I got a sudden craving for bread/cheese/wine this lunch time, so I set off to Trader Joe's, belatedly realizing that they might not be open on the holiday. They were, happily, but apparently the bakery took a half day, since at 1pm they had exactly 2 loaves of bread in the entire store. Two of the same thing; a fairly mediocre, smallish, kinda-squishy cibatta, for $2.69. I got one, and it's not bad lightly toasted and properly garnished and accompanied by beverage, which leaves me able only to complain about the selection, price, and size, and firmness. Yes, I sound like a woman touring a male whorehouse.
The drive home from TJ's was odd, since there were very few cars on the road, but those that had made it out on the holiday seemed determined to make up for their scarcity by driving really, really slowly. I only live an exit away from the onramp out of downtown San Rafael, and that stretch of 101 is four lanes, uphill, for about 1.5 miles. I don't think I've ever before left the right lane, or maybe the #3, since those are just as fast as the others on that stretch, and it's such a short freeway jaunt. Today I had to get all the way over to #1 to pass a bolus of SUVs and Prii, all happily rolling rolling along @ oh... 50ish. It was probably wise of them; they might save a quarter on gas with such driving tactics, but some of us had mushroom brie and spicy hummus riding shotgun, with a delightful sauv blanc chilling at home, and there was no time to waste!
And yes, the semi-irony of me hurrying to eat a faux-European style picnic lunch, on the 4th of July, was not entirely left behind in the passing lane.
Incidentally, is anyone else actually LOLing these days when you see someone driving a
Hummer? I don't mean snickering, or grinning in schadenfreude. I mean actually laughing out loud.
One benefit of working at home, not having much of a social life this summer with my (girl)friends out of town, and taking some time off of Kali, is that I've driven about 50 miles in the past month. The lowest grade of unleaded is at least $4.50 in this area, (the Chevron station nearest my apt was $4.69 this afternoon) but by this time next year we'll be used to it. (Assuming Bush doesn't launch one last debacle of a military adventure into Iran, and gas isn't $7.50/gallon by then.)
Humans enjoy routine. It's an evolutionary adaptation that allows us to become accustomed to our situation quite quickly, after a sometimes painful adjustment or adaptation period. It's only times of change that really catch our attention. Individuals are happy or depressed based partially on their life situation, but more on their inherent mood and emotional state. Millionaires aren't really any happier than poor people, on average. Winning or losing a lot of money creates major changes in that, but people with 10x the normal income aren't 10x happier. They're seldom any happier, since they just feel more pressure to keep more plates spinning. Gas doubling and tripling in price is short term painful, but if it stabilizes for a year or two people will get used to it, and forget the changes the price increases forced them to make.
About the only driving I do on a regular basis these days is to the gym, and since it's about a ten mile round trip that's almost all freeway, I hardly notice it. I am noticing my recent habit of spiking my (short) hair straight up, before I go to the gym. I'm not sure what that's about, but it seems to put me in the proper mood to sweat and strain. Sweat and strain that leads to... moobs!
A perhaps predictable result, given that I lift weights for an hour a pop, 3-4x a week, but I've never consistently done that before, and it... changes... a man. It's odd now when I walk past a mirror, since the glimpse of a reflection I catch looks different than I think I look. More top heavy. I'm not a 13 y/o girl, pulling on my tightest tops and turning side to side while puffing up my chest and chewing on my lower lip in contemplation, but I probably would if I had a GF to encourage that sort of behavior.
On the subject of GFs, ex-ones anyway, Malaya's been out of town for six weeks, so I've had no one to denounce me as a "himbo." My ego would be swollen from it, if not for the fact that every time I'm at the gym a third of the guys are much more muscular than me. They're much fatter in the midsection too though, which does something to salve my pride. I just wish they were as critical of their guts as they are prideful of their pecs. The number of guys who never do any cardio and spend all their gym time strutting around the weight pit in spandex shirts (sometimes entirely shirtless) that lovingly show off their one-packs (the IG suggested I call them "kegs") is getting out of hand. "It's a gym, not a bathhouse, Junior. And
they wouldn't like you anyway."
