Water and Why It's Horrible.

Okay so I mentioned in the vacation post that I have a fear of waves and a friend, Melisa, texted me wanting to know a little more.

I wish there was some exciting and unusual reason, but my reasons are pretty typical.

I once nearly drowned in a wave pool, as a small child, before being pulled out by a lifeguard. Those guys are pretty damn good at their job, considering there were, oh, like 250, 300 people in there.

When I was about 12, I got swept out "to sea", with another young buddy, thanks to the riptide action in Del Mar. We kept trying and trying to paddle our boogie boards to shore, but you know how those jerk riptides work. It wasn't going to happen. Once more, I owe my life to a lifeguard. Or coast guard. Whatever. But my gratitude runs deep.

Later, around 20, I was in Rocky Point, Mexico with my dad and some friends, where the only lifeguard is someone who wants to sell you weed or tamales and maybe some shit made out of a seashell. The surf was pretty intense but I was still pretty LOL WHUT about it. That is, until I got caught up with a wave, slammed down into the sand and held there, face and chest down, being continuously pummeled by the onslaught of surf. Over and over and over. I thought I was going to drown. I thought I would die, a mere dozen of yards away from my father. A handful of feet away from friends who were still splashing around in the ocean. When I was able to claw my way closer towards shore and out of the line of fire, I stood up shakily, adjusting my suit, looking for my dad. My legs were like jelly and I fought like hell not to cry. I don't think I told anyone, because I was embarrassed, and also too frightened to relive it through spoken word.

That was terrifying. The terror was real in all three circumstances, but you can see that the more recent the mishap, then the longer the tale and the fresher the terror. Last year for uncle Steve's wedding, we went to Ocean Beach, Todd, Amery, Scott and I. It was COLD. No sun, lots of chilly wind. Everyone else got in, but it was too cold and the surf too unfriendly for me to deal with it. Plus the next day I got super sick so I know I wasn't feeling it on that level, either. But still, even had the sunshine been out and immune system been at the ready, I wouldn't have really gone in very far.

Which is why it was such a rose colored day on August 4th, when I cleared the waves' break line and got to my favorite part: bobbing in the calm waters, occasionally ducking underwater before a wave broke, etc. It was lovely. The next day on Coronado, despite cooler temperatures and much more aggressive waves, I still went in, I still dove through the crashing waves. I did it! And then the dog shat himself from ingesting too much salt water.

But, let me tell you, my water phobia doesn't end there on that sun-shiny day, swimming around like a fish. Let's not even get stuck talking about the sea monsters and dinosaurs and aliens and shit that live down there. Fucking underwater grizzly bears with sharks for paws. I'm sure they're down there and no one can REALLY prove they aren't because that is how big and wrong and wicked the deep blue seas are.

I think I've done a Things That Creep Me Out post and I think I've talked about water. I know I've discussed sharks living in swimming pools because I'm a scientist and I just know these things. But here is a subject that gives me the heebie jeebies and never will not.

Obects Underwater Creep Me The Hell Out And Here Are Some Prime Examples

All of these images give me the creeps, the cringes, the shudders and the oh-hell-nos, but we'll start with the lesser of the evils.

These are trees. The first picture shows dead trees. And while some people, okay so while almost all people will be like, oh how hauntingly beautiful, such a serene photo of a quiet moment in nature, and all I see is a watery tomb. It seriously creeps me out. All I see here is premature death, trapped forever. Watery tomb.

These here trees are alive and growing underwater. The tops of the trees, above the surface of the water, are just long, jutting sticks, no foliage, no life. Like, these trees are all "Freedom of the air? The wind and the birdsong, clouds overhead? No thanks, asshole! I think I will stick to the murk and doom and hey, didn't someone just say watery tomb? Sounds good!"

See, there is this creepy, oppressive, claustrophia I feel when I look at these pictures. Also that whole drowning thing.

Onward.

