Getting Started Was the Hardest Part

I call it playing house. Home improvement projects, house cleaning, or even cooking is playing house. Today I played in a major way. I took the plunge. I dove in. Fresh, yellow-goldish paint is now slowly drying in my upstairs hallway.

The hardest part was getting started. First the photos and art had to come off the walls. Next, the switch plates with their tiny screws. Then the masking tape business. Spackle, sanding, dust. Hours later I finally began. I opened a can of paint.

The Pink Poodle

My sister recently asked me about the pink plastic poodle. Because it's Christmas.

The poodle is one of my most valuable possessions. It was a prize from the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk long ago. As in 30 years ago. It demands a prominent spot on the Christmas tree each year. I don't remember if it was awarded to Sacha or to me. Maybe Ed Roberts (Old Ed) actually won it. I can't recall exactly which of the silly carnival games it came from. Maybe the one where you throw a ping pong ball into little jars full of water and gold fish. It looks like it would be so easy to toss the ball into the jar, but of course it isn't. Nevertheless, you get a totally terrific pink poodle when you fail. The poodle is ten times better than wining a gold fish. You never have to feed it. It will never float pathetically on the top of the water.

For me, the poodle represents my young motherhood, Sacha's childhood, and our happy summer days at the beach. Ah, shucks! I'm getting misty just thinking about it.

The New Political Climate

Students in my school are politically involved, as you can see. Glitter is the way to go, don't you know?

Speaking of politics, I am very happy that the new year will be dawning soon. Why? Because it brings a new political season. My mood, and I believe, the mood of the whole country (maybe the whole world?!) is lifted, expanded, lighter. It is as if we all took a really deep, full, resorative breath. Ahh! Doesn't that feel refreshing?

Ambulance Chaser

When people ask Ed about what he "does," in that cocktail party I don't really care but I am making polite conversation kind of way, Ed responds seriously that he is an ambulance driver. Or else he tells them, also very straight and proper like, that he is a plummer. Either way, the work outfit is about the same. It is a one-piece jump suit thingie with many, many zippers and pockets. Also badges. Lots of badges.

Ah shucks! The guy is just so humble!

Savannah Day Dreamin'

It was my first time visiting Savanna. We stayed in the historic part of town, down by the river. The Kehoe House, our hotel, is on the ghost tour, I'm told. I didn't see any spirits, but I could imagine them easily floating down the halls or up the staircases. The downtown shops are a mix of T-shirt Tawdry and Gay Guy Style. Guess what? You can eat oysters or jambalaya any night of the week.

Turkey Trot Hilton Head

The beaches on the left coast are a whole lot flatter and firmer than over here at my house. I spent the Thanksgiving holiday on Hilton Head Island. You can rent a bike for peanuts. Cruise along the sand, mile after mile. Talk about MELLOW.

Warm and Blue

It is hard to believe that November is half gone. Especially now, when the sky is true blue and it is nearly 80 degrees. Don't even try to get in the mood to bake a turkey and smash potatoes. It's too darn hot!

My newest obsessions:

1) swimming laps in the very early morning before work

2) crossword puzzles

I set the alarm at five o'clock and get in the water before six. The first few times I followed this routine I felt disoriented every time I glanced up from the water to the giant clocks on the clubhouse wall. Where is the little hand? Can the big hand possibly be on the six?

Just because I've decided to exercise before school doesn't get me out of my carpool date. I still pick up my colleague at seven fifteen. What a kook I've become.

About the crossword puzzles. I a simply trying to, very slowly and sporadically, get through at least ONE FRIGGIN PUZZLE all by myself. I have the NY Times book of "Easiest" puzzles. I have "completed" puzzle number 4, thank you very much. I did about one-half of it without cheating. Completion required spying at the answers at the back of the book. But hey! I am on the learning curve.

For the turkey holiday Ed and I will be on the other coast . That would be the east one. Savannah, Hilton Head, and Charleston. That's the plan. It will be a trip down memory lane for Ed. He'll be hangin' with his old college roommate. As for me - it's all new out there. Show me some croc-oh-diles.

Happy Birthday SB

Let's make some noise! Celebrate!

You call yourself the best dancer. Certainly this is correct. Especially on YOUR BIRTHDAY. Proud mamma that I am, I agree. NO ONE can compare.

