Begin again. . .

It's been a while since I've posted anything here. I wish I could say it was because I was busy with work, writing or traveling - anything except was was: I couldn't remember my username or email account used when I created this site! 

Is that lame or what?

It's lame, but just as well because I need to change the direction of this blog.  Really, it had no direction, so I need to give it direction.  When I started Spending Wednesdays, I was entirely new to blogs, social media and all that other good stuff.  This was a scary experiment - not sure if I had anything to say, and if I did have something to say, how much of it should I tell.  Would anyone care? 

Now, a bit more seasoned (heavy on the 'a bit'), I have a better idea of how I want to use this space.  I toyed with the idea of removing all my earlier posts, but decided for the moment to leave them alone for now: I need a visual reminder of why god created the period and short sentences - and why focus is a good thing even in a in a blog.  (Maybe especially in a blog!)

I'm still not sure if anyone cares, but now that I found my Wednesday spot again, I'll take a cue from May Sarton and begin here . . .

Hats off to The Hat: Or, Why I Still Prefer Tofu

I've been a naughty, naughty girl and I'm paying the price.

I've been a vegetarian most of my life. For various reasons (including traveling to Italy for two months where I knew food and dinner invitations were going to be an issue) I decided to start eating some meat protein. I decided I would try chicken - for starters.

I started with Chicken Salad figuring the mayo, celery, onion, would cover the taste and make it easy to add it to my repertoire at least once a week.

I was right. The mayo especially made it easy to eat chicken - too easy. Then I discovered fresh, free range chicken and did other things with it: grilled over onions, baked, chicken soup. After Italy, I came back with a few signature chicken dishes. Then I remembered the barbecue sauces -- and barbecue chicken sandwiches, barbecue wings, baked chicken in barbecue sauce. It became too easy.

Never trust a chicken - it's a slippery slope, like marijuana: the gateway to bigger and badder, stuff. Next thing you know, you're meeting the chicken dealer in dark alleys at 5 in the morning for the cream of the crop before he hits to the deli circuit.

And like Marijuana, I did move on to harder stuff - I started dabbling in protein fixes from shrimp, hamburgers (hormone free - I have my standards), tacos al carbon, a lamb tamal, a piece of prime rib (the very end slice), salmon appetizers, tuna, and a bit of carnitas en chile verde. In my defense, it's never more than a little bit for fear I'll go into cardiac arrest (a vegetarian's paranoia) - just enough for some protein and variety, and okay, the memories that's in it.

But tonight, I can't explain tonight. All I can say is I had a total break in reality - I disassociated or something - right about the time I hit the intersection of Valley Blvd and Garfield. Anyone who has grown up in San Gabriel Valley/Los Angeles knows this corner -- The Hat has been there FOREVER working its magic.

Tonight I found myself at that intersection after a writing workshop (memoir writing, so of course, I have to write about this - as I remember it!) hungry, tired and disillusioned, wondering if I will ever be able to 'go deeper' in my writing, when the aroma of the steaming pastrami and warm buns wafted through my window. Nevermind the green light, I never made it across the intersection.

Next thing I know I'm wafting across the parking lot, effortlessly finding my place in a line of Hat regulars as if I've been doing this every weekend -intoxicated with the aromas of my childhood jaunts with my dad to the local hot-dog and pastrami dives. The Hat was a family staple. My mouth was watering. I was famished.

I'm up next. "A pastrami and onion rings"

Anything to drink?

"A root beer - do you have root beer? I need a root beer."

Holy crap. I just ordered a pastrami and onion rings. I couldn't stop the words from coming out. I was thinking, this is not right - you're gonna be sorry, you haven't had a pastrami in over 30 years.-- Snap out of it! But I couldn't stop. The aroma. The urge. I felt like my dad was right there in line with me, pushing me on saying 'andale mija, lo que quieras.'

Really? Whatever I want?

It was like that with my dad and food. No matter how broke he was, when ever I was with him he let me eat whatever I wanted. I think it was his way of showing me how much he loved me - even if he had no money. I wanted these days to last forever. I didn't want to let go of my dad's hand - ever - on days like this. They were so few.

People liked my dad. I wonder now if he paid for all the food, or did he barter, going back later to fix a car, cut hair, bake a cake or make some donuts in exchange for the food we got. My dad loved to barter, and my dad was a jack-of-all-trades, and a sought after baker -when he was sober. And I loved him. When he was sober.

I went to my car. I ate it. I could have stopped at any point, but I didn't. I ate the whole fucking pastrami, followed it with a few onion rings, washed it down with root beer (it was always root beer) and felt good. I felt like that little girl, happy to be with my dad, hitting some of the best pastrami and hot dog dives -- and with my dad, the sky was the limit. I was content.

