Don't Quit Your Day Job

School has started, with the attendant joys of back-to-school shopping (love me some school supplies) and French onion soup (this year's requested menu by the student in question).

I can't believe The Child is a junior. No, really. She almost wasn't. The end of last year required no small amount of hard, hard work to keep her from flunking out. She pulled that off and went to summer school besides. Only, it turns out, not as much summer school as she needed. That was, on one level, my fault. With all the stuff surrounding Suzanne's death I confused some registration dates. But, as I mentioned to The Child when she attempted to ream me out for this lapse, if she hadn't flunked Algebra we wouldn't be in this mess to begin with. There were meetings and emails and no small amount of worry before she got the go ahead to register. She's making up Algebra in an extra class.

Here's the thing about The Child. She's smart. Plenty smart. She's just not an academician. She really could care less about things, unless she cares about them. (Civil War? Shakespeare? Bring it. Math? Not so much). And her strategy last year, the one that got her into trouble, was to work really hard on big projects and ignore all the little ones. What's 5 points here and there when you get 60 out of 50 on a 10 page paper, right? Wrong. Zeros, she's learned, add up.

She's also come to understand that while she may have every intention of being an actor, she's still going to have to graduate high school, go to college and have some options in life other than "Do you want fries with that?"

Last night, in a rather impressive display of intention, she sat down with me to review every single one of the syllabuses (syllabi?) for her classes. And then she talked about how excited she was about the subject matter ahead and her strategy for staying on top of her work and not letting things slide like she did last year. It was almost as if she finally got it.

Proof will be in the pudding, of course. Let's see what her attitude is like once the work actually begins. But at least she has the right attitude going into this, the sense that she can do this and that good grades are actually something of which she is capable.

Wish us luck. Meanwhile, I'm meeting Chouchou tonight for Bloody Mary dinner, our since-Rainey-went-back-to-work compromise on the traditional Bloody Mary Monday.

Things in Omaha That Made Me Laugh (or Smile or Otherwise Happy)

When I go to Omaha, as I now do at least once a year, the impression that is given is that I go to visit my Poodle. Which is true. Why else would a person go to Omaha, Nebraska for vacation if not for a Poodle? But there is something else I get from it. For me, being in JP's beautiful Old Market loft apartment is like a spa vacation. First of all, JP is just the consummate host. He insists on paying for everything. (Sometimes I force him to let me pay for things but it always involves threatening to create a scene). Second, he's the sort of host who says, "Wake me when you get up". Like, if he were by himself he'd wake up when he freaking wanted to but he doesn't want me to have to fend for myself. (I don't wake him up. I get up and make coffee and he hears me and comes toddling out). Which leads me to #3: he makes sure there is coffee around because he knows I love it; even though he doesn't really drink coffee. (His friend Minogue also knows this about both of us and when she came over she brought a bag of coffee from Scooters, the local beanery). And that parenthetical statement leads me to No. 4, which is that JP has some really nice friends and they are all super nice to me. Actually, they make me feel a little like a local hero.

But most of all, it is a spa vacation because the whole time I am there we do whatever we want. We eat when, where and what we want, drink when and where we want, watch stuff on TV if we want, sit around talking if we want, entertain if we want. There is not a smitch of obligation about the time and it feels languorous and restorative - a total break and the complete opposite of my real life, which is full of obligation and deadline and expectation and responsibility. (Not that there is ultimately anything wrong with that but lordy, a girl needs a break once in a while).

The other thing about being in Omaha is that there is a lot of laughing. And laughing is a very healthy thing.

Miss Smay, holding forth. Always amusing.

The birthday boy received a lot of gifts to ease his transition into his golden years. Like reading glasses and adult diapers.

They were pretty comfy.
They also provided a source of endless amusement for Miss Smay.

Here he is, using a diaper to assist his Lady Gaga impersonation.
Jon (pretty much all JP's friends are required by law to have a name that begins with "J". I was grandfathered in) wasn't any good at the Kung Fu dance on the Wii so he used the controller as a microphone and rocked out instead.

Then we danced.

Minogue, the most photogenic woman in the world. Also one of the sweetest. Provided, that is, she does not receive crappy service in her favorite restaurant. You do not want to be on the receiving end of her ire in that circumstance.
My Poodle...who I love very much.