My question: how do you do it wearing those shoes?

Here's wishing you a great day. I know the coming year will be a grand adventure.

Welcome to California, Mary Jo

My new hero is Mary Jo. Formerly of the wilds of South Dakota, she is currently a resident of the coolest city on the California coast.

First she landed a GREAT job in San Francisco. No tiresome flights out to interview. She snagged this one strictly based on her resume, reputation, and telephone interviews.

Next she rented a cool apartment. Again via her internet savvy. Can't wait to see it for myself.

Thanks, Elene, for introducing me to MaryJo. Welcome to town, girlfriend!

Dedicated to Linda

At the Mermaid Triathlon this morning, I wore a dark green swim cap. The colors (pink, lime green, a couple shades of blue) designate your age bracket, or whether you are a “Just for Fun” or “Mighty Mermaid” competitor. Each lucky contestant had her AGE written on the back of her left calf. Race number goes on your arm and on the back of your hand. A Velcro timing chip-thingy fits around an ankle. I was definitely not going to be mixed up with anyone else.

Interesting to stand on the bluff overlooking Seacliff Beach in the very early morning fog while a cute young guy uses his magic marker on your skin.

First in the water were the Mighty Mermaids who were going to do each segment TWO TIMES. That’s right, swim around the pier, crawl out of the water, run across the sand under the pier, and then jump back in and do it again.

When it was the turn of the dark green women I was pretty much over the fear of having a diarrhea attack in my wetsuit. I let all of the other dark green caps get in the ocean first. I lingered on the edge and then dove in. The pack of splashes moved inexorably further away from me. By the time I crawled out on the sand at the other side of the pier, I called out to the people on the beach, "I'm the last dark green cap out of the water!" "No, there is someone else behind you," someone said. But not for long. As I trudged across the sand, she passed me. Ta dah!

The bike portion was a breeze. The route is in my neighborhood. I know all the hills, all the bumpy spots in the road. I passed all sorts of people on the bike.

The run was another story. I sort of limp along and pretend to be running. It was probably painful to watch. In fact, race volunteers seemed to winch as they said, "Good job!" and "Almost there!" while I slowly passed by. I, however, was still smiling. Really. At that point it was so close to being OVER.

There were three other teachers from my school who completed the course this morning. We’re all wearing our Mermaid Triathlon t-shirts to school tomorrow. We rock!

The Last Frontier

Down in the basement, while changing a flat tire on my bike, I looked up and saw our old Alaska license plates. They hang in a place of honor near dusty tools that nobody uses.

Yep. We lived (and drove) in Alaska. Five whole years. We moved up there in 1980. We were happy recipients of the first ever "Permanent Fund Dividend." It's every Alaskan's itsy-bitsy annual share of the state's oil booty. Even my young daughter got a dividend. One thousand big ones that first year.

Alaska, thanks to presidential politics, is much on people's tongues. Today my favorite writer's dateline was Anchorage, AK. Maureen Dowd's column shows up in my little local paper on Mondays. I totally love her. I can picture her up there in Anchorage, wondering which t-shirt to buy. I bet she is staying in the Captian Cook Hotel. I stayed there a zillion times on the state's dime. I was an Alaska state employee, don't you know. But under different governors. I actually respected each of them. It would be different today.

Curse Cursive? Not Me

I assign cursive practice to my middle school students. You know, flowing script. Handwriting. Most of them grumble at this imposition. Why? Don't they want to be grownups some day?

I've conducted a highly scientific poll on the subject of cursive and its status as a necessity for success in the 21st Century. Results: people prefer to use their thumbs to compose. If you're not typing on miniscule keyboards, you're just not in touch. If you're a twenty-something, you likely eschew pen and pencil altogether.

I'm a throwback. Get used to it.

Alyosha Love Licks

There's nothing like the adoration of a pit bull. Alyosha always greets me enthusiatically, wiggling and hopping all around. She seems to forget that she's not a puppy, that she's a senior citizen. Her golden years have not diminished her admiration of grandma. That's me. Grandma of the grand dog. And proud of it.

