The Tropic of California

I grew up here in sunny Southern California.

Though not a particularly long enough life to justify my sitting in a rocker on the veranda and waxing poetic about "back when I was a pup...", I do have a recollection - and not a long ago one - of the arid climate that goes along with living in what is essentially a desert.

I mention this because it's raining today.  I'm in my shorts and a tank top, barefoot.  It's not horribly hot, but it's warm enough that twice this week I've come home to put on the AC.  I'm pretty hard to convince the AC needs to be on.  Today was muggy all day and now it's raining.  75 degrees and raining.

This is Mexico City weather, not Southern California!  What in heaven's name is going on?  It's the apocalypse, I tell you.

The Nina, The Pinta, and a Soccer Ball

Poppa decided to watch the world cup soccer final today.  ‘Twas Spain versus Italy.  Sometimes it’s hard to tell how invested Dad is in any given game. And sometimes it’s hard to know where our allegiances lie when the teams that are playing are particularly foreign.  Usually we default to any team from Latin America, just on the premise that, being Mexican, we all come from a similar culture.  In this case I heard him exclaim from the next room when the first goal of the game was scored.  Here’s how it went down:

Dad:       Goal! Spain scored!

Me:        (From my room, attempting solidarity) Yay! (… and then realizing I didn’t know who was playing nor who we were rooting for, I walked over to the TV room…)  Wait, who are we rooting for?

Dad:       (Somewhat shadily) Um… I guess Spain.

Me:        Because … it’s the motherland?

Dad:       Sure.

Me:        Ok.  Hey, Mom!  We’re winning!

Mom:    That’s nice, dear.

Yes, Yes, I Know

I've had a few emails and such, nudging me to get off my butt and keep writing.  Trust Dave Kellett's Sheldon Strip to drive home the relationship between climate and prolificity.  I don't care if it's not a word.  When one is not fitting my needs, I resort to creating it.

Behold the wisdom I refer to:

Having established this meticulously researched scientific theory, I can only surmise that my stop-and-start patterns of late are more due to the steadfast and stubborn stagnation of the thermometer, permanently parked at 80 degrees for much of the year in Sunny Southern California than to my talents, abilities, time constraints, inspirations, ruminations or lack thereof.

For me it's Rocky Road ice cream instead of rum but, hey, to each her paradise.

We Have New Babies!

Six new babies in the nursery!

• Two Shubunkin
• Two High Fin Banded Sharks
• Two Koi.... (I know... *GASP*) The big purchase.

I'm including useless photos since they are all quite scared out of their wits and hiding behind the waterplants. But in the meantime, you can see what they are supposed to look like.

The Shubunkin are essentially large goldfish and are also known as Calicos which you can understand because they have lots of black spots on an orange and white body.

 

The High Fin Sharks are about the same size as the Shubunkin (about 3 to 5") but are black and white striped and get their name from the hefty dorsal fin that towers over them.

 

And the Koi are the smallest I could find, both due to cost as well as the hopes that they will do well in the size of the fountain. I've heard that they grow according to their context, so I hope that they don't outgrow the fountain. One is white with a red spot on the head and the other is white with orange spots along its body. They are slightly larger than the other four fish, but all six seem to be huddling together quite trustingly with each other. I guess there is such a thing as courage in numbers.

 

Anyway, here are two pictures of them trying to hide, which is why I included pictures off the internet so you can see what it is that's behind those plants.

 

 

As usual, the naming ceremony will be delayed until I get a better sense of their adjusting and surviving...(one of the sharks already looks kinda iffy). In the meantime, i'll start ruminating for options.

Far, Far Away

The people in New York want me to come back.

They've made no bones about it.  They've sent message after message.  I've been getting mail insisting upon my return.  Email and snail mail.  Both.  The people in New York want me back. 

Specifically, I should clarify, it's the people from The Metropolitan Opera House.  Want me to buy more opera tickets, they do.  Would very much enjoy my money, please. 

Someone should tell the people at The Met to look more carefully at the envelope they send out and acknowledge that I'm not exactly down the road and around the corner.

Sweet Tweet

The mockingbirds have made their annual nest right outside my window, under the beams of the pergola with the rose bush branches woven in.  The last we dared to get close enough to check it, it had little eggs in it.

