Well, I'm neither poor nor innocent...

Well, I'm neither poor nor innocent...

I present to you, my latest performance art piece. I call it: "the spray-painted doves, they are attacking." Click for more.



There are varied pictures in there, including downtrodden Erik/Charlie Brown and a choice, red-eyed close-up of my faux eyelashes cast downwards towards one of many girlie drinks which collectively made me too queasy to do anything else except nap in the car during church Sunday morning.

Now I'm off go to jumping into fountains naked, and what not.

I'm THIS MANY.

I'm THIS MANY.

About twenty days ago, the third anniversary of this wee blog passed unnoticed. I totally forgot, so shame on me.

Happy third birthday, little blog. We've been through a lot. I think I deserve cake or something extraordinary. (Sorry you can't eat any, because you know how you're a concept or at the very best a signal in air? Actually, come to think of it, I have no clear idea what you are, except that you pretty much have no mouth.)

Best.

Best.

Last night, on our ascent through the dense fog ensheathing Iron Mountain, John and I were joking about the usual things like mountain lions and bad guys, but also something new: mountaineering accidents.

"I'd have to go on local news and stuff."

"Yeah, it could be your big break."

"She thought it was just a muscle cramp. But I just knew her leg was actually broken. I knew she'd never make it out alive, so I had to leave her out there. It was so hard." [TM Jon Krakauer and/or Joe Simpson, etc.]

"Now would be a good time to shed a tear for the camera - maybe choke up a little."

"*tear.* I lost my best hiking buddy out there. But I think I'll pull through."

And that conversation, my friends, fully warmed my heart. Call me needy, but it really makes my world go round to know that I'm somebody's "best" something. Even if involves a plot to kill me.

Fintage.

Fintage.

This weekend, we went to the whatever-th annual Pasadena Heritage Craftsman Weekend. It's always so wonderful to tour around the sweet tree-lined streets with beautiful old houses, and sometimes even go inside and peek into people's built-ins. One of my favorite things about Pasadena is the historical planning convention of requiring specific trees assigned to each street. 100 years later, you have matching canopies of majestic, elegant, matching trees on each street. It's beautiful.

However, the weekend was a little anticlimactic. Now that we're Authentic Craftsman Bungalow Owners ourselves, I did feel a little more legit being there, but I've been sensing something for a while about modern Arts & Crafts/Craftsman culture that was magnified in the home tours. I've always been wary of people who live in museums or antique stores - with everything down to the magazines in the bathroom being authentic! period! pieces!. That's obnoxious. But now I've pinpointed something a little more annoying. It's the 21st century manufactured reincarnation. I'm so fed up of seeing living rooms decorated with new Stickley furniture (you know, those chairs and tables with the wooden arms and vertical slats) and the mica lampshades resting upon new artisan textiles embroidered a few months ago with ginko patterns or a William Morris knock-off design. And hanging chandeliers with the cliche craftsman window decoration in black metal over a white or mica glass.

We saw one house that seemed like it had been gutted and redesigned to match a cover of American Bungalow Magazine. How is that paying any sort of homage to the spirit of the original house? We bumped into the owner during the tour, and he mentioned that he had been up until 2am putting door knobs on. I glanced at the door knobs and saw beautiful retro-looking glass door knobs, but with shiny new esceutions and hardware. The knobs were brand new. The subway brick tiles in the bathroom were shiny and new, the grout blindingly white. The kitchen had granite counter tops and unpainted wood cabinets with over-the-top "craftsman" looking hardware.

I don't know why I'm dissatisfied with both the fake new stuff and the antique stuff. Maybe it's the saturation. Why can't a house have a healthy blend? Why does it all have to look the same?

The emphasis of the era wasn't necessarily on achieving that sought after Stickley chair look; it was on hand-crafted, durable and beautiful joinery. The furniture, like the houses, were designed to find harmony between form and function, beauty and structure. Kitchens and bathrooms, with the exception of a few notables like Greene & Greene's Gamble house in Pasadena, were generally 100% white. The end of the 20s saw a little color being added to kitchens and bathrooms as everyone discovered art deco, but for the most part, cabinetry and trim was painted white in those rooms.

