Cherry Darling

We lay in the grass in the yard while the sweet smell of hyacinth and other blooming things hover in the air. It’s private and quiet there, a little green oasis and respite from the world – though the world here is pretty quiet and private – it doesn’t require much escaping. Ed finished reading Speaker For The Dead aloud while I occasionally pulled a weed or pruned something. Secret played with her Jolly Ball, moving it about the yard like a soccer champ.

To speed things up, we went to see The Grindhouse. Vroooom, vroooooom.

Holiday...

T minus 81. I’ve taken this week off work again, mostly because Ed lost his job and we haven’t had time off together, in years. When we take vacations, he’ll spend a not insignificant portion of the time working. That’s just not an option this week, so we’re lazing about, taking little day trips and enjoying our time together. It’s actually something of a challenge for us. When it comes right down to it, we prefer one another in relatively small doses.

On Friday night we ventured into The City for Cookie’s first-ever art opening. It was a smallish venue at Magnet, an HIV testing, counseling and case management center in the Castro. It was sweet and appropriate and I know from talking to folks that purchased items that he sold quite a few pieces. He’s produced a collection of mixed media pieces with a relatively high degree of curb appeal. He seemed quite happy with the turn out and the feedback and we had a great time.

Saturday I spent the day in the garden, finally getting the blueberry bushes in their big pots and the Boston Ferns that arrived last week in hanging pots over the hot tub. I still haven’t planted the citrus trees as I stew in indecision. Wiley, who I’d seen at Cookie’s show, came out for a hike. It was a somewhat unplanned and unexpected visit. He’d mentioned that he wanted to come out and without following up or confirming he just showed up. I’ve mixed feelings about that. I really enjoy people just showing up. I like an informal life that is open to people dropping in. I just don’t feel so great about Wiley, in particular, doing that right now (any more?). By the same token, I’m not willing to disinvite him to my life. (Generally, I don’t do that.) So I’ll just have to sit in my contradiction and ponder it for a spell. In the meantime, I had him mow the lawn.

Saturday evening Ed and I had craft night (something I think we want to make into a bit more of a routine..) We colored easter eggs (one of the fifteen exploded, spectacularly, in the pot – the shell hit me in the eye.. fortunately I wear glasses. That was Easter’s way of spitting at me!) His were absolutely fantabulous. He confessed that when he was a kid he imagined he’d be an artist. He’s totally gifted with this untapped talent, though he contends that he reached the pinnacle of his talent in the fourth grade and never progressed beyond that. I think if we develop a discipline together, it could be grand fun.

Sunday morning we gathered our many colored eggs and ventured into The City to the Pacific Rod and Gun club at Lake Merced where there was an Easter egg hunt and breakfast for the little children of gun club patrons. We ate hash browns while the little kids in multicolored pastel outfits scoured the field in a total of eight minutes. There was no shoot’n that day… amidst the bright orange broken clay pigeons and spent shell casings, children scavenged. It was poetic. This is what it’s come to.

It was still on the early side so rather than make the trek to the South Bay to visit Ed’s mother and have dinner, we trundled on over to Larkspur where the windsurfers set out into the Bay. It’s a lovely view of Ring Mountain and San Quentin State Prison where we toss the ball into the murky waters of the bay and let the Honey Bee paddle and play on the rocky beach.

We went home and changed clothes, took care of this and that, then did that South Bay dinner thing with Ed’s mom and ‘em. They ate honey glazed ham and George made me some lovely scampi. We left before it got too late or we got too tired – so it was a perfect little outing and the traffic wasn’t so bad.

This morning we rose early, puttered around the house, did some cleaning and went off to breakfast at the local Koffee Klatch. I stopped by the post office to get the (gulp) property taxes (I hope it makes it to the Civic Center by the deadline) in the mail and then we dropped Ed’s mountain bike off at the Cyclery. The day’s not over and there’s lounging to be done along with some wandering in the hills with the Monster Grrrrrl.

Outside In

I did rise at the crack of dawn and made it to Saturday morning yoga. I’ve missed my contortionist feat for several weeks running and have been less limber for the oversight. This morning I have the heat of stretching this muscle, greasing that joint, bending this way and asana-ing that. During yoga, I invariably feel nauseous. Afterwards, I feel great.

