Random

Today I've been looking after Satan's minions, a.k.a. my sister's lovely children. Sis and BIL went to a wedding in Mass, will be back tomorrow early afternoon. The kids were great overall, and we had dinner with our friend Leila and her own little minions.

I'm going to try to surf a time or two again before I get on Amtrak this coming Tuesday. The surf report looks good for late Saturday and most of Sunday and Monday (i.e. waves we can probably handle -- between two and three feet -- I'm really not a fool; I just play one on this blog). My multiple surf bruises, elbows and knees, are even more spectacular than when I got them almost a week ago, incidentally. I love having surfing injuries. It makes me feel pathetically cool.

I'm suffering my usual ambivalence about the end of my summer trip. It's time to go home, to soak up the desert sun, hug my boyfriend, kiss my cats. It's time to stop freelancing and take a job that gets me out of the damned house. But it's always depressing to leave the lovely family embrace of J, R, and the kids. Why can't we have it all?

On a more positive note, I'm glad to see posts from my gorgeous and talented co-bloggers. Keep it up, ladies (and I do use the term loosely).

Finally, why blond, Bobby V? I'm shaking my head, totally perplexed. Still love you, though, and the fact that the baseball season is still going strong! Come on, White Sox!

What I Learned On My Summer Vacation

Note: I spent entirely too long writing this, and while I am ashamed that it's not nearly as interesting as what else has been going on here, I'll feel like a total loser if I don't post it.

It's been a while, hasn't it? Not as long as the hiatus from my first blog – which I've never resumed – but, what, three months, four? Jesus, I don't even want to look to find out; it's too discouraging.

The details of the dramas happening in the Allen household are numerous and probably interesting only to myself and my immediate family, so I'll skip over that shit in favor of talking about What I Did On My Summer Vacation.

Seriously. Really, it's important. To me, anyway.

This year we took our first full week-long family vacation to Sunset Beach, North Carolina, where my husband grew up and where we got married. We shared a really sweet condo with his sister, her husband, and her two girls, 5 and 4, and discovered early on that the small pond behind our place was inhabited with at least three baby alligators and enough turtles that those fuckers started to creep me out after a while. The alligators didn't – at least not until I saw how fast those bastards could swim – but those turtles were just spine-chilling.

We got busted the first night there for the girls' dress-up shoes stomping across the ceiling of the woman downstairs. The men grumbled, but I thought she was actually pretty nice about it, all things considered. And having the girls relinquish the shoes on the tile for the rest of the week wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

We went to the pool, where Aeryn finally got over most of her nervousness about water. We went to the beach and splashed in bathwater waves. One afternoon when the tide was going out, I dove into a good-sized wave, tumbled around a bit, then surfaced to find myself surrounded by millions of tiny bubbles on the surface of the receding water. They tickled my legs as they disappeared back into the ocean. It felt like I was in the biggest bubble bath ever. With fish.

We – the adults, that is – went out a couple of times. The second night we went to a reunion of sorts at a local bar that was thankfully within walking distance of the condo. There was beer involved. A lot of beer.

I texted Brian's dad Skipper, who was watching the girls (sort of), to see how everyone was doing. His reply: “Sold 1. Fed 1 to gator. Other real quiet.” My favorite Skipper moment ever.

An old friend showed up with a fat joint, and after that I only remember a lot of giggling and a drunken shamble through the golf course to get home. Brian and Jimmy took the lead because Christie and I were incapable of self-navigation at that point. Jimmy pointed out that the fastest way back to the condo was over a ditch and through a small copse of trees.

Brian lost a perfectly good pair of Speedo flip-flops when he found out the ditch was wider than it looked. And I don't think we've yet gotten the mud out of that shirt. Somehow, we made it back with no further incident, although I was told the next day that what I thought was giggling was, to everyone else, raucous cackling. Go figure.

After about a day, I began to understand that only one person was going to make sure I had a good vacation, and that was me. No one else was going to say, “Hey, Andi, why doncha run off and go to the beach for a while?” or “That king-sized bed in there is just screaming to be napped on.”

