Nobody Knows Anything

Nina, Rob, and I set off to Rancho San Antonio to do the PG&E Trail: about 8.5 miles with a 1000+ foot rise overall. Since it was Daylight Standard Time, it was nice and light out at 7 when we got there.

We headed up. Pretty steep. On the second major hill I said, “Are you guys even breathing hard?” They weren’t. We agreed we would all meet up at Vista Point, the halfway point in the trail, after which we’d start heading down the hill.

Puff. Puff. Puff.

I managed to keep running for a while…but not the whole way. Eventually I stopped and started hiking up. At one point I saw Nina and Rob off in the distance — at one point I was only 20, 30 meters behind them. But then they started running up the hill again and I just puffed along.

We met up at Vista Point, and Nina and Rob seemed to be surprised by my appearance. My appearance so close behind them, not my appearance-close-to-death. We started down the hill and Rob began explaining to Nina that I am fervently, hopelessly competitive.

Which was roughly when I felt a sharp sting on my scalp. That grew into a sharp, terrible pain. I doubled over and yelled, “Is there something in my hair?”

Indeed, there was. A yellow jacket had just stung me on the back of my head. I don’t know what happened to the yellow jacket. Nina pulled out the stinger. (She said, “This is going to hurt.” I said, “Go ahead. Can’t hurt any worse.” And it didn’t.)

We had to walk all the way back to the car. Jostling my head hurt too much.

Can I just say that getting stung on the scalp is one of the more surprising things that’s ever happened to me?

I was bummed that we had to walk half the way, but the downhill portion of the PG&E is gorgeous: looks out over Santa Clara Valley to the Bay. Really is a pretty area we live in. And the weather was absolutely perfect: about 70 at the highest (which, if you are climbing 1000+ feet, is just what you want).

At Rob’s house Nina got out a sting kit and Rob gave me an Advil and some coffee, so I was good to go. The sting still hurts, but apparently I’m not allergic to yellowjacket bites (this would be my second one in the past four months). I am worried about taking a shower and washing my hair though. Oooch.

For some reason, I can never sleep the night before a longish run. I don’t fall asleep for the longest time, and when I do have very bizarre dreams that wake me up a couple of times during the night. Dreams not even usually about running.

And I always wake up 15 minutes before the alarm goes off.

Which is a bummer when I’ve forgotten to reset the clock and get up at the old 5:45.

If I go back to bed, I’ll just sleep right through my run, so I guess I’ll surf for a while!

Digby, as always, is on the mark:

Libby Indicted

This is the first time in 130 years that a sitting White House official has been indicted. The last time was in the Grant administration.

Honesty. Integrity. Honor. Dignity.

Let’s put it this way: after one reading through Hot Chocolate by Michael Turbeck, I wanted to have sex with this book. Not with the author. With the book.

The Amazon page says there are “more than 60″ recipes in this book, which probably means there are 61 or something. It’s a thin book, with a wide range of chocolates for every taste: the thick chocolate from Cafe Angelina in Paris, spicy Aztec-inspired chocolates, a hot white chocolate from Sweden, Frrrozen Hot Chocolate from Serendipity, alcoholic chocolates for adults, side dishes of tuiles and little cookies, coconut marshmallows…

Seriously, depending on how this winter goes my entire running program could be for naught, because I seriously want to try half of the recipes in this book tonight. I’ll leave the lavender-and-pistachio hot chocolate (yup) for tomorrow.

A week or two ago Rob IM’d me with “Guess how fast I ran the Wildcat Trail today? 51 minutes.”

51.

Together we’d been doing it in 61. 51 was quite an improvement over that.

“You didn’t stop, did you?”

“Didn’t really feel like it, no.”

Wow.

Then last week, when we ran it together, I noticed that by staying with me the entire way up, he wasn’t working. He might have been strolling in the park for all the effort he was putting out. “Lose fifty pounds, and you can do this too,” he joked.

Well…damn.

So when I ran the trail with Nina (Rob was off vacating), I did run the entire way up. Of course, Nina took off ahead of me and had to wait for me at the top, but as long as she was willing to do that, we were cool.

The three of us were running together again today, and pretty much we had the same plan: You run to the top and wait for me there.