This leads me to my next point. We're pretty much certain that the pink and blue bathroom tile is original. This kind of breaks my heart a little bit. If you recall, we had thought about installing subway tile in the bathroom. Some of the pink tiles were cracked, and others were surely damaged beneath the 70s shower fixtures. I had even almost convinced Erik to go with a light brown grout (ew, I know) to make it look less shiny and new and fake.

However, we've now scrapped the entire plan. We're keeping the pink and blue tile. The only work that needs to be done on the bathroom now is finding new knobs and fixtures, getting a new sink, and fixing the damaged tiles. A friend recommended some guy who is apparently a genius tile restorer. And, since everyone I've talked to is asking me how they do that, I'm just going to tell you right away that I have no idea. We're meeting with him on Saturday and then I'll get back to you.

So now I need to figure out how to decorate this pink and blue bathroom. Good times. I love it already, but it's definitely tough love. I keep telling myself that it takes a special kind of person to love things that are hard to love. This house needs me. Miraculously, the little house has barely been touched over the years. We found out that if it was truly built in 1929 like we're told, we're the third owners. Why should I rip up a perfectly good bathroom now? If I just want to get the pretty perfect subway tile white bathroom, that makes me no different from the guy with the shiny new doorknobs and cliche Stickley furniture.

Also, it will be way cheaper to just fix a few tiles (I hope) than to start over from scratch. The people we bought it from paid $10,000 for it in 1965. Then they sold it to us for a small profit. Everytime I think about how rich the previous owners are now, I cringe about spending another penny.

In other news, look what we got a few weeks ago:



It's about a 1932, which is pretty much spot on what the stove would have looked like in the old house. We will go with a modern fridge, because old fridges are a total energy suck (people and electrical). But the stove is just darling and is quite effective. Not to mention it has been professionally restored a few years ago. Hot.

This was a rambly elitist post. I'm over myself now, though. Carry on. As you were. Etc.

High strung.

High strung

I think I'm ready to snap. I'm so tightly wound. I settled down in bed the other night only to find myself thinking, "FALL ASLEEP NOW, DAMN IT" but barely being able to hear that thought due to all the others. I'm going to go ahead and bullet out all the sources of stress for you guys. Yay!

My church. It's kind of hard for me to talk about this stuff here, but it's really taking a toll on me. I'm trying to remain diplomatic and Everyone's Favorite Senior Warden, but it's almost time for me to start breaking people's comfort zones about leadership and direction and money. Also, we're like $40k in the hole. This is nothing compared to other financial quandaries of other organizations, not to mention the pick-up in church giving that occurs in November and December, but it's tough right now for our little family.

My work. Yeah, I'm pretty much not going to elaborate.

Selling our condo. We just decided to get a realtor to list the place, because we were wasting so much time sitting at open houses, and also not being very effective. We would like to get this shit sold so that we can stop paying two mortgages and move into our sweet little dream house ASAP. However, the realtor came over the other night and gave us a to-do list which involves planting things on the patio. There is no time! I think she might come over and plant gladiolas out there while we're sleeping - she's that kind of woman.

Fixing up the new house. Sometimes I'm glad that we have a blank slate ahead of us, and we can ensure that things are appropriately restored, not McMansionly remodelled. But fucking A. We tried to design a new kitchen cabinet layout the other day, and I almost walked out. I DON'T KNOW IF I NEED 3 DRAWERS IN THAT CORNER OR JUST CABINETS AND ONE DRAWER OR WHAT! Stop pressuring me! I want someone to stand in the kitchen and understand what I want and then make the best decisions about drawer placement for standard work flow. Or something. And I wish they made skinnier fridges.

Fixing up the new house, part two. Our tile guy broke up with us, and we're trying desperately to find another contractor. The bathroom walls have to be ripped out almost completely on the lower tiled segments, to allow for a fresh coat of concrete liner and tile. I know this is a daunting task, but someone has to be up for the challenge or at least up for calling me back. The most recommended contractor called me in the evening yesterday, after we had planned on a "late afternoon" informal meeting in the bathroom (bwah), and asked if we could meet on Monday instead. I just want to move in! Maybe we will make sure the toilet is set up during remodelling, and just run over to Erik's sister's house in the mornings to shower. I'm that ready.