Today is the opening of Yellow Legged Frog Docenting season at Carson Falls and Peter and I have the afternoon shift. It’s our job to protect the egg masses. (I’m contemplating starting a new game called “chuck the newt” – although the rangers don’t advocate harming one species to protect another, those blasted newts are eating the egg masses – no doubt eating endangered plants as a starter and moving on to threatened egg mass as the main course to their sinister lives.) I have ceased looking forward to our docenting adventure because it’s too darn hot and the hike is hard.

To gear up for the Carson Falls trek, Ms G and I hiked from Alpine dam up the Cataract Trail, which follows along and criss-crosses a mountain waterfall. There are large deep pools along the way that hikers will splash in that some folks have been occasioned to swim in. I’ve since learned that these falls are another location for the threatened yellow-legged frogs and their egg masses. Unlike the other two locations (little and big Carson Falls) the only explanation for the decrease in population density in this area is due to hikers and swimmers disturbing the egg masses – which has driven their population to near extinction there. I do think if they posted some signs in the particular pools of most concern that the educational effort would indeed dissuade people from puddling about in the standing pools. Be that as it may…

My front yard is a blaze of color - waves of orange poppies wafting in the light breezes. Everything is beginning to flower. I’ve planted pansies and violas as border flowers in the side yards and am sitting quietly with the new lemon tree and Moro blood orange tree to see where they’d like to be planted. I’ve been digging up daisy bushes (which I loathe) and am working on ousting a few oleanders and trying to see what comes together with the front yard. I want to try my hand at more substantial vegetable patch (patch as opposed to garden) this year – but I haven’t really the space so I continue to think on it. I’ve got two blueberry bushes that a neighbor gave me that really must go in the ground by tomorrow as well. I love this time of year. My lilacs are bursting into flower as I write – a fragrant delicate bouquet to hang in the air and catch a breeze!

I just seem to not be able to be outside enough.

My Beautiful Launderette

Last night we went to The French laundry in Yountville. I’d like to leave it at just a big amazing WOW but somehow that doesn’t seem quite enough. It was spectacular. I wish I had the menu in front of me and could just wax poetic on each culinary stanza of this gastronomic orchestra.

This was a really lovely way to kick start my vacation week. (I did have to work for a few hours on Saturday – so in the world of me – the full face vacation commenced on Sunday.) I spent Sunday morning in my yard, gardening. The poppies are starting to bloom and there’ll be a point, likely even by the week’s end, where the front yard will be ablaze of bright orange – an explosion of color. Sometimes I catch people standing at my fence, looking at the dancing color catching wind and bouncing under the sunlight, smiling. It’s a great thing – such a little package of poppy seeds.. who knew they’d spread like wildfire. That’s the thing about natives – they flourish in what other’s may deem to be a hostile environment. It’s what they know. It’s the conditions they thrive best in. Who are we to judge?

Ironically, a neighbor has planted two too many blueberry bushes and he’s told me I can have them. I’ll have to condition the soil with acid to coax the things into fruiting – those things that grow wild in the woods outside of Bemidji. The blueberry bushes were never in the plan… but who can say no to a blueberry bush?

So last night we were all transported to a very decadent land of the most amazing food on the planet. I’ve never had food like this before in my life. When it comes to food – it was truly one of those defining moments. Oh, yes. I see! Now, for the first time in my life, I’ve tasted what it can be. And I admit, it was a very decadent thing to do and I’m honestly not wholly clear if I should boast about the experience (which I’d like to do, because I’m caught up in the excitement like a child who has just discovered the state fair for the first time) or if I should be a bit shameful (because likely the price of the meal could feed an entire family in a developing nation for over a year…. Maybe two… families.. and years… and I wonder if any singular event like that can ever be justified.) I think it might be okay to at once be tremendously grateful and apologetic – so that is it – both things.

There are maybe a little over fifty restaurants in the world that receive a Michelin three star rating (on a scale of one to three – where most of the world’s restaurants don’t even rate a one.) Of those, a mere five are in the United States (I think the country boasting the most three star restaurants is France.) Of those five, only one is in California – and that would be The French Laundry. The master chef (Tom Keller) has opened another restaurant in New York, which is one of the other three star restaurants in the United States. It’s really, obviously, all about the chef. Restaurants are mere brick and mortar to their movable feasts. And you know, I’ve just always wanted to taste three star food because I’m certainly no three start cook (or two star cook… and really likely not even a one star cook.) In comparison, I’m cooking cardboard. Because it’s mycardboard, I’m occasionally proud of it – but it’s cardboard nonetheless.