Rob took off. Nina took off. Diane plodded the whole way up. Rob and Nina had completely cooled down by the time I got up there. We managed to run in sync the whole back to the starting line. Okay, I sometimes fell a little behind but then either I pushed to catch up or they slowed down or perhaps both.

Time at the end? 57 minutes.

Not quite as earth-shattering as 51 (or, for the woman who blew past us on the trail, 41 or so), but still: an improvement. I’m getting stronger. Yay, team.

I opened the LA Times today (figuratively) and what do I see? WHAT DO I SEE? An article about the joys of bakeries in LA:

COULD L.A. be turning into a real bakery town? It seems to be shaping up that way, judging from all the dough on the rise.

On West 3rd Street, Parisian master baker Eric Kayser recently opened the understatedly appealing Breadbar, with a second branch in the works in Century City. At the Brentwood Country Mart, New York restaurateur Maury Rubin is getting ready to introduce the city to a bakery café that’s unlike anything it’s seen before. In West Hollywood, pastry chef Michelle Myers has expanded her offerings, making bread for sandwiches to supplement her line of sweets at Boule.

Elsewhere, Belgian company Le Pain Quotidien, which has multiplied six times over since 2001 in Southern California, is expanding into Manhattan Beach and Pasadena in the coming months. The Japan-based cream puff specialist Beard Papa’s has opened in Hollywood. Santa Monica chef Hans Röckenwagner plans to turn his thriving bread and pastry business into a bakery café in Venice. And on an unlikely stretch of Pico Boulevard, two sisters with no formal training have plunged right in, opening La Maison du Pain and importing a trained Frenchman along the way as they slowly get off the ground.

For a city of such great size and culinary enthusiasm, Los Angeles doesn’t have many world-class bakeries. To be sure, those we do have are hot spots: Clementine in Century City, EuroPane in Pasadena, Jin Patisserie in Venice and Sweet Lady Jane in West Hollywood among them. But such places are few and far between.

The new arrivals — particularly Kayser’s Breadbar and Rubin’s City Bakery — could signal that L.A.’s bakery culture is finally starting to grow up.

Not just pastry bakeries! Bread bakeries! I weep. Now that I’m finally developing a taste for the finer wheat products in life, they pull this on me, when I can’t enjoy any of it.

One thing that’s driven me nuts around Silicon Valley is that there’s no good bread bakery. (There is an outlet of Le Boulanger within walking distance of my house. My opinion stands.) We go to Campbell’s Farmer’s Market on Sundays to visit the Boulangerie Bay Bread stand — but that’s a bakery from San Francisco (one that used to be two blocks from my mother’s house, in fact). Excellent, excellent bread. But it’s fifty or so miles away. And my Sunday baguette doesn’t really hold out until Thursday, know what I’m saying?

Today, in fact, we went to the Farmer’s Market, followed by breakfast at Stacks’ in Campbell. Sophia practically dragged us to the Farmer’s Market, because she wanted her panini bread from the Bay Bread stand. Five years old and an appreciation for fine bread. (When I was her age undoubtedly all I’d eat was Wonder, a fact that makes me shudder to this day.) When I bought the panini, both Sophia and Simon went nuts, grabbing the bag and reaching in. I grabbed a panini to give them as the lady behind the table said, “Would you like me to cut that in half?” “There’s no time!” I said, ripping the roll in half to give each kid a piece.

(I asked Darin if he’d seen what happened. He nodded solemnly and said, “I’ve seen piranhas at work.”)

One day I had an excellent sandwich at Fleur de Cocoa and asked them where they got their bread. Sogo bakery in Cupertino, they said. Which turned out to be a little Japanese bakery in a strip mall. I had trouble believing they actually made pain de mie. It’s also too far to drive to pick up some bread. I suppose I could ask Darin to stop by on his way to work, but once he gets into his car he’s Mr. Safari Manager and pretty much forgets everything else.

The baguettes from the market are underwhelming. Grace is okay, as is the-other-brand-that-escapes-me-right-now. I used to get La Brea bread at Whole Foods, but the whole parboiled/slightly underdone aspect palled on me after a while.

Maybe everyone in this area is low-carbing it or something, or you need so much money to rent a store around here it wouldn’t be worth a baker’s time to make fresh bread. But I totally think there’s an underserved community around here!