My car. It's screaming at me. It's more of a squeal, when I idle. I'm almost sure it's a fan belt something or other. I'm fully sure it's annoying and scary. Today, however, my Manipulating Since Three Years Old (tm John) tactics scored me Erik's car for my commute. He has the day off.

My body. I would like a retrofit please. Mine is pathetic. It's getting better, but I just am so tired of two periods a month or random inexplicable breakouts or hives or whatever or pesky IT bands. Also, last night, the TV taught me that I have Restless Leg Syndrome and all I have to do is take one pill a day for the rest of my life and I'll be able to relax. I've dealt with my stupid feet and lower legs not being able to relax if I'm too tired of on too long of a drive for my entire life. At least as long as I can remember. I recall as a four year old or something, watching my dad rip of his shoes to squeeze his rugby/hockey-wounded foot, and was instantly relieved that everyone had the same problems. Later on, I mentioned this to my dad, and he explained that he had broken his foot more than once and it acts up every so often. I then realized, having never played rugby, that my feet were just naturally and abnormally annoying. Sometimes I have to tuck my feet under Erik when he's sleeping, because having 180 pounds of human being crushing them makes them feel a little better. But hey, I'm totally not about to pop a pill a day. I'm sure the days you don't take the drugs are far, far worse than the baseline pre-drug. Of course, that's just my inner hippie talking. Anyway, at this point it's all way more than I can fit in a 15 minute doctor's appointment, so I'm just going to move on.

The internet. Why can't we be nicer? Why would we write mean things publically that we would never imagine saying out loud in front of other people in real life?

People who are stressed out about bird flu. Seriously, if you're that paranoid, don't eat a fucking turkey for thanksgiving. That makes me happy, at least.

In a nutshell, that is where I've been. It's been a lachrymose week and my precious local NPR station is on a fundraising drive and is thus useless to me. IS EVERYONE OUT TO GET ME?

Alright. I feel better. You?

Not The Same.

Not The Same.

I'm having the suckingest day ever at work today, including but not limited to a box full of 8 reams of paper falling corner-first on my left thigh, then crying about it, then someone walking in on me, then not even writing a technically written sentence until 1:45pm due to spending the day doing random administrative duties and box dropping that are so not included anywhere near my job description, then driving in the Poway heat trying to find a fucking Jiffy Lube and FAILING, turning around dejected, only to pass it on the way back to work. Then John, of course, made fun of all the previously listed items. I choose my friends wisely, you see.

I figured the best bandaid for such a lousy day was to plug myself into the ipod and blast Ben Folds. I kept having to turn it up, because I COULD STILL HEAR EVERYONE IN THE BUILDING WITH ALL THE TALKING AND CHATTING AND LAUGHING AND TYPING even all the way across by the windows. Probably not, but I was emotional which generally leads to exaggeration . Anyway, "Not The Same" came on the ipod. At the Wiltern show in August, Ben had the entire audience join in on the "ahhhhh, ahhhhh" part, using, I kid you not, three-part harmonies. We rocked it (thanks mostly to the phenomenal acoustics in the beautiful Wiltern theater). It was so beautiful.

It was just such a perfect time to hear that song again and I felt the need to enter the experience into my little time capsule here. This post brought to you by a ridiculously sappy moment in a ridiculous day.

My leg hurts.

Whatever happened to my ROCK AND ROLL?

Whatever happened to my, to my ROCK AND ROLL?

I just got back from the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club show at Brick by Brick. It's got to be one of the best concerts I've ever seen. They rocked. I have rockstar crushes on everyone in the band. Also: normal crushes.

If you haven't ever seen them live, now is the time. They are shining. Unlike a few years ago, when Robert's bass broke on stage.