Accidents Will Happen

My neighbor gets a double mastectomy on the 23rd. She’s got such a great attitude about all this, it’s rock’n. I want to try to do something kind for her before then – or maybe after. I have to think about it. In other fronts, we’ve been having a great time getting to know the couple who bought the house across the street. We took them for dinner week before last and last night they returned the gesture. For some reason, when I’m near them, I start talking like a chatter box when normally I’m rather reserved. It’s strange. As far as I can tell they’re not turned off, so all is good. We’re thoroughly enjoying their company. She works at the college of art and he’s a web designer.

I’m drinking Private Stock Captain Morgan spiced rum right out of the bottle. It’s sooooo nummy with this scharfenberger chocolate I picked up the other day when I was in The City. Fortunately there wasn’t a lot left in the bottle otherwise I fear I’d be hammered by now. Instead, after the hot tub I just took, it just makes me feel a little toasty and jovial on this balmy Thursday evening. The sky is pink.

I accidentally hired a gardener today. Worse accidents have happened. I intended to have a guy come over and fix the irrigation. I’ve been watering with a cheap ass plastic sprinkler that gets stuck in a tilted position and stops doing its vacillation thing – making discrete areas of the lawn perfecting saturated and soggy and leaving the majority of the grass parched and browning. I paid top dollar for an irrigation system to be installed year before last and for whatever reason when I turn the damn things on the pressure shoots the sprinkler thingies high into the air, breaking them into bits on the way. It’s lethal. It’s beyond putting an eye out, those things could rip off a limb when they shoot. This makes watering the lawn perilous at best. So I intended to hire a guy to come flush the system and take a look at the irrigation and see if he could fix it. What I got instead, or rather, in addition to that, is the irrigation fixed and this other guy who stuck around for eight hours weeding, mowing, raking, sweeping. After eight hours and two hundred dollars later the place looked stunning. He had me write the check payable to the local liquor store.

Trash

We’d had lofty social plans this weekend. A visit from a wayward friend and a birthday party at an East Bay park for Wiley. Instead we cleaned the car port and I continued (and completed) my Survivor obsession (actually there’s one season available on DVD that I haven’t watched yet, so not completely completed.) Today, rather than Wiley’s party, I think I’ll weed the garden and maybe take a bike ride. My toes are black and blue – a new evolution in the continuing foot saga (wtf??!?!)

So why aren’t we going to Wiley’s birthday festivities? The real/main reason we’re not going: Ed’s been driving on a suspended license with expired tags on the Rodeo. I’m just not willing to get stuck an hour and a half away from home while Ed gets his ass hauled off to jail and the truck is impounded. It just ain’t gonna happen. I don’t think Wiley will understand. The fact that he won’t or might not understand wearies me a bit.

I can’t express, it probably wouldn’t make a damn bit of sense to you, how thrilled I am that the car port is cleaned and tidied. It’s been over a year that it’s looked a fright and people have commented. It’s been my badge of shame. When we set out minds to it, it only took a few hours to clear it out. Damn, I wish we would have done that some time back. Having it linger in that state for so long made me feel rather trashy.

I haven’t mentioned the rats for awhile and for good reason (YAY.) Even the smell of the dead ones in the walls has ceased to linger. We had a brutal heat wave a while back and no doubt that helped to accelerate the decomposition.

There’s a cat living behind the hot tub. Much to my surprise, when Secret went to chase her out, three kittens came spilling forward! So we have a cat family living behind the hot tub. I hope these vagrant guests will assist in rat abatement efforts. They must earn their keep.

The bathroom is almost finished. I hate things in a state of almost. My life and home have been in a state of almost for months and months. I’m all about hammering some finishing nails in about now.

More Later

I’ve been busy. No. That’s not it. Too many plans, people, things. I need my time alone – but not too much. I’m looking for that good in-between. I’m feeling crowded. I get pretty agro when I feel crowded. I like the time I spend weeding the garden, pruning, working the soil. Get down in the dirt with me. There’s plenty of room down here in the dirt.

