Have you heard the one about...

First of all, I would like to thank Kiki for bringing this news story to my attention. You know, the one about the woman, the dog, the bear, and the zucchini. One of the funny things about this is that it took my friend from another state to tell me about something that happened just a couple of miles from my house. And no, it was not me, but it sure sounds a lot like my life.

We have seen bears on our property out here. One young male got chased up a tree by our dogs, then came down and chased the chickens. My husband went out there with a camera at first (the footage is mysteriously lost) until he realized a gun might be more appropriate. When the bear came close to the house, he shot near it to scare it away. We didn't see him again, but last year a very small  young bear (probably out on its own for its first season) right outside our front gate. When we went outside to look at it, it ran away. And one time my husband nearly ran into a mama bear with two cubs, who actually charged at him. Kind of a "worst case scenario." But he managed to get away unscathed.

Lately I have been spending more time at my lovely home out here in the forest, enjoying the quiet that you can only get here when everyone else is at school or work. We've had beautiful autumn weather, crisp and sunny. I've been harvesting my garden and making lots of great food with the fresh ingredients. Yesterday I made jalapeno applesauce, spicy salsa, and spinach soup. Zucchini bread has become a staple around here for the boys. I also like zucchini baked, fried, grilled, roasted, and in potato pancakes (shredded zucc, shredded pre-baked potato, egg). 

Now I can add "self-defense against bears" to my list of "the many uses for zucchini."

Black bears are pretty common around here, and this time of year they are taking part in the harvest as well, out there trying to fatten up for the winter. It is just their nature. And it is in the nature of dogs to protect their homes, and people to defend their dogs, and bears to defend themselves.

free-floating anxiety

There's a whole lot of that swirling around me at the moment - or rather, in me. It's a very odd physical sensation and not at all pleasant - it's like the feeling you get right before you go down the other side of the rollercoaster, except not as dramatic and much more mysterious and disturbing.

I know part of what this is about. Ditching Blackwell, or relegating him to the back burner, is a huge step towards casting away the last bits of what this novel was years and years ago when I first started writing it. A little scary. Kinda feels like jumping off a cliff, which, of course, would explain the feeling.

But then some of it has to do with my progress. It's not like there hasn't been any - I'm working steadily and regularly, but when I get my daily updates from the critical writing board, I feel terribly anxious that I haven't offered any crits (not that there's a minimum or anything) and that I haven't posted anything else since the third scene.

And the only thing that helps is to work. So off I go to do the shit I have to do to make this weekend work. Finish shopping for the party, bake and frost the cake, clean the house so our visitors from out of town can at least have a clean toilet to vomit in should the need arise, and still slap some lunch together for Aeryn.

Then I can work. And then, hopefully, this awful sense that I'm plodding slowly down the road while everyone else is catching up with the ice cream truck, so scared that there won't be any left for me by the time I get there. It's almost like preemptive grief. Or disappointment. Or something.

No rest for the wicked, right?

Right.

Will someone please tell me...

... how to write this fucking book without having the priest's POV? Because he's a real pain in the ass to write. The male and female protagonists are coming along nicely but writing Blackwell is like pulling teeth.

Damn it. It's a paranormal, for crap's sake. SURELY I can figure out a way to get enough hints in on what's going on without having to bore the fuck out of a reader in these scenes, because they're boring the SHIT out of me.

Maybe... I don't know, a telepathic connection? A little more information from her mother? A misplaced ribbon? Damned if I know. But there has got to be a way out of this; I'm terribly, awfully sick of slogging through these scenes.

Pardon the vent. It's late. However, now that I've put my brain on this path, it might take a few stumbling steps while I'm asleep. Once I wash the water bottles. And other stuff. Damn it.

Prompt: Six Degrees of Separation

"Six Degrees of Separation" refers to the idea that everyone is at most six steps away from any other person on Earth, so that a chain of "a friend of a friend" statements can be made to connect any two people in six steps or fewer.

Here's my thought. Write something that illustrates this idea. That's all.

We've not had a prompt in a while, so I thought I'd throw it out there for your consideration.

Catch you later, ladies.

~andi

Jalapeno Applesauce

• 6 medium apples, chopped (I prefer Granny Smith or McIntosh)
• 1 cup water
• 2 jalapenos, finely chopped (don't seed & vein unless you're a total pussy -- in which case, fuck off and forget this recipe)
• sugar to taste
• vanilla to taste
• dash of rum (optional)

Bring all ingredients to a boil in a pot with a tight-fitting lid. Reduce to a simmer, cover, and cook for 20 minutes or until apples are soft. Mash as much or as little as you like. Serve as you like. Good for a side dish, breakfast, or snack. Try it spicier. No, spicier than that. No, spicier!

Rain Dance

I haven't posted in a while -- not so much because I'm uninspired (although being unable to SURF in the desert is a problem) but because I've been so busy since I returned to New Mexico. It's mostly everyday life-type busy, and I'm job hunting as well.

