Hammock Stone

Sun setting over hills, clouds rolling in through twilight, dark sliding over trees, earth smelling of night. 

Saturday Night

On the corner, a gaggle of young men and women waits for the light. In 50 degree weather, four women are dressed identically, in shorts so short and tight and Lycra-ey they may as well be underwear, button down shirts that fail to cover the underwear, four-inch platform sandals. The weirdest part: I don't think they're in costume.

What Matters

Up late working to the sound of crickets, frogs, and the night breeze, and I suddenly felt the need to note it here. Just to document the moment, the loveliness, the gratitude I feel for it, though my body hurts, and the week's been hard, and I'm way behind on way too many things.

But none of the hard stuff really matters.

I have a screen door that leads to a world of nighttime spring breezes, the sounds of crickets and frogs. Tonight, when I was unable to concentrate (for the quadrillionth time of late), I got up and spent a few hours making myself food for the week: I washed and dried two heads of lettuce so it would be ready for salads. I hard boiled eggs and baked some chicken. I roasted tiny new potatoes with carrot chunks and cauliflower, salt and olive oil. I made tomato-y curried lentils to eat with toasted cashews and yogurt and chutney. I cut up three apples and doused them with lemon to keep them from browning. I talked on the phone with one of my most beloved people, and it was more like having her in the kitchen with me while I worked--sometimes, we were just there, on the phone, not talking, each absorbed in our own moment, but present with one another nonetheless. There I was, nourished in all ways.

My dogs had a good day. This afternoon, I set up an extension cord and took my computer to the little table on the back patio, where I sat and worked for several hours while my dogs ran around the enormous yard with my landlords' two dogs. They're the best of friends now; they all get excited when my dogs arrive each Monday morning--quivery doggie play-date joy. Today, one dog went to the water bowl and the rest followed, and then each dog drank from the bowl in turn, while the other three stood around politely waiting their turns--they almost queued up; it was hilarious.

One of my landlords just cleared an enormous space out back so that I can start a garden--he's planning to have it tilled for me when the ground is dry enough. My other landlord, his wife, is planning to grow a couple of tomato plants out there too, but mainly, the space will be mine this summer, and I hope I can grow enough to supply them with plenty of produce all season long (not really much of a challenge around these parts, where everything grows like weeds).

My life is filled with small joys that are actually enormous, and I'm surrounded by beauty all the time. I have good work to do, and people who love me with all their hearts. And people I love with all my heart. And the hard stuff is hard, and it makes me tired, and my body often hurts.

And none of the hard stuff really matters.

The lizard who indulged me by sitting quite still
for a portrait session for quite a long time.

Bunny (baby? it was very small) in the front yard late yesterday

afternoon. Edited all soft and romantic-like, because...BUNNY.

You're Welcome Here, and If I Didn't Want to Write Something In Public, I Certainly Wouldn't Put it Up on a Publicly Accessible Blog on the Internet

I just read a comment on another blog, and it's not the first time I've read pretty much this precise comment. It's goes more or less like this: "I just have to comment on this--I don't normally comment here, because I feel weird reading your blog when I don't know you..."

PEOPLE. Blogs are PUBLIC! They are out there on the Interwebs for all to read.

Maybe people honestly don't realize this, but if bloggers don't want you to read their blogs they can keep them private, unsearchable by Google, and essentially unfindable by you. That's right! It's totally possible to blog away in a hidden corner of the Internet only the blogger (and any friends and family to whom they have given their URL) can find. Similarly, if bloggers don't want you to comment on their blogs, they can disable the commenting function. True story!

Thus you may assume that if you have somehow stumbled on a blog, you are very much invited to the party. If the comments are enabled, you're not only invited to be present, you're welcome to join in the conversation. Encouraged to do so, even. Bloggers love having readers, and they also love getting comments. Comments are part of the point of blogs.

That doesn't mean, by the way, that you should ever feel weird about not commenting if you don't want to (though I've seen posts by bloggers that might lead you to believe otherwise, and that just annoys me--you're not obligated to comment on a blog simply because the blogger has put their writing out in public and you've chosen to read it).

You are welcome here (and on any public blog) and you are welcome to speak up and make yourself known and interact with us if you feel moved to do so. I think I can speak for Lis too when I say that here at Half-Assed Mama, we pretty much love hearing from people, making new friends, discovering their blogs. But you are also most welcome to stop by this space and read and remain quiet if that's more comfortable.

