Style bloggers talk about how great it is to layer. Sure, a cardigan over a cami can be awesome. Layers of emotion? Not so pretty.

Frustrated layered over crankypants is bad enough. Add a constant foundation layer of “I’m never going to be fit” and a dapper overcoat of PMS, and you’re the emotional equivalent of the kid brother in “A Christmas Story” who, unable to move his arms, ends up stuck in the snow, screaming and crying, “I can’t get up!”

Thusly encumbered, I decided to clean. The kitchen needed work; I needed instant results. I cranked up Pandora on my phone, jammed it in my back pocket, and scoured dishes and counters, happily singing along to 90s country tunes. As I scrubbed my embarrassingly nasty floor, the music went from merry to maudlin, pulling me down with it. Then, out of nowhere, mid-song and mid-emotion, Pandora’s channel changed. Gloria Estefan was belting out “Conga.”

A Pandorian guardian angel? A musical reminder from the universe to lighten up? Or just a fat ass that probably triggered the change when I bent over? Who cares? Sing it with me: “Come on, shake your body, baby, do the conga…”

Mom was right when she said, “Don’t talk to strangers.” Maybe I listened back then, but I didn’t heed her words the other day. I lived to regret it.

I was in the locker room of my gym, drippy and wrapped in a towel. Or as wrapped as I could be, considering the gym is a fat-hating place that won’t buy towels big enough to cover my whole body. They don’t have big enough towels, but they have big enough televisions, even in the locker room, because god forbid you should not be entertained (and advertised to) 24/7. A pregnant, nude Jessica Simpson filled the screen.

I turned to the stranger next to me, “Whose baby is she having?”

Stranger: “Her husband’s.”

Me: “Who’s she married to? Oh, some baseball player or something?”

Stranger: “Hockey, I think. But yeah, sports star.” This is where a normal person would have ended the conversation, turned to her locker and gotten on with her day. But no. Stranger continued, “Oh my god, I can’t believe how FAT she’s gotten. I mean I get Demi Moore, she looked great when she was pregnant. But Jessica Simpson has ballooned.”

Me: [pulling towel tighter around my cellulite-decorated thighs] “Well, not everyone can be cute when pregnant.”

Stranger: “Blah, blah, something like 70 pounds, blah blah, gestational diabetes. So bad for your health and your baby’s.” I’m paraphrasing, of course. Instead of saying, “Have a nice day, fat hater” and turning abruptly to my locker, I told her of friends who had gestational diabetes and then had healthy, normal weight babies. That kind of quieted her, but probably she turned away because she finally noticed she was talking to someone who weighs more than a pregnant Jessica Simpson.

I left with three new resolutions: ignore locker room TVs, avoid conversations with gym rats, and bring my own towels!

As I cruise into midlife, I clearly hear the echo of a friend of a friend who said, “You’d better figure it out. You’re halfway to dead.”

So, what do I have to show for the past year? In short: I quit my job, reconnected with old friends, honeymooned, knit a lot of hats (including a Yoda hat), dyed yarn with Kool-Aid, tried to swim from Alcatraz, held squirming grubs in order to feed squawking birds, visited Graceland, read nearly 30 books, and hosted Thanksgiving for the first time.

Oh, and I wrote a book!!  I’m not completely finished with the revisions of said book, but I am still going to celebrate it. In the not-quite-year since I quit my full-time job, I finished a full-length novel – one which had about ten pages for the preceding three years. I have always wanted to be a writer, always dreamed of writing a novel. Still in many ways, the dream seemed as possible as my walking on the moon or winning an Olympic medal.

I do not have an agent or a publisher or any of those necessary things. Soon I’ll be shipping my book off to be judged by the harsh, capricious literary world. I’ll also be redoubling my search for paid work – validation to offset the almost-guaranteed rejection.  Plus, I’ll be working on my next novel and my next short stories.   I may be halfway to dead, but my dream is no longer a trip to the moon; it’s a journey through my imagination by way of my keyboard.

Honeymoon Cheers to a Great Year

Instead of “the good, the bad, the ugly,” I thought I’d do it in reverse and save the best for last.

The ugly — My wetsuit-hickeyed and bruised body.  No photos!

up before the sunrisethe calm before the swimThat's me in the middle. Finished, sort of.

