And the Embers Never Fade

"Tonight, Tonight," The Smashing Pumpkins

I wasn't cool in high school. At all. I was the semi-nerdy swimmer who floundered through AP Bio and wore Birkenstock-ish shoes on an almost-daily basis. Sometimes I chalk this up to moving after 8th grade to Granite Bay and then returning to Santa Barbara before junior year of high school, but really I was just socially awkward and unsure of who I was. Granted, I know the notion of "knowing your identity" escapes all high school kids, but some people (clearly, not me) are/were better at hiding it than others. Sometimes I see myself in the faces and phrases of my current students-- lost, uncomfortable, perpetually embarrassed-- and I cringe knowingly. I've been there. It sucks. It'll get better.

However, while I may have tiptoed through the shadows of high school relatively uninvolved and silent, my small group of close friends provided a safe-haven of laughter, unity, and the collective despise of taking the tarps off the pool for early morning swim practice. Last weekend, three of my best friends from high school congregated in Carlsbad for a reunion. For the last few years, these three women have been honing their professional, respectable, and exceptional interests and skills in expensive universities and impressive careers. It had probably been ten years since the four of us spent time as an assembled unit, yet we fell into our old habits, jokes, and intricacies as though mere weeks had passed. We spent hours filling each other in about our lives, reminiscing about our high school adventures, and remembering the unique bond of our teenage days.

By definition, we're adults now. Moving forward in the professional world, approaching thirty, and paying our own car insurance. Filing our taxes and remembering to get an oil change. Defrosting the chicken and buying slacks. But really, the sixteen-year-old within each of us is just underneath that outer shell, surfacing to do cartwheels on the beach or double over in laughter remembering an inappropriate instance with a particular SBSC teammate. You know, circa 1998. And it's funny, because while our content and lethargic behavior may have been cheese-platter-and-wine-induced last weekend, it's eerily redolent of our Gatorade-and-trail-mix post-swim practice couch-lounges a decade ago...

"Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend."

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Night Will Weave its Magic Spell

"Bella Notte," Lady and the Tramp Soundtrack

We saw Avatar on Saturday. In 3-D IMAX. Impressed to say the least, we left the theater talking about Sam Worthington's atrophied legs, the revolution of film over the past few decades, and James Cameron's inability to subtly imply our society isn't protecting the Earth and its resources. Oh, and the fact Joel Moore, who played Norm in Cameron's motioncapture-CGI-fest, is JP from Grandma's Boy. Once home, we watched Liz Lemon try to get out of jury duty by impersonating Princess Leia AT LEAST ten times, and then talked about our Valentine's Day plans.

"So...a nice dinner, right? La Jolla?"
"That's the plan."
"Or...we could just go to Disneyland."
"OKAY!"

And so we did. Go to Disneyland. All day yesterday. We left our house around 8:30, after filling the car with coffee, extra layers of clothing, and the perfect Disney road mix. It took us less than an hour to exit at Disney Way and park in the Pumbaa section. We went to Tomorrowland first because, well, it's the least fun of all the lands. Actually, before yesterday, I kind of hated it, since my links of association with Disney's idea of "the future" (via my 12-year-old self) go like this: Tomorrowland = Space Mountain = Nausea = "Let's sit on this bench and 'take it easy' for the next half hour" = "Paul can get a churro but Chelsea should probably just have water because if she barfs then we'll have to go home." Yesterday, however, we skipped Space Mountain entirely and instead embarked on Autopia, a ride I had never been on.

"Do you want to ride together?" Tim asked politely. "You can steer."
"Hell no. I want to race," I said, clutching my Disney-administered driver's license and getting in line.

It turns out, I am just as bad of a driver in a fake car as I am in a real one. With or without hands.

We spent the rest of the day weaving in and out of strollers, eating double-scoops of ice cream, joking and taking silly pictures in line, playing What Potential Quasi-Celebrity Is That? (Tim won with "Don Henley's dad"...so spot-on it was scary), flaunting our FastPasses to less-fortunate park-goers, and wondering why so many adults own so much Disney clothing and memorabilia.

 

Tim wishing the Finding Nemo ride included an actual SCUBA segment...

The Matterhorn was closed. This was REALLY upsetting to me, because I had secretly been hoping to see how those onion rings tasted on the way back up.

 

"Eddie would probably have gone," said Tim, when I voiced a little fear about Thunder Mountain

Because we were having so much fun (and perhaps also maybe because we had stuffed ourselves full of amusement-park junk food throughout the day), we hardly wanted to take time out for dinner. 