What Friday Looked Like

Yesterday, the light and the cloud cover were all over the place, even during the 15 or 20 minutes over which I took these photos. But it's amazing what can happen when you adjust your shutter speed more or less correctly, eh?

(This in no way means I knew what I was doing--it only means I'm finally brave enough to adjust the dial and see what happens. Which is no small thing, really, I suppose.)

Crow (sort of the unofficial bird of Davis, CA)

Walnut trees and sky

UC Davis research fields

UC Davis research fields

Flowering quince

The town logo

American Scone*

This scone is pale to the point of being only par-baked, pasty in texture and flavor, bloated, sickly sweet. It's a chocolate chip scone, but all through it are fibrous bits of...what, exactly?


*Years ago, an Australian friend and I were in the train station in Philadelphia, and we stopped for coffee at a stall. Somehow, the subject of the scones at the stall came up--possibly the barista asked if we wanted one with our coffee? Anyway, my friend sniffed disdainfully, and I believe her lip may actually have curled as she spat out, "American scones."

In defense of Americans, most of our scones are nowhere close to as bad as the one described above, and some of us even know how to make actual, real, proper cream scones from scratch. With no chocolate chips, even. Because some of us suspect that putting chocolate chips in a scone is kind of along the lines of putting blueberries in a bagel. You can do it, sure, but then you're no longer dealing with a serious scone/bagel.

Muppet Love

The electric throw is crimson red silky fake fur; the warmth is deep, healing--imagine being held lovingly by a Muppet.

Friend

My next door neighbor stopped by my back door just before dusk. I opened the door and sat down on the threshold to visit. He lay down next to me, rolling over to make it easier for me to pet him. I scratched his chest and head and held his warm paw. When I'd get lost in thought and my fingers would stop working for too long, he'd forsake his blissed out snoozing and lick my hand politely--just once; a gentle doggy reminder to focus on the important task.

We sat like that for a long time, watching the wind in the pine tree and the willows, and the stars lighting up the deepening dark, and listening to flocks of geese trumpeting their way south.

Niiiice

I just bought a vacuum cleaner, and I'll say this for the carpeting in my new home--it certainly does hide the dog hair well.

And on the down side, it certainly does hide the dog hair well. Yikes.

Why Craiglist Furniture for Sale Listings are an Excellent Source of Entertainment

1) Posts that make me gasp with horror and then burst out laughing the moment they load. Seriously, I'd link to current posts, but it's mean to make fun of people's furniture on the Internet. Also, the links would only expire in a week anyway. (If they didn't, someone would have started a Regretsy-like blog for Craigslistings a long, long time ago.)

2) Posts that describe furniture as "shabby chic." Now, that description isn't really set to win my heart in any case. Having worked as a props designer and beat to crap tastefully distressed my share of stage furniture, I figure if I want something shabby chic, I'm more than capable of scratching at it with a rasp or putting dings in it with a screw driver. Furthermore, on Craigslist, "shabby chic" is often used to describe items that'd be better represented as "shredded by the cat" and/or "cabbage roses from the 1980s."

3) Here's a favorite: Posts that authoritatively describe furniture as "mid-century modern" when in reality it's "mid-'70s wood veneer." (Occasionally, mid-'70s schlock is mistakenly described as shabby chic--if it's been sufficiently shredded by the cat, that is.)

4) Posts that tell me--in great detail--exactly what the piece of furniture will be perfect for, or exactly where in my home it will look just fabulous.

5) Related to number four: Posts that tell me just how beautiful I will find a piece of furniture, or how very, very special and/or set to become an heirloom it is. Or! Posts that tell me how very, very precious the piece is to the family that's selling it, but they have to sell it (by today) because their grandmother got sick and they're moving overseas to take care of her and, and, and... In other words, way TMI.

6) And related to number five: Posts that tell me what a great bargain someone's inflated asking price is and explain that if I look around on the Internet for the same item, I'll see that people are selling it for $200 more.

Okay. Anyone else want to play? I'm sure I'm missing classic Craigslist moves from this and other categories. (Though I could certainly go on at length about the housing category right about now. Sheesh. But I find that far less amusing and more irritating and misleading, at least in this town.)