For all of 10 minutes.

Jesus Christ! The ride home was one of the fuzziest ever. I felt like I was under water, my stomach telling me "Te dije pendeja que I would pay you back, but you didn't listen to me. No, you have to listen to your nose, that god damned olfactory - you know where that leads you - memories and trouble. Always the memory and troubles. Pendeja."

I'm awake at 2:37 am. I can't breathe. My stomach is messing with me, being a real pain in the ass, my head throbbing and not from sweet memories - I got a god-damned pastrami rush headache. I can't stand this conversation I'm having with this pastrami - I hurt! Did I really think I could wash it all down with a root beer? Did I think I could keep it all down?

The workshop was fun, and one I plan on going to again. Except from now on, I'm taking San Gabriel Blvd - creeping into town from the Eastside, where I'll have vegetable and tofu options should I get the urge to satisfy my needs with food; safer, none of my childhood memories attached to tofu - these are all my own and nothing to write about.

I have to tip my hat to The Hat though, it brought me back to my blog - even though it's not Wednesday.

I just wish I could get some relief - and some sleep.

Playing For Change | Peace Through Music

Playing For Change | Peace Through Music

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Recordando, Mama, Papa y un poco de poesia

Too lazy to show my face on the 4th, I put my mom through hours of extra labor, deciding finally to make my appearance at 10:05 am 50 years ago today, July 5 - no doubt to the relief of my exhausted mother (to be able to put an end to the whole business of birthing and babies behind her. And her their prayers for a baby girl).

As it turns out, after 6 boys my mother didn't know what she would do with a girl. She didn't believe her prayers would be answered. She was actually shocked that I was in fact a girl. I was a source of worry and consternation for my mother from the day I was born. My dad was excited to finally have a daughter.

My mom knew what to do with boys - from caring to dressing, and from which toys to loving them. She wasn't so sure how to be with me. And, she would much later admit, she was afraid for me - what lot would be my lot, what cross (or crosses) would I carry. She worried about the minefields I'd have to navigate.

Since my mom knew boys, needless to say, I got treated much like the boys. This turned out to be a blessing in so many ways; in an era of Roe v. Wade and all the upheavals of the 60's, defining oneself, both inside and outside of the home, growing up in a household of mostly men, learning to speak up and fight to be heard was a good life lesson - this was just how it was.

My parents had no idea that their hopes for their first daughter would never materialize - all the subtle training to be a good daughter, wife and mother would serve only to make me an understanding human being and good (albeit, willful) daughter -- the wife and mother part never happened (well, not yet anyway). At some level, even from the very beginning, I think they knew it never would.

They knew life wasn't going to be easy or typical (at least not in the eldest-daughter-in-traditional-Mexican-family sort of way) - they knew I would be a fighter; she knew I had to be in order to survive: my mother took as a sign that I was born on the 7th month, the 7th child on a day when 6 other children (boys) were born , and I the 7th (the only girl), going home to a family of 6 older brothers - and a mother who wouldn't know what to do with a daughter (not until a long time later did my mom get used to the fact that she had a daughter); she was used to her sons. She knew boys. She wasn't sure what to do with a daughter. My mother knew I would forever be up against a current - having to cry the loudest and fight the hardest. My father was happy 'cause he finally got his girl. My dad was always quietly proud that I was his daughter - he quietly admired the fighter I was becoming.

That I was born in a hospital named for Santa Marta - patron saint of lost causes, a strong (in some beliefs, known as a dominator) saint who drove evil from the world, who stood for justice and what is right was also a sign - on the day of my birth, my mom was certain of only one thing: I would need strength -- so my mom named me after the saint.

And so it came to be - I came to be. I can never quite kick things into gear until 10 am or so - I longed learned that I cannot have government job, or any other 9 to 5, because I cannot get myself to work on time -- if being on time means being there by 8 am or 9. I just can't do it. I decided against law school because what good would I be to a client if I couldn't get to the court on time? And why all the pain and suffering of law school if I wasn't going to practice law? I'd rather stick needles in my eyes. If I'm being honest with myself, I cannot do anything that is truly structured -- it just goes against my grain. So much for law and justice. But it wasn't all for not. Church and organized religion -- forget about it.

So, it's my birthday and I'm spending it in quiet reflection at home - reading - enjoying the flowers I just put out to honor the memory of my mother - it was she who did the work after all, and a cup of coffee put out to honor my father as well - he did half the work (okay, maybe not half, but he was there).

I owe them the world for giving me mine - for choosing, afterall, to let me create my own world, to let me be.