"There's that clam chowder in a bread bowl you like over by Pirates," mused Tim, glancing around unconvincingly at our rather meager options.
"What about a turkey leg on a stick? They're at all the food carts," I grinned, envisioning us sitting on the curb in front of Tom Sawyer's Island and the Pirate's Lair, chewing on scrappy bird bones like vultures.
"Or! There's a Denny's right outside the entrance," Tim glanced away, perhaps embarrassed by the suggestion.
"That's it! Perfect!" I said, starting towards the front of the park without hesitation. "Let's hurry. The fireworks are at 9:25, and I think we can get in both Indiana Jones and Splash Mountain before then."
"But...it's Valentine's Day..." 
"I know! And we're at Disneyland! And Denny's is fast and cheap and good! Plus, it's our fake restaurant, right?" 
"True," Tim said, cringing a little. Funnily, poignantly, (sadly?), Tim and I have all kinds of fond memories from various Denny's establishments all over California-- (okay, New Mexico, too). "Alright, let's do it," he said. "This one'll go down in the books."

We hurried out of the entrance, pausing only to have our hands slapped with the fluorescent stamp which would later deem us re-entry, and half-walked/half-ran to our romantic destination. The woman at the front desk (podium? kiosk?) greeted us with a hearty (and also, inaccurate?) "Good morning!" while simultaneously sweeping the discarded bits of trash and dignity off the floor. Before we were even seated, I noticed the Valentine's Special taped to one of the restaurant's bulletin boards:

"Well, we don't have a choice. We have to do that," I told Tim.
"Oh man. Really?"
"Absolutely. It's Valentine's Day, after all. We need to have champagne and chocolate covered strawberries. From Denny's."
Tim's pained expression was enough of a response. "You're right," he said. "We totally do."

Our Valentine's dinner, it turns out, wasn't a fancy meal in La Jolla. We didn't eat oyster shooters or Bouillabaisse or spicy prawns garnished with cilantro. We didn't have cloth napkins or Pelligrino or waiters bringing us quality wine lists-- (our waiter, instead, said, "Uh...happy Valentine's Day?" in an articulation best described as equal parts pity and shame). But it was fantastic. We were silly and happy and ridiculous. We laughed and quoted movie lines and whispered about other patrons. Our food was filling and fast, and we were out of there with plenty of time to spare for our next FastPass bracket.

 

 Drink up me 'earties, yo ho!

We stayed at Disneyland until 11 PM. We climbed Tarzan's tree house and took the Jungle Cruise at night, able to mouth some of the tour guide's bad jokes verbatim. We fought each other in the Toy Story Astroblaster (I lost dismally), and the fireworks started when we reached the top of Thunder Mountain. The park was twinkling with lights, people were screaming gleefully aboard the rocky coaster, and in the distance, the upbeat notes of Disney's "Wishes" were audible above all else. It was easily the best Valentine's Day I've ever had.

When you wish upon a star
Makes no difference who you are
Anything your heart desires
Will come to you

The Music Ignites the Night

"Rent," RENT Soundtrack

"What are you doing this Saturday?" said my dad over the phone last Wednesday, rain pattering dully outside.
My internal movie projector silently propelled itself into the future, where I envisioned myself wrapped in old grey sweats and a Snuggie on the couch, drinking a glass of cheap chardonnay, and (unsuccessfully) trying to convince Tim why he might actually really like this Lifetime movie.
"Uh...nothing. No plans."
"Good. Great. Wanna come to Sacramento?"
"What?"
"Sacramento."
"What for?"
"It's a surprise. I'll get you a plane ticket. You can leave Saturday morning, and I'll fly you back down on Sunday morning."
"Um, okay!"

