Ocean, Ocean, Ocean

Mendocino Coast, Mendocino County

One of the things I really, really, really miss about California is the ocean. The sound of the waves crashing on the shore, the wind blowing through my hair, the feel of sand between my toes, the sunsets, tide pooling... There's something healing and rejuvenating about the ocean. It's the one place I've found that is consistently capable of clearing the cobwebs out of my mind and restoring a sense of calm and serenity such that I can make it for days and weeks without overly stressing or feeling overwhelmed.

When I lived in the Golden State, I lived about an hour from the beach--depending on which beach I'd choose and what time of day or day of the week I'd go. Some of my favorite beaches in California are Stinson, Limontour, Glass, Pismo, Morro Rock, San Gregorio, Patrick's Point, Trinidad, and Bean Hollow.

Stinson is the beach my dad always use to take us to when we were little kids and we'd go to visit his parents. We only went three or four times when I was a kid, but it was enough to get the ocean under my skin. Limantour is a lovely stretch of beach in Peyes Reyes National Seashore that is reminiscent of Dover, England.

I can't remember the name of this specific beach,
but it's just around the bend from Glass Beach, Fort Bragg, Mendocino County

If you like seaglass, Glass Beach is your best bet. It's in the old logging town of Fort Bragg, about four hours north of San Francisco and just above the picturesque town of Mendocino. You can cull glass off the shore of what was once the city dump. Believe it or not, there was a less enlightened time when municipalities would actually drive their trash trucks to the edge of the ocean and just dump the garbage!

Morro Bay with Morro Rock in the background, San Luis Obispo County

Pismo Beach is down on the central coast near San Luis Obispo, about three hours north of Santa Barbara. Morro Rock, just north of Pismo and right outside SLO, is a lovely outcropping that is stunning. The only blight on Morro is PG&E built a power station right in front of it, so it's impossible to take an unobstructed photo of it from the east looking west. Still, it's a pretty cool spot!

Bean Hollow, just below Pescadero, San Mateo County

San Gregorio and Bean Hollow are both just below Half Moon Bay. Patrick's Point and Trinidad are up in Humboldt County in what is truly northern California. In addition to the spectacular beaches, you can see some pretty stunning redwoods.

Trinidad State Beach, Trinidad, Humboldt County

All that to say, the beach and the ocean are it for me. It's one of the things about living in D.C. that has been hard, because getting to any beach around these parts isn't a cake walk, it's a death march. And the beaches on the East Coast--at least the ones I been to between Delaware and Florida--are only worth visiting in the off-season. During the season, they're nothing but wall-to-wall bodies of folks who obviously don't give a flip about the health and welfare of their epidermal layers. There's nothing quite as unattractive as 70 year-old men and women in leather skin, thongs and/or Speedos, walking up and down the beach. There's not much that's attractive about 20 or 30 somethings in similar scanty attire either, for that matter. Ick! Just ick.

Serenisea, not far from the Gualala River, Mendocino County

A beach is a beach, I suppose, and I shouldn't complain too much. Still, I try not to go in the summer. Case in point, I was just in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, this weekend and, despite the inclement weather, managed to get in a couple of hours on the sand, hunting for agates and seashells. I stupidly forgot my sunscreen and managed to get a little sunburn on my face. Dumb, dumb, dumb. But, I had a grand and glorious time! The cobwebs have been dusted out of my brain and I'm good to go for a few weeks. What I'll do after that, who knows?

Meanwhile, here's a postcard from Rehoboth. It's a picture of a coastal defense tower from World War II.



And here's someone's YouTube video with the sights and sounds of the ocean on some beach in Hawaii.

Photo copyrights: Janet Kincaid, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006

Video: Courtesy of YouTube

Happiness Is...

Crumpets and bacon…

Crumpets and leftover, thick-sliced, hickory-smoked bacon for breakfast. Bacon aside, if you haven’t ever had crumpets, you’re missing out on a culinary delight. Think English muffin, only way better. Crumpets are light, airy, and make the nooks and crannies in English muffins look like sink holes in comparison.

And more bacon…

Speaking of bacon, the personal assistant dog accompanying his be-wheelchaired owner (I just made that up. Be-wheelchaired. Like bedecked, only in a moving chair. Or bewildered, but not. And why isn’t it bewhelmed, as opposed to overwhelmed. On the other hand, overkill is better than bekilled, I suppose…) And again, I stray… What was I saying? Oh, yeah. Personal assistant dog. Man in motorized wheelchair. So, I think, in the elevator up to the main platform for this morning’s train, said dog could smell said bacon. I think said man was not thrilled as it riled up said dog turning the hound into a useless lout and a slobbering, stick-my-big-wet-Labrador-nose-in-your-crotch sort of beast. Sorry be-wheelchaired man.