The bad — My attempted escape from Alcatraz on Saturday. Note the “attempted.” Everyone kept talking about how the water was “warm.” Everyone not swimming, that is. Let me assure you that 61 degrees is not warm! It was less cold than last time I swam, but the bay water still froze my brain, made my lungs contract, and set off every panic response in my body. I swam for a while but never got anywhere near relaxed. The water was extra choppy, and every time I managed to catch my breath, I got slapped in the face by another wave. I swallowed much water.

During my past open water swims, kayaks zoomed around me like vultures around a dying animal. I had to shoo them away. This time, I desperately wanted a kayak or a boat, and none were forthcoming. Finally, someone came and hauled me into his little zodiac. He transferred me to a bigger boat with a cabin. The second boat proceeded to idle about the bay for what felt like forever, until I began to feel seasick and actually asked the captain to let me jump back in the water. The captain told me he’d drop me at Fisherman’s Wharf after the swim was over, and I told him, “But my husband is waiting for me at Aquatic Park. And I have no shoes.” The deckhand came over a few minutes later to assure me the boat’s berth in Fisherman’s Wharf was not too far from Aquatic Park, and that there’s a sidewalk. I’m sure there are worse things, but the idea of walking around Fisherman’s Wharf barefoot, cold, and clad in a wetsuit was wretched to me. Finally, though, I just shrugged and said “Fine.”

Just a few minutes later, yet another zodiac driver came by to rescue me and one of the other two swimmers aboard. He made us swear we could swim the last bit, and we promised, so he said, “Hurry on up. I’ll get you to the breakwater, and from there you can enter Aquatic Park.” Somehow, it was a relief to get back in the water, to know I would soon be on shore where my husband was waiting for me with a towel and a swim parka.

The good — My sweet husband was patiently waiting for me on dry land. He took some photos to document the debacle. He even awoke at 5 am to drive me into San Francisco. He held a giant beach towel up as I did the surfer-girl change by the car in the Fort Mason parking lot. Then, we wandered back toward Aquatic Park and met our friend for brunch at McCormick & Kuleto’s. (There I had, if not the best at least the most hard-earned, spicy Bloody Mary ever!) Sweet husband, of course, laughed when I said, “Never again!!” and laughed even harder a few hours later, when I started a sentence with, “Should I ever try to do that again…”

***

The unrelated — Sunday it was my turn to be supportive spouse and #1 groupie. I went to the Concours d’Elegance at Stanford to listen to the San Jose Metropolitan Band play. In addition to listening to fun music in the warm sunshine, I was able to admire all kinds of fancy old cars — and some schmancy new ones, too. I fell in love with this beauty. I’m mildly obsessed! Hello, Tiger, where have you been all my life?!

Sunbeam Tiger, car of Agent 86 (therefore, the original Smart car)

Our family room looked like this at first…

Family Room

and honestly, it’s not a lot better now. Unpacking comes in fits and starts. We’re overrun by cardboard that needs to be recycled or stored in the garage. But now, at least, we have clear pathways to all exits — which means the cardboard may burn up, but we won’t go with it!

Our merger of households did not include a sofa, but between us we had seven (7) cocktail shakers. Yes, I counted because it became funnier and funnier with each cocktail shaker unwrapped. What does that say about us?! I’m going with “We like to entertain,” because “We’re booze-hounds” is just unflattering. That said, in looking through the photos of the year, there quite a few photos of drinks.

Pineapple Tiki Drinks @ Smuggler's Cove

Pineapple Tiki Drinks @ Smuggler's Cove

Summer Solstice Sangria

While we still lack a sofa, none of our guests have complained, since we have a full dining room table and all the makings of some photo-worthy cocktails.

Glassware

boxesWe’re moving! I’m so excited that Husband and I are finally going to be living together. That’s the great part. The bad part is that moving actually requires a lot of work. Even though I’ve been in a one bedroom apartment for 8 years now, I’ve managed to amass a fair amount of stuff. Most of the boxes in that picture are full of books. That stuff’s relatively easy to pack, so it went first. Progressing to the stuff that requires care and wrapping slows things down considerably, and no matter how hard I wish for it, they just won’t pack themselves.