So I flew to Sacramento last Saturday. After a quick hour spent pursuing the latest Us magazine and listening to Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix on repeat, I arrived in our state's capital. Jen had driven in from San Francisco and picked me up at the airport, and we were off to my dad's Woodland house. Once there, my dad wanted to give us the "grand tour." While small, the house is perfect for him (especially considering he spends so little time there). It's a three-bedroom cottage, although only one of the rooms is actually set-up for sleeping. You know, in a bed. The first bedroom was completely bare save for a plush armchair and footrest, perhaps from the Hoover administration.
"This is the sitting room," said my dad with a smile.
We continued on through the rest of the house, finally reaching the kitchen and a connecting door.
"This is the best part," said my dad, hovering above the connecting door's first step. "It's the wine cellar. Best part of the whole house."
"I didn't know you had a wine cellar!" I said, surprised I hadn't heard of this room before. We crept slowly down the dark and cobweb-encrusted stairs, each loose board creaking under our feet. "I feel like I'm walking into a Poe story," I said uneasily, heading further into the obscure darkness. Suddenly, a giant sheet-covered figure leapt from the depths of the blackened room, roaring loudly and rushing towards Jen and me. We both screamed in fright, and my brother pulled the sheet off of his head gleefully, laughing hysterically.
"Surprise!"
It took a few minutes for me to regain my composure. I had no idea Paul was going to be in Sacramento, and so naturally I figured this was the surprise my dad had boasted of earlier in the week.

We went to dinner at a great barbeque place around the corner from my dad's house, where of course Jen and I wore the extra cowboy hats we found lying haphazardly in the backseat of my dad's Tundra.

 

Afterwards, we headed downtown. We stopped by my dad's office, and then started walking down the street. 

"Where are we going?" I asked impatiently.

"You'll see."

"I looked up Arco Arena, but nobody's playing there."

"The Kings play there."

"But not tonight. Plus, I know you wouldn't take us to a Kings game," I said. He didn't answer, because he knew I was right. We continued walking, and suddenly we were at the Convention Center, where we turned in. We were inside the building before we were able to catch a glimpse of what was actually happening there. Surprisingly, no outdoor marquee was broadcasting the production. Beyond the box office and the front doors, a RENT poster hung invitingly on the wall, and my heart pounded.

"It's RENT!" my dad said, beaming. He held the tickets out to us.

We squealed. Hugged. Exchanged elated smiles and thanked my dad profusely.

"AND!" he added, barely able to contain his smile, "It's with the guys from the original Broadway show. The guys from the movie!"

"Anthony Rapp and Adam Pascal?" we squeaked, our anticipation growing. My heart beat faster as I realized the two hours ready to unfold in front of me. Because the stars had aligned; because the gods were on my side; because I have an incredible father; because sometimes I am just really lucky, I was about to hear Adam Pascal's Roger belt "One Song Glory" again. I was going to witness Anthony Rapp's Mark lead a what-was-sure-to-be phenomenal ensemble charge "La Vie Boheme." I was going to fall in love all over again with Jonathan Larson's nearly-flawless script, melodies, lyrics, and message.

And of course, because RENT is as important to my life as Splenda and the ocean and oxygen, it was magic. I saw this performance less than a year ago, and yet I could see it once a week and have the same reaction every time. I still get anxious butterflies when the house lights go down. I still feel a surge of excitement and empowerment when Mark clearly announces, "December 24th, 9 PM." I still catch myself holding my breath when Roger effortlessly begins strumming the notes for "Your Eyes." Beautiful, poetic, heart-breaking, eye-opening, candid, and unparalleled, this play changed my life. Ten years ago. A year ago. Last week. And, I'm pretty sure it will continue to do so...

 

 

 

 It's time now, to sing out

Though the story never ends

Let's celebrate

Remember a year

In the life of friends

Love is the Weapon for this Wounded Generation

Never Shout Never

 
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,

They danced by the light of the moon,

The moon,

The moon,

They danced by the light of the moon.

-Edward Lear

I've Got One Life to Live In

"How You Feel," Unwritten Law

Tim quit his job last August. He had a number of reasons for doing so (some not appropriate to post on the Internet, although my tasteful and "be-the-bigger-person" character traits are just barely winning out right now, and a big part of me has some already-picked-out-and-practiced choice words for two certain individuals, just in case I ever happen to see them strolling ever-so-shadily around Carlsbad). However, my bitterness doesn't stem from the fact Tim left an otherwise lucrative and successful job. While there were  nights we stayed up late talking about "options" and "responsibilities" and "future plans," and tears may have entered the scenario once or twice, ultimately I know how right his decision was. Because, to be honest, my pride and respect for his actions easily outshone any fear of his potential unemployment. Tim has never been one to settle for "mediocre"-- in swim races, in residences, in career paths. In high school he wanted to be the fastest: he still owns more than half of his school's swim records. In college he wanted to win NCAA's: he did it three years in a row, and became an American record holder in the process. He diligently followed a job to Texas, and ended up discontent and unchallenged in Dallas: he moved back to California and started working for Callaway.