One crucial point: Allens are notorious for their refusal to plan anything. “Why bother?” Brian says. “Shit's just gonna change anyway.” My argument is that whether or not it changes, I feel more comfortable with a plan, even knowing it's going to change, especially when you're working with three Allens, three girls under seven, a Yankee, and a bipolar.

So I started making my own plans, although I was happy to adjust them as long as I eventually did what I wanted to do. It sort of worked.

And twice, I took what is, for me, a radical step – I said no. Both of which involved social situations where I was going to be stuck with heavy smokers in environments saturated with old cigarette smoke and rotten beer. The first time, it took all of five seconds for me to walk in, look at Brian, and say, “Sorry, sweetie. Love ya. See you later, call me if you need a ride.” And that was that.

It was slightly harder to escape the second time, because it was a larger family gathering at Skipper's place. There was a lot more second-hand and third-hand smoke involved, and I couldn't get away from it, even outside.

Brian checked in with me at one point and, after a brief exchange, said, “You've made an appearance. You're good. Leave the car seat and go on back to the condo.” I must have looked desperate at that point, because he hugged me, and said, “It's OK. Just go.” Between the two of us we managed to blame the heat, humidity, and a fried oyster I'd eaten earlier in the day. Fuck if it mattered; I was outta there.

I went back to the condo as ordered and took a long, hot shower to get the sweat and smoke off, then snuggled into my new Eeyore sleep shirt, put on a mindless DVD, then settled on the couch to enjoy the peace and quiet. Three hours of peace and quiet. Fucking sublime.

The next to last day, it poured buckets. Brian and I found a place about a half an hour away with indoor black light putt-putt, an arcade, and a bar for the parents to escape to occasionally. The families split up on the ride home, and Aeryn, Brian and I got to the condo before Christie and her people. For a few minutes, it was just us.

The rain had stopped, and the temperature had dropped to about 90. I told Brian and Aeryn I was going to the beach one last time, and I asked Aeryn if she wanted to come with me. I fully expected her to say no – but she didn't. She got her stuff together and we trundled over the dilapidated bridge to Sunset Beach, where we watched pelicans feed, made sand... somethings, looked for shells, and let the waves toss us around a bit. She said, “Mom, I am SO glad I came with you! This is the best day ever!”

Yeah. I know – she's six-soon-to-be-seven, and it's often the best day ever for her, but it meant a lot to hear her say it, especially when it was just her and me, on a beach at sunset.

We drove the little blue crock pot back to the mountains, and things got batfuck crazy in the space of twelve short hours.

I lived through Friday – which is about all I can say for it – and when Saturday rolled around, I realized that I had not forgotten the most important thing I'd learned on my summer vacation, which was, essentially, how to go on a vacation. It's pretty simple, really. Figure out what you want to do – not what you have to do, or what you feel like you ought to do – figure out what you want to do, and do it in such a way that you don't neglect your fellow vacationers too much.

So Saturday we got back from wherever we'd gone that morning and I said, “OK, I'll take you to the skating rink. But first I'm taking a nap.” And I did. Eventually I got up and took her, as promised.

Sunday we came home from the most perfect breakfast ever – a huge Greek omelet with sinful cinnamon toast made from the restaurant's homemade sourdough bread and good strong coffee – and I was really, seriously sleepy. Odd, because I'd had enough coffee to give a bear the jitters. I decided I wanted to curl up in the recliner (aka the Mama chair) with my book and a soft throw blanket, and if I felt like going to sleep, I would. So I did. Eventually I got up and took Aeryn to the pool, as promised.

At the beach, I kept thinking, this is the only week of vacation I have taken since I can remember. I have no idea when I'll be able to do this again. So I would not waste one second doing something I sincerely did not want to do.

It worked pretty well, all things considered – as far as I know. And I'm certainly happier and much more patient with la famille when I don't feel cheated out of vacation time. Which shouldn't be restricted to vacation.

I think that's What I Learned On My Summer Vacation.

Oh, and also that ditches are usually bigger than they look in the dark, and that alligators don't like white bread because it gets stuck to the roof of the reptilian mouth.

Domestic Goddess Seeks Part-time employment

The school year hasn't even started yet and already I'm considering cleaning and reorganizing my spice cabinet in order to have some project to do. While mixing ingredients for morning muffins, I searched through the old baby food jars of spices, on the shelf cluttered with bags of nuts and bottles of sauces, a jar of peanut butter and some dried seaweed I never use. I have plenty of thyme. No ginger though. And lots of nutmeg, but that isn't as ironic.

