly. Almost to the summit, the trail hooks back around again to the west-facing side, and thus into the sun. It was such a beautiful moment to creep back into the warm golden light of the setting sun. Also, at this point we had stopped playing John's step-only-on-rocks game which involves a great deal of hopping, so we had slowed/calmed down a bit and paused to look out at some gorgeous country and the distant San Diego skyline through the hazy late afternoon light.

The peaceful moment was soon punctured by John whisking past and yelling that we were racing to the top. It was a photo finish at the summit, when we both grabbed onto different sides of a viewer thing. However, it turns out that the viewer thing rotates, and was well-oiled at the time. I almost lost several digits and/or my head when he pounced on the scope from the other side, twisting it around towards me. Luckily, my reflexes were in tip top condition, so all body parts remain intact. This is also proof that I TOTALLY GOT TO THE TOP FIRST, since I was already touching the viewer before John pushed it towards me.

There was no time to dilly dally at the top and enjoy the sunset, but after making fun of some people's pathetic love poems to each other in the summit log book (and briefly contemplating writing another to My Dearest Cathleen), we then ran back down, chasing the daylight. Ridiculously rocky terrain, fading light, exercise-induced tunnel vision, hunger-induced weakness, and trying to outpace each other made this quite difficult. Also, my coworker was literally prancing around and making gymnastics-esque leaps and kickouts, which was really distracting among other things. But we did six or so miles, up and down a mountain, in an hour and a half with only negligible injuries. Not bad.

On my way home, after almost breaking my car in half trying to get back onto the main road, I was struck by a sudden craving. After a quick (cough, forty-five minutes, cough) stop in Whole Foods, I was ready to spend some very quality alone time, curled up with a Soy Delicious faux-ice cream root beer float, the internet, and the Hamm twins.

Believe it or not.

Believe it or not.
Last night, while Erik and I were out to dinner, I asked him if he could remember the first few words to the "dadadadada, I'm walking on air" song.

Sure enough, not only did he remember the first few words, he knew the entire song. And he sung it all, in his beautiful voice, on the restaurant patio. THE WHOLE SONG.

He tried to quickly redeem himself by getting nostalgic about whichever TV show and watching it with the whole family together, blah blah blah. But what matters here is he sang the entire believe-it-or-not song in public.

I am so in love with this man.

How To Not Dress Like A Vegetarian

How To Not Dress Like A Vegetarian
Really, I promise everyone is happy you're vegetarian - you don't need to wear it on your sleeve. And here is a simple guide to ensure this doesn't happen.

Accessories
Any strict vegetarian knows how difficult it is to find swanky shoes and accessories that aren't made from cow. But you're just going to have to try harder. We'll break this down into three main groups: Purses, Shoes, and Belts.

Purses:

Don't settle for anything made from hemp, or anything that looks like it's made from hemp. And the current flock of corduroy cargo purses at Old Navy, while ridiculously cute, don't count. Would you wear corduroy cargo pants to work? Well, maybe you can get away with it. But if not, the purse won't fly. Go out of your way to find quality faux leather or a nice sleek fabric finish.

Another rule of thumb for purses: the smaller the better. Only hippies and mothers carry big purses. A friend of mine hypothesized recently that there is an important distinction between good looking women who drive old convertible VWs and frumpy women who drive old convertible VWs: purse size.

Shoes:

Again, it's also really difficult to come by classy, fabulous shoes that aren't made of leather. But do it anyway.

An excellent resource for shoes is Payless. Basically, they're too cheap to make leather shoes anyway, so most shoes in the store are fake. And, to make things even better, they go out of their way to draw your attention to the few leather shoes by plastering the boxes with "GENIUNE LEATHER" tags, so they're easy to avoid. You could probably get away without even hunting for the materials list. Zappos actually has a "vegetarian shoes" category.

One of the best-but-seldom-realized things about being vegetarian is that your shoes are cheap. Embrace this, and try to build a collection of nothing but beautiful shoes.

Flip-flops do not count, as hard as you may argue that they're classy and fabulous.