Bike Ride Home

One of the many things I love about my job in Watsonville is my bike ride home to Aptos. Car pool mate Anne picks me up in the morning and I toss my bike in the back of her car. After I've had enough of being a conscientious teacher-lady all day, I change into lycra and hop on my bike.

My route home runs primarily along Freedom Blvd. Within a few minutes I've left the burbs and am cruising in the country. I pass apple orchards and berries growing in perfect rows. I pass a small lake. I pass moo-cows and horsies. I watch the seasonal changes, colors, blossoms, harvesting, and am amazed at how lucky I am to be able to do this.

When I peddle into my own driveway I ring the silly bell on my bike handlebars. Suzzie dog knows the signal and meets me at the gate. Time for a shower and a glass of wine.

Life's a Stage

One of the great things about living near my alma matter is the stuff that matters that happens there. Example: UC Santa Cruz hosts Shakespeare Santa Cruz’s summer season. I experienced two shows this past week. I don’t want to simply use the see verb and say I saw two shows. That is not what live theatre is all about. One experiences live theatre. Like Jimi Hendrix. Are you experienced?

In the company of my dear book group friends, I experienced Burn This by Lanford Wilson. Picture the perfect NYC artist’s loft. Tall windows and ceiling, exposed pipes and wires, an expanse of scruffy hard wood floors. Place your feet on those floors and let your mind mosey on back to the 1980’s. Talk about a trip down memory lane. Here I am watching a show about a dancer on a stage on which I performed as a dancer. (True! I was a dance major at UCSC.) To top it off, the set looks remarkably like the Chelsea apartment in which I have spent truly quality time.

For last night’s performance the theatre was transformed into a street in front of a church in Leipzig, Germany, circa 1700. Itamar Moses, the author of Bach at Leipzig is only 30 years old and really, really cute. (If you don't believe me, check out his photo in the playbill.) The play is a goofy comedy complete with sword fights, a gay guy, and rapid fire entrances and exits perfectly timed with the silly jokes. One fundamental thing you must understand about this show: all the musicians in Germany were called either Georg or Johann. Another fundamental: it is based on a true story.

If you’re seriously serious, click on over to the Wall Street Journal review of the Shakespeare Santa Cruz season: http://online.wsj.com/article/SB121876098005742875.html?mod=googlenews_wsj

Also, enjoy the New York Times piece about Itamar, which includes this:
Question: “How come you get to hang out with Tom Stoppard?"
Answer:“I think I'm just that charming." http://www.nytimes.com/2005/11/06/theater/newsandfeatures/06zino.html?_r=1&oref=slogin

The Cement Ship

Last Saturday morning I hauled myself over to Seacliff State Beach to meet up with a small group of women for an ocean swim. The idea was to get our feet wet (ha ha!) with a practice swim around the Pino Alto. We have all signed up for the Mermaid Triathlon.

Pino Alto. That’s the christened name of the half-sunk, stinky, crumbling, flat-out-ugly cement ship now used as an excuse for a fishing pier. It juts out into the Monterey Bay about 200 or so yards. (The triathlon includes a 400-yard swim - 200 + 200 = 400.) You can see it on the Calif. State Parks site: http://www.parks.ca.gov/default.asp?page_id=543

I’ll be honest. I was scared to swim out that far. Also, it seems creepy to get anywhere close to the cement ship, the fishing line and hooks draped over the side, and the seals and birds that hang out there.
Bright idea! I’ll bring my boogie board and just paddle. I talked my dear friend Connie into this seemingly great idea, too. We can’t die out there if we have big-old boogie boards to hang on to.

Within seconds of hitting the water, I knew the folly of my plan. It is MUCH TOUGHER to push a fat, thick board forward than it is to just plain swim. Arms are the key, baby. You can’t efficiently use your arms to pull you through the water if you’re holding on to a boogie board! Our mermaid sisters, swimming, quickly distanced themselves from Connie and me. We could see their tiny heads bopping up, making their way straight out to sea.

As it turned out, one swimmer, amazingly a bit older than I, was not making much progress. In fact, she was having trouble. I assumed the role of lifeguard for the rest of the journey, staying near her, and sharing the flotation device. She and I made it around the cement ship, talking our way through bouts of hyperventilation and fear. The others, including Connie, were happily chatting on the beach while they waited for us to safely arrive on shore.

So you see, the boogie board turned out to be a good thing in the end.