An actual sign promoting this nonsense

From a newsletter sent home:

Next week is Red Ribbon Week. Our class will not give as much attention to the red ribbon activities as some of the older classes. It is, however, a good time to talk with your child about drugs, since it’s a school wide affair, in a way they can understand.

Okay kids, we’re supposed to talk about drugs. Hm. Do you guys know what drugs are? They’re mood- and perception-altering substances. That means…they change the way you feel and the way you think about things. People want to do that because…well, for a lot of reasons. Drugs make them feel better for a short while. Drugs make them forget about things. Drugs relax them.

When people refer to “drugs” they usually mean illegal drugs. Why are those the illegal ones? For a whole bunch of reasons, not the least of which are political maneuvering and thinly veiled social control. There’s very little difference between an illegal drug like cannabis — the Feds came up with the name “marijuana” to make the populace think it was something only those terrible Mexicans would use — and alcohol, which is legal. In fact, lots of people would argue that cannabis is a much more useful drug, because it can be used to treat various illnesses and reduce pain and suffering, but I like to point out that you have to smoke cannabis and smoking is very, very bad for you.

We’ll get to tobacco in a minute. Just hold your horses.

One of the main reasons not to do illegal drugs is that you don’t know what you’re getting. If your bottle of Jim Beam comes from the factory tainted with arsenic, Jim Beam’s going down. You get some spiked cocaine? So sorry, you’re out of luck.

But the main reason not to do drugs is this: If you want to do illegal drugs, before you try them hang out with the people who are doing the drugs at least three times. Why three? Because one time the group on drugs can seem like a whole bunch of fun. Two times you start seeing the same behaviors. Three times and you’re wondering how soon you can get out of there.

Every conversation they have is inane. Oh, it might seem hysterical to them, and maybe even to you when you’re not on drugs. The first time. When these guys start having the same conversation over and over again, you’re going to realize that being on drugs makes you kind of a moron. I’m using moron in the clinical, very-low-IQ sense here. Maybe they’re a fun, laughing moron, but a moron nonetheless. The second thing you’ll notice about people who do drugs is that every conversation, sooner or later, is about drugs. So not only are they a moron, but they’re a boring moron.

And Daddy and I don’t tolerate boring morons. Nosirree.

Well, yes, Daddy does have a friend who does some of his best creative work while stoned on pot. But I also dated a guy who thought he did his best writing while stoned and let me tell you, I think he was a little wrong on that one. And don’t drink and write: seriously, you write crap. In the immortal words of someone (Natalie Goldberg?), writers don’t drink to write, they drink because they’re not writing.

Right. Alcohol. Daddy doesn’t drink or at least not very often. I do like having a drink now and then, usually margaritas, because the combination of lime and sugar and salt with the tequila is quite tasty. And port. Port wine is good. I haven’t had a Cosmopolitan since the late Eighties, but as I recall I liked those too. For the most part, though, Daddy and I don’t drink.

But you should know that I have a history of alcoholism in my family, and of course my heritage is as Irish as all get out, so you need to beware. Apparently alcoholism is hereditary, and I don’t think having one-half of your genes coming from Daddy is going to be enough.

There are other things called “drugs” that are also known as “prescription medications.” Lots of people who take “medications” feel morally superior to people who take illegal drugs. Possibly this is because their medications were developed by Big Pharma instead of simply growing in the ground where any peasant can get their hands on it. Of course, Big Pharma also gave us Vioxx and Phen-Fen, which shows exactly how superior their knowledge is. Now, chemistry in action also gives us crystal meth. Anybody know what drug is a close cousin of crystal meth? That’s right: Ritalin. Anybody at your school on Ritalin? I wonder what their family’s going to say if that kid starts trying crystal meth.

Yes, Mommy does take mood-altering medications every day that make her not quite so crazy — no, really, guys, you wouldn’t like me if I stopped taking this stuff — but that’s not drugs. Well, it is drugs, but it’s not the kind of drugs your school wants me to tell you about, because they’re not illegal. And nobody takes my drugs to feel mellow or get a buzz on, trust me.

Okay, on to tobacco: it smells bad and makes you cough up phlegm. Plus it’s expensive and wouldn’t you rather spend that money on an excellent port wine? I would.