First of all, we didn't actually have tickets to the sold-out show. My neighbor and concert carpool gave me one, and then one of the roadies gave us his access pass to get Erik in. We instantly felt a mixture of extremely badass and extremely lucky. Everytime I'm at Brick by Brick, I'm always surprised how great of a venue it is, it's lameness only due to the lame bands they usually bring in. Tonight, of course, was an exception. And we knew it. Towards the end of the set, one of the boys (I couldn't really see who was talking and you know how they both kind of sound the same?) said, "San Diego, it's, you know, alright." Thanks dude. I agree. I usually keep my expectations low for the rockingness and legitimate badassness of this America's Not Quite Finest Anymore City, but hey. We're alright.

After the show, we were dawdling back to our car and saw Robert with the many last names standing out in the alley. Janine, my neighbor, is more of an explicit rockstar addict than any of us, so we got her album signed. I had a chance to talk to Robert a little, and I asked him if he remembered opening for The Autumns, like five+ years ago in LA. Erik's college roommate and one of our dear friends, Frankie, is their guitar player. He not only remembered, but said that he had really liked them and played with them quite a bit. He asked me what they've been up to, and after hearing about their latest album, said something along the lines of "they're such fucking hard workers." Erik was really impressed that he remembered that, which must have made him change his mind about asking if he remembered when his bass broke at Coachella. On the contrary, tonight made me want to be a bass player in a rock and roll slash bluesish gospelish slash general indie band.

My concert reviews and scores generally revolve around how charmed I was. And, charmed I was indeed. Red eyes and tears no more for you, my love.

I feel like I should add: I'm fully aware that I am a poser when it comes to badassness. For example, the lower right side of my back was hurting significantly at the start of the concert, and the pain and discomfort not only got worse, but spread all over my back, right-side, and abdomen throughout the show. My unbadass diagnosis was that my kidney broke.

A Brief Recommendary Interlude.

A Brief Recommendary Interlude.

Things that I have recently enjoyed, because I'm a consumerous consumer with lots of consuming:

One - Vitasoy original soymilk.

Henceforth, named soy juice because that's what it really is. A few weeks ago, we went to our favorite Mexican restaurant in San Diego, Rancho's Cucina for breakfast with Sarah, Scott, Grace, and Natalie. The breakfast was far below their usual standard, but that's beside the point. Sarah and I got coffee, and I asked for a little jug of soymilk for mine. I took a sip of it before adding it to the coffee, and damn it, it was the best tasting soymilk, ever. We even gave it to sweet probably-lactose-intolerant Grace to drink, and she slurped it up with nary a complaint. The waiter showed us the container, and LO AND BEHOLD, it wasn't even vanilla flavored. The container looks slightly retro and cheesy, and I thusly adore it.

This morning, I poured a little of the vanilla-flavored variety Vitasoy into my coffee, and it kind of sucks. (This is proof for you that I haven't been bought out by Vitasoy.) So, stick with the plain original un-vanilla'd and NEVER MAKE FUN OF SOYMILK AGAIN, bitches.

Two - The new BRMC album, "Howl."

We've seen the delightfully named Black Rebel Motorcycle Club before, but I am so much more excited about seeing them tomorrow night due to the recent release of Howl. The album, it is golden. They mellowed out slightly since their prior albums - but not wussy mellow, or third album mellow, or even radio sellout mellow. I think of bluegrass and Bob Dylan when I listen to Howl. Did you know that BRMC is Noel Gallagher's favorite band? That's hot. Anyway, don't steal this album. And come to their show tomorrow night.

Three - Veg'n Out Restaurant in San Diego's North Park neighborhood

This vegetarian restaurant does not suck! It is mere blocks from our new house, and I am counting the days until we move and I can coast on my rusty uptown-style bike to this delightful little eatery and eat their North Parker or South Parker burgers more often. It's very casual, and the staff will talk to you from the kitchen while they're making your food. The best parts of the menu are the burgers, although Erik likes the (non-vegan) fake chicken nuggets, too. The prices can add up when you start getting extras (like vegan cheese or avocado), but it's worth it. They give you some veggies and dip with your burger, and I recommend asking for the vegan dip. It's brown and tasty. The non-vegan dip is just boring ranch or something, aka white and non-tasty. They also have a really impressive childrens' menu.