So here's a poem, on this day, a poem so apropos of my current life arrangement of splitting my time between Long Beach, where I live, and San Francisco to earn a living - to pay for this lavish life I live in Long Beach.

I checked into the office and I was teased about how nice the weather has been in San Francisco these last few days; seems like my perfect sunny SoCal days have packed up and replaced the rolling fog of Noe Valley - it's been gorgeous tomato growing weather there while I've been left to face excessive June gloom weather in July. When the day is beautiful in San Francisco, there is nothing like it.

And so, of course, I've had San Francisco on my mind a lot recently - the morning breeze at the Ferry Building, chasing my morning coffee and croissant. The incessant call of the seagulls - and all the early morning people, who like me do their own non physical version of Sun Salutation or Sunday morning meditation -- accompanied by our ever present cups of coffee in hand -- as we lean over the rails to feel closer to the ocean breeze - or God.

I'm in Long Beach right now. But I thought this was a perfect poem to share on this day - a poem rich with imagery, ripe with sweetness and recollection -- on my birthday - a great birthday poem, in fact, the perfect birthday poem.

Gracias mama y papa - poesia para ustedes este dia y siempre. Todo salio bien -- deberas.

A Warm Summer in San Francisco

by Carolyn Miller

Light, Moving) --

Although I watched and waited for it every day,
somehow I missed it, the moment when everything reached
the peak of ripeness. It wasn't at the solstice; that was only
the time of the longest light. It was sometime after that, when
the plants had absorbed all that sun, had taken it into themselves
for food and swelled to the height of fullness. It was in July,
in a dizzy blaze of heat and fog, when on some nights
it was too hot to sleep, and the restaurants set half their tables
on the sidewalks; outside the city, down the coast,
the Milky Way floated overhead, and shooting stars
fell from the sky over the ocean. One day the garden
was almost overwhelmed with fruition:
My sweet peas struggled out of the raised bed onto the mulch
of laurel leaves and bark and pods, their brilliantly colored
sunbonnets of rose and stippled pink, magenta and deep purple
pouring out a perfume that was almost oriental. Black-eyed

Susans
stared from the flower borders, the orange cherry tomatoes
were sweet as candy, the fruit fattened in its swaths of silk,
hummingbirds spiraled by in pairs, the bees gave up
and decided to live in the lavender. At the market,
surrounded by black plums and rosy plums and sugar prunes
and white-fleshed peaches and nectarines, perfumey melons
and mangos, purple figs in green plastic baskets,
clusters of tiny Champagne grapes and piles of red-black cherries
and apricots freckled and streaked with rose, I felt tears
come into my eyes, absurdly, because I knew
that summer had peaked and was already passing
away. I felt very close then to understanding
the mystery; it seemed to me that I almost knew
what it meant to be alive, as if my life had swelled
to some high moment of response, as if I could
reach out and touch the season, as if I were inside
its body, surrounded by sweet pulp and juice,
shimmering veins and ripened skin.

"A Warm Summer in San Francisco" by Carolyn Miller, from Light, Moving. © Sixteen Rivers Press, 2009. Reprinted with permission. (borrowed from Garrision Keillor's Writer's Almanac)

Netflix And The New Normal

I'm going to be out of commission for a few weeks - laid out.

I don't have a television - well, I do, but the reception is virtually non-existent, and I refuse to get cable - so I was wondering how I was going to keep myself occupied during the long hours of recovery.

Twice in my life I had surgeries - each time the recovery was hell. Not the pain or discomforts, and inconveniences, as much as the residual effects of the anesthesia and getting back to 'normal' sleep habits. This has a way of working on your head and taking you deep into the realm of existentialism in ways you never knew it before. In short, it sucks.

I know me, and in my head - in the wee hours of the night, when the rest of the world is in deep REM, not feeling my best - is a bad neighborhood to be cruising in alone.


Out of the blue comes my life line. My friend has been enjoying Netflix for a few years now. We joke around about my 5-for 5-for 5 habit at my local video shop - 5 videos, for 5 days for $5 - I think that's a pretty good deal - until I have to return them. And heaven forbid I accidentally pick up a new release -new releases are not part of the 5-5-5 deal. Late fees and I have become pretty familiar.

She's been gently pushing Netflix. So, anticipating my temporary incapacity, and looking out for my sanity I suppose, she sent an invitation to sign up for one month free - that's about the time I'll be laid out - how cool is that!

So I signed-up. Lord have mercy. I completed my registration at 9 pm. I discovered a 'watch instantly' option. As a member, I can download some movies, in addition to my plan, and watch them - instantly, on demand - and I was oh, so demanding last night. I didn't stop watching movies until 5:30 am.

