Bounce

Bounce
The best part about work yesterday was the crumpled up dryer sheet halfway down the main stairway leading from the engineering cubicles to the downstairs lab and assembly area. It was just sitting on a step, in plain view, all day. Nobody wanted to remove it. Maybe they all share my indefatigable love for the dryer sheet scent, or maybe nobody wanted to reach down and pick it up, silently admitting that it just might have fallen out of their pants.

The best part about work today is that it's still there.

Read today's list.

OB/DIS

OB/DIS
Saturday afternoon, Erik and I headed to San Diego's Ocean Beach, affectionately known as "OB" to locals, for the annual street fair and chilli cook-off. OB is a lovely little town, slightly plagued by dirty hippies with a penchant for pot. It has our only organic co-op store, several vegan restaurants, and a vegan bakery. It was also home of Java Joes, jumping board for people like Jewel and Jason Mraz. Some locals wear t-shirts with the town logo, a seagull, pooping in a Starbucks cup.

We had high hopes for the street fair. This is OB! Surely they'll have vegan or vegetarian foodstuffs for sale! Surely there'll be plenty of activist booths! Surely it'll be all granola and simple good happy fun!

No such luck. The sand-sprinkled, antique store-lined Newport Ave was home to your standard carnie food and fare. Polish sausages! That freaky drizzled donut-y fried pastry stuff! Frozen lemonade! Faux bohemian little tank tops that tie in the back! Carnies everywhere! Beer gardens! Generic reggae cover bands! A boxing ring!

Yes. A boxing ring. We had to squeeze through the transfixed crowds as half-naked men made each other bleed for jest. Finally, we made our way to Eatopia, a tiny vegan restaurant, and found solace in our thai peanut and soy "chicken" "parmesan" wraps. Oooh, and our strawberries and "cream" smoothie. "Mmm."

I guess I had expected a little more from OB. But my inner dirty hippie loves it so much I'm going to let the boxing and the carnies and the meat-on-sticks slide.

And you're out.

And you're out.
Moral strike #1: Saturday night, Erik and I drove up to inland Orange County for a party. The entire area was nowhere to be found on our 2001 Thomas Guide.

Moral strike #2: Leaving the party, we saw sirens and a mild traffic jam ahead. I just figured it was an accident, but Erik, who wasn't half-asleep, got a better look. I heard him mutter, "Damn it, a sobriety check," as he MADE A U-TURN. A block away from a sobriety check. And no, he wasn't drunk (but did have a drink hours earlier). Maybe it was some societally-ingrained reflex. My sweet husband! Running from the law!

Moral strike #3: After our u-turn, we pull into a shopping center and see a Starbucks. A fucking Starbucks. So what do we do? We go inside and buy drinks. I figure at this point, we may as well rub a tasty espresso beverage into the wound. However, then the barista complimented me on my sweater, and asked me where I got it. I told her the cardigan was from the Ann Taylor outlet. Then she asked if the tank top was part of a set, and I said, "oh, no, this is from Banana Republic." I smiled and took a sip of my frothy soy latte as my soul left my body for corporate hell.

Introspective

Introspective.

It took me a little too long to warm up to The Postal Service, but all of a sudden, one day, I was in love, and it totally has everything to do with realizing that they sound like a modern day Pet Shop Boys. In a gaudy apartment complex.

I'm realizing that our parents would rather us be SCARRED FOR LIFE than spend awkward time with the family watching love/naked scenes. That's all there is to it.

I hereby heartily refuse to EVER put those stickers on my car with stick figures correlating to each family member and pet.

Speaking of bumper stickers, I also hereby heartily refuse any "My Child is Star of the Month at so-and-so Elemtary" stickers. In fact, to avoid ever disappointing my sweet, genius children when they bring them home and expect their loving, proud mommy to display it on her car, I may just choose a school based solely on whether they hand those stickers out or not.

Look, I'm already a horrible mother.

We got an invitation to a party near LA this weekend, and the address city and state is listed as "RSV, CA." Sure, go ahead and abbreviate your city if it's something famous. Like NY. or LA. So, tomorrow night, we'll be driving around trying to find Rancho San V-something.

My work-boyfriend broke up with me. I know, it's hard. However, now we're just work-friends with work-benefits. And the best part of the situation is that Joel's new lovely girlfriend is slightly threatened/jealous of me (the reason behind the work-break-up) which secretly makes me feel really good.

Read today's list.

Discrepancy.

Discrepancy.
Can someone explain to me why my parents let us watch Critters, the scariest movie ever in the whole wide world, that forever rendered me unable to sleep with a limb dangling off the side of the bed lest a critter bite it off, but refused to let us see A Fish Called Wanda?

Really. I think I'd be far less scarred and tainted after seeing John Cleese prance around naked speaking in Russian than seeing little freaky hairy monsters bounce around and kill sweet, innocent, slumbering children.