Compliments from bosses…

Happiness is also arriving at work this morning and finding a handwritten note from my supervisor that read, in part, “At the end of your first week w/us, pls know that I am happy you are here & pleased with your work.” I’m framing that puppy. I haven’t had a compliment that nice in a job in a long time. It’s the little things like that that make getting up in the morning so worthwhile. It’s the little things like that that make me want to do my job well. Thank you, Supervisor Lady.

Compliments from Mom…

And speaking of praise, happiness is also an e-mail from your mom telling you how much she appreciates the work you put into editing your father’s résumé. I guess old Pops had a meeting with some company the other day and the VP of HR told him his résumé was one of the best he’d ever read, in terms of presentation of content, and one of the nicest he’d ever seen, in terms of formatting. Cool.

Ice cold Dr. Pepper…

Even on a cold winter’s day, nothing beats a really cold Dr. Pepper. Mmmmm. The elixir of the gods. Now why can’t 7-11 come out with a Dr. Pepper Slurpee?

But wait… There’s more bacon…

Finally, happiness is a good BLT. That was last night’s dinner. Yummy! Nothing better than good bacon, red tomatoes, and crisp lettuce on toast with mayo. Ah, the simple pleasures in life!



P.S. I met Rosa Klebb today. Her real name is Martina (okay, really that’s not her real name. I’m protecting the innocent here. But her name does begin with an ‘M’ and ends with an ‘a.’) And since I now know her name, there will be no more Rosa Klebb sighting reports here. Time to find a new character! Maybe the bald guy who reads the paper in the loo… Hm.

Happiness Is...

...Cook's Illustrated.

My recent edition showed up in the mail today and I read it during my lunch. I'm required to take a one hour lunch and since I don't have any work that would compel me to work through lunch, I actually sit down and enjoy an hour off. This month's edition included a review of balsamic vinegars, a recipe for a lemon cake that looks simply divine, and the truth about bread making. If you like cooking, this magazine is a must. It's a bit on the pricey side and comes out bi-monthly, but there's no advertising to slog through, not fawning reviews of restaurants or wineries, just good information. Think of Cook's Illustrated as the Popular Science of cooking magazines.

...German bologna.

That was today's lunch. Thinly sliced German bologna on white bread with Miracle Whip and pepper. Oh, yummy. But it has to be German bologna. None of that Oscar Meyer crap here, baby! And what's up with fried bologna. Ew. Ick.

...Dachshunds.

Saw one out for a walk with its owner this morning on my way into work. I want one. They're just too adorable for words and so incredibly loyal. Speaking of dachshunds, I just watched an old Disney film, The Ugly Dachshund. Perhaps I'll review that in a separate post. Funny, funny movie.

...MI-5.

If you haven't seen this British spy thriller (it's called Spooks in the U.K.), you're missing out. It's really quite good.

...No tickets in the seven hour parking zone. So far.

Parked in Metro lot in the Republic of Takoma Park again this morning. Came back this evening anticipating a ticket. No ticket. I wonder how long my luck will hold?

...A face only a mother could love.


What's not to love?

Nonsense

Day 2 of the new, temporary job at PharmaCo.

This morning, I decided I’d drive to the Metro station near my home and try the Park and Ride, metered parking feature. This, as opposed to the Kiss and Ride, the hop - a - bus - and - transfer, the walk - in - the - bitter - cold - of - January, or the drive - downtown - and - sell - your - first - born - to - pay - for - parking - near - your - office options. I left the house around 7:30 and arrived at the Takoma Station around 7:40. The Park and Ride lot was wide open; lots and lots of available spaces. Yippee! I thought.

Then I pulled into the lot and started to read the signs. Seven hour parking. Did I read that correctly? Seven hour parking?! Seven hour parking? Are they kidding?! (“They” being an unknown entity. Is “they” WMATA or the Republic of Takoma Park? It’s a mystery. Regardless, seven hour parking.)