A Pie For Nicole

And I can't really describe to you how it pains me to give her only a virtual pie because:

A) the last time I saw her was a couple of years ago in Chicago even though before that I hadn't seen her for

2) at least 10 years when we were in France for her wedding and

3) she's one of my dearest friends even though she lives so damn far away and

4) I love her very much and would really prefer to give her a pie in person, for real.

But that said, she correctly named the movie ("My Best Friend's Wedding") and the actress (Cameron Diaz) which I quoted in italicized form in this morning's post and therefore she wins this virtual pie.Love you, Nic.

Surprised by Joy

We count age in funny ways. An infant is measured in days, then weeks, then months. Turning 1 is a big deal. Actually, when you're a kid, every birthday is a big deal. I still remember being just gobsmacked when I turned 10, walking around thinking "I'm a decade old" and feeling the weight, in a good way, of such a momentous achievement. But it starts to slow down. 16 is a big deal because you can drive. 18 because you can vote. 21 because you can legally buy beer. And then it slows down even more. It becomes largely about the 0 birthdays. The inbetween time, not so much. Turning 50 was, you'll recall, a big deal, with a 2 day party and a party dress and people like JP flying in from all over to celebrate. And it was an excellent celebration.

But as a rule, I don't go into a birthday with huge expectations. I like my birthday and it always feels special, but I don't care that there be any fuss. I count on a card from ChouChou (who's very faithful that way) and the 8:05am call from Dame Judi (equally faithful). I counted on my birthday dinner of weinerschnizel and spaetzle from The Spouse, until Seattle became too politically correct and it became impossible to find veal cutlets anywhere. So now I count on my birthday dinner of chicken parmesan. But that's all. I don't need cards and presents and emails.

So I was delightfully surprised by yesterday. The flow of fun messages on Facebook began early in the day. Then I got to work and MAB presented me with a breakfast of (unbelievably delicious) quiche Lorraine and a pear tart, with fresh coffee. Then she gave me a cute joke gift, followed by the most spectacular pair of rainboots you ever saw. (So spectacular that they will demand their own post, as soon as I get the picture my friend Kim took of me wearing them). There was a gift from my favorite social worker & cards from my favorite house guests. My favorite volunteer came by with Jonas Brother balloons. Kim gave me a superfantastic wine glass that is really more art than dishware. And at 2 o'clock we had pie.

At home I got a delightful phone call from my Poodle, The Neighbor made me a delicious celebratory cocktail and The Spouse delivered with the chicken parm.

It was a very fun day, all the more so because I didn't expect it. And it is, let's face it, just a very nice thing to be celebrated by your friends, to be shown that it matters to others that you were born. And it made me feel, yet again, extremely grateful for all the amazing people who come into my life and stay awhile.

Sometimes I feel so blessed I don't even know what to do with myself. Thank you God, for my amazing friends. Thank you, amazing friends, for your love.

Old Friends

After work yesterday I went downtown to hook up with some old college buddies. I haven't seen Sophie & Steve (pronounced Sophiensteve) since their first child was an infant. (She is now 24). In the years since they left Seattle and got divinity degrees and all that we completely lost touch. Chalk up another thankyouverymuch for Facebook.

We met at a gastro-pub (Seattlites: it's the Black Bottle in Belltown. Go there. Tell Paul I sent you) owned by an old seminary friend of theirs. Steve had just been wondering if they would recognize me right away when I walked in. "There she is!" he exclaimed. (Guess it wasn't that hard). Of course, we haven't changed that much. Sophie's hair is shorter, Steve's is greyer and I no longer wear a size 0 but otherwise, I'd have known them anywhere.

We reunited over delicious food (hello - kim chee pork belly!) and a glass or two of fine drink. It was the best sort of reunion, the sort that demonstrates how the passage of time doesn't get in the way of true friendship. There was a little bit of catching up (how I became Catholic, how I met The Spouse, how they sojourned through seminary and child-rearing to end up co-pastoring a church in Iowa). There was a smattering of reminiscence (we agreed that we were all completely full of shit in college; except Steve who was slightly less full of shit and consequently able to occasionally slip in a dry, devastating remark that would put someone - at least temporarily - in his or her place). I shocked Sophie with the information that I had always been intimidated by her intelligence and she volleyed back that I intimidated her because I was "sooooo cool". And we agreed that it would be lovely if we could have seen ourselves back then as others saw us.

But mostly we talked about life and politics and faith and food and families. We laughed, a lot, and there were never any awkward silences or someone grasping to find a topic that might set us going again. There was no time, even, to regret that it had taken us this long to re-connect; only joy in the having done so.