Maybe I imagine being trapped inside and that's why this is creepy? All I know is that I saw this photo and my breath sucked in. I felt those sickly tingles on my arms and along my spine. And I know why: the real creep factor is seeing this from above the water. It's like being in a threshold between two worlds, land and sea, a threshold you aren't supposed to experience. I don't know, it just creeps me out.

This freaks me out too, for sure. Listing on its side, and WATER TOMB ALERT, it lost its little boat life, and I'm sure human lives were snuffed out here too. It's cold and alone and buried under so many tons of that oppressive, deadly, NOT FRIENDLY water.

... But want to see something EVEN WORSE?

AAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH GOD NO

That is just... I mean I just can't even... There is so much that is wrong with this, and it LITERALLY HURTS MY EYES TO LOOK AT IT. You would think that the sheer horror of this image, again above the surface of the water and therefore even more infested with demons and grizzly bear shark ghosts and aliens, would be enough to dull my hypersensitivity to all this horseshit, but NO.

Because someone did THIS:

Honey, if I came across this satanic B.S. I would shit my pants and I don't think pulling a Sir Robin in a wetsuit is very pleasant. I don't get the point behind it. It's not creative or special. It seems to be making fun of cults, or maybe harmony, or dead drowned people or maybe even underwater incontinence.

Oh! Here is a literal WHY GOD WHY for you:

Why someone thought the bottom of the sea was a great place to put a statue of our poor Lord, I WILL NEVER KNOW. WATERY TOMB, PEOPLE. WATERY TOMB. It's wrong on several levels. On ALL of the levels.

And now let's close out with somehing that I think lots and lots of people think is gorgeous when all I see is a portal to hell:

Oh God. That's all I can say, really. Is just... Oh God, NO. No, no, no. Oh God. NO.

French Potato Casserole!!

There was a bit of drama when I set out to make this recipe. See, after my brother and sister in law had their baby, Alora, Todd, Alex and I went over and brought some food. I brought stuff to make a main dish casserole for them to enjoy at a later date, and then I brought a recipe and the fixings for this here potato casserole. I had forgotten to bring my mandolin then, but I did remember the recipe.

Cut to a few weeks ago when I made this dish. I had it all set up to go, but I couldn't find my recipe. I figured I had left at it Scott and Amery's despite calling Amery and having her say lol, no, I gave it to you. Then I figured I had lost it FOREVER in transit.

It's from Cook's Illustrated, so I went to their website. I was justifiably outraged when they demanded I sign up for a free 14 day trial period, complete with submission of a credit card number. I JUST WANT MY RECIPE. I already give those bastards my money and so I was piiiiissed.

Luckily I found it on another blog, and after a nasty email sent off to Cook's, I was able to get started. And then Sunday I found my recipe, nestled between two cereal bowls in the cabinet. I keep some of my cookbooks, plus my recipe box, in the cabinet so it wasn't a total senior moment, but still, not my finest.

I have made changes to the recipe. For example, it calls for bacon, but I frequently skip it for time, fat content and due to the fact that we always have meat for dinner. It feels like a Jim Gaffigan skit if I add more meat. Let's add some meat to our meat so we don't starve. This meat is pretty bland, could we add some meat to it? Although I've been known to wrap chicken breast in bacon and bake it so I guess I just hypocrite bitch slapped myself? I DON'T KNOW. For the original recipe, this blog does it.

Hearty French Potato Casserole

serves 2 - 4 as a side dish

Total time: 1 hour - 1 hour 15 minutes

1 whole onion, sliced

2 large potatoes, sliced thin

1 large zucchini (about 8oz), sliced thin

1 tsp Penzeys Parisien spices blend (optional)

1 tsp dried thyme

Black pepper to taste

1 cup chicken broth

1 cup beef broth

2 tbsp butter

Preheat oven to 425. In a saucepan over medium heat, cook onions in either oil or butter, your choice. If they brown up too quickly, or if the bottom of the pan gets too brown, add bits of water to loosen it all up. 