Control...or Not

So...there's probably no inherent, real significance to dropping a splotch of tofu dip on my laptop's control key. And yet. The tiny gerbil who powers the tiny metaphor generator in my head is really a very hardworking rodent.

•friend crush•

"Mommy, what's that in your mouth?"
Broccoli.
(Read: chocolate, muenster cheese, or wine.)
I don't like lying to my kid, but I'm not above it. Especially when he's liable to take said mouthful by force, if I admit to it.

My husband recently admitted something along the lines of chocolate/muenster cheese/wine to me, whilst talking about an acquaintance. (I'll call him Paul.) "Paul," quoth my husband. "Who I secretly want to be my friend..." I fairly whooped. A chink in my husband's armor? Could it be... he *likes* someone? I took this and ran. My husband--a real person, as it turns out--has friend-crushes, too! A friend-crush is when you really like someone (in a completely platonic way) but in a waaaaaay beyond-the-playground kinda way: You want to get to know them. Their history. Their favorite movies. Their... hair products.

I've rocked some successful friend-crushes in the past. Estelle, the breezy Brit from Brussels, with her screaming 3-month-old and her lust for liquor. Jen, my classmate from Childbirth Ed., with her unbelievable curls, poise, and verbal smack-downs. The three of us, as it turns out, were fast friends, pioneering a 'mom's night out' for our stroller derby and kvetching about all things sleep deficit.

Friend-crushes. What could be more fun and delightful? My relationship with a certain Co-Blogger started in this very way (in the dairy aisle of the Co-op, no less), and spiraled into random offerings of pumpkin bread and Sunday night writer's group, back-scratching, tea drop-ins, and beyond. We should all be so lucky. Maybe we are.

I raise my glass to "Paul" and to my husband, and to my dear Jen and Estelle, and to the many shockingly beautiful friends I have (and have yet to make). What a wonderful world we live in, if only we choose to pursue it. xox

Tuna Picnic

Annie, relaxing over a nice cuppa.

Cats are not the only critters who like a little tuna juice snicky-snack now and then.

"What? What's wrong with fishy breath kisses?"

•bake, little cheesecake, bake•

When I was in college, I frequented this little cake shop in the southside of Pittsburgh. Called "Grecianland," it was a marvel of various unusual spellings (a round eclair-type thing was called a "kok", and I'm pretty sure there was both a small version and a "big kok"). Almost without exception, the cakes in the expansive cold-case were "yogurt" cakes. Raspberry Yogurt Cake. Orange Yogurt Cake. Tiramisu Yogurt Cake. Chocolate Yogurt Cake. They looked like creamy cheesecakes. They were fancy, with filigree and dips, curls and fruit. One by one, my friends and I tried them all. Blackberry, espresso, mango. Double vanilla.

This was before I could bake. Before I could put together a box of macaroni and cheese without checking the instructions (six times). A nice meal was a can of Progresso French Onion Soup with toast and cheese. The cakes at Grecianland were otherworldly, and I depended on them. It never occurred to me they would cease to be, and it certainly never occurred to me that it would be difficult to find even a trace of their cultured existence, ten years on.

I return to Pittsburgh at least once a year. The yogurt cakes are gone. Baklava and cheesecakes fill today's Grecianland, and I'm not interested. The proper pronunciation of "kok" (coke) is posted. Every once in a while, I troll the internet, plugging in various word combos. Hoping someone's blogged the answer. Not even an online menu from the current restaurant.

So I'm baking an attempt. And drinking, to dull the let-down. 6 minutes to go. xox

•i don't knit•

I also don't read. (Amy does both, though, so at least we've got the bases half-covered.) I have knit before, and I suppose it could be argued I read now, since I consume all of your blogs (yes, you!) with vigor and delight. But you know what I mean. I used to read, I used to knit, before




I'm on sabbatical. Hiatus. And there are plenty of other people out there, getting the knitting of the world done. What better time than now, for me to hang back and rest on my cat-hat laurels? (Note: the above brown cat-hat had to be renamed "bat hat," in order for a certain small person to wear it for these snap-shots. Alas, Batman has come into our lives.) xox

p.s. Lest you think I was ever truly industrious, these lovely scarves were created by Rae Gouirand. I only ever managed a few hats, back in my knitting hay day...