I very often consider that I lead a charmed life. Not perfect life or a lucky life, but a charmed one, a blessed one. And one of the greatest and most consistent of those blessings is the friends who have come into my life and who, even with intervening time and distance, remain friends. Is there anything better? Kim chee pork belly, perhaps, but otherwise, I think not.

Who Needs Some Pudding?

Monica came to visit last weekend. If you recall, I had some angst about the state of my house going in. I had succeeded in taking the day off on Friday (except there was a work-related project MAB begged me to do and I had to take The Child to the doctor for some lab work (routine, nothing scary) so I didn't even get home until 11:30 in the morning. So much for a "day" off. But I started to make some headway in the house and even in the gardens, which was more than I'd expected. Likewise, I did more of the same on Saturday. But come Sunday, the day of Monica's arrival, I still wasn't satisfied. (Yes, it really was that bad). Plus, she has allergies and we have pets and she knew about the pets but I wanted to make sure that whatever allergens I could control were thusly dealt with just so she wouldn't swell and die because I happen to think that having a guest swell and die on you is extremely bad form for a hostess.

Come Sunday I was also weary of my house. And Monica wasn't coming in until 9pm so I thought I'd take some time with my game. You know, just relax for crying out loud. And I believe I mentioned that the game is addicting. Addicting in the "where did the time go?" sort of way. But I still wasn't worried because, as I said, Monica was arriving at 9pm. Then my cell rang and it was her and she was in the cab and on her way because she'd caught an earlier train.

Said The Spouse, "And cue the freakout in five, four, three"... But I didn't really freakout. Much. Some final tweaks and it was going to have to do because there was the taxi and inside it was Monica. Who is more adorable than I expected.

We had wine and ate a delicious grilled chicken dinner that The Spouse put together then played "Guitar Hero". Good times.

As anyone who has visited us from elsewhere will tell you, we're not tremendous tour guides. Mon had never been here before so I knew I had to give her the nickel tour but I'm not a 2-hours-at-EMP-then-up-to-the-top-of-the-Space-Needle-followed-by-the-Underground-Tour-and-a-visit-to-the-zoo sorta tour guide. It's more along the lines of "there's our movie theater, there's my church, this is a nice neighborhood" sort of thing. But I did give her a little taste of Seattle. We went to the Market, had breakfast at Lowell's and talked about New York.


We cruised the stalls and found little tiny avocados and beautiful flowers.



I showed her the original Starbucks and then it was up to Queen Anne for the money shot of Seattle.




Monica was easily pleased, thought Seattle was beautiful and made me laugh. She is also prone to apropos-of-nothing comments like, "Could you go for a milkshake right about now?" The place with the best milkshakes was closed for the holiday but that was ok because, really, she needed to be able to say she'd been to Dick's Drive-in anyway.


We drove around some more; I pointed out some sights, Monica mused about moving to Seattle because it was so beautiful and felt like a place when real people lived (rather than Portland, which feels to her like a place where people go to "hang") then we took the lake drive back to the house. It was a beautiful day and the water was all sparkly and stuff.

The afternoon was spent playing a wicked fun card game called "Phase 10" with The Child, during which Monica and I endeavored to teach The Child essential life lessons that she simply must have to function in the world. (Like, learn to hold 10 cards in your hand at the same time). Then there was another random Monica moment involving pudding so while she and The Child walked to the co-op for said treat I made dessert (fresh nectarine tart with pastry cream on puff pastry). The Neighbor joined us for dinner and then Monica gamely joined The Child and I for the season premiere of "Jon and Kate Plus 8" (don't get me started).

And that was pretty much it. Low key, fun, comfortable.

Tuesday morning I drove Monica to the train station, gave her a hug and told her to come back any damn time.

Until Sunday Monica and I hadn't even spoken by phone. It was as virtual a relationship as they come. But, once again, making her real was just as easy a thing as it could be. I'm firmly convinced that it is impossible to put on too much if you are a blogger. You might have a schtick, you might create an on-line presence that focuses only on what you want to share. But if you read someone for any length of time you still get a pretty good sense of the kind of person they truly are. And sure enough, Monica is a smart, sassy, funny, kind and easy going person. It was a delight to hang with her and I can't wait until she comes up again.


For today's Jukebox, I'm playing a tune from a band Monica turned me on to while she was here. They are a band who, as she puts it, "wear their influences on their sleeve". One minute you're all, "this is mid-career Beatles" and then its "hey, this sounds like The Band". But they manage to put it all together in a way that is uniquely their own. Good stuff.