Surprisingly, or maybe not surprisingly for all you geniuses out there, the onions will take about 20 minutes. Use your time wisely, as my fourth grade teacher, Mr. Christie, would tell us. I made fortune tellers. So now, let's slice up our veggies. I used a mandolin because AWESOME, and TIME SAVER and BLURRY PHOTO.

Check that out! I could have actually set the mandolin to slice then a wee bit thinner but we're rolling with it.



Hey there, innuendo!

All right, now the veggies are sliced.

If you're lucky, you will have a kitchen helper who is more interested in the light switch than whatever it is you're doing.

Let's check those onions. Yummy looking!

So here is the delicious Parisien spice blend I got as a party favor at Kendra's bridal shower. SO GOOD.

Thank you for your thyme...

Now, add those spices, plus black pepper, and your delicious onions to the sliced veggies in a big bowl and toss to coat. It's sort of a pain because the potato slices are like a new deck of cards and the slices stick together.

Now for the "broths" or, as I like to call them, my bouillon sources: The Wyler's maybe be powdered, but it is sodium free which helps balance the sick amount of sodium in the low-sodium version of Better Than Bouillon's beef base.

Mix up your bouillon with the water and put it all together in the onion skillet until it is simmering. Meanwhile, arrange your veggies. I like to do potatoes, onion, zucchini, onion, and then top with the potatoes. The idea of those delicious onions drying out makes my heart ache. Ah, look! My helper has arrived.

Why yes, they DO look like worms! Anyways, now for the zucchini layer...

Onion layer...

And the final potato layer, complete with victorious stab of a measuring spoon in a grubby little hand. As I type this, my baby is on her way to her first swim lesson. I die a bit. Todd better take photos. Anyways, press down firmly to make sure the casserole is more or less evenly layered. This is most important in the corners which can tend to be less full, if that makes sense. Sorta slide stuff around to get it all nestled.

Now for the broth. I said two cups but what you really need is just enough to sufficiently cover, but not completely drown, your layers. Like so:

Does she ever wash her pyrex dishes, Jesus! Now for the mega part! THE BUTTER. Make sure to evenly dot the casserole.

It takes about 45 minutes in the oven, but once you're done, let it sit out for about 15 minutes. As you walk by the dish, try not to eat the top potatoes. Oh fuck it! EAT THEM ALL, they're halfway between scalloped and potato chips, and they are to die for!

Look at that deliciousness!

BOOOM, as I like to say to Kendra when I score 60 points on a word in Words With Friends. BOOOM!

My Favorite Dream.

I'm sitting here watching PBS and there's a promo for a show on dreams. It reminded me of my absolute most favorite dream ever. I dreamed it about 10 or 12 years ago but I remember it as if it occurred just last night.

It's pitch black. It's space, actually. And I'm naked. I'm falling through infinite space, naked as the day I was born, my back down and looking up. Periodically through my fall, which is heavenly and exhilarating, not at all terrifying or anything, I fall through a very thin sheet of stars. They feel like tiny cool beads on my back. I'm grinning, laughing, just falling through space.

It was wonderful, one of the most serene and joyous feelings ever. When I stopped falling, it's because I've landed on the moon, which is silvery, powdery gray. In face, every step sends up a small glittery, shimmery puff of moon dust. Just lovely.

Then I got on a plane, and my old cat, Park Avenue, was in first class with me. So we cuddled up together and took off, presumably to fly home. I am not sure, because I woke up after settling in with Park. I assume that part of the dream could be when he came to curl up with me in bed. I'm not sure.

It was just remarkable and whenever I think of that dream, I think maybe my subconscious was trying to remind me how much of a bad ass I am. I hope everyone has a dream like that.

Back from Vacation.

I feel like my writing mojo is completely gone. I have started, and deleted, a start to this twice. This is my third attempt and I'm hoping brutal honesty in regards to my shortcomings today will spark a little creativity, a little pizzazz, a little oomph.

