Spring Sledding

Sam and I hauled the kids up to Big Bear on Sunday for a little spring sledding. My poor children have never seen snow (ah, life of a child from Southern California).  Ridden with guilt over their deprived upbringings, we packed up the snow clothes and set on our way. For $100, Snow Valley resort will put you on a chairlift, carry you to the top of a bunny run, lend you a sled, and….weeeeee!  It was awesome.  The kids were shell-shocked.  That is what sledding is?!  Who knew?

But then after the third time down, my daughter wanted to know when we could stop sledding and get on to the skiing part.  Talk about transient pleasure.  We explained that skiing involved rentals and a different lift ticket.  She explaining that sledding was fun and all, but next time, she wanted to ski.

After an arduous (and I mean arduous) drive home, we had Sunday Night Movie Night and went to bed.  This morning I asked my daughter if she was excited to tell her friends at school about her adventure.  She looked at me and cocked her head, “What adventure, Mama?”  The sledding adventure, I told her, surprised that she had forgotten.  “Oh yeah, sure.”  she agreed in a tone that sounded like, whatever.  I couldn’t believe it.  After all that work to get them  to see some snow.  To be in the outdoors.  To wear snow clothes and whiz down a mountain.  My city kids were showing their true colors.

Spring Sledding – a lasting impression.for all.

A Little Note of Thanks

Rain. Rain! It’s raining in Los Angeles.

Phew.  Finally.

All winter we’ve worn our summer dresses, our sunblock, and our shades.  All winter we’ve quietly wondered to ourselves if this is the beginning of the end.  If global climate change had decided to make her fist move.  If summertime in the winter is what all those scientists were talking about.  Los Angeles winters of 85 degrees.  If perhaps we should’ve gotten a new Prius after all.  If our kids were going to think California and the equator were pretty much the same.  If the constant sunshine was making us all batty.

But now. Now!

It started to rain in the wee hours of the night and to my great pleasure, I can still hear it coming down.  A hard dripping sound on the plastic of the air conditioner outside the window.   A soft, wet, swishy drip onto the leaves of the plants that are abundantly growing thanks to the never-ending sunshine.  A splatter drip washing the terracotta tiles of our front porch.  And then the warm, cozy drip on the roof that feels like cotton balls in my ears.  I am enveloped in the womb of rain.

Thank you.  Whoever you are.  Thank you.

Death and Death and Death

There’s a lot of dying going around.  Famous celebrities shooting up too much heroin.  Fathers of our friends passing away on trips to Peru.  Our actual friends having cardiac arrests in the gym.  It’s senseless.  

If I was a betting woman I’d say this dying this is contagious.

I’m afraid of death.  The idea of this measly little life I have being OVER – it can’t be true.  I haven’t gone to Africa.  I never got published.  I am not blissfully happy, goddamnit.  And yet, around ever corner, I tiptoe carefully – sure that Mr. Reaper is waiting to snatch me from the shadows.  

What will I regret when I’m dead?  What will I be grateful for?

Last night I had a party to go to and I didn’t go.  Instead, I watched Austenland in bed with a bowl of M&M’s.  The light was off by 9.  Will I regret that?  Will I regret not being more social, more effervescent, more sparkly and superb?  Probably.  And what about the M&M’s?  Or watching a movie alone while Sam went out without me?  Or going to sleep at 9 instead of staying up and working on my opus?  Maybe, probably, I don’t know.

The point is, I spend much of my waking days thinking about death.  Thinking about what I should be doing so I don’t regret it when I’m dead.  And thinking some more about life and how short “it” is.  This transient state of consciousness trapped in a fragile little human shell.  And then I keep thinking about all of us here, scrambling about for fame and fortune and power – all these quicksilver lives.  These flashes in the pan.  All of us one dark corner away from crashing into death.

And then another day goes by and it looks pretty much the same for me as the day before.  It’s insane.  I’m insane.

But one thing I do know – when it comes to death, we all look the same.  

Good deeds, bad deeds, jewels, titles, money in the bank…

pictures in the paper, kids, dogs, smokers, drinkers, avaricious pursuits…

druggies, terrorists, rapists, environmentalists…

nurses, doctors, janitors, and black market organ salesmen…we all look the same to death.

My So-Called Obama

One day this week (and the specificity of that should tell you where I’m going here) Obama broadcast the State of the Union.  I missed it.  In truth, I not only missed it, I didn’t even know it was happening.  And so I watched it right away on the internet…

Except I didn’t.

When I went away to college, I lived in a little bubble in the middle of spit and nowhere.  The bubble was strong and well, bubbly, and I didn’t pay much attention to life outside my classes and the latest on-dit.  Sure, if we talked about politics in a class, I read and did my homework, but other than that – life outside the bubble stayed way outside the bubble.

And then I came back to the real world and life resumed itself.  But now I find myself back in a bubble.  The baby bubble.  Where my biggest concerns involve napping and eating and who’s pooping what.  I have no interest in Obama’s wish list even though I know I should.  And I feel bad about that.  Guilty that my tunnel vision is making me not only a bad American, but a stupid one.  I don’t know a lick of what’s going on and instead of buckling down and finding out, I spend my free time trying to lie in bed.  My mind is probably atrophying as we speak.

Obama, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry.  Please don’t be mad at me.  I promise to pay attention soon…maybe.  Probably.  The bubble can’t last forever, right?

Finding a Quiet Los Angeles

My family has begun to explore the city in a new way –  house hunting.  There are so many neighborhoods in Los Angeles, and while it’s tempting to stay somewhere I know and love…what about all the places I could get to know and love?  