Four - Pannikin Coffee in San Diego County's Two Mile Strip of a (strangely) Incorporated City of Del Mar, specifically their soy vanilla latte

Good god, this may well be the best, frothiest, sweetest, coffeeingest soy vanilla latte I've ever had. I always make a point to get one on the way out of town (northward on I-5, which is pretty much the only way we ever go out of town anyway), even if I'm running late. Like Saturday for example, when I was an hour late to a bridal shower, but damn it, I didn't fall asleep at the wheel and spent the two hour drive engulfed in perfect vanilla latte bliss.

Pannikin is a local company, so anyone outside of San Diego is just going to have to wait until they visit me. The sweet coastal pale yellow victorian stick house-ish incarnation of Pannikin in Encinitas is by far the cutest setting, but their lattes hardly measure up to the Flower Hill Pannikin in Del Mar. Especially when the skinny girl with the jutting shoulder bones and fantastic jewelry froths my soymilk. That sounds naughty. But there's a big difference between a latte crush and a girl crush.

Tangential fact: at least 50% of all parking citations received by Julia have been from the Incorporated City of Del Mar.

Further tangential fact: I have one that I got in July but forgot about.

The end. Note that I didn't start calling soymilk "soy juice" after all.

Run Julia, Run!

Run Julia, Run!

First of all, if you haven't been in the previous post's comment box and said something smart and inspiring, get thee there!

Second of all, many of you have endured my seemingly endless recovery since June's marathon. Running, in a word, sucked. After one pitiful, highly emotional six minutes of running on a Saturday morning, I had to stop. My IT (iliotibial) band wasn't just irritated, it was sore. I had never had any IT band problems before, but I knew enough to realize that I was putting my running future in jeopardy with every continuing step. So I stopped running. After six minutes. I was so furious and frustrated, thinking of all the times I'd easily ran ten times that, just a few days after knocking off a 3 hour long run. I knew I needed to seek help.

When I first starting running with Team in Training, they set us all up on a little listserve thing. Most of the emails revolved around run locations, carpooling, and fundraising. After the marathon, they added us all to an alumni list. These emails were easier to ignore. Fundraising for people in the current season. Help needed with aid stations for their Saturday runs. Sign up to be a mentor next year. Etc. But I knew everyone I had ran with was on the other end of that email address, so one night, I went for it. My post was titled something like, "I need an IT injury support group." The replies flooded in. Many people mentioned that they usually delete all the emails that come from the listserve, but this one caught their eye. I realized that yes, my problem was indeed potentially serious, but that other people knew exactly what I was feeling. I felt idle, useless, betrayed by my own body, and most ridiculously, I felt a little flabby. Not running was depressing me.

Finally, I was advised by Coach James to seek professional help. (For the IT band, not for my mental injuries). $130 and two hour-long visits later, I was covered in bruises THAT I PAID FOR, after having the sports therapist do all sorts of deep tissue "massage" (piercing evil wounding beatings). There was also the awesome little electrostimulator tickler thing, which made me happy on the inside. After a rough assignment of cross-training (which involved buying a temporary gym membership, boo, hiss), dilligent foam-rolling (lying on top of a giant stiff cylinder of foam and well, rolling over it), extra protein consumption, and lots of stretching, I finally got the okay to run again in late September. "Ten minutes," she said, her 2% body fat arms bent at right angles, sun-damaged hands perched on her hips. "Flat surfaces, for now. Add a minute every time and see how it feels."

Everyone in the waiting room clapped for me when I answered, "No, I don't need to make another appointment at this time." It was equal parts empowering and dorky.

Yesterday, I ran about 23 minutes at lunch. I ran again today. I'm forcing myself to not run again tomorrow, even though I want nothing more. Usually, going out to lunch with John is pretty much my favorite part about my job, but there's something about being injured - being literally unable to run - that makes it so, so much better when you're whole again. Sorry, John. Nothing personal.

But, damn it, I'm running again. I'm happy again.