Sailing High

Back a few years ago, during one of my trips to NYC, I came across this display. Lots of canoes and kayaks and skinny boats all glomed together, flying high above a plaza. What a metaphor, don't you think? Or, make that metaphors (plural). Crash. Fly. Color on high.

Now that the Olympics are over, the Democratic Convention is taking its place in the inspiration department. Just the sight of Nancy Pelosi brings tears to my eyes. I am not kidding. She is #3 in the land, ladies and gentlemen. She rocks!

Middle School is Supposed to be Fun

For some reason, the kids at school were really in good spirits today. It was the end of the second week of school. Maybe they are all in a groove now, remembering how much more fun it is to see all the other kids every day. As opposed to sitting on the couch in front of the tube at home.

Speaking of television, today all of my 70 students had to write an essay about a TV show. They also had the option of choosing a book, but they overwhelmingly choose shows. Man Versus Wild, Wild Boyz, and Family Guy. Ellen, Tyra Banks, Queen Bees, and America's Next Top Model. Sponge Bob Square Pants, Dora the Explorer, and Tom and Jerry. Thank you, god, for the ONE boy who wrote about the Harry Potter series. He mentions that Harry is courageous. I just love it that he wrote that.

On the Couch

It is comforting to know that my handsome husband is in full control. Of the remote control. Important concepts: comfort and control. Very manly, don't you think?

Back to School, Baby

Teacher Me is back at work. I am totally in the swing of things.

Four days of class, and the **!!?! teacher has given homework and a quiz?! Yes, she has. Scores are posted, baby. I've even kept a handful of kids after school. Naughty naughty! Didn't do your homework.

The toughest thing about going back to work is bedtime. It is really, really hard to turn off the Olympics on TV. Damn, I love those athletes. So sublime. So amazingly good looking. Faster, stronger, higher. Inspirational. Makes me proud to be a people.

A note about the photos: The ladies are taking a break from a frentic shopping day in SF's China Town. The beach is my old neighborhood - the end of Seabright Avenue in dear old Santa Cruz.

Triathlete? Me again?

The photo proves one thing only - that I crossed the finish line at the Wharf to Wharf run. Six long miles. Big deal.

Next is the Mermaid triathlon. Yes, TRI, as in three events. It's a "do-able" event, I tell myself. In terms of distances. And it's right in my own backyard. Swim in the Monterey Bay, about a 1/4 mile around the goofy old cement boat. Then bike for 11 miles. Finally, a 2 1/2 mile run. Anyone can do that, right?

Maybe I'll be the only person in my age group. That would be great! I'll win a trophy! First place finisher in the 55+ age group AND the last person to cross the finish line. What a distinction!

Playing Tourist Again

Elene, Erin, and Mary Jo are just the kind of friends with whom you want to spend a day in San Francisco. The agenda of each, gathered together and sequenced just right, produced a perfect day.

Erin purchased silly stuff in China Town. Gifts for her co-workers, perhaps? A dollar goes pretty far on Grant Street.

Mary Jo, on the other hand, probably needs a loan to get what she wants. It's a condo just a few steps down from Coit Tower.

For Elene it's shoes, shoes, shoes. Nevertheless, she purchased sleek new black pants instead. We insisted.

No day in The City is complete without some Italian food in North Beach, and of course a coctail or two. Cheers!

School Daze

An apple for the teacher is clearly inadequate. What I really need is a life raft.

The desks have been scrubbed. There are 75 notebooks ready to be given to students, thanks to super “back to school” deals at Target. My classroom won’t be this clean and tidy again for at least 9 months. The trouble is, I’m nervous as hell. I can’t quite remember what to do when the students arrive.

This happens every year. I forget how to take the very first step. Should I smile and let on what a nice person I am? Or should I maintain a stern demeanor? They say “Don’t smile until after Christmas.” This is supposed to establish my alpha dog position. They also say that students learn more when they genuinely like the teacher, and therefore try to please her. It’s a coin toss, really. Either way, you’ve got only a dime.

Coldest Day Ever: Summer in San Francisco

"The coldest winter I ever saw was the summer I spent in San Francisco."
It turns out Mark Twain did NOT really write or say this. Nevertheless, I can vouch for the statement’s veracity. I spent the day shivering in The City (capital letters – very serious). Destination: The Palace of the Legion of Honor. Exhibit: Women Impressionists.

