I love my cityscape

Wobbly

As I was driving down the road with a friend on a trip to Julian today we noticed a man riding his bycicle along our narrow two lane road. Now cyclists on this road are always an anoyance because there isn't really room for them, but I do greatly appreciate people who ride their bikes. I think the world would be a better place if more people road a bike instead of driving. But this particular cyclist, despite the gray hair and heavy visage, may have taken his training wheels off for the first time today. He sat demonstratively low and wobbled from side to side with the rotating motion of the pedals. We swerved to avoid him.

Winding up the inclined turns toward Ramona, we spotted yet another cyclist trying to get some equilibrium. He seemed to think that if he jerked his handle bars from side to side he might make it up the hill faster. Instead he ended up looking as if he might turn and tumble down the twisted road and into the Oak trees at any moment.

Are some people just never meant for certain things? Or do all people who are a cyclist, surfer, biker, sky scraper window washer, etc. go through a wobbly period? I would hope that wobbles lead to efficiency but one can never assume. Bike licenses anyone?

Fraudulant years

These are the playmate years, and they are demonstrably fraudulent. The scene is reputed to be acrawl with adorably amoral bunnies to whom sex is a pleasant social favor. The new culture. And they are indeed pleasant and available, in exhausting quantity, but there is a curious tastelessness about them. A woman who does not gaurd and treasure herslelf cannot be of very much value to anyone else. They become a pretty little convienience, like a guest towel . And the cute little things they say, and their daintly little squeels of pleasure and release are as contrived as the embroidered initials on the guest towels. Only a woman of pride, complexity, and emotional tension is genuinely worth the act of love and there are only two ways to get yourself one of them. Either you lie, and stain the relationship with your own sense of guile, or you accept the involvement and the emotional responsibility, the permanance she must by nature crave. I love you can be said only two ways.

-Observations from popular 60's fiction writer, John D. MacDonald

Josh Radin in the rain

Last night it was pouring rain. It had been pouring rain for 3 days with only a little sunshine break the day before. I pulled myself from the cozy wood burning stove in my house and declared that I was going to the gym.

"Now?!"said the others. Yes now. My life doesn't end when it rains. Rain is life. I pulled up to the gym to see people running crouched over with hands above their heads as if eggs were falling from the sky. People never looked like that in DC. California has a special look. It's called the raining chicken run.

Pouring rain, a soy Joy misto, and a little Josh Radin.

Bring it on. I'm smiling.

Model fam

I'm thankful

Oma said when she took her dog Bear to the groomer the day before thanksgiving they asked if she was having a lot of company over.

"Twenty-three people and six dogs," my oma said. Despite Stewart unexpectedly jumping on my lap (I excused him, he's from Fresno), the day was beautiful in every sense of the word. Oma made a speech at dinner declaring that we had so much to be thankful for. The Melanoma was no longer a threat and we also had baby Hudson. After a meal full of favorite dishes, I finally found a sport I'm good at. And I don't even know what it's called. PVC golf?

sheish

I despise self-pity. I was raised that way. "Being in a bad mood is a choice," my mother would always say. But last night, I indulged in an attitude I abhor, and it was wonderful. It was one of those nights when you want nothing better than to curl up in a cozy ball and talk to no one. After talking things over with my editor I concluded that my stories for the next day were settled enough that I could pay attention to the need to rest my cringing body. Simply slipping some tennis shoes on, I grabbed my keys and headed out the door in my North Star sweats. I don't go out in sweats. It makes me feel like everyone is looking at me thinking that I'm a lazy person who has no self respect. Last night I had a little too much self-respect. I didn't care what another soul in the world thought.

When I got to Albertson's I stood at the end of the isle gazing at the pints of Ben and Jerry's ice cream. After a few minutes I juggled the things in my arms in order to open the ice freezer door. ( I have a theory of starting out without a basket to help keep spending under control and use the arms I was given). The glass fogged up as a slowly reached for the Chunky Monkey and let the door slam shut. hmm, I thought. I know I used to liked this once, but I have never liked nuts in my ice cream. I rested towards one foot, and then the other. A couple scooted past me, making sure they had gathered every kind of snack they could possibly need for the many movies they rented. I tried holding just the cardboard on the lid and bottom of the pint so that it wouldn't freeze my hands. No, this isn't safe enough. I KNOW I like heath. But there were too many options. Vanilla? Coffee? Everything but the....

I finally chose the heath vanilla pint and headed towards the self check out so that no checker would see my obvious selection of pitiful items. At home I shut my door, snuggled into bed with my laptop Gala, picking out another safe selection --Little Women. Thank you, Luisa May Alcott.

I shmirked with deleight when Jo put on her writing cap, a tradition I have picked up myself. I scoffed at Amy's prudishness, and once again wished Beth would wake up to reality. When Jo rushed into the kitchen and yelled at Meg for falling for Brooks, I was right there with her exclaiming "Why does anyone have to get married!? Why can't we all just stay as we are!" I pushed the wet streaks up across my cheek bones and cherished every moment of it.

I am Jo. More than any fictional character that I've ever read. I don't know if I became her, or if she fits me, but either way, she never gets old. And neither does an occasional indulgence of B & J's, pillows and sweat pants.