Dr. Dog "Hang On"

Of Shellfish and Friends

On Sunday evening we had the privilege of meeting yet another denizen of Blogtopia, the one-of-a-kind Danny Wanny and his lovely wife, Red.

Danny is a fellow blogger (who blogs less frequently than his talents warrant but whatever), who is also a very good friend of the infamous Iwanski. I knew of Danny largely through Iwanski (and the now defunct "Iwanski/Winter Show") and esteemed him partly, I confess, because he was one of the first people to friend me on Facebook. So when he sent a message that he'd be in the area and would we be able to join them for dinner the answer was an unequivocal "I'll check the calendar".

We met at Salty's...a classic seafood restaurant on Alki beach with a commanding view of the Seattle skyline. It is a place none of us native Northwesterners had ever been. So that was fun. So was meeting Danny and Red.

It keeps happening, over and over; I meet these people who are virtual friends and there is nothing in the making them "real" that is remotely awkward or hiccupy. It is my contention, you see, that no matter what one's "schtick" may be bloggery-wise, it is impossible to keep your true self from shining through. So in reading a person you come to know him/her. And if you know him/her through his/her words, than meeting him/her in the flesh is not a shock. It is an easy and familiar thing. The foundation is already laid and it is easy to get right into a conversation about substantive and delightful things. These meetups are never so much about biographical details as they are taking up an on-going conversation with someone you already consider a friend.

We also arranged a marriage. Sure, his kid is a little younger than The Child but with her being an only child it has always been very important to me that her future in-laws be people with whom it will be easy to share holidays and grandchildren. It was nice to get that bit of business out of the way.

The food was excellent (hello? Dungeness crab mac and cheese? Heaven). The Spouse instructed Red on the best way to eat a alive-only-moments-ago crab.

Danny had oysters for dessert. The Child had this:We had an absolutely delightful meal. At one point The Child, laughing at another of Danny's bon mots, looked at me and gleefully declared, "I totally get him!". (Good thing, too, what with that whole future-father-in-law thing). The Spouse perused the post-prandial list and decided we'd do better with scotch at our place so they followed us home for a wee dram.

Friends are a gift and a blessing. And now we have yet another place to crash when next we invade Chicago. Life is good.

Out with the Girls

Last Saturday night MAB, The Neighbor, Emmers and I went to Gay Bingo. It's a monthly fundraiser for the Lifelong AIDS Alliance...good organization...and since the theme this month was Paris, it was clear we had to attend.

But we couldn't just go and play bingo. We had to dress for the occasion. More importantly, we felt the need to wear hats. Eiffel Tower hats. Which we had to make. So we did. They were grand. This is mine:

The web site where we found the Eiffel Towers also carried Eiffel Tower sippy cups. Had to have those.

We dressed, donned our chapeaux and swanned into the joint, speaking in French accents. Which we managed to do all night, even when we were just talking to each other. And we were fabulous. People were asking to have their pictures taken with us, ooohing and aaaahing over our hats, admiring our sippy cups (it is not easy, btw, to transfer a Cosmopolitan into an Eiffel Tower sippy cup but it can be done). We were photographed for web sites and even invited to participate in the costume contest.

Admittedly, I have issues with the outcome of the contest. We came in second. Second to a couple of dudes who had rented Louis XIV and Marie Antoinette costumes. Puleeezzeee. Anyone can rent a damn costume. To craft chapeaux from cardboard Eiffel Towers? That takes talent. (It was really only annoying after the fact when people kept coming up to us and saying we were robbed. Hello? Were you cheering loudly for us? Because that's what it took. Hello? If you don't vote you can't complain about the government. Or something like that).

But no matter, we still won prizes. Tickets to a burlesque show AND electric martini makers. In all honesty, this appliance represents everything that is wrong with America. It is an electric device that replaces the need to hold a shaker and go "schinka schinka schinka" a couple of times. Completely useless. And yet.....there is an allure. Note there are two settings:

Can you see them?


That's right. "Stir" and "Shake". Oh my giddy aunt.


Anygin, we had a veryvery fun time. Oh! I bingo'ed in the second game and came away with $50! I ended up donated $30 of it back ($10 right away and later I bought a tee shirt that says "Bingo is the new black") but still. I'm not the sort of person who wins things so it was quite a triumphant night.


And did I mention that we were fabulous?