In every facet of his life, Tim puts his whole self; he works hard and he plays hard. He has big dreams, and he isn't afraid to pursue them. He has been coaching swimming for the past four months, and his career is a passion again. His eyes light up when he tells me about a set, a practice, an angry athlete's turnaround behavior. When I picked him up at the airport after a weekend swim meet in Portland, his laughter and stories about "kids swimming out of their shorts!" and too many gummy bears filled the car. He teaches lessons on Saturday mornings, and goes overtime because he "really wants this kid to get the breaststroke kick right." He brought his swimmers donuts on his own birthday, because "they've done a really great job this week." As an added bonus, he has time to spear fish in the middle of the day and coach master's swimming in the morning. He worked on the boat The Horizon last week, while it was in dry-dock, solidifying his place as a crew member on a 5-day Great White cage diving trip in August. He's revived his passion for photography, and he finds spare moments to snap the sunrise, the shoreline, the Santa Ynez foothills. A silent and wearisome burden has been lifted from his shoulders, and he no longer has to wake up in the morning and drive to an unfulfilling and frustrating cubicle. John Irving's Owen Meany said, "IF YOU CARE ABOUT SOMETHING, YOU HAVE TO PROTECT IT—IF YOU’RE LUCKY ENOUGH TO FIND A WAY OF LIFE YOU LOVE, YOU HAVE TO FIND THE COURAGE TO LIVE IT.” My husband is certainly doing just that.

So Tim and I are lucky. We both are currently working in fields that inspire, enrich, and motivate us. We wake up in the morning eager to challenge and create and teach. However, because Tim's new job requires he coach in the evenings, it's been a lot harder for us to find time for us. Dinners together are rare. "Have you watched the new Law and Order in the DVR?" is often followed by, "Yes." Happy hour invites are filled with one instead of two. This part hasn't been an easy adjustment, and I know it's something we are both still figuring out and working on and adapting to. It's easy to turn on the TV and zone out. It's easy to have cereal and graham crackers for dinner when I'm "cooking" for one. It's easy to get caught up in students, schoolloop, and dictionary.com rather than sending a quick text or email to my husband. But, we're learning. To turn off the TV and pull out Scrabble. To cook and then re-heat chicken pasta with bell peppers. To walk for 7-11 hot chocolate at night. To run down to the beach in our sweats, even if it is 9:30, and laugh and race and kiss and trick Bailey into running in the surf:

They say it's important to appreciate life's little moments, jokes, intricacies. And I think Tim and I do a pretty good job of that. After all, it doesn't even take that much to make us happy, since eating McDonald's on the floor of an airport most definitely does the trick:

It's a Sweet, Sweet Dream

"Looking for Space," John Denver

I like to pride myself on the fact I listen to a wide variety of music. I know my life would be less full without the array of selections on my iPod, and the songs and sounds I desire depend on my mood and my day. Sometimes I'm eager for country, and I'll pretend I know how to line dance all around the living room. Other times I can play Sublime's 40 oz. to Freedom CD, on repeat, for an entire afternoon ("Don't Push" is my current ringtone). When I'm in a Michael Jackson frame of mind, as I was for approximately a month after I saw This is It, "Man in the Mirror" becomes my mantra, and I'll force people my mom to learn the "Beat It" dance with me (thanks, YouTube). Every so often, I'll fall prey to the magic of Disney, and I'm forever enraptured by Michael Bolton's rendition of "I Can Go the Distance" and Peabo Bryson's "A Whole New World." As much as he might kill me for admitting it, some days Tim and I love to BLAST Britney, Kelly, Pink, and Lady Gaga girl-power songs, preferably with the windows up, in the car. And recently, I've become re-obsessed with Unwritten Law, and I've downloaded, repeated, and memorized anything Scott Russo and his ever-changing band mates can give me; acoustic, live, or otherwise. Tonight, however, is a John Denver night.

Over Thanksgiving, I started reading John Steinbeck's East of Eden, since I'm teaching it for the first time next semester. It's brilliant, with characters so palpable and settings so vibrant it's as though I know these scenes actually exist somewhere. The characters are individuals I want to meet. Yell at. Cry for. Befriend. Due to a variety of obligations, commitments, stresses, and activities (such as, uh, Wii Tournament 2010 vs. Chip and Amanda), I haven't been able to read it for a few weeks. I picked it back up this weekend, and I have 50 more pages to go. Tim left a few hours ago to spend the night with my brother and Dad at the Garner Valley ranch, so it's just me and Bailey tonight. And I couldn't be happier about the evening I have in front of me: red wine in hand, I'm perfectly content to let Steinbeck's prose and Denver's country roads take me home...