This does not bode well. This can become a pretty nasty habit.

I suppose the luster will ware off soon. I hope. And I can get to watching a movie on occasion like most normal people. But then, what is normal. I like watching movies. It's what I do. It's a guilty pleasure. Just like my wine.

And like my wine, I might go a spell without a glass, even with dinner, then I want a glass each night; or I'll crave a nice jammy Syrah and will make sure I treat myself to one. That's how it is with movies. I can go for a long stretch without watching one, then BAM! it's all I want to do - which is why I loved the 5-5-5 plan. So Netflix will be my new normal. It'll save me time, fuel, late fees - and, except for that little watch movies instantly thing, waiting for my dvd's to arrive in the mail, will help me relearn the art of delayed gratification once again..

It's all good. And it's nice knowing my time will be well occupied as I lay in bed, keeping myself from wondering into those bad neighborhoods.

At Last...

It doesn't seem possible, but it is: my event has come and gone.

After all is said and done, it was good fun. Planning like a wild woman up front pays off. This year I actually had time to talk to folks, notice the flow of things, and enjoy some of the music - instead of running around like a lost looking for her mommy. Guess that's why they call it planning.

I look for miracles in most things these days. On Sunday, I found my miracle in the weather; miraculous or not, the cold, windy fog of the week prior, folded into a beautiful, sunny, picturesque day - ideal for margaritas and sailboats.

I have some photos of the event I can post later. The one posted is credited to Steve Sando from Rancho Gordo. Steve has been with us since the beginning of the event. And since the beginning, he's believed in it, in its' potential-- in us. We like Steve.

The folks who shared their goods with the public on our behalf were amazing - too many to name.

The day after. It's always an achy day, one I spend in disbelief -- amazed that I, someone who doesn't even host dinners, or my own birthday dinners for fear no one will come, put together a third annual event - and about 300-400 people show up! I walk around the next day, ecstatic that its over and resting. I can't wait until we're a large enough event, grossing enough money that we can splurge on hired help to schlep things around.

I spent my Monday at the Sutro Baths -- the salt water baths created for the folks with discretionary money of the old days. Huge, beautiful cliff front property. The wind was blowing, but I was so tired to care. It actually felt good; it kept the aches away. I was warm enough with my jacket, and the sun was just warm enough to compensate. I felt alive. Suffice to say - the afternoon was perfect. Really.

Here's the thing -- there were swallows flying all around me, I discovered a new mallow tree (which I'm going to go back to and steal some cutting from in the cover of night), the crashing waves was just loud enough to hear from where I stood, but not enough to drown out the swooshing of the grasses and songs of the birds; the sound of gravel under my feet reminded me of the simple things I enjoy. I could nap under the sun, wind on my face - to hell with caring about hyper pigmentation. I was feeling blessed.

Just to be able to move in slow-mo, my god that was a good enough reason to bask in the sun. An easy, calm place to sit and imagine the sounds, conversations and music '20's, '30's and '40's - the energy is still there. It's palpable.

Well, now off to wrap up the details of the event so I can start heading home. I'll see who my traveling companion will be - I'm thinking Stevie Nicks. I love listening to her on Hwy 152 - especially as the sun is just before the setting time.

Belladonna at dusk feels good.

This can't be happening...

It's been like heaven, it was so bloody beautiful these last three days.

And it was so blimey hot - yesterday, I forgot I was in northern California for all the profuse sweating of my face and constant wiping. It felt like I was home. In SoCal. But I wasn't. I was in San Francisco - and it was Bloody Beautiful - you'll have to take my word for it.

It felt good, like my annual fundraising event was destined to be a success. How could it be anything but with this gorgeous weather, and people anxious to get out and explore the city and its happenings.

So why couldn't it continue?!

Because even the weather is out to make me crazy, cause me heartache and headache - and stress me out. It went from 98 degrees beautiful, to 60 and ugly, cold, windy and ridiculous in less than a day -- windy, like wicked witch of the west windy. This isn't even funny or amusing.

I need the nice weather back for the next 4 days for crying out loud.

I'm tired now. I'm working on this event, and I'm tired. Out all day, errands, negotiating, settling, taking care, placating -- all in the name of raising funds for our organization - through this event.

But I have a minimum word count to make tonight. Wednesday almost gone, and I've no words to impress with, no musings to tell about, no thing exciting enough to wonder on. But I'm not inclined to give up and go to bed just yet. I know this is the lazy man's way, the path a less resistance - pictures - since they're worth a thousand words and all like that. Actually, it's quite brilliant!

So, some pictures to show how beautiful it was on Sunday. Enjoy, these 'words' from me to you!

All three thousand of them.