I ask you: who among us—among those of us who ride the Metro into our jobs downtown—who among us works less than seven hours a day? Unless you’re an exceptional federal employee, none of us work less than seven hours a day. I have to be at work no later than 8:15, which means—taking into account possible (read: inevitable) Metro glitches, including trains going out of service, trains crashing into each others, and trains killing customers or employees—I’m on the train around 7:30. I can’t leave work before 5:15, which means—at the earliest—I’m getting back to Takoma Park around 5:45 (again, barring any unforeseen incidents.)

All told, I’m en route and/or at work at least 11 hours. That’s about four hours more than the seven-hour time limit at the Takoma Park Metro Station lot. Can someone tell me, for the love of all that is holy, why there aren’t 12-hour meters for me to feed? Can’t wait to see what my ticket is tonight when I get off the train. So help me, if it’s more than $25, I’m writing a letter to whoever “they” are. After that, I suppose I’ll figure out an alternate means of getting to Metro.

But here’s what really sticks in my craw. In this era of global warming, when more people should get out of their cars and into alternate modes of transportation if they can, organizations like WMATA (or the hippy, crunchy enclave Republic of Takoma Park, as the case may be) should be doing more to encourage the use of the Metro system. Putting in seven-hour-only parking meters isn’t much of an incentive to use more earth-friendly commuting alternatives.

Okay, Metro rant over.

Now for the good things about today.

1. This morning’s sunrise, as seen through the picture windows of the train, was spectacular! Unlike the temperature outside, it was bright and warm and beautiful.
2. Having ham and pineapple pizza for dinner. Yum! Of course, I had to share the pineapple with the Abyssinian.
   
3. The Abyssinian who likes pineapple (not to mention anything meat, sour cream, cantaloupe, and Doritos. Yes, you read that right. A cat that eats Doritos) and seemed to like me tonight, as opposed to hissing and spitting at me.
   

Photo copyright: deviantArt

Happy Place

So, now that I've stopped ranting about my tediousness, I have nothing left to write about...

Which begs this question: why can't the positive moments in life be as dramatic--and fill as much dramatic space--as the traumatic moments? (Weddings and the birth of children or acquisition of puppies not included.)

Today, a friend marked the 20th anniversary of her return from her Mormon mission service with this heartfelt and honest blog.

In another blog, someone wrote about how he's about to travel to Peru to volunteer among the poor. He included this quote from the organization he's volunteering for:

“Returned volunteers invariably comment about the conspicuous happiness of village people despite their poverty. The inevitable conclusion is this: Adversity may be mandatory in this life, but misery is always optional.” - The Hope Alliance (Emphasis added.)

And yet, it's the misery that seems to give us energy--even if that energy isn't the most positive. (Sometimes, the energy wrought by misery is turned on its head to result in something positive--like Mothers Against Druck Drivers or AIDSWalk or immunization...)

Yesterday, in talking to a friend, she said I needed to refocus my anger into positive energy and tone and start looking for my next job. The hard part is, getting over it and moving on. Especially when you feel a profound sense of injustice.

I guess as I've reflected on the last few days, I'm surprised at how impassioned and bitter I feel about recent events in my life. By the same token, I've been trying to recall a time when I've felt as impassioned and enthusiastic about positive, forward momentum events. It seems I find my angry voice easier than I find my happy voice. And that bugs me. (See--there I go again. Angry. Well, maybe not angry, but bugged is certainly on the spectrum that leads to angry, wouldn't you say?)

Hmph...

Sidebar: as I'm writing this, there are two squirrels in the tree outside my window. One has a nut in his mouth and the other is hell bent for leather chasing him/her up and down and around and across and over and under the branches and trunks and light pole. My guess is, the chaser wants the chasee's nut. And, no pun intended, it's cracking me up!

Now, back to our regular program already in progress...

Somewhere in the mirth and myth that is D.C., I feel like I've lost myself and my sense of accomplishment. I came here expecting to learn and build my resume. And while I have learned and I can add two jobs to my resume, I feel like the price I've paid personally has not been worth it.

I'd like to think I could have happy dramatic moments here, but that thought is waning and I'm ready to move on.

D.C. is a miserable town full of many miserable people. I can handle challenges and adversity (I grew up Mormon; "endure to the end" is wired into my genes), but I'm tired of being miserable.

Life is too short for trauma drama. I want to find my happy place again.

Photo courtesy of http://www.vondanieldachshunds.com/uploads/JasminMollie.jpg

P.S.

P.S. What do I do if I get to my happy place (see entry above) and I'm still not happy?

As Audrey Hepburn would say in Breakfast at Tiffany's, "quelle nightmare."