(l to r: some chick who works for a radio station bogarting a sippy cup, MAB, The Neighbor, Moi)

Two bad ass chicks from the Moulin Rouge.

(Ok, actually, I look more like Elphaba from "Wicked" but you get the point).

Odds & Ends from the Album

I forgot what freaks you people are about hair. Let's get this out of the way.

There'll be more later. That's just going to have to hold you.

---

I will tell you something quite truthfully. I'm feeling a little homesick.

I miss Omaha.

I miss my Poodle.

Let's look at this objectively. Let's say I just went to Omaha on an average weekend and let's say there was no "Battlestar", no Minogue (because she was busy), no haircut, no shopping, no dining out, no any of the other going out stuff that happened. Let's say I just went for the weekend and we didn't do anything but hang out in the apartment.

(puts index finger on chin and gets dreamy look on face, considering)

Yep. I'd still be feeling this way. I get this way about other places as well. When someone gets into your heart the place where they are takes on its own kind of magic. The mere mention of, oh, say Chicago or Otown and I suddenly want to be on the Balcony of Terror with Buck or the front porch with Sling. Because these people are my dear friends and even though we are in touch through various means all the time, sometimes you just miss being with a person.

So there.

Here are some random shots left from last Friday night. After the bar JP took me up to the roof of his building to look at the lights. This, btw, is as cosmopolitan as Omaha is ever going to look.

My handsome boy:

My handsome boy getting tired of posing for me:

---

I was fascinated by JP's apartment building, which in its first life had been a macaroni factory. I adore macaroni.

Since Omaha was close to the duram wheat supply, the Skinner macaroni plant was one of the leading producers of macaroni and cereal products. During WWI they conserved wheat by making something called "Kornroni", a hybrid corn-wheat product. In 1927 the company introduced "Cheesroni", one of the first efforts at mac & cheese in a box. I'll bet you didn't know that.

But she did:

Bloody Mary Monday

The first day of school/work/everything-changing-pretty-much-overnight-but-we're-fine with-that went very well, thankyouverymuch.

The night before I had trouble sleeping. No, not what you'd think. I wasn't lying in bed worrying or getting all het up about starting work. Starting work feels, at the moment at least, like the most normal and natural thing to do. And this job doesn't have a lot of scary components to it. I know my boss. Not super, duper well but plenty well enough to feel at ease with her, to know that I can joke with her and that she's perfectly happy to answer my questions, listen to my ideas and generally trust me to do the best I can and let me know when I'm not and otherwise leave me to it.

Also, this is a new position. There will be a ton to learn and set up and all that but there's something different about being the one to do it first as opposed to learning how someone else did it, wrapping your head around the basics and then fiddling with procedures and how-tos to suit your own way of doing things.

Ever noticed that about jobs, btw? Like, there's the stuff you really do have to know: Finance needs this in triplicate, the code to the copier is 412, this report has to be updated once a week. Then there's the stuff that someone tries to tell you is part of the job but really it was the way they came to do it and doesn't really have to be done in quite that way? And how proprietary someone is when showing you the ropes of a job they are leaving behind? Well, anyway, there's none of that. MAB and I pretty much get to figure out how we want to do things, including where we put the electric stapler and how many big giant Ikea sunflowers leftover from the company picnic should be displayed in our bathroom. (4: 3 in a tall vase on the counter, 1 behind the commode. Because MAB is a bit whimsical like that).

And I was talking about not sleeping on Sunday night. So I couldn't sleep; mind just wouldn't shut down, even though it wasn't worried, certainly not on any conscious or even obviously sub-conscious level. (I don't think there is such a thing as what I just said). I finally got up and read for a while and went to bed at around 1:30 or so, which meant getting up at 5:45 was a little, uh, brutal. But I survived, powered by caffeine and a strong sense of "good golly I'm so happy to be here".

The Child had a lovely first day of Freshman orientation and has already made a couple of friends (well, of course she has).

The Spouse came home a little early so he could be there to hear about our days.

And ChouChou came over, as she has for 10 years, to have Bloody Marys. It has always been our tradition and even though we had to do it at cocktail hour instead of the morning as is our historical wont, we couldn't/wouldn't let the tradition die.

And yes, I know you wanted pictures but my battery was dead and so we'll have to recreate our looks later. We looked fabulous.