I am excited about the possibilities of the year to come, with both kids in school all day. Now I have time. I can get things done around the house, exercise on my own schedule, work on projects, write, even get a job if I can make it fit with the kids' schedule. They are still my top priority. If I got a job, we could have more financial security, maybe be able to do more than just pay the bills.

But for the past five years I have been out of the work force, a full-time stay-at-home mom. There is a big blank space at the top of my resume. I find myself at parties saying: "I've just been home with the kids," when they ask if I work. I know that it is much more than that. It is a very important and challenging job. I have had to use many of the skills I've learned over the years from previous employment and education.

So I've decided to try to write a comprehensive job description for the position I have held for the past five years, highlighting the skills required. The all-encompassing title for this position is: "Domestic Goddess." Including, but not limited to, performing the duties of mother, wife, lover, friend, Household Manager, Nurse, Wilderness First Responder, Care-giver, Life-skills Teacher, Travel Agent, Secretary, Activity Coordinator, Adventure Leader, Baker, Cook, Gardener, Lawn Maintenace, Maid, Chauffeur, Geisha, Laundress, Waitress, Servant, Animal Caretaker, Conflict Resolution Manager, Toy Repair Specialist, Referee, Hostess. etc. etc.

Can you think of more? I bet you can.

Surfing in the Desert

After reading all of Kiki's posts about surfing, I can't help but feel a little bit sad to think of her going back to the desert. Sure, she could move to the coast. But not really, because she has a home, a life with her partner, numerous cats, and friends there who love and need her. She can't up and leave any more than I can leave my husband and two sons to go do a yoga training for three months or go on an archaeological dig for the summer.

So how do we reconcile the lives that we are living, that we have chosen, with the lives that we wish we had? I wish that I had a velomobile and could ride it everywhere. But I live outside of town on a dirt road with a steep and winding hill, and no one wants to buy our house. How does one surf in the desert?

Sisters

This picture is a perfect snapshot of me and my sister together. Always laughing!

Launched

There's been a storm front blowing in up here for the past day, and the waves at York Beach were crazy yesterday -- mostly big (up to five feet) and goddamned unpredictable. I got munched so many times. Thanks to my shortie suit, my elbows and knees are destroyed; all the colors of the rainbow. My right knee looks like a brick-red football, and my left elbow is stippled blue and black from where the surfboard fin smashed into me after I got launched.

Tonight we couldn't even consider going out; the last surf report at York had waves almost ten feet high. My sister and I are hoping that the huge surf sticks around for a day or two more, so that we can at least go and watch, maybe snap some pics. And then when it dies down again, we'll be back out so she can demo a few more boards and I can catch a few more waves before I Amtrak back to the desert.

In the absence of rideable surf, we're going to watch "Point Break" tonight, drink a really huge petite syrah, and probably laugh our asses off.

Let's all laugh so we don't cry
Let's all lift our glasses up to the sky...

--Jack Johnson, Red Wine, Mistakes, Mythology

Stoked

So here's the surf round-up.

My sister and I are going surfing Thursday evening. We also plan to spend some time in the morning at a surf shop, where she will price beginner boards and suits. She's even more into it than I am. Of course, the lucky bitch does actually live on a coast (fucking desert).

We're going to try to surf as much as possible before I leave at the end of the month. I'm going to need a lot of ocean water to get me through the next year.

We watched Blue Crush tonight. The movie is slight as hell, but it has some nice surfing sequences. And, you might have guessed, any surfing (any water) is better than none.

We read Greg Noll's "Da Bull" recently. Noll is one of the very earliest big wave surfers, and an even bigger personality. I discovered him in the documentary Riding Giants and totally fell in love. Need a granddaughter, Greg? Adopt me! And my sister!

I forgot a couple funny stories about our surf lesson at Rye. My sister's friend R came out of the shop wearing her wetsuit backward and unzipped. In case you don't know, they zip in the back. So R's extremely large chest was bursting out of the front. "Is this right?" she trilled. The South African instructor managed not to laugh as he said, "No, it's backward." An hour later, in the surf, she was paddling out to the break. "Are you trying to do tricks?" the instructor asked. Her board was pointed backward. R is such the good sport! Or perhaps such the sly cougar compared to the rest of us.