As the Winter Turned the Meadow Brown

"Mykonos," Fleet Foxes

It's raining. A lot. My non-scotch-guarded (and real, by the way, because they were a gift from my dad) Uggs are streak-stained and soggy, and the essays I've been lugging back and forth to my car are slightly damp and water-warped. The bottoms of my jeans are muddy, and these southern California teenagers I teach just don't know how to handle this (gasp!) water that comes from the sky. But it's awesome. I've been so ready for this change in weather; content to wear sweaters to work and borrow umbrellas and heat Campbell's on the stove in a soup-appropriate environment. I had the windshield wipers blasting on the way home from work, stopped at 7-11 for hot chocolate, and curled up under a Snuggie when I got home. I realize the idea of a "San Diego Winter" is laughable at best, but I'll take what I can get. I mean, I did go in the ocean last week. I might have worn a short sleeve shirt to school on Tuesday. There's a chance Tim brought home frozen yogurt tonight. Yet, these rainy days and weekends allow a chance for rejuvenation, extra blankets, and a (sometimes needed) reminder of why I love to live where I do. While I can handle (hell, appreciate! welcome!) the stormy weather for a few days or weeks, I also know these days are fleeting, and the So-Cal sun will be back before I remember where I lazily hastily stored last year's scarves. True, there may be a "tornado watch" in Carlsbad, but there are also kids shrieking about the "gnarly off-shore lefts" coming off the Terramar break. To my east coast friends: I get it. "Winter" is NOT synonymous with "Good Surf." I'll be sure to remind Tim as he heads out with his shortboard and his "heavier" wetsuit. You know, the 3 millimeter instead of the sleeveless.

*     *     *     *     *     *

Act as if what you do makes a difference.  It does.  

-William James

On an unrelated note, I got home tonight (hot chocolate in hand) and watched the Hope for Haiti telethon. While I admit I've always been the kind of girl to ask for a People magazine subscription at Christmas, I have to be honest and say it wasn't the celebrities who drew my attention tonight. Once again, as has been the case too often in the last week and a half, I was drawn in, shocked, saddened, and sickened by the images and pictures flashing across the screen. Pictures of rubble, tears, limbs, dust. Pictures of suffering, of loss, of heartache, of confusion. Pictures of emptiness and the seeming inability to rebuild. Faces of terror and guilt. Pictures of a country so ravaged and shaken, the needed transformations and rehabilitation seem so foreign, so far off, so...hopeless.

But as I watched, the donation amounts continued to rise. People continued to call, to text, to log on, to fax, and to e-mail. Foundations pitched in thousands. Communities came together in support. Churches and their members relied on faith and prayer. Money kept pouring in, and despite this country's current dire straits and meager funds, Americans continued to find dollars to donate. And it reminded me of a recent conversation, during which I was told people are inherently immoral, filthy, greedy, and lost. Out for themselves. Unconcerned with their global peers...disconnected from their neighbors...apathetic to their families. And I have to disagree. Because, while I'm certain those people exist, there is still so much... good in this country. People who believe their time, their money, and their concerns matter. Individuals who are willing to recognize strangers in need and act. Some of these people can relate to losing an important possession, a home, or a loved one. Some of these people donate almost blindly, willingly, in an effort to make an impact. And, again, I think of the people of Haiti: poverty-stricken and underprivileged to begin with, they now face an uncertain, calamitous, and frustrated future. They face the reality and the immensity of rebuilding their homes and communities. Their schools. Hospitals. Their families. Inevitably, then, I think of my own current and personal aggravations: I have too many papers to grade. I'm overdue for a dentist appointment. I ordered that vest on-line from Land's End two weeks ago, and it's still not here. And, I really should make time to hang those new pictures and clean out the freezer...While these might have merit in their own right and within my own personal bubble of priorities, I have to stop and put my life in perspective. Because while I might be struggling to finish grading all of first semester's Poe vs. Twain essays before first semester is over, I'm not trying to locate a relative in the broken rubble. I'm not looking out at a sea of personal heart-breaking devastation. And because of that, it's my responsibility to do what I can to help their cause. Because if the situation were reversed, I would hope for the same...

How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a 

single moment before starting to improve the world.

-Anne Frank 

www.hopeforhaiti.com/org
www.unicefusa.org
www.redcross.org
www.doctorswithoutborders.com
www.ifaw.com (Haitian animals)