As a side note, New Balance makes a good crop of leather-less running shoes. But don't wear them unless you're running or hiking.

Belts:

Lucky us, fabric belts are back, stronger than ever. Definitely take advantage of this. Ridiculous colors and stripes on the canvas belts look too military, but for the most part you can include these as a delightfully ironic part of an otherwise classic and plain outfit.

Sash belts are fair game for now, too. They're becoming a little too common, though, and you don't want to be in a meeting with three other sash-belted women, do you?

There are also faux leather belts to be found. Speciality vegan stores, like All Vegan in San Diego, generally carry a good collection. If you can find one that doesn't use child labor, you could probably get a good faux leather belt from your standard beach-town no-name boutique, too.

Miscellaneous Clothing
Not considering shoes, purses, and belts, it's actually really easy to dress well as a vegetarian. But there are still some important things to remember to save you from looking like you smell like sandalwood.

As tempting as they may be, save the "Vegetarians Taste Better" and "Seitan Worshipper" t-shirts for the monthly potlucks at the co-op.

Leather jackets try really hard to come back in fashion every year, but I don't think they're ever very universal. Unless you're in a motorcycle club, you can easily go without and not feel deprived. And for the love of all that is holy, DO NOT GET A FAUX LEATHER JACKET. There are some lines you just don't cross. Wool coats (for the wool-wearers) and cotton/canvas pea coats or jackets are far classier and smell way better.

Chances are, if they sell it at earth day festivals or street fairs, it's not going to work out, okay? This includes but is not limited to: tie-dye, any sort of long flowy patterned skirt, and hankerchief tie-back tank tops.

And finally, if Banana Republic decides to ice the most amazing skirt of their collection with a leather trim or tie, it's time to start writing letters.

Go on then

Go on then...
...wish me a happy birthday.

The Make-a-Difference-ing-est Thing Of Them All

The Make-a-Difference-ing-est Thing Of Them All.
Erik comes home tonight, after not talking to him all week. He's been out on the trails, camping out every night. He's going to be completely exhausted, I'm sure. The good news is that he gets paid an extra $19 a night with provided (backpacking food) dinners and (backpacking food) breakfasts.

The funny thing is that I have those nervous/anxious/giddy feelings about seeing him again. So much has happened this week. Our best friends are pregnant (again), the kitten came home (who will probably hate Erik for taking valuable kitten-cuddle time away from me), the kitten is sick and has already piled up a) quite the vet bill, and b) quite the litterbox. and... well, that's about it, but these things are HUGE.

Now that our sweet and dear friends are pregnant, this really does have an impact on our bébé plans. When it comes down to it, people may never be as travelled and settled and financially secure as they plan on being before starting a family (not that these things aren't totally critical for which to strive, might I add), so we're going to have to stop using those as excuses pretty soon. Another major factor in Family Preparedness for Julia and Erik is our friends' children. I know, it sounds fleeting and peer-pressure-y, but let me explain.

We have a closely knit family of friends. I've known some of these people since high school, some since a few years ago, but I'm not using the word "family" lightly here. I know that our friends' children will hardly have an advantage when it comes to being buddies with our kids in high school or something, but at least growing up, it's so imperative for them to have sibling/cousin-like children of similar age around them often. We've seen the effect this has in our friends' first sets of children (and the mothers! holy god the mothers! with the breastfeeding tips and when can we feed them strawberries?), and we're not about to let this pass us by again.

I had these great plans to have figured out What I Want To Be When I Grow Up before I had kids, because frankly, let's hope people grow up themselves before they spawn. But I recently remembered a moment in high school, at a summer childcare job, chatting with another worker about our life goals. She said (uh, a paraphrase at this point), "you know, I sound so pathetic and submissive, but I just really want to be a mother." Right then, the 16 year old feminist Julia with big plans to make a difference in the world had a brief lightbulb go off, one of those discernment moments. Of course, I completely forgot that moment and that feeling, and my sweet coworker went on to discuss how she wanted to marry then-Padre Steve Finley, in all his mulleted glory.