Okay, time to check the surf forecast. Again.

Why Not?

Another day, another surf session. My sister and I had planned on surfing this (Saturday) morning. I got up early and began to study surf reports for the area. It was discouraging -- almost flat seas. Honestly, though, I wasn't too depressed -- it was fucking cold here, not much over fifty degrees at seven a.m. So we pushed our plans back and set 6 p.m. as our goal.

We showed up at Long Sands, York Beach, Maine, just the two of us. I pulled on my new Roxy wetsuit, simultaneously shy and proud, and we hit the waves. It was a funny day: seaweed choked (how do those little red bastards get inside a wetsuit?), with relatively small, two-foot sets followed by vicious four-plus footers.

We were thrown around a lot when the sets alternated, and it took a while to get used to the smaller boards. We've only used the smaller boards once, and they were very tippy. This time I took a while to acclimate, but I quickly lost my fear that I would tip over to one side or the other. In fact, I lost most fear today. I'm not scared of the water, or even the waves -- I guess I am just afraid of not doing it right. That washed away, somehow, in the beauty of the steely, cold waves, and I just went with it.

As the four-plus footers rolled in, I turned my board around and yelled at my sister: "Why not?" I glimpsed her horrified face as I caught the wave and popped up on my board. And wiped out about two seconds later, max. Well, fuck; I wipe out all the time. No big deal. So we kept trying, even though the waves were mostly too big for us, and we were the only two newbies at that point, at the end of a line of experienced surfers.

We caught another Sister Wave -- a big one, and we just had time to smile at each other before we wiped out simultaneously. It was fucking awesome.

I don't measure my surfing success by the length of rides or the number of waves caught. I know I'm learning, and it's all good. Even if I don't catch a wave, I'm in the water. I'm salt-kissed. I'm bouncing off swells. I smell the iodine ocean and taste the breeze. I'm with my sister. There's no better time or place than now and here.

Mini Me

I've mentioned before that my three-year-old niece Vivian sometimes feels like my own daughter; my sister just happens to be the one who gave birth to Vivi.

Vivi adores me. I'm not totally sure why. I mean, yeah, I'm cool, I'm the crazy aunt Kiki. We sing and dance and embrace our silliness. We share a certain whimsy and a rock-bottom crass sense of humor. But it feels deeper than that.

At nap time, Vivi wants me to sleep in her room, or to sleep in mine. At night sometimes I will wake up and find her tucked in beside me with a sleepy smile.

Recently Vivi has started twirling her hair. The first time I saw this, I asked my sister if it was new behavior. My sister smiled at my obliviousness: "She does it because you do it." It's true. It doesn't matter to Vivi that she has a lovely, straight little bob of light brown hair and I have a fall of dark, messy curls. She looks very serious as she twists her hair around her finger.

She asks me to wear my pink flipflops because she has a pair too. She notes when we're wearing the same colors (although I was unaware of the critical distinction between light pink and regular pink). I got her a purse that looked like mine and she immediately began to fill it with little odds and ends, making sure that she had similar things in hers as I had in mine. She found an old cell phone and carefully put it into the same zippered compartment where I keep my own cell.

Today I asked her, "Vivi, why do you love Kiki so much?"

She looked at me like I was a fool. "You burp a lot!"

You can't make this shit up. And you can't help but appreciate having such an awesome little Mini Me.

Roxy Baby

This is the Roxy wetsuit that I bought. People have suggested I might have done better with a full suit, but I didn't really find the full suit comfortable. I can't even stand to fasten the neck; I was never a turtleneck type. I also find it irritating to not be able to push up the sleeves, and to have the tightness around the ankles. I don't think the lower limb coldness will be a problem. Also? This suit is wicked hot. I know I'll love it.

Yeah, I live in the desert ten-plus months of the year. But I hope to make some surf trips to California with my BF. And I have another use for this suit: it can extend my pool season! Why not swim in April and October, like a happy black-and-purple seal? This motherfucker is going to change my life.