I guess if I'm talking about food and making sexual euphemisms, I'm a goddamn genius. If I'm trying to write about a family vacation, I'm a moron.

Last Thursday we left for a week long vacation, visiting Todd's uncle Steve and his fabulous wife, Chris. Their house is gorgeous, in Point Loma on the tippy-top of a hill, with a big flat back yard and a great ocean view of downtown San Diego. The first two days I struggled enormously with jealousy over the weather and beautiful environment. Point Loma is extremely charming, with steep hills, cute store fronts and an amazing diversity in architectures. I love that about the area. Usually in neighborhoods you see a theme in housing structures. Usually the same architect will have designed several of the houses, but not in PL. Every house stands out, and every house is charming. The landscaping is gorgeous. The breezes are actually cool, even in August. Birds chirp. Roses bloom and their fragrance wafts to and fro, hitting you 10 feet away from the actual flower. It's intoxicating, the beauty.

Then you get on the freeway and the rose's perfume, once heady, dissolves into a palpable fury as a sign informs you that it will take, on average, 60 minutes to drive the last 30 miles of your trip. Traffic comes to a complete standstill. It's only 10:30am on a Tuesday. WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE. WHAT DID I DO TO ANGER GOD SO HORRIBLY

Anyways.

1. Alexandra knows about planes but on this trip she learned about helicopters too. I take that back. She's known about them but has never really shown an interest in them. But since the poor little thing was stuck in a car for a large part of the trip (oh Long Beach, you were so ugly, and the drive took 4.5 hours of my life), looking out the window was a major source of entertainment, and for some reason there are a crap load of helicopters in southern California.

Alex calls them "colla-hoppers" which is SO ADORABLE I could punch myself, happily, in the face, all day long. COLLA HOPPER DADA! COLLA HOPPER, MAMA! COLLA HOPPER!!

AAAAH

2. Patton. Oh, Patton. Did I mention we took him with us? Steve and Chris were so sweet to let us bring him, except that Todd forgot to notify them that we were bringing him since a year ago they told us next time we visit, we should bring Patton since he and Ivan (their labrador) get along like a house on fire. So of course we get there and Chris is like "Oh, you brought Patton? We didn't... we didn't know.. We're dog sitting right now." Yay! We're stupid assholes! Of course, they were extremely gracious and accepting and so from Thursday to Saturday night, there were three big idiot dogs gamboling about and drooling on each other and fighting for control of Who Gets To Boss The Door which, of course, went to 100lb Patton.

ANYWAYS. The thing that stands out most about Mr P-Man is his dedication and loyalty, that out-shone the brightest star ever when we went to the dog beach on Coronado Island which is not an island at all but should be considering how fucking expensive it is to live there. "We can't help it, we're an island! It's all about imports here! That will be $11 for your latte!" (I don't actually drink lattes and never had that conversation but I KNOW IT EXISTS).

Goddammit, I can't stay on track, and I'm not even drunk. OKAY so Patton! We went to the dog beach and Patton, having never been to the ocean before, expertly concealed the fact that his mind was utterly blown (it had to have been right?), by instantly leaping into the water to try and steal everyone else's tennis ball. He then proceeded to steal, and promptly deflate, a little blow up ball that a TODDLER was playing with.

Thanks, asshole! The boy's dad was super sweet and hey, we're at a dog beach. Balls are an endagered species here. But then, Patton does it again, this time stealing a volleyball from a pack of adults who were juuuuust about to play soccer with it or something. The look on the woman's face as Patton snaps his huge fuckface jaws on her ball, the pop sound of the ball deflating, very audible over the roaring ocean, was so humiliating, and I just... Ugh. They were really kind about it, letting me know it was only a $2.50 ball from Albertson's, that it was no big deal, and if I wanted I could keep the dead ball. Which Patton did, actually, for the remainder of the day.