So today I’ve extracted a quiet day (so far) off the loom of them. Somehow the alarm failed to go off at 7 am, so I rolled off the bed at 7:11, not as pleasantly as I’d have preferred. Pulled on my sweat pants and FBI glow-in-the-dark T-shirt (at the aiport Kiosk store in Washington Dulles, United terminal, near gate C17), brushed my teeth, rolled up my yoga sticky matt and out the door to meet Kaye, the neighbor lady. We do yoga together on Saturday mornings. Actually, it’s her routine, I just encroached myself into it. She’s been welcoming. We ladies stretch together.

After an hour or so of contorting, pushing, pulling my body every which way till Tuesday, I stopped at the coffee roaster enroute home for a nice cup of organic Mexican Jose (aka Joe.) After I’m all slippery and loosed up, the caffeine goes down smoother, surer. While I waited for Ed to more fully awake, I continued fertilizing the lawn – there still more to go, but enough for the morning.

And then we hopped on the mountain bikes and road the ten miles to Larkspur. Ed went out drinking (bad man – I hate it when he drinks, he promised he’d stop, dog house and all that rot) and took a taxi home from The City – leaving the truck at the ferry building. However annoying that is, it’s better than irresponsibly driving drunk I suppose. And admittedly, it was a beautiful morning for a ride – a light breeze, still early enough to escape the heat of the day. We had to stop at the Pet Food Cottage to pick up the Honey Bee’s chow before turning back home.

Swooping into the cottage, we off loaded the dog food and bike, did a quick change of clothes, scooped up Ms. Secret Agent Cookie and road the bikes up to LB’s house to watch the US v. Italy World Cup match. And what a stellar showing by the US. (LB says, “we must believe.” I say, “believe what, that Italy is going to kick their ass?” She says, “no, that they’ll win.” “Hmmmm… The World Cup, or just this match?” I ask. “Let’s just start with the match,” she says.) But really, coming up with a draw when the US is two men down is about the same as Italy losing, really. They should feel shame.

We’d intended to go to the beach today, but we’re bagging on the idea. It’s 2:30 in the afternoon, there’s more gardening to do and yet I feel like I’ve done enough today.

As much as I do, I don’t want sustainability and environmental issues to be the it girl of this era. I’ve been thinking about this quite abit. I’m in a hot spot, again, of a movement. But this time I’m dabbling around on the fringe and not wanting to jump in. Or I do, but not holding hands with a crowd. If I wrote about that, that would be an entry.

Of course, I think Hedgehoggy would want to hear about what’s on my feet to make it real. Right now, there is Rhythm and Blues polish on my toes – just an exciting electric blue making them glow like crazy. And then there are the rather mundane white cotton socks. My shorts are army green and my tank top is mottled black with bleach streaks from when it went in the wrong load. The royal we (that’s me and Ed) are reading the Horse and his Boy or the Boy and his Horse (whatever-the-hell-it’s-called) – the third in the Narnia series (the first being my favorite thus far.) There’s a box of stewed tomatoes in the middle of the living room floor – for the life of me I don’t know why.

Oh yeah, we went to a monster yard sale in between things this morning. I found nothing to buy, yet like a seedy back-alley character the neighbor man showed me his etchings lamps and gave us three, for free. They’re sweet and lovely. I think many of the neighbor’s raise their brow in pity and wonder at our lack of furniture. I took the lamps but they’re table lamps and we have no tables.

The other day it rained, a few scattered sprinkles, during a walk on the mountain. This is nearly unheard of in this part of the world, in June. It made me happy. I loved, loved, loved it. I loved it as much as Fondue and riding my bike along the canal on a breezy Saturday morning. Things that make me happy: In addition to those things… wood ducks, wild native grasses, the twins.

More later.

Discontent

Down here in the flats, we do our own gardening. And gardening I have done. Yesterday was spent pulling weeds, turning soil, composting, pruning, primping and planting. Icelandic poppies, marigolds, columbine and things I don’t even remember what to call. Delicate things that probably take too much water but I find irresistible nonetheless. It’s not a draught year, obviously, and I’ll take what I can while there’s plenty I suppose. One day, no doubt, they’ll be back to water rationing and my lawn will turn crisp and brown. Carpe diem!

I only tended to the side yard and the day was done. This morning I rise, make coffee, toss in a load of laundry and all the while my body rebels from bending and lifting and pulling in ways I’m unaccustomed to bend and lift and pull. There was a day that I’d say I hurt in a good way. But mostly I just hurt. Once the gardening gloves are through the washer and dryer this morning, however, we commence once more. Perhaps that is redundant.. and the we is perhaps the royal we. Secret and I maybe, or me and my aching back. I love the hot tub. Good investment. Everyone should invest in a hot tub. Once we’re suffering the worst effects of peak oil, it may make a nice planter or something. But in the meantime.. sizzle, sizzle, sizzle.