On a totally different note, we've had a lovely rain in Durham this evening. I've missed the summer monsoon in New Mexico and, oddly, New England has been totally hot and dry during my trip, until tonight. I love the desert rain, but I love this rain and humidity too: my hair curls damply against the back of my neck; my skin is shiny but glowing and youthful; the air is impossibly dense and redolent of pine.

I love this place.

Surfing Rye

This morning I went surfing in Rye, NH, with my sister and three of her (our!) friends. We had a personal lesson with two really nice instructors who happened to be totally fucking hot as well. My sister's friends were sooooo drooling. I myself was cool and collected as usual.

It wasn't the best day for surfing -- high tide, and very intermittent waves breaking disconcertingly close to shore. We also used short boards for the first time. They're not just shorter but also a little narrower, so they're easier to handle, but much harder to balance on. I caught a few good waves, but there weren't nearly enough of them.

Three of us are going out again (back to York, Maine) on Thursday.

I just bought a Roxy wetsuit.

I am so hooked.

Larkiness

"a dream of irresponsibility, lethal larkiness and, above all, mobility..."

I'm re-reading (after many years) Peter Benchley's The Island, a pretty good yarn, and I came across the quote above. The narrator says it's a line from a book about the Spanish Main, but I think the author made it up, because I didn't get any Google results. Never mind; I love it anyway. I didn't even know larkiness was a word!

Something about that quote calls out to my restless heart, or brain, or spirit, or whatever. I have no desire to be lethal, particularly, but the rest is a damned good summation of a certain type of person, always looking to the horizon, who might need to be reminded, occasionally, to live in the moment as well. Or is that covered too?

I'm gonna go work on my larkiness now.

Owned

Well, the surfer girl update isn't all good this time around. Joce and I rented boards and wetsuits at York Beach, and we got totally owned.

The surf report was for 2.3 foot waves, but by the time we got out, they were more like four feet. That in itself might not have been a problem, but it was a very stormy sea. There were frequent diagonal waves coming out of nowhere, and also a very strong current parallel to the beach that whisked us north at an alarming rate of speed.

The result was that it was almost impossible to keep our board noses pointed in, and we kept tipping over as soon as we attempted to pop up. The waves hit us viciously when we returned to the break, throwing our boards against our bodies (I can't wait to catalog the various wicked bruises and soreness tomorrow, and our toes look heinous -- is this a problem for all surfers?). Every now and then there would be a particularly high wave and I felt like "The Perfect Storm" as my board went almost vertical as I climbed the swell.

Ironically, the water was the warmest it's been so far, and for the first time I didn't lose all feeling in my feet. We were exhausted within an hour though, and while I refused to give up, we never really got any good waves. That's okay, though. We're learning all the time, and just being in the water, bouncing over the swells and pushing salt-soaked curls out of my face and screaming in exhilaration was plenty good enough for me. I have to store up lots of ocean love to get me through months in the New Mexico desert.

Thank you, Jocie, for my blue crush. Life will never be the same...

Summer

I love summer: the warm sunny days playing in the river, pond, pool, etc. But how does one get any writing done when there is so much fun to be had? Because I am a stay-at-home mom, my summer is filled with activities to keep the kids busy. By August, I find myself missing the structure that the school year brings to our lives. I don't miss the rushing around in the morning to get there on time, or our short evenings together filled with homework and rushing them into bed so that they get enough sleep. But with the structure, it is so much easier for me to find a place to fit in the things that I want and need to do for myself - like exercise and writing.

I find myself questioning the whole idea of summer vacation. Why do kids need 3 continuous months off? I know the original reason for scheduling this huge break: our agricultural past demanded that the kids be available to work on the farms during the summer. But now kids can't find work - many adults can't either. So then we end up with all these kids out there with nothing to do for the summer. If they are lucky, their parents either don't have to work (maybe they work in the school system?) or can afford to put them in various camps throughout the summer. But a lot of kids are not that lucky. Their parents have to work, but they can't afford to do much for the kids. Looking into our future, I wonder how we will swing it. 

When I was a kid, we spent summers at our grandparents' camp on the lake. We'd play in the water all day, or play games on the screened in porch. We were bored a lot. But looking back now, I see that we were some of the lucky ones. Now I am trying to raise my kids far away from any family and I see how hard that is, and how much easier it would be if my parents lived in the same town, and were retired with a lake house.