I Wonder How the Other Half Lives

There would be things to fill our day, I told myself. Myriad photo ops, for one; including a particularly lush garden down the street with a gorgeous orange tree spang in the center. I could start negotiations to buy my house. Plus, Alameda is, in fact, an island and that implies a beach somewhere. We'd be suitably entertain one way or another, although The Child was less convinced.

In the midst of coffee and formulation of a Plan B The Child burst into the secret garden to announce, "Mom! Danny texted you! Danny texted you!" Back to Plan A.

A word, before I continue, about the California Department of Transportation. I don't know how they apportion their tax dollars but I can tell you what they don't spend it on:

a) highway maintenance (unless that washboard thing is intentional)

2) signage

Speed limits? Clearly a matter of personal preference. The state certainly doesn't have any strong feelings about it. Directional signs? The operational premise seems to be that if you are in California, you must know where you are going. One or two place names on a highway sign are all you need. Alameda is, we learned from natives, a particularly tricky place to get in and out of. The "in" was no trouble, thanks to Dana's excellent directions. I had neglected, however, to ask him how to get out.

So it was that, despite following the signs Danny told us to look for, we found ourselves driving south, parallel to the freeway we were supposed to be on. I made a U-turn and instead of signs leading to the freeway we found ourselves smack in downtown Oakland (which is this far from Alameda).

There were no signs anywhere indicating egress to the freeway and while I am not a pussycat when it comes to urban environments, there is a diciness to Oakland that got my spidey senses tingling. I wasn't inclined to pull over for directions, sure as I was that it would be the equivalent of showing our soft underbellies.

By the grace of my car angels I found myself, quite miraculously, in a lane on which was painted "Hwy 000" with a left turn arrow. Why a corresponding sign didn't hang from the overpass above, you know, where everyone could see is beyond me. But a hairpin turn across 2 lanes of traffic later, we were on the right road.

The frustration was worth it.

Danny's sweet, little house has a street presence that belies the expansive warmth within. Full of light and color, it is a beautiful home. Introductions and big squenches ensued, followed by cocktails. We meandered out to the Eden of the enclosed back garden where I proceeded to pretend to be in Tuscany for the duration.

The Child nibbled some cheese then, true to her Aquarian nature, hopped into the pool and was a merchild for the rest of the day.

It should also be noted that The Child talked frequently all week about the fact that she intends to go to college in "Cali". Somehow, it makes sense.

Let's talk about food for a minute:

Tasty hors d' oeuvres:

Crisp salad, loaded with fruit and a watermelon vinaigrette to die for (and I loathe watermelon):

A delicious, chicken-laden rice concoction that could have been a meal in itself:

and delicious BBQ, chicken and steak, that Danny maintained was overcooked due to an accident of knob turning (up when he meant down) but which was moist and flavorful anychar.

We met the boys' friend Stephanie, a lively and sweet young woman, plus their son and some of his friends, including a dead ringer for Lindsay Lohan, only sober. I was impressed with the kids, especially son Andrew. I like a teenager who is happy to sit comfortably with his parents' friends and talk easily about his interests. He and his buddy, Chris, were also very sweet to The Child.

Anthony is a charmingly loquacious gentleman who oozes hospitality and warmth. And Danny...oh, this is why you meet blog buddies, people. Based on his wild and crazy blog presence I had him pegged for a flamboyant, table dancing sort. Not so. He's quiet, with a dry wit and eyes that sparkle with the effervescence of his heart. I adore him.

Oh, is there anything better in this life than a long, leisurely lunch al fresco, surrounded by friendly dogs and friendlier people?

I think not.

We ate and drank, talked and laughed; pausing once in a while to pat a dog or make sure the Child hadn't been sucked down a drain or something. At one point Danny reached out for a wine bottle and I noticed his watch. "6:30?!? How did that happen?!?" A few more nibbles, a few more sips and then, really, The Child had to come out of the pool. After a repeated litany ("Come on, we have to go"..."Okay, one minute"..."Come on, we have to go"...."Okay...") Danny and I jumped in. If you can't beat 'em...

The dip was beautifully refreshing and I felt all alert and perky again, after the languors of the afternoon. With reluctance, we finally, finally marshaled ourselves out and to the car, happy to count lovely new friends among our acquaintance.

We got home without visiting Oakland. Still not sure how. There was only one exit sign for Alameda, followed by no directionals of any sort but instinct said "turn left" and bam, we were in Alameda, just a few blocks and one Uturn from home.

The evening was passed with pizza and "freaky Friday" and a little puttering relative to laundry and packing. Our California dreamin' was winding down.