Ed technically starts the new job on Monday – but he’s busied himself by working on his computer most of the weekend. How convenient while I slave away at chores. This is the side of him I can do without. This is the part I’d just as soon kick to the curb.

I think I mentioned I haven’t been terribly inspired of late. It shows, doesn’t it, in these mundane entries about nothing? I want to decrease the number of hours I work, to four days a week. It seems at any given time there’s a desire for something that’s not happening – like contentment for what we have even.

Prickles from the Thistles

I love the sound of rain. It’s dancing on the roof like a huge chorus of showgirls, tiny dancers, with little feet - little fairy showgirls with wings and pink and blue and yellow tutus. I imagine the gutters will be filled with glitter and fairy dust and I’ll be sweeping out the sparkly things far into summer.

She’s healing, though I dote on her endlessly and love her mercilessly – she’s surviving nonetheless. In an attempt to get back on the proverbial bike we’ve toured the local bike shop twice thus far. Her ears go back and she flinches when she sees the wheels turning - a grand set back from where she’d been. Several mountain bikers had heard the news and stopped during our daily sojourns to offer their sympathies and were kind enough to let her reacquaint with the bikes. Her breathing is sometimes labored, likely due to the damage to her sinuses, which are clearly still suffering irritation. Perhaps the blood clots are loosening. It will take some time, but she’s speeding toward recovery.

The Neighbor is gone. Can you believe I didn’t pounce like a cat on my opportunity to announce this? It’s been over a week, nearly two now, and they are gone! There are lingering remains like dog urine soaked carpet, which she doused with so much ammonia that four days later it was still dripping (not merely damp) and leaving pools on the floor beneath carpet and heavy matting. Three years of dog urine and seemingly some kind of ritual ammonia use (?!?!?) destroyed the oak floors beneath the carpet. The floor guy complained of the smell and rolled his eyes, I hope you kept her deposit.

I’ve started working on pulling the weeds, an endeavor I anticipate will take a week or two (not constant) of labor. A day’s effort got me less than a quarter of the way through the wilderness of weed and I’ve filled one and a half large yard waste buckets thus far. The prickles from the thistle are lodged in my forearms – but somehow the sting feels merely like a symptom of progress.. in a good way.

So Damned Predictable

It’s still awfully quiet here. Is this the best you can do, offer me this profound silence?

So something… for something I haven’t touched on before. You know besides the fact that I’ve harvested several Roma tomatoes today, in addition to a small handful of yellow pear tomatoes and this would be the first time ever, in my life, that I’ve harvested my own crop of anything. Last night it was the third bountiful harvest of basil, which was promptly, as expected, turned to pesto and placed in the freezer. This, in the midst of winter, will remind me of summer. As now, in the midst of summer, I’m preparing for winter and imagining a cozy feeling. I’ve been pulling up onions now for weeks, nearly months. I’m not certain when to harvest the garlic. I’ve started snap peas for a late summer season crop.

Yesterday we walked around Lake Lagunitas. A bug flew down my shirt and bit me twice on the back. It left welts and then buzzed away. Now, what’s the likelihood of something like that happening?

The Broken Home

After the endless search, the identification, the acquisition and the occupation – I am here. Here amid the towering redwoods, here amidst the rolling hills and rising skyline of trees, cozied up to a creek that runs dry now but which has spilled its banks in times of trouble.

I’ve called my mom at least three times a week since we’ve moved in. “How’s it going?” She asks, sympathetically, wondering if I’ve acclimated to living near children and if I’m getting used to the day-to-day in the new community. “It’s going fine,” I tell her, “but I have questions about the yard.” She asks how the yard looks and unfortunately I can’t tell her green. “It’s looking very sad,” I confess. “What should I do.” She wisely recommends water for starters and begins explaining the fine art of pruning roses, watering schedules and hedge trimming. “The hedges need more than trimming,” again, defeated. She goes back to the stuff about watering, how I should water the hedges as often as I water the lawn. I don’t dare tell her that I haven’t watered the lawn and instead pose my answer in the form of a question. “So how often are you suppose to water the lawn anyways?”