Apparently it quenched his thirst for ball carnage, and we got down to some epic fetching. That dog, who had never before seen the ocean, took off headlong into waves and oncoming surf to get that damn deflated ball (which we named Wilson, naturally). Another German shepherd was there, apparently to demonstrate to Patton how annoying German shepherds are when they want to herd someone, but Patton was unfazed by him. Darting in and out of crowds, around that stupid dog, into the ocean he went, over and over and over again.

I know he was exhausted when Todd and I decided to go swim, but here is the whole point of me bringing up Patton (except all the complaining I just did): he didn't leave us. Ever. The surf came in, the water deepened, bringing him up off his feet, but still he stayed by our sides, determined to bring us to shore safely, utterly convinced we were all going to die a watery, salty death. Todd went out farther and it was all I could do to keep that dog from following. "Noooo dad, nooo! Come baaack!" All with Wilson firmly clamped in his jaws.

I love that dog. I wanted to beat the shit out of him last night when he was barking furiously at a neighbor he both knows and utterly adores, but I just kept the image of a soaked Patton, dog paddling furiously, ears down from either the wet or the injustice of it all, deflated volleyball in his jaws, and a look of determination and absolutel adoration in his sweet puppy eyes.

3. Sea World has turkey legs now! They were delicious! And there is this game there? Where you like, do skee ball sort of, to make your little Shamu race to the finish line? And when I was 12, visiting there with my dad, I won the game like 10 times and won 10 little shamus? YEAH. I STILL OWN THAT FUCKING GAME. Alex has a big old Shamu now.

Todd also kicked some major ass at the frog game, where you hit the mallet and send the frog flying into a lily pad. Alex now has two froggies.

I don't know what else to say about Sea World except two year olds on no naps and slathered in sunblock really couldn't give two shits about Elmo's Bay of Play. The Cirque de la Mer is a clusterfuck to her. The Arctic Circle and Penguins were rad, and it was nice to pick up a starfish, but that's not worth over $100 for tickets (we even got $40 off with a coupon). So I don't know. I'm not taking her back until she's at least six or has a part time job to help cover expenses. Our lunch, of two turkey legs, two ears of corn and two Buds was fifty fucking dollars. Thank God I started hooking on the side, right!

4. Alexandra loved the beach. We got her all jazzed up, before we left home, while packing. She started putting Ha Ha and Elmo into purses and bags and would say "Get ready. Go to the BEACH" which was adorable. But then when we got there she was all hell NO I do not like sand in my gladiator sandals SO PICK ME UP despite the cooler, purse, bag of towels and chairs we were carrying. But then, Todd got her interested in burying her feet in the sand and then popping them up. Then we got her super into getting her legs and torso dunked into the surf after a wave came rolling in, and then, miracle of MIRACLES, Todd got her all into running along the shoreline which, you guys? In a cute little swimsuit and her hair in a high ponytail? I was done, it was so cute. Just done.

The day we spent, the three of us, at the beach in Del Mar was idyllic. The sun was out and the weather was super warm, the water wasn't too cold, I conquered my fear of waves (just don't ask, ok) and enjoyed myself even though later Todd told me he saw a sand shark, Alex had fun, we had fun, it was just fun. Fun fun fun. No pictures though! Hey moron!

God this post is so long. I'm pretty tan now! I ate a lot of delicious sea food and had one hell of a martini at The Brigantine. I bought over $100 in books at Bookstar. Ummm. That's it.

Brush brush brush!

What, dental health is IMPORTANT. And so is doing it with daddy. In a hat. In your jammies. At noon.

Body.

I had a topic all set for today's post, but then I saw this on The Berry:

And it brought tears to my eyes. Why? I think that's obvious, because it's just not fair that we ladies mostly look like the gorgeous women in the bottom picture, but still dismiss that body shape as inferior to the shapes in the top picture.

It made me sad because I myself think the ladies below are fine, and normal, and I think I probably could fit in very well and very comfortable, with them. But...