Family.

Family.
Erik's grandmother is deathly ill. They just found cancer all over her body that sprouted from lung cancer. I guess now it's everything-cancer. She really doesn't have much longer to live, and probably will not be aggressively treating the cancer.

There was talk immediately of going out to see her one last time. Erik tearfully told me how he was so glad we had the wedding and everyone in his family (literally everyone) came out and celebrated with his grandma one last time.

Florinda is the last of our grandparents. I lost all of mine when I was in middle school and high school (as far as I know - there's a missing branch to the tree). She was always so youthful, so calm, so happy. It was never a question of whether she'd be alive to play with her great-grandchildren; she was just always in that picture in my head - the one with family holiday gatherings and us bringing our tiny newborn baby to meet everyone for the first time. She, the matriarch of the family, would have first dibs on holding the baby.

Erik told me last night that his dad is planning a trip to Nevada for them to see her in two weeks. He paused for a second, and then told me that his dad didn't think I should go. That he didn't want me to go; he didn't want me to see her like that.

I immediately felt like I understood, but as time passed and morning fell upon me today, I realize that I'm understanding less and less. I'm supposed to be family. I could understand if Erik's parents didn't want some random girlfriend coming along, the flavor of the month tainting such specific and pungent memories, but I'm not a random girlfriend. I'm Erik's wife.

And Erik is my husband. Sure, he can get through hard times without me. God knows he survived just fine before I came along. But I feel like I need to be there for him. Not just for me, not just for some larger concept of inclusion or acceptance, not just for his family, not just for one last gathering with Florinda. But to hold his hand and give him someone to talk to or be quiet with and kiss the tears away at the corners of his eyes.

I don't understand anymore.

The Semi-Annual Pregnancy Scare.

The Semi-Annual Pregnancy Scare.
Real, take-a-test pregnancy scares seem to strike every six months or so. Make that unwanted pregnancy scares.

This month, I was about 10 days late. Let's all agree that I wasn't overreacting here. 10 days is a long time to be late. Given my [overshare] ridiculously short cycle [/overshare], that basically means it cuts halfway into the next cycle.

(Actually, who am I kidding with the closing of the [overshare] tag so soon.)

Regardless of whether there had actually been any feasible chance of conceiving in any given month, I still have this little sigh of relief whenever I have proof-positive there are no little Julias growing in there. And despite the wretched, crippling pain that coincides with the aforementioned proof-positive, I manage to whisper a silent prayer of thanksgiving to the gods of consequence-less sin. (Of course, marital sex is totally not a sin. In fact, it's biblically recommended. Excellent.) Thank you sweet baby Jesus for giving me such ridiculous inconvenience and blinding pain!!



Maybe it has something to do with the removal of societal/parental shun of pregnancy now that I'm all married and what not and it's uh, socially/parentally acceptable. They don't have Hallmark cards that college students can send home to their parents. "Hey mom and dad, pls. pay the enclosed tuition bill for this semester. Oh, and guess what! You're going to be grandparents! Pls. send extra cash. Thanks."

Maybe it has something to do with my best friends' sweet baby Grace growing curly red hair overnight and totally talking (nothing legible, yet) and the way she smiles at her bestest friend ever (read: whoever holds the Cheerios) whenever you put one in her chubby little fingers.

Maybe it has something to do with all those hours spent pouring over vegan-nutrition-during-pregnancy websites, etc.

Maybe it has something to do with the way my sweet husband gently places his hand on my tummy and apologizes for the female species' lifelong battle with reproductory system-based suffering.

For whatever plethora of reasons, I was completely disappointed to get my proof-positive this month.

Well, make that 99% disappointed. I couldn't stop thinking about that weekend of brandy and margaritas and fetal alcohol syndrome a few weeks back...


Read today's list.

There are no words.

There are no words
This morning, Erik is driving his mother home, three and a half hours away, because she didn't want to use her return train ticket because there might only be plastic-y vinyl seats left and that would just not do.

Erik's sweet black Corolla is quite fuel efficient, but it's also fourteen years old and would rather sit still more often. Also, fuel efficiency doesn't mean much when you're driving through Los Angeles mid-day and your fuel costs $2.39 anyway.

I love my mother-in-law. I really do. She's a sweetheart, very generous, very caring, and can be really fun and amusing (sometimes at her expense, though, I admit). But this plastic bus seat fiasco -- combined with the ceramic painted castle candle holder she gave us -- really subtracts some points.

Yes. A Castle.

Read today's list.

Day 37.

Day 37.
So the month of veganism trial passed quietly. I'm still at it. I'm not sure if this is going to be a lifelong endeavor or what, but so far it's been easy. Except for the gelatin-coated antibiotics that I'm currently taking. Yesterday, I even read all about vegan nutrition during pregnancy but DON'T GET YOUR HOPES UP.