Now, your father and I are a little concerned with the Sovietesque mind control stupidity associated with this whole anti-drug fervor. What’s Sovietesque? Hmm. The Soviet Union was a totalitarian regime where people were afraid to speak out and the government told them how to think about everything. No, no, totally different from our own society today. But these placards they’re posting around your school…that’s kinda scary. I’m pretty sure I saw this one on display in East Germany.

So, that’s my talk about drugs. They’re really not very good for you, they mostly interfere with you getting anything done, and since they’re illegal you’d be open to arrest, whether that’s a good idea or not, and Daddy and I are totally against the War on Drugs, despite the fact that we don’t use any.

And trust me on “hang out with them three times before trying it” gambit. Seriously boring discussions.

§

On second thought, maybe Darin ought to be the one to have this talk.

Due to popular demand — at least, Pooks keeps asking — here is a little bit of what my house looks like now.

This is what the living room looked like then:

Now, the floors are completely done: installed, sanded, polished. The kids enjoy sock skating, and we don’t need the TV as loud any more, because there’s zero sound absorption in the house.

Quite a long time ago I wrote about the day Darin and I spent cleaning out the room that would be my office. Well, one thing led to another, and pretty much it reverted to its original state:

Since we were getting its floors done, all the crap had to go. The giant desk had to go (thank goodness). All the boxes and assorted ephemera got stuck upstairs in the middle bedroom, where they still haven’t been sorted through. I asked for the walls to be painted a warm red, and I covered the couch with a slipcover. I’ve gotten a teeny desk for my laptop. Of course, I’ve already started getting piles of stuff. Really gotta stop that habit.

And, for Tamar, who stayed in my guest room a year and a half ago, this is what it looks like now:

Apparently Rob’s brother in Massachusetts reads my blog to find out if Rob is exercising, so this entry is for you, Michael.

Yes, we’re running. We did six miles Friday night, and then turned around and did nine Sunday morning. Nine. Consecutively, even. Our new plan is to do one long, slow run every weekend.

We ran with our friend Nina down the creek trail. Originally the plan was to do eight, but when we got to the 3.5 mile marker (it’s a half mile from my house to the trail, so the 3.5 marker = 4 miles), I said, “Let’s go to the 4 mile marker!” As though I weren’t the member of the trio who wouldn’t be hurt the most by doing extra miles. (Rob = thin, Nina = 30 years old.) But we managed to do it, and I even managed to (mostly) keep up with the others. I continually ask Rob to check his heart-rate monitor to make sure he’s getting a workout, because a pace that had him working not too long ago has him reading the newspaper as he runs now.

I really like running. Considering I’m not a natural runner or any sort of athlete, it’s kind of funny that I enjoy it so much. I like the way my body feels after I’ve done several miles: sore, but as though I’ve accomplished something. I’m not sure I’ve ever had the runner’s high, but I definitely feel better after running (though I’m also tired afterward too).

§

I kept telling Rob, “Yeah, I’m going to start writing down what I eat,” but I never did. I’d just “remember.” Which of course I never did. It’s really easy to forget late in the evening what you had for breakfast.

When I did Weight Watchers and had my little book to write food down in, I did lose weight. But I couldn’t keep doing WW, because it was just too cultish for my tastes. I’m just not a joiner on these things. I don’t feel as though I’m part of a club. I feel as though I’m paying someone $10 a week to weigh myself.

So Rob recommended Diet Diary by Calorie King to me for my Palm, because I take my Palm with me everywhere and it has quite a collection of foods in it, including a whole bunch of fast-food and chain restaurants. (The calorie counts for Cold Stone Creamery ice cream and mix-ins: terrifying.) You also can enter in your exercise for the day, which adds greatly to the calories you are allowed for the day. (Which is as big an incentive as I’ve ever seen for keeping up with my exercise program, let me tell you.) So far I have rediscovered the best side effect of writing everything down: you eat way, way less when you know you’re going to write it down. You also remember that French toast you had for breakfast (weekends only).

Via the NaNoWriMo boards I have discovered Think Geek, a site devoted to paraphernalia to make you an uber-geek. The scariest section is the “Caffeine” section (also the section highly coveted by Nanoers). Caffeinated chocolate! Caffeinated lip balm! Caffeinated soap! (Right. Like anyone who needs these products takes showers.)

Although the caffeine mug has its attractions…

No, no, I’m going to stay strong! I’m going to get a 16 ounce NaNo mug!