Now, watching these amazing mothers (and fathers, but I don't really have much hope becoming one of those) with their darling children, I'm reminded of the notion that being a mother is a calling. This isn't one of those pro-stay-at-home-mom messages - it's just that some people are just supposed to be raising children.

I may not develop the make-a-difference-ing-est non-profit organization in the world. I may not write the Next Great Almost-American Novel. I may not join a symphony. I may not leave technical writing. I may not be a guest on any late shows. But to have raised a child, and have raised a child well - that's really all the difference I want to make.

Many Updates.

Many Updates.

I picked up our freshly adopted kitten yesterday. He's four months old, super clingy and nuzzly and sweet, and viscious with those feather-on-stick toys. He also doesn't really have a name yet. Our favorite was Franklin, the recurring-guest-role black kid in Peanuts, but it felt a little strange calling him something so formal/old-man-y like Franklin or Frankie when I was trying to convince him our home is a loving home. His official name is Joker (according to the microchip paperwork), but that has to go. I figure he's only got four months of Joker under his belt, and none of the volunteers at the shelter knew his name anyway. I'm officially open to suggestions. I definitely like Frankie, though. It's half cute, half mob. Well, 1/3 cute, 1/3 mob, 1/3 old-man-y.

He has an upper respiratory infection right now (I'm taking him back to the vet tomorrow), and even though it sucks for him, KITTEN SNEEZES ARE TOTALLY CUTE.

He bit my boob yesterday. BIT. MY BOOB. He bit my fucking boob. That wasn't cute.

As of this morning, Erik is camping out on the trail for the rest of the week, deep in the Los Padres National Forest building walls out of rocks they break themselves and redefining trail boundaries and shredding poison oak with their bare hands (just kidding on that one; I think they wear gloves). This means that not only will I not see my husband for the rest of the week, I also won't be able to talk to him. There are no cell signals out there. I think we've gone more than a day without talking while one of us is out of town - maybe a weekend max. This is going to suck. Luckily, I have a sweet sneezy kitten to keep me company. And luckily, my husband is a total outdoorsy stud.

I have a new political-crush on NPR's Asia Correspondent, Rob Gifford. His week-plus-long series as he travelled across China's route 321 was fantastic, even the part where he sang karaoke Desperado.

Don't worry, Marc Garlasco isn't being replaced.

That's all. Real posts and even a list or two are forthcoming!

A Postcard to Yesterday.

A Postcard to Yesterday.
A scant 12 hours after I assigned yesterday as a "crummy day," today decided that was a challenge and decided to out-crumb it's predecessor.

Sure, two paychecks (two! we're a two income family again! thank all that is holy!) were deposited in our account overnight, but that doesn't change the fact that I sat at the train-track intersection by my house for ELEVEN MINUTES this morning, and then, as I arrived to work far later than I had hoped to arrive, I tripped over my own feet walking up some concrete steps and fell, looking like a fool and scraping up my leg pretty nicely and nobody will be there to kiss it better for me when I get home. WOE IS ME. (Nicely = gruesomely, by the way.)

I also forgot to brush my hair this morning and am rewarded with a frizzy tangled Amazon-y mess.

Dear yesterday: I was just kidding; you were lovely and not crummy at all.
Dear today: I hate you.

Fair & Balanced.

Fair & Balanced.
Tonight, my lovely friend Melanie (and her sweet Republican husband) joined up with a bunch of local Kerry supporters and watched "Outfoxed," a documentary about Rupert Murdoch's Fox News Channel.

Holy shit.

I think I have a foolish tendency to be quick to boycott. I found out early in my post-college surge of political interest that the Fox News channel was far from fair and far from balanced and not in Julia's favor. So of course, I stayed away, making sure my favorite right-wing pundits' pollution and the subtle choice of news stories stayed far from my brain.

This little boycott, however, has had an unintentional negative result: I wasn't outraged enough.