(The all-caps right there was more for me than you all, by the way.)

Also yesterday, I spent $21.95 on a gigantic vegan cookbook and resource book. This was partly sort of like pennance, costing over twice the cost of my hoof-laden antibiotics, and partly an act of commitment.

Read today's list.

Lucky you guys.

Lucky you guys
Well, luck is always in the eye of the beholder.
lists are to be loved.

There goes my 2 year limit.

There goes my 2 year limit.
Friday marked the beginning of my third year at this company.

I don't really have anything to say about that, except that I never thought I'd even be a technical writer at all, much less one for over four years.

I really need to figure out what exactly it is that I'm supposed to be doing. Soon, please.

The authority of Camelbaks

The authority of Camelbaks
Yesterday at lunch, my coworkers and I were talking about how you could easily sneak alcohol into any setting if you put it in a Camelbak or similar water/bladder device. Because people would say, "Oh look, they're granola and outdoorsy. They're harmless. And they're certainly not going to be hitting the bottle - they're all about hydration." And if anyone does suspect you, like at the airport, the security people will say, "excuse me ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to take a sip of that." "SURE!" you exclaim, as you take a sip of your tasty vodka tonic with a twist. Mmm.

After work, Erik and I went for a little hike by our house. Access to the trail involves sneaking behind the Qualcomm headquarters and taking a little path that starts in their parking lot. This is all fine, but yesterday they had half of the parking lot cordoned off for construction. So we cut through it. Coming back, we climbed back into the parking lot and over some construction machinery. We could easily have been sneaking around, stealing things, breaking equipment, selling Qualcomm's secrets, tagging, doing drugs, running with the wrong crowd, etc. Sure enough, a little security truck comes towards us right as we were looking as fishy and sneaky as possible. But he drove right past.

We had a Camelbak. We can do no wrong.

Maggie

Maggie
I was fine until they played a recording of Margaret Thatcher speaking about Reagan.

Margaret Thatcher was probably the first role model I ever had, and I firmly believe that any ounce of feminism in me was empowered by her, but also partially dismissed by her: she was always prime minister. The concept of whether or not a woman should have that role was nonexistant. Inequality was an afterthought.

I spent all of Reagan's presidency as a child in Thatcher's England, so the sound of her voice alone really strikes me. More than the National Cathedral choir singing "Jerusalem." More even than the images of sweet, elegant Nancy. More than the former rock drummer Dean of our Cathedral in San Diego, the current Bishop Chane. The whole presidential death thing had skimmed over me until the moment she spoke and finally brought it home. I had to fight back tears.

Politics aside, she was and is a remarkable woman.

158.333333333333% childish

158.333333333333% childish

Last night, over faux chicken, Erik said that we could get a kitten by my birthday! I feel like a six year old right now!

Later on, I asked him why he changed his mind - if I had made him realize that kittens aren't that much work. He said, "no, it's because you want one so badly." This means everything wrong the kitten does will be Julia's fault once-removed. Even if he doesn't make snide comments or cast blame when the kitten barfs, I'll still feel guilty and responsible, like when we brought tadpoles home and my mother said they'd die (and she'd have to clean them up) and we should take them back to the river. But we kept them because we were so much more loving than their frog mother. And then, sure enough, they died.

Regardless, a sweet little cat will more than make up for sporadic guilt, and I'm getting really good at pre-empting manipulation and blame. Last night was a very bright spot in an otherwise dismal week: the poo is hitting the fan at work. These days I'm assigned as a writer to one project at 100%, but I'm also expected to put in 25% to another project, and then I need to spend a third of my time doing administrative stuff for all the writers. Technically, the admin stuff could take up a full time job, but I just do the bare minimum to get by. This trickles down to doing "the bare minimum to get by" in all my projects. After some brief calculations, I realized I'm putting in 158.3333333333...%. Or, more realistically, I'm screwing up everything and finishing nothing.

It will be so nice to have something sweet and furry to come home to after a ridiculous day at work.

Also, it'd better be cute and not barf or die.

Meow.

Meow.

Dear husband,

If you think that the amount of effort put into taking care of a sweet purring little fluffy kitten who was born with a natural instinct to bury her body waste in a litter box and eats maybe once a day and doesn't need to go outside ever isn't worth the rewards of unconditional love and cuddling, then I can't even begin to imagine how the amount of effort put into taking care of a WIFE or even a BABY would be worth the rewards of slightly more conditional love and cuddling.

Kisses,
your higher-maintenance-than-a-kitten wife.

Escondida

Escondida
A few weeks ago, we saw Jolie Holland open for Hayden who opened for Sarah Harmer. Jolie Holland completely floored me. Her voice is one part Cat Power, one part Billie Holliday, and her music is somewhere in Louisiana and Paris and Seattle at the same time. And maybe somewhere else that I can't really place yet.