Why a but? What's wrong with me that I can't accept it? I brought a child into this world, my body supported life and fed that little life for nearly a year. Why can't I get over the fact that I still don't fit in my skinny jeans?

I put a lot of emphasis on physical fitness in my life. My upper arms are fat and my love handles are ever-present, and I take those, from time to time, as signs of failure. I eat too much. I drink alcohol. I have steak too often. I can eat half a bag of Trader Joe's herbed popcorn. I don't work out hard enough.

A friend has a family member who is obsessed with working out. To skip a workout is a threat upon their entire existence. I used to be like that. I remember, at my thinnest (135lb at 5;11"), I was sobbing hysterically, pinching the literal inch of chub on my stomach, wailing to Todd that I was such an undisciplined fat ass and I didn't deserve to go out to dinner that night.

Yeah. You read all of that correctly.

And now, here I am, in a body that I had dreaded so horribly. Except... I feel the same now, as I did then, so much thinner and younger. I was terrified of gaining then, and I still am now, except I already gained it back. But I wasn't happy, due to that terror. And now that it's happened... Eh? Who cares, I guess?

It still bothers me, and I still obsess about it. I stare hungrily at the fit chicks in the gym, wondering what they do, if I should copy their every routine and workout regimen, until I realize... if I TRULY wanted it, I could do it. There is a 50 something woman there, big bouncy boobs, skinny as a rail, but she's there literally every single day. It is her absolute top priority, and it just isn't for me, anymore. I try to get there five days a week, but my workouts aren't 2 hours a day. More like one, if that.

I could quit drinking wine, stop eating steak once a week (IT IS SO GOOD YOU GUYS), drastically diminish my portions (a deck of cards is a serving of meat? Go fuck off!), fully commit to the Paleo diet (hello bagels), and wake up at 5am to go to the gym instead of wake up with my family and have fun bed-jumping time with a bursty, perky little 2 year old.

I think of the Victoria's Secret models, their beautiful bodies, their disciplined selves. The diets they go through before a runway show, the fact that Miranda Kerr, a mommy herself, relies on lots of juicing to maintain her figure. My brother in law and sister in law did juicing for awhile. In Amery's words, they got over it. Because COME ON.

Granted, if I were a runway model for fucking underwear, I'd live off wheatgrass and kale water or whatever, but... I don't know. I did that route, to get to my thinnest, but I still wasn't happy. I was just as critical and miserable as I am now, except now I have a baby, a husband, a happy family and delicious, delicious home made meals. They're not extravagant, they're healthy and nutritious, but food isn't an enemy.

I've put on some weight this week, due to a weekend of food and fun, and it bothers me, I won't lie. I can't work out because of my knee, we are about to go to California and romp on a beach where I will be surrounded by skinny minnies in their itsy bitsy bikinis. It's not a heart-warming idea, without a few workouts under my belt before I go. But... I have to just think of that photo. Those women in the Dove picture are still most likely models, albeit "plus size" and they all look really, really happy. Comfortable. Content.

I don't know what the conclusion of this post is. Perhaps it's that I'm torn. By the body I used to have and the discipline I used to have, both of which have been figuratively tossed out the window. The body and the discipline I have now are different, but so is my life.

I'm definitely a Dove Girl, not a VS Girl. Should I be sad about that? I don't think so. It's hard to change your perspective. It's hard to accept yourself, especially when there is obviously a bit of body dysmorphia going on. But I guess the whole message should be, rather than fight for a number on the scale, fight for acceptance. There are tears in my eyes as I type these last words, because I'm thinking of the photo, trying hard to accept myself the way I easily accept those Dove Girls. To give myself the understanding that I give out to others.

Since it's 100% an internal struggle, it's a lot harder. But I'm trying.

Alexandra, the photographer.

And, for kicks, a couple that Todd took. Hey, as long as the camera is still pointed at her, Alex doesn't care.