Instead of packing right now, as I should be (move is tomorrow), I’m writing this. All week, I’ve  been lovingly looking at design blogs, salivating at  images of beautiful, well-decorated homes. Then I realize that we’re going to be living for a while like students. We have no couch (ours were both old and not worth hauling), few chairs, and a crapton of books. Our living room is going to become a library, and our first guests will have to fight over our two comfy chairs. The rest will have to make do with folding chairs.

It’s thrilling to think about building a home together, and a little overwhelming at the same time. I get particularly procrastinator-paralyzed at the thought of the all boxes which must be packed TODAY. Guess I should stop this madness, and get back to it.

Stay tuned for pics of the new place. Once again, I’m resolving to post more.

A story I wrote was chosen for a new “flash fiction” website called Fewer Than 500.

Probably most of the readers are my friends I’ve pointed in that direction, but it’s still  exciting to me.  Now, I just need to keep writing!  And keep reading, because if the truth be told, I have my own list titled “Books I skipped in school” —  the point of departure for the story.  My list differs slightly from Ariana’s.

Here’s mine:

  1. The Pearl
  2. Tortilla Flat
  3. Grapes of Wrath (well, read it, but skipped whole chapters)
  4. The Scarlet Letter
  5. All Quiet on the Western Front
  6. Vanity Fair

I never skipped Moby Dick, but probably would have had it been assigned to me.  I got into Dickens when I was reading him in college, though my class never got to A Tale of Two Cities. I should give that a try.

If I start a personal classics revival, I’ll post my progress here.  If I do, I’d start with Steinbeck or Dickens.

I’ve lived in and around San Francisco forever, so I’ve seen my fair share of wackiness.  But yesterday’s was amazing: a  woman carrying a sign.  On one said, it said “Goodbye violent regime of Bush”  and on the flip side, it said “Hello violent regime of Obama.”

So far, unremarkable political protest or anarchistic statement.  What was noteworthy?  She was wearing a skirt, with polka dot tights, big boots…and a big woolly wolf mask.  She was dancing on the corner, and in front of any car that stopped for the light at the corner of Duboce & Mission.  It inspired my passenger to say “She dances to her own drummer,” but really she had headphones on.

The lesson learned?  Always carry a camera! I was so bummed that I had just taken mine out of my purse. I wouldn’t even have to write anything, simply post the photo with the caption “San Francisco.”

Yay!  Check out one of the prettiest pictures ever…

zero

No bailouts or magic formulas here.  I had racked up debt due to some overspending,  a brief period of unemployment, and then a longer stint of not making enough money.  Once I got a regular job again, I decided I was tired of paying interest, tired of being just like all those other over-strapped Americans.  I had gotten into the mess myself, and was determined to get out of it by myself.

I listened to Dave Ramsey who advocates paying cash for everything, and watched my financially savvy bofyriend as he did that every day.  I started a (mostly) cash-only diet, which has been much more successful than that other diet.

I geeked out with spreadsheets and budgets, read articles and blogs about frugal living, personal finance, and investing. I started putting as much as I possibly could toward my credit card every month.  I enjoyed watching my balance go down, and the monthly interest rate decline with it.  My goal was to pay off my credit card before the end of the year, and I accomplished that a whole month early.  It feels really good.  It’s been a looong journey.

Then, as if checking off my financial resolution for the year weren’t enough…on the very day I paid off my credit card, I walked into the Gap and bought a pair of jeans off the rack.   In a regular store!  Yay.

(OK, I have to admit that the dear boyfriend did more than act as a cash-only role model.  He’s been a ridiculously generous gentleman who takes me out more often than I deserve.  Thanks, D, if it weren’t for you, I’d have been eating beans and rice the whole time!)

Actually, the most damage these ghosts will do is to give you a serious sugar rush.  Oh, and if you start them too late, as we did, they’ll keep you up until indecent hours.

I know, some are more ghostly than others, but all were fun to make.   I’m no Heidi Swanson, but I do occasionally have fun in the kitchen.   Trying to take decent pictures of the phantasms gave me renewed respect for photographers in general, but food photographers in particular.  Those mouthwatering photos are way beyond the simple point-and-click.  Not to mention that you have to have a clean kitchen with lots of space to get the best angle, especially if you want an action shot of your partner in crime.  Maybe next time!

I’m already thinking of how to tweak the design of the meringues to make them into Christmas trees.  It’s the gift that just keeps giving.

Oven of Doooom