I'm completely fine with Fox News saying what they say, reporting what they report, arguing what they argue, effectively being a state-controlled media outlet, hollering "shut up" when someone disagrees, and using the most wussy liberal voices when they absolutely have to have a liberal on. I'm fine with that. Free speech. Just don't call it fair, and certainly don't call it balanced.

That dishonesty is fucking with the American people, and I'm not going to put up with it. Yes, I'm mad as hell.

"Scrabble"

"Scrabble"
Last night, I had some fabulous friends over for vodka and Scrabble. After playing a normal round with a ten point bonus for dirty words, we decided to just lay out all the pieces and make only dirty words, following all scrabble rules except for those pesky little details about only having seven letters at a time and not conspiring or combining forces.

At the end, it turned out that we had three letters we couldn't fit anywhere. We used every letter except O, R, and N. I really have no idea how that happened, what with the very obvious word and all.

And I have to say, dirty words fully utilize the high scoring letters.

A few belated moments from my time in Texas.

A few belated moments from my time in Texas.

I had a plain salad.


Beauty at a 107 degree heat index.


It was hot.


Luckily, the pedal-boat's pedals didn't really do anything, so we were forced to break out the oars and make beautiful patterns in the water.


Tex-Mex.


I'm halfway ashamed, halfway proud to admit there was a Coke Challenge. Choice #5 was mostly bourbon, however.


So much bourbon, in fact, that nobody could identify the coke-like mixer.


And that's where the rest of the memory card turned into various angles of my (many) glasses of bourbon and sprite, close-ups of ice cubes or other things that don't really need close-ups, or complete darkness from the porch after midnight.

And with that, I'm going out of town again, to the beautiful, stuck-in-the-past island of Catalina.

Waxing dramatic.

Waxing dramatic.
Last night, my aesthetician made the "ta-da" noise as she whisked away the towel to get started on the bikini wax. No, there's nothing amusing about spreading piping hot wax dangerously close to my delicates and then ripping it off. And I'd rather keep it that way.

Read today's list.

Honey and Lemon

Honey and Lemon
Last night, I was struck suddenly with a vicious sore throat, that has since gotten worse, and as I lay in bed, barely able to swallow, I wanted to ask Erik to boil some hot water and make me a yummy nostalgic mix of hot honey and lemon juice, and then I realized that Erik wasn't home and I was all alone and if I wanted some honey and lemon I'd have to drag my lazy, sick, sorry ass out of bed and get it myself so I just stayed in bed and went to sleep.

My husband moved out last night.

My husband moved out last night.
How's that for a catchy title?

Actually, there's really good news behind this. ERIK GOT A JOB. A fucking job! He'll be working for the U.S. Forestry Service far far away. Actually, only 3 and a half hours away. It's a contract through the end of September, and will be working 4 days a week, 10 hours a day. Out in the beautiful Los Padres National Forest, working in the sunshine, using his hands, surrounded by nature's majesty. He'll probably have to camp out on the more remote areas of trail everyonce in a while, too. Rather than feeling lonely or sad about this, I'm mostly just completely jealous.

Because he has 3 day weekends, I'll still be seeing him every weekend. We can do this. Also, there's money involved.

As for how I'll spend my evenings now, sans-husband, I've so far booked the entire week with facials and free babysitting for friends. And it's a good thing Jeopardy is over for the summer, because otherwise, I'd have to hire a stand-in to come over and cook dinner with me and kick JeopardyKen's ass.

I haven't really lived alone before. Even though I did live alone for over a year after college, I was shacking up with my future husband the whole time. This is going to be interesting.

A-oooow

A-ooow.
This week, I've been borrowing a dear friend's car. It just happens to be the most fabulous car you've ever laid eyes upon, a bright yellow VW Karmann Ghia convertible. Before getting behind the wheel of this car, there was no way of comprehending the amazing fabulousness super powers it possesses and transfers to it's driver. Even earlier in the week, I've been carpooling and I guess people leave you alone when there's a man in the car. My carpool buddy totally cramps my style, it seems. But this morning, I was on my own. The ghia was on.