Another problem with summer is that Kiki always goes back east to visit her family and I don't hear from her nearly enough! How are your summers going? Do you find time to write? What do you think about summer vacation?

-Lori

Goals

If you're at all interested in music or Tim Roth, find The Legend of 1900. It's a glorious film - a little slow around the 5/8ths point, but maybe I was just tired and needed a nap. It's about a man who was born on an ocean liner and becomes a beyond-brilliant pianist. Never thought of Tim Roth as sexy, but seeing him on the piano - sometimes sweaty, sometimes so poignant it made me feel like a voyeur - well, let's just say it aroused me in all kinds of interesting ways.

Just as charming is his attitude to things he doesn't like; simple and direct, which of course reminds me of our beloved Kiki. When he's a child playing the liner's ballroom piano in the middle of the night, the captain and not a few of the passengers come in to listen. The captain stares for a moment or two in shock, then approaches the boy and says, "My boy. You must know that this is against all the regulations!" The boy stops for a second and says, "Fuck the regulations." Then he keeps playing. This is a recurring phrase, which is endearing.

On to the primary message of this post. We have in the past discussed goals - their importance, or lack thereof, etc. I am having problems with goals, and it seems to come down to the relatively simple error that I think I am capable of more than I am. You can probably imagine how much that pisses me off.

It's not just in Sanctuary. It's at work, too. I can usually meet the critical, high-visibility deadlines, but when I walk into work saying, "ok, I'm gonna finish two internal audits, follow up two corrective actions, and submit five revisions" it sounds perfectly reasonable to me. And it Never. Fucking. Happens.

Fuck the goals.

In the same vein, it seems reasonable that I should manage to write or revise 1000 words a night. That's only three pages. Is it because I start so late that I can't keep my eyes open? Friday night I worked up to around 700 and then sleep sucker-punched me and I was asleep before I even knew what happened.

At any rate, setting these apparently unreasonable goals - even though they sound entirely achievable to me - is creating no small amount of resentment on my part. I mean, if I can't meet these paltry goals, why set them at all?

Fuck the goals.

Obviously one less dramatic solution is to just adjust the goals so that they remain challenging but more achievable so that I establish a pattern of success instead of failure. Feeling like a loser every day is starting to wear on my self-esteem.

Fuck the goals.

PMS figures into this, I'm sure. And next weekend I'll be leaving for a week at the beach, which sounds glorious on the one hand and terrifying on the other. One of the critical methods I use to maintain some mental stability, on top of the meds, is to stick to the routine. Have a home base, to have something familiar waiting for me when I explore. In other words, "Don't ever get off the boat, man." If you've ever seen Apocalypse Now, you might remember the disastrous consequences of getting off the boat in the middle of a jungle.

I'm doing what I can in terms of planning to make sure I have familiar things around me when we get there - things I can control, because we'll be vacationing with my sister-in-law, her husband, her two daughters (ages 5 and 4), and my father-in-law. A lot of fucking variables.

That's not even considering the shit waiting on the other side once we get home. The day after we get back, my mother-in-law is coming for a three-day-visit, and she will be, no doubt, entirely grossed out by the state of my house, no matter how much we clean before we leave.

The day after she arrives, my dog Sheba goes in for major surgery to have a tumor removed from her leg.

Two days after that, Brian starts school.

The week after that, Aeryn goes back to school.

Yeah, things are going to be a little nuts. But that doesn't mean I have to be. And a first step is, I think, to make 800 words a night instead of a thousand. Once I get used to that I can push it farther. At any rate, I'm still working and still moving forward, even if it feels, as they say 'round these parts, like molasses in January.

Surfer Girl

I went surfing again today, with my sister and two friends. We got lessons from Liquid Dreams on Long Sands, York Beach, Maine.

