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.