Two moments of note from my drive to work:

The moderately overweight man on the motorcycle passed me, and did a full turn of the head to stare. At least I think he stared... All I could see was massive quantities of back flab hanging down over his waistline as the air picked up the bottom of his t-shirt. Tuck that shit in, please.

The white early-model boat car occupants actually WHISTLING at me as I passed. I really don't remember the last time I was whistled at, but it may have been when I was a bus driver in college. Rather than take upon the battles of hundreds of generations of women to de-objectify themselves, this totally made me feel good. As I exited the freeway, they made that "aow" whoopy noise.

Good times, I say.

Our Endless Numbered Days

Our Endless Numbered Days

This is my favorite CD today:


Iron and Wine, "Our Endless Numbered Days."

So beautiful: "Kings of Convenience"-y but slightly more Americana-indierock and lilty, slightly less rumba, and a lot less scandinavian.

If you peel away the endlessly beautiful brooding and wistful layers of lyric and sound, you're left with a bittersweet folk-record-at-heart.

Also, the album cover totally matches my blog.

Me Sleep Pretty One Day

Me sleep pretty one day.
Last night, sitting at gate E-18 in George Bush International Airport in Houston, I decided to get my things in order and get the books out of my carry on so that it was ready to stow in the overhead compartment. I had about 25 pages left to go in my two-day old copy of David Sedaris' howlingly funny Me Talk Pretty One Day. I bought the book Friday morning in the San Diego airport, even though I had brought plenty of reading material of my own. I plowed through it, much to the fright of the two young polite children sitting next to me on the flight to Houston. No kids, I really can't explain to you why this is funny.

Sunday night in Houston, I realized that the scant 25 pages would probably take me about 10 minutes to read and that just wouldn't cut it. Again ignoring the poor, old, novelty-less book I brought from home, I decided to duck into the airport Borders and get something shiny. This time, I went with Chuck Palahniuk. He was in San Diego on Thursday night, and I didn't find out until very late in the evening, too late to make it over to meet him and profess my undying literary-crush. But he was on Thursday night's local NPR program, The Lounge, where he discussed at great lengths his friendship with Marilyn Manson and the very good news that four more of his books are currently being made into films.

It was a toss up between Invisible Monsters and Survivor, but I wasn't about to take a book on a plane that had the words "plane crash" on the back cover description. So I went with the more optimistic choice of a hideously disfigured beauty queen who tries to kill everyone, slowly.

Back at the gate, brandishing my books for my fellow travellers to get a glimpse into my mind, the books I read and the music spewing from the open car windows being catalysts for imaginary conversations carried out in my head with people who don't exist, I was just spilling a little soy latte on my pants when a girl across from me asked which Chuck Palahniuk book I had. She even pronounced his name correctly. I asked her if she had heard he was in town, and felt a little better that I wasn't the only fan who missed her chance to tell the strange genius that he was, well, just that. We then moved onto Sedaris, also lying in my latte-speckled lap, which quickly turned into a back-and-forth banter of soundbytes and punchlines from various stories. "Two morsels...of...lumber...". Her travelling companions, perhaps her mother and another couple my age, joined in with nostalgic This American Life moments. The Palahniuk-pronouncing girl mentioned how to this day, she and her brother pepper their conversations with lines from "The Rooster," a cuss-filled account of his younger brother's vocabulary and lifestyle. Her friends hadn't read it, so I handed them the book saying, "it's quick, read it." They didn't quite make it through the whole story before rows 20-29 had to board, so they handed me my conversation-piece and I made my way onto the plane.

As I sat down, I saw that the guy from the gate was sitting a few rows in front of me. He waved, smiled, and said, "Can I borrow that book?" Sure, he knew I had two books with me, but maybe I should have told them about the 25 pages I was saving for the trip home. About how I sort candy and save the best flavors until the end, usually scheduling each one as a reward for writing a paragraph or getting something else done. Those last 25 pages, two stories, were the lined up candy I had been salivating for for the last 48 hours. "Sure," I said cheerily, as I handed him my book.