Last night a storm rolled in close to midnight. It began with gusting winds. The smell of wet creosote began to crowd the humid air, telling me that the rain was nearby. Finally the storm broke, but not heavy -- soft little drops. I tossed my clothes and danced around the pool until the lightning strikes came too close.

Sleep was easy to achieve, but difficult to maintain -- the lightning was all around, illuminating the dark, crashing and reverberating, sounding as if the next strike might be my room. I was jumpy and excited and exhausted all at once. When morning came, and I heard a crowing quail and saw that the sun was out, I felt a crushing moment of depression.

Rain, come back! I love you!

Woman, Uninterrupted

I don't mean to brag, but, my life is awesome. Today anyway. The day that I have dreamed of for seven years has finally come; both of my kids have gone off to school, and I am free to do whatever I want. I don't think I've ever so looked forward to a chilly, rainy, September day.

For so many years of my life I have been programed to start something new in the fall. Elementary school, high school, college. Today I am looking forward to doing whatever I want, UNINTERRUPTED. Sure, I need to start looking for a job. But today I am free.

Today I can listen to morning news on NPR. I can listen to whatever kind of music I want to, really listen, loudly if I want. I can burn incense. I am free to clean, uninterrupted, and not have things get messed up right away. I can take the puppy out for a walk or go for a run and I don't have to schedule it with anyone.

I remember now, I used to be such an independent woman, before I had children. I have come to accept the dependence that our family unit has on each other. It's ok. But this whole time as a full-time stay-at-home mom (FTSAHM) I've been holding back and I can't wait to let my wild horses run free again, if only between the hours of 8:30 am to 3:00 pm, Monday thru Friday.

Surfing Goat Haiku

Surfing goat on waves --
horizontal pupils glow.
My goat is gnar-gnar.

Go With It

Yesterday morning I woke up feeling hungover from exhaustion – groggy, headachy, slightly nauseaous. I'd tried to get to bed early, really I had, but the evening routine took longer than I expected – it always does – and I puttered around for too long. I did manage to get to bed before midnight, which was an improvement. But the damage through the week had been done, and it all caught up with me yesterday.

It took an Espresso Doubleshot and a big travel mug of coffee to finally wake me up, but wake up I did, even managing to get to work on time. Struggled through the morning, sneaked outside for my lunchtime nap, got some work done in the afternoon, and dragged my sorry ass back to the house.

Brian made dinner, bless him, and we all played a game of Sorry that was ruthless and vindictive and great fun. Combined with Aeryn's rediscovery of her kid-sized video camera, the evening was full of laughter and happiness and I couldn't have wished for a better end to a really fucking long week.

The giggles and another cup of strong coffee woke me up enough to start working on a troublesome scene, only to find that the paltry efforts I'd made earlier in the week had been eaten by Open Office. This is the first time OO has failed to recover a document.

I wasn't horribly disappointed, which tells you something about my progress and the quality of the writing, both of which pretty much sucked ass. So I started over, and found that it was easier going somehow. No idea why. But at this point I don't question; I just go with it.

The final collapse into bed was heavenly, and I felt like I'd earned it this week.

Cut to this morning. Woke in Aeryn's bed, although I barely remember how I got there, at eight-thirty, more than two hours past my weekday wake-up call. Brian had made coffee my way – in other words, ridiculously strong – and I made the blueberry-banana muffins about which I'd been fantasizing for several days now. They were every bit as good as I'd hoped they would be.

It was the best morning I've had in a long time.

So this inconsequential, relatively drama-free post is based on nothing but a rare feeling of contentment. It will pass, as everything does. I'll see Sheba and be reminded that her leg isn't healing quite as well as I'd like; I'll go to the Apple Festival and be jostled by crowds and screaming kids; I'll have to watch the pennies this week because blah, blah-blah blah blah. Doesn't matter.

At this point I don't question; I just go with it, grateful for every second.

~Andi

I sound like a housewife, I think I'm a housewife

I never intended to be a housewife. Shit, I remember a time when I didn't think I'd ever get married or have children. Then I decided that someday I might have kids, but forget about a husband. Then one day I decided to get married, but not have kids. Then, unable to ignore the loud clanging of my freakin' biological clock, I decided to have a child. And after you have one, you may as well have two...

However, my timing was a little bit off. I should have both established my career and had children probably ten years earlier than I did. And so I find myself, over 40 years old, sending my youngest off to school. Hi, nice to meet you. I'm a housewife.

While it is tremendously exciting to think of having so much time off to myself (six whole hours a day, five days a week?!), I know that I need to use that time to find a way to make some money. 

WTF do I do with myself now? Can I find a job between the hours of 8:30 and 2:30, where they don't mind if I take off all school holidays and anytime my kids are sick? Stay tuned and find out...

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.