York is a funny place for me. I moved around a lot as a child (five years divided between Maine and New Hampshire; four years in Maryland; one year back in Maine; two years in New Mexico; six more in New Hampshire -- and all this before my wanderlust college saga). It's hard for me to pick a home state, let alone a home town, on some levels. If I picked one, though, it would be York. My beloved maternal grandparents lived there for years, and I remain more familiar with it, and nostalgic for it, than any other place I've been. Last year, for example, my sister and I were driving along the labyrinth of back roads behind Long Sands and she asked which road to take. I answered without thinking, choosing a road that I might not have been on in several decades -- and it was the right road. Yet I can't remember one single thing from high school chemistry class. Funny how the mind works.

Anyway, it just feels right that I'm surfing Long Sands. The instructor gives us few pointers, reasoning (probably correctly) that we can't think of too many things at once anyway. He occasionally positions a surfer and shoves her forward in a wave at just the right moment. I refuse this service; I've got to learn how to do this on my own. As gregarious and social as I am, I like to figure things out myself.

The water is freezing, maybe 65 degrees if we're lucky. The wetsuit is fine, but it doesn't do shit for my feet, and I lose all feeling in my toes within thirty minutes, though I stay out almost ninety. Wet, salty curls hang in my face. The waves surge and disappear unpredictably, maybe two and a half feet high on average, and I wish they were bigger, though I have no idea whether I could handle bigger.

I catch a wave perfectly sometimes, cruising in, focused on nothing but the board and the water. It may be the purest thing I've ever done or felt. Sometimes I wipe out, sometimes spectacularly, but that's the price, and it's totally worth it.

Surf words explode in my brain like an awesome saltwater fountain: gnarly; radical; dude; hang ten; point break. I am K-Dog, bobbing on the water, waiting for the perfect wave, and sometimes I find it.

I am alive; alight; incendiary.

And I can't fucking wait to do this again.

Downtown Portsmouth

Okay, the title is a lie. I'm not going to talk about downtown Portsmouth (NH), even though I just had a fabulous evening there with my sister and our friend L, including Japanese food, minor shopping, good wine, and better company. I'm just rambling because (so I've heard) that's how I roll.

It is fucking hot here. Keep in mind I live in southern New Mexico and we know hot, and not just the chiles. It seems insanely ironic that while my (adopted) hometown enjoys 90 degree weather and monsoon rain storms, we're sweltering in the region of my (original) hometown. It's hitting 90 here too, unusual in terms of how many days it's done so, and it's humid as fuck. It's nice for those fine lines, and for a curly girl, but it's wicked awful at night when you can't face sweltering in your sheets. Hence I'm up late, doing laundry, dishes, anything to avoid the oven that is my bedroom.

I am dreaming of surfing. The Maine ocean is unforgivingly cold, but that seems like a small price to pay tonight -- possibly a blessing, in fact. Let me just catch some waves tomorrow, please do, Karma -- or Magic 8 Ball -- or whatever passes for spiritual in my brain, which is actually nothing. I'll go with the Magic 8 Ball. Anyway, I'm keeping busy, especially tonight, when a bed seems like torture rather than release.

I try to be a really good helper to my sister during these summer visits. I stay a long time, often around six or more weeks, and I know I am lucky to have a brother-in-law (or anyone, really) who doesn't mind such a houseguest. We all love each other. I try very hard to improve the running of the house. I look after the kids (and adore them). I load and unload the dishwasher. I take over the laundry, completely, and I mean completely. It satisfies the OCD in me (what's your number? and if you didn't get that, you don't get that. Mine is 5, incidentally). I cook as often as possible, which usually means most dinners.

And I don't do any of this because I should, or must, or am asked to do so. I do it because I want to. I do more here than I do in my own house. I laugh at my boyfriend when he comments on my long "vacations," because while it is, it also isn't. And I love every fucking moment, or at least most of them, and what else can you ask? How much better can it get?

My sister is wicked cool. She's smart, and funny, and savvy, and I have never and will never know anyone with whom I laugh more...belly laughs, the kind that hurt your abs in the best possible way.

So this couldn't be a better place to be. I am so fucking lucky. I need to remind myself of that on a regular basis. Who doesn't?

Liquid Dreams

I surfed yesterday. It was fucking radical.

That. Is. All.

For the love of water

Ah the smells of camping: bug spray, sunscreen, camp fires, outhouses, musty old tents you should have aired out before packing but didn't take the time...these smells bring back memories of my youth. And now I get to share these things with my boys. Of course, as an adult I now realize how much work is involved as well.