Driving up the coast from Santa Cruz provided many lovely vistas of the deep blue sea. Progressing north, it darkened, cooled, and darkened some more. By the time we three happy teacher-ladies emerged from the car at Lincoln Park, it was down right frigid.

There were no cold temperments in the images we viewed in the museum. Each of the lovely paintings by Berthe Morisot, Mary Cassat, Eva Gonzales, and Marie Bracquemond is gently warm, pink, and glowing. In these images, life is calm and quiet. Children are sleepy and chubby. Ladies are extremely well dressed, never stressed. I could almost hear the music of a pianoforte, and smell the tea wafting from the drawing room. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear that Jane Austen was just down the hall, writing with a quill pen. Of course Austen lived a hundred years earlier than these painters. Still, the world depicted by the impressionists seems to have changed not at all from the one in which my dear Ms. Austen lived.

You may ask: why these photos with the above blather about pink ladies? No photos were allowed of the impressionists' work, but I was free to snap away at Chihuly's giant blown glass masterpieces. They are stunning, beyond beautiful.

Am I Home or on Vacation?

Am I on vaction? Yes.

Am I home? Yes.

I had lunch today with teacher friends out on the Capitola Wharf. Looking from the water toward the village and beach - it is so darn cute. Hundreds of Junior Lifeguards kids were running about in their red or blue bathing suits. Absolutely precious.

Speaking of children.

The days of summer vacation are dwindling. Twelve days till the job officially begins again. I don't dread it, but I am not wishing for time to fly, either.

Mentally and physically I am on the job already. I have been in my classroom two days so far, applying elbow grease to the desks. Translation: I have been scrubbing (hard!) the seats of the 36 desks in my room. I can do about a dozen at a time before the sweat inside the rubble gloves grosses me out, my back aches, and I quit.

I have a challenge ahead of me. After six years of teaching 6th graders, I will face 8th graders instead. The change is my choice. The good news: I will have students I know. The bad news: I will have students I know.

During the last few days I've read S. E. Hinton's The Outsiders. It is the standard 8th grade novel at our school. But I'm thinking TWO novels are better than one. I'm half way through Huckleberry Finn. Wouldn't that just be a perfect fit for the part of the year when the kids learn about the US Civil War? Oh yeah. Maybe I had better brush up on that subject, too.

Summer Ritual Run

There has to be a good reason to set my alarm clock to blast off on a Sunday morning at 7:00 AM. The Wharf to Wharf race qualifies. It’s a tradition, a ritual. The course winds along the coast for six miles from the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk to Capitola village. It’s just me and 14,999 of my closest friends.

This year Ed dropped Connie and me off at the mouth of the San Lorenzo River. We walked across the railroad trestle to the Boardwalk, which itself is a fun thing to do. We joined all the other runners milling around, looking for their friends. Everyone starts out clean and fresh, jumping around and stretching to keep warm and dissipate the excitement. Unless you’re standing in a port-a-potty line, in which case you’re tapping your foot and squeezing your thighs together.

The gun fires! The race begins! You don’t move. Connie and I passed the starting line at two minutes after the gun. NOTE: I must remember to subtract those two minutes from my race time.

Amazingly, I found myself running along in the pack as if I were still a runner. By the time I passed The Hook and those other famous surfing spots along Pleasure Point, the aromas and energy had evolved from “fresh” and “energetic” to something more seasoned and plodding. The pace really grinds to a crawl after you cross the finish line and join the bottleneck in Capitola village. There is no way to avoid rubbing sweaty shoulders with your fellow runners. Yes, today I shared bodily fluids with strangers.

To commemorate her first Wharf to Wharf, I proudly presented my t-shirt to Connie, the bandit.

Changing the subject - - I'm posting my new red, black, and white cow and bull pictures. Seeing them at the San Telmo feria (a Buenos Aires street fair) I immediately extrapolated to Ed and me. I learned that it is impossible to line them up on the wall so that neither assumes the alpha bovine position. After many holes in the wall I gave up on the equality thing. You’ll see that I’ve allowed Mr. Ed a slightly superior place. For now.