Speaking of, and segueing into, gayness... I laughed my ass off at some of the signs these dykes were carrying in a pride march. And no, I'm not insulting anyone with that noun; the march was called the Boston Dyke March. They got a professionally-made sign and everything! That's not the funny sign, though.
I liked these much more. (Link from Roy Edroso's
great weekly column.)
There are a lot more amusing photos from the march on the site I linked to above, but be warned; it's an anti-gay site who posted those images to shock and horrify their uptight, right-wing, Christian readers. If you go wandering around and find something genuinely offensive, (far worse than women with no bras, short hair, no makeup, and humorously-obscene signage) don't come crying to me.
The thing that confuses me about that sort of site is why some straight men get so uptight about lesbians? I know it's tied to a conservative male need to control women, and a general sense of outrage and helplessness in the face of evolving societal mores (see previous comments about people being upset by change), but really, boys. Grow a pair. I'm not exactly overjoyed by the fact that the vast majority of women on earth don't want to have sex with me, but why does the fact that some of them prefer other women, rather than other men, make such a difference? Welcome to the 21st century, Christian white Americans. You'll find that everyone no longer looks/thinks/acts just like you, and that many of those different people are no longer willing to stay out of site, eat your shit, and like it.
That uplifting plea for tolerance and understanding offered, check back in about 3 hours to hear me cursing my drunken neighbors. Most of them are Hispanic, and as a full-blooded Cherokee, I have every right too... oh wait.
Anyway, I was just out front carrying my flourishing tomato orchard through the apt to the back patio, as I do every evening when the sun moves behind the building, and noticed that the street was packed with cars. More than I've ever seen parked out there before, and given that it's a holiday, I'm assumed that some parties were imminent. A conclusion that was reinforced by the sight of two young couples walking from a Buick towards my building, a case of cheap beer under the (scrawny, chicken-like) arm of one man.
That bodes ill for me, with about 8 hours of website work to do today, and none of it yet accomplished.
Also boding ill; the paltry 2 cherry and 1 medium early girl toms I picked today. I was getting 4-6 toms a day off of my crop last week, but suddenly the production has slowed, despite the plants being larger and leafier than ever before. There are innumerable green toms on display, but someone needs to turn the ripeness dial up a notch or two. Cooler, occasionally cloudy weather this week made that much difference?
On the other hand, maybe it's good that they slowed down, since I can hardly carry the damn things from front to back as I chase the sun as it is. The largest pots weigh about 80 pounds (36kg) when the dirt is damp, and carrying 9 of those back and forth twice a day is a fairly good squat and lift workout, given the odd angle I need to carry them at, due to how bulky and fragile are the weights in question.
That process has lately become even more complicated, thanks to the stakes I drove into the dirt of the largest plants. Two of the toms were extending their upper tendrils well above the top of the wire support cage, and needed additional support. Think about it; do you ever seen Pam Anderson without a bra? (Porn aside.)
That's not the problem. (Well it would be if I were Tommy Lee, but fortunately I'm far away and safe from that situation.) The problem is that the stakes are just tall enough that they bang into the top of my door frame, if I don't remember to squat down a few inches when passing through. And since I'm already moving slowly and awkwardly to maneuver the plants through the door without breaking any limbs or fruits off, I keep forgetting. This results in a thud, a sudden deceleration of the top of the tree, and me doing a faceplant into the fragrant tomato-y goodness of the midsection of my pride and joy in this cold, cruel, empty world.
Balancing this agricultural failing is the success of my cucumbers and peppers, both of which are growing in proverbially weedy style. I've not eaten any peppers yet; there are green ones large enough to sell in stores, but the plant claimed to be a red pepper producer, and since red peppers are just green ones that have been left to ripen and sweeten... patience, young Jedi. The cucs though, are excellent while still green, and I've eaten 8 or 10 of them in the past couple of weeks, all about as large as the ones you get in stores, and far tastier. Imagine if I had a yard to garden in? I'd be entirely off the grid, except for um... everything I eat besides a few summertime vegetables.
Labels: fitness, gardening, misc