I picked up her latest CD, Escondida this weekend, and I don't think I would be at all upset if someone told me this album had to play over and over again, thousands and thousands of times, for the rest of my life. The opening track, "Sascha" is hypnotically lilting, wry, and charming, and the rest of the album just melts into that mold.

You know, when I first heard Norah Jones' voice, I couldn't help but anticipate the greatness that would quickly find its way to her. But I was also just as quickly disappointed (which doesn't mean I don't love her music) - I wanted her to do so much more with that phenomenal voice. Escondida is totally what I was denied from Norah Jones.

It's the sort of music that I want wistfully surrounding me when I close my eyes and slowly sink deeper into a hot bath. Or when I have a small group of beautiful friends over for dinner. Or when I drive with the windows down, trying to find somewhere untouched. Or when I sit outside on the porch surrounded by wildflowers and potted vegetable plants and drink something strong in the weak summer evening heat. So come to think of it, I might just choose to play it over and over again, thousands and thousands of times.

Folk on, Jolie.

Sweatin' to the Newies

Sweatin' to the Newies
We stayed out far too late last night/this morning at the Tiesto show at On Broadway downtown. The whole experience was quite journalistically stimulating, so here are some observations in bulleted, got-home-at-3am style:

The club was packed, which was one part hellish, one part fun, and two parts sweaty.

Speaking of sweaty, a man we named "Wet Guy" seemed to follow us around and dance/bob right in fromt of us. He was probably on something, because the second he got on the floor, he started his bob and NEVER STOPPED. We're talking four+ hours here. And the nature of his bob movement meant prolific sweaty elbow flailing.

Speaking of on something, we also couldn't seem to get away from this group of young Japanese exchange students (with the tiniest digital camera ever, incidentally) who whipped out some MASSAGE OIL. At a club. While people were dancing around them. And massaged each other. Granted, it smelled pretty, but I just couldn't get past how bizarre and slightly disgusting the whole scene was.

At one point, somebody from the crowd handed Tiesto a record. He just pulled it out of the sleeve, looked at the label, and put it on his little turntable thing. I'm pretty sure it was that Sarah McLachlan/Delerium song, because I was surprised to hear that, the oldest DJ trick in the book. Also, he had to make it go really fast, and thus, really high, in order for it to fit in with what he was already doing. It was pretty incredible!

His latest album, "Just Be" has a little sticker on the front saying "The new artist album from the #1 DJ in the world." The world. I was skeptical, but it was by far the best electronic music performance I've ever seen, and with my husband being as he is, I seem to have seen far too many. He was also really sweet and cute with the crowd, what with the waving and smiling and playing their records business. And he remixed "Adagio for Strings" for some shoe-in Julia Points.

I dressed like a techno superspy. I've never worn sunglasses inside before, and I really did feel badass. Don't worry, they were the hardly-shaded glass variety (the kind that really don't block the sun at all) so I could totally see. I promise to never make fun of Sydney Bristow's usual there's-an-international-terrorist-deal-going-on-in-this-electronic-euro-synth-pop-club outfits again.

There is no greater feeling of rebellion to me than staying out until the wee hours of the morning mid-week and then not going to work until 1pm the next day. It's partly depressing that I felt so rebellious for something like that, but also partly comforting because this means I don't need alcohol or drugs for a good time. You know, since my one martini last night cost $9.50, and I wouldn't want to accidentally whip out massage oil in public or anything.

Berries

Berries



Weak late-afternoon colors anywhere between deep taupe scrub brush branches and 0.05%-saturation kelly green dry grass lay beneath the strong yellow haze poured upon the earth by the setting sun. A single tree with berries along the Kwaay Paay Summit trail threw a provoking splash of deep, rich red on it's fading canvas.

And don't ask me how to pronounce Kwaay Paay. I just like pretty colors.

Graces

Graces



Last night, we had Guinnesses (Guinnessi) and soy lattes with the even-more-fabulous-than-I-had-expected Matt and Sarah Grace. They're here for a few more days and I totally want to call them up to hang out some more. Blog talk was kept to a minimum, but it was inevitable and good. Good times. And thanks, Will, for the latte (see Figure 1, above).



We had a beautiful, sunny, busy weekend. I took somewhere in the vicinity of 50 pictures of lovely things and places and people, and am currently swinging towards "San Diego doesn't suck as much as I want it to, damn it."

Today I feel like I have an ugly cloud following me around, and it might have something to do with that revelation, like the eight year old who resists eating mashed potatoes but when she finally does and they taste fantastic, she still pretends that they suck. And despite them being tasty, she actually would rather they had sucked, so that her complaining and convictions would be valid. Validity notwithstanding, she continues to pout amidst delicious bites of wonderful mashed potatoes.