Upon beginning our exploration, we drew on the advice of friends.  Where is the best place to love?  The answer was Malibu.  No, the Venice Canals.  No, Mt. Washington, Bronson Canyon, Beverly Glen, Mullholland, Cheviot Hills, Topanga, Santa Monica, Los Feliz, Silverlake…

It seems that everyone we know has a different opinion on LA’s best.  But that’s good.  Instead of choosing between 10 terrible places to live, we get to choose amongst a slew of great ones.

And so now the tough part comes – Sam and I agreeing.  I’m open, but think it sure would be nice to have a chicken coop to call my own.  Sam thinks my chicken coop phase is about as likely to happen as snow on Wilshire.  Either way, bright new changes await us.

 

Weather Report

Every morning I wake up and check the weather.  And every day I see pretty much the same thing: 70-something degrees and sunny.  It’s been like this all January except for last week, which was 80-something degrees and sunny.  And as far as precipitation goes – well that’s a constant 0%

Do I feel like an old lady, checking the weather?  Yes.  Do I still keep doing it in the hopes of seeing something exciting and new?  Yes.

I love Southern California, but a little a rain, a little thunder, a little shish-boom-bah would be great every now and again.  12 months of sunny gets exhausting.  How I can always be happy and energetic?  I need some rain so I can get out of exercising, eat crappy food, and stay in bed reading until the storms abate.  I need a snow day.  I need a hurricane to wash away the dirt of the city and make it all shiny and new.  I need some lightening and thunder to remember what god sounds like.  I need air that smells like cold, wet Christmas trees.

Tuesday, January 21st: 81 degrees, sunny, 0% precipitation

Alex Caldwerwood – How Did He Die?

For those of you familiar with the Ace Hotel chain, creative hipster and hotelier, Alex Calderwood died under mysterious circumstances this past November in his London Ace.  At the time, rampant rumors surrounded the death.  Drug overdose?  Suicide?  Heart failure?  Foul play?  No stranger to rehab, Calderwood, like many creative types, struggled with demons.

None of this is shocking.  Sad?  Of course.  But shocking, no – our society has lost one talented individual after another to this or that or the other.  What is shocking is that to date, no additional information has been released about how Alex Caldwerwood passed.  Everything has been very hushed up.

But why?

If he did die of a heart attack, then why wouldn’t it have been released?  Or if Caldwerwood died of an unknown malady, wouldn’t loved ones want it investigated?  I mean, the man was only 47 years old.  So then I’m wondering, was there a letter?  Or a popcorn tub full of needles and pills that someone put a lid on quickly?  And if, so how?

Someone has got to know and that somebody is doing a bang-up job of covering it all up.  I can’t find a single news article informing of the details.  Radio silence since November 2013.  It’s not just impressive, but odd in this day and age.  Makes me think – what are we all missing that is so secret it had to be covered up like a second shooter on a grassy knoll?

Alex Calderwood…I’m still thinking about you and wondering.

Underwood Farms and the Biggest Pumpkin EVER

Yesterday my family piled into the truck and hit the road for Moorpark, California home of the pumpkin capital of nowhere. Really though, there are pumpkins there that are bigger than small cars.  See exhibit A and notice the size of the boy sitting on top for comparison:

 

Despite my children’s pleas, we did not get the mamma jamma pumpkin, but instead a merely mamma one, which a nice young man helped us move.  As no one else at Underwood Farms seemed stupid festive enough to choose such an unmanageable large pumpkin, we did create quite a fuss walking out.

And so now I am the proud owner of a pumpkin that weighs more than I do.  How we are going to gut this thing I have no idea.  Stay tuned for more of the Real Housewives of Pumpkin City.

Sam and the America’s Cup

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire…Sam and the America’s Cup.  Little did you know how synonymous these two two stories were.  In Harry Potter, said hero must travel the maze, navigate a quagmire of nasty magic, and win the goblet (aka, the big cup).  In Sam and the America’s Cup, Sam must watch the race 24/7 on TV (all the while exclaiming and poking me, I might add), travel to San Francisco, and watch a bunch of boats navigating around the harbor trying to win (you guessed it) a big cup.  You see what I mean?  Basically the same story.

After a week of nodding unenthusiastically every time Sam wanted to show me these 13 story boats traveling at nearly 50mph (in person I would’ve loved it, but on an iPad, ehhh) I got a great big surprise last night.

Sam got home pretty late.  I had put both kids to bed, cleaned up, and was watching Orange is the New Black in a semi-comatose state on Netflix.  “Hey.”  I said tiredly.

“Hey.”  he said back, plopping down next to me on the sofa. “I’m flying to San Francisco tomorrow to see the America’s Cup!  I’ll be back around 9.”  

I narrowed my gaze.  “This is for work?”  

“Oh yeah.  Totally.”  (we both knew this was total bullship*)  “I leave at 7 in the morning.”

“Uh-huh.  We need toilet paper.”

I won’t bore you with the rest of our high-octane evening, but it’s a little after 7 and Sam is off to watch sailboats.  I meanwhile am herding cats today.  

Where did I go wrong???

* I’m working on toddler-appropriate cursing

Happy Place.

I’m totally planning a day trip with the kiddies to visit this happy habitat.  No hair?  No smell?  I’m amazed.  Meanwhile my ONE dog just threw up all over a chair I recently reupholstered.  And I’m pretty sure that’s a piece of kibble I spy under the dining room table.  Gross.

Maybe I just need a few more dogs and they can band together to learn how to vacuum and clean for me.  Now that would be a happy place indeed.

Cat House on the Kings