So we camped out last weekend but it wasn't really your typical camping experience. We were visiting a friend who is in the process of building a house and we stayed out there on his property, in a little travel camper. He has an outhouse and a spigot for water. He even has a refridgerator and a television. But the place is a total bachelor pad. This is the friend from whom I first heard the sayings "Comfort kills the soul," and "pain is weakness leaving the body." So, you can imagine...

The place is way out of town on a (very dusty) gravel road with few trees around, and summer decided to finally strike this weekend. It was blastingly hot, with very little shade. However, it was near a river (hence the massive mosquito onslaught) so we were able to go swim a couple of times. While there, I cleaned out our friend's camper and refridgerator. I felt like it was the least I could do. My husband says I do things like this because I like gross things. (In response I always say, yes, I do like YOU.) On the contrary, I like CLEAN things, THAT is why I clean up gross things.

I am no clean/neat freak, no, not at all. I just love running water and a relatively comfortable place to be. I mean, I have two boys (three if you count my husband), I am used to a bit of mess and chaos. I'm also used to cleaning it up. So, at times like these (camping out in a hot dusty place) it is the running water, the indoor plumbing, that I miss the most.

I didn't even realize (or maybe I chose to ignore) just how dusty and dry we all were until we got home. The first thing I did when we got home was a neti pot. Then a shower, and tons of moisturizer. Made the boys bathe too, fed them and put them to bed. Washed dishes, started on the laundry, watered the yard and garden. I looked around at our lush green yard and all the tall, lovely, shade-creating trees, and I was thankful for what I have. A bit of deprivation once in a while really helps me to appreciate the comfortable life I have created for myself.

So here is what I've been thinking: a comfortable life is all about water. Not only do we need to drink tons of water to be really healthy, but we also need it to grow food or livestock, we need it to stay clean and comfortable...water is life. Water is wealth. The majority of the surface of our planet is covered with water. Water is fun to play in. All weekend I found myself thinking about Aquatic Ape Hypothesis, a theory of human evolution that says we evolved into what we are today not from running across the hot dry savanna after wicked fast prey (competing with huge cats as predators), but through our proximity to water. Living near and often in water, eating fish, helped our brains grow. Looking out at the hot dusty dry land did not make me feel like running. In fact, I had planned to go for a long run in training for a fall marathon, but it was way too hot. If I had ever gotten hungry enough out there to go running after an antelope, I would have passed out from heat exhaustion long before I got close to one.

So imagine two proto-humans, one who runs off into the sun after meat, another who follows the water, eating occasional fish and plant life growing along the shore. Who would survive? Who would be richer and more comfortable? Who is the smarter one? I know what direction I would go in.

Girl Got Rhythm

I always knew that being an aunt would be cool, but I had no idea just how cool it would be.

Today I had some one-on-one time with my niece V, who turned three last November. We had the following conversation.

Me: I love wild girls. I'm a wild girl, and you're a wild girl.

V: Kiki burps and I burp!

Me: V dances and I dance!

V loves music, and she's got a really tight sense of rhythm, both in song and dance. So I brought up YouTube on the computer and we rocked out.

First up: "Hit the Road, Jack," vintage Ray Charles. V loves that song, although she's been known to sing "Hit the road, diaper!" instead of the original lyrics.

Then I tried a couple new (to her) songs on for size. She listened politely to Little Milton's "We're Gonna Make It," but only because I told her it was a song that she and I had enjoyed together when she was a tiny six-month-old baby.

"Piece of My Heart" by Janis Joplin seemed marginally acceptable; at least V moved to it. I thought she'd like it because, much like her aunt, both V and Janis have deep, husky smoker's voices. Or maybe whiskey drinker's voices. (Obviously only two of us actually do/did those things, but give V time.)

V seemed bored by both Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me" and the Public Enemy/Anthrax version of "Bring the Noise," but didn't object. She then requested "Ice Ice Baby" by Vanilla Ice -- I cringed but complied. She's got to have her own taste, after all, much as I might like to influence her.

I like to joke with my sister that she had my baby for me, because V and I are so much alike.

I can't wait to watch her as she continues to grow into her own fabulous self.