Invisible Monsters turned out to be quite the page-turner. Had I not had to seriously concentrate to balance my baggage on my boating- and bourbon-weary, sunscreen- and bugspray-irritated body, I might have walked through the San Diego terminal with my nose still in the book.

No less than a half hour into the flight, I glanced a few rows ahead to see that my new book-borrower friend had turned off his overhead light and was fast asleep. I imagined my 25 pages of candy tucked away in the seat pocket in front of him, or resting open, pages-down on his tray table.

Did you know the average human has 20-odd feet of intestines?

Did you know the average human has 20-odd feet of intestines?
Instead of spending the evening at Extraordinary Desserts with my favorite coworkers and their lovers and mothers and the most amazing vegan fruit scone and some organic fruity green tea from a gorgeous little teapot, I spent the evening writhing in pain.  Fucking fuck fuck.  I even felt the onset of girly pain coming on early enough, so I stopped what I was doing (nothing, really), and scheduled my recovery process.  Seriously.  This is why I can never relieve pain: I watch the freaking pot boil.  I laid down on the bed and calculated how long it would take the for drugs to kick in.  I even gave myself a small buffer period to lie still and rub my tummy some more for good measure.  Sadly, I didn't start to feel better until somewhere around 10pm when the sweet husband brought up a hot water bottle.   10pm!  That's two hours behind schedule!  That is unacceptable!  Pain, you're totally fired!
 
I didn't mention my other teapot experience this week.  Monday, while Erik was out of town visiting his grandmother, I joined my sweet coworker and her beautiful, crazy, holistic friend for tea at a place called Bamboo Tea in Hillcrest.  I have to say that downing two pots of white tea on my own while discussing colonics is not something I have experienced before.  I am a changed woman.  The very Hillcrest-y waiter overheard some of our colon-friendly food nonesense and chimed in about being allergic to nuts.  He quickly remarked with a mischievous little grin, "well, not all nuts," and Jackie and I swooned for the witty gay man.
 
I was looking forward to another night of teapots and maybe even colonics, but no such look.  Pain set in.  Maybe this is just God's way of saying "keep the water blaster the hell away from your ass. "

Something like dread.

Something like dread.
As I lay awake last night, fingertips on autopilot scraping uniformly around my three ridiculously huge and burning bug bites, mind useless to contemplate anything but the itching, the heat, the unusual-for-San Diego humidity, the most minute fold and crumple in the bedsheets beneath me in that horrible, skin-crawling zone between sweating and not-sweating, I wonder if it could get any worse.

And then it dawned on me. Tomorrow, I'm going to Texas.

Don't get me wrong, I'm actually looking forward to it. There'll be excellent people there who I sadly only see a few times a year, and then on sunday, I'm meeting up with a sweet and lovely friend who is going to show me the vegan side of Houston. Oh, and she's baking me a pie and hopefully we'll do a healthy bout of geography trivia. But really, I could do without a few more bug bites and a few more degrees of heat and a few more percentages (?) of humidity. (Okay, okay, a lot more percentages of humidity.)

And while we're here, I'm telling you: the "but it's a dry heat" excuse is a bunch of bull. Worst rationalization ever.

Sad. Weirdness.

Sad. Weirdness.
Erik's grandma passed away yesterday morning.

Erik and his sister flew out to Nevada to see her on Monday, meeting up with much of the rest of the family. His grandma had been checked into a hospice center over the weekend, and time was running out. They had known this trip was going to happen for quite a while, the goodbye trip, the trip that I wasn't supposed to be a part of.

He's so peaceful about it, so glad to have spent those last few moments with her, and so amazed to know that she effectively stuck around to see as many of her children and grandchildren as she could.

I won't be able to go to the funeral, because I'll be knee-deep in an international church organization meeting in Houston - one of my last in my term. Erik's family pushed the funeral out until Saturday morning to make sure as many people as possible could fly in. There's still a chance I could cancel my flight, but I doubt I will. It was assumed that I wouldn't be coming to the funeral.

I can't really put how I feel into words. I just want to go with Erik and hold his hand. I feel like I'm letting him down.


Read today's list.