Today, we've seen both parents bring small, yummy bug meals to the nest, which leads us to believe the little rugrats have been born.  I've forbidden anyone near the nest, and hope that the feline population (our three plus the honorary member that really belongs to the family across the street but hangs out in our yard all the time) stays the heck away or they'll have to answer to me.  The babies must be terribly small yet because they aren't making those god-awful screeching sounds when the parents near the nest and they know they are about to get a morsel. 

In the meantime, as mom putters around the patio, the parents are none too happy about her getting too close, screeching and posturing as they perch on the cross beams just over mom's head.  Mom has calmly reminded them that this is her house, she has no ill intentions, and alright already, she'll move farther away.

It's a beautiful day out today and the yard looks truly warm and cozy.

The Scream

I studied Art History for four years and specialized in Renaissance Art because I related to it, had some inherent understanding of it due to my Catholicism and what I'd been exposed to up until then.

My final year in college, I finally got around to taking the upper level courses of Modern Art, Theory and Criticism and discovered that, had I taken these earlier, they would have likely made me think twice about the choice I'd made. I'd already sunk many semesters, courses, and language requisites into the specialization that I'd chosen, so it was too late to start over.

I think it was the instructor that really did it for me. The right presentation can have a lot to do with how one absorbs information.

There were a number of memorable lectures in her classes:

• Picasso's Guernica - dramatic and impactful
• Jeff Koons (in general) - hilarious and accessible
• Jenny Holzer - fantastic discovery
• Jackson Pollock - existential moment
• The Dadaists - we got yelled at

And there was one lecture that was memorable for the overall opus rather than for any one particular work. Edvard Munch's The Scream is iconic and identifiable around the world, and often ripped off in pop cultural references. Though it's his most famous work, it's his lesser knowns which have stayed with me over the years. Dr. K walked us through Munch's progression and his experimentation, noting details in his images that might otherwise go unnoticed or misunderstood. His work was so dark, so desperate, and as we learned about his personal life, we began to sympathize with his path. There were shocking images and some that tested our patience. But the series he did as he watched his sister wither away in bed, dying of tuberculosis, was truly heartbreaking.

The lights went on at the end of day two of the Munch lecture. Not a dry eye in the room.

We'll never know what makes one image more iconic than another. We're arbitrary beings that way.

Today, The Scream set the world record for the most expensive painting sold at an auction. It went for $119,922,500.

Dad Goes Shopping

Poppa went to the store today.

Here's what he got:

One liter bottle of pineapple yogurt drink.
One liter bottle of peach yogurt drink.
Five yoplait yogurts.
One box of donuts.
One box of Mexican sweet bread.

And spinach.

Lost and Found

It was a simple errand after work.

Somewhere amongst the weaving in and out of the aisles, I dropped my keys and didn’t know it until I was out the door and heading back to my car.  I rummaged and didn’t find, so I headed back to the store. 

Nice manager man had already found them and told me that he’d called the number and someone was on their way to pick them up, so I should call them to let them know that they dind’t have to bother.  You see, when Coco went to doggy heaven, I couldn’t bear to part with his dog tag and for a long time just had his collar and tag rolling about on the floor of my passenger seat.  Then I took the dog tag off the collar and hooked it on to my keys in place of a keychain.  The added benefit is that it has my parents’ phone number on it, so losing them means they are likely going to get back to me with little delay (how hadn’t I thought of this before?) and sure enough, that’s exactly what happened.

For now, though, I needed to call home and let my parents know that I’d already recovered my briefly lost keys and they didn’t need to come to the store to get them.

I’ve recreated the phone call to the best of my recollection.  The italics are my thoughts, though never voiced.

It went like so:

Dad:       Hello?

Me:        Hi, Pop.  Hey, did you just get a call about my keys?

Dad:       Yeah.

Me:        Yeah, don’t worry; I just picked them up so you don’t have to come down here.

Dad:       You have them?

Me:        Yeah, I noticed they were missing when I was in the parking lot, so I just came back in the store and they had them.

Dad:       Why did they call here?

Me:        Because I have Coco’s dog tag as a keychain, so they were able to call your number.

Mom:    (clicks on a second phone) What’s going on?

Me:        I found my keys, you don’t have to come get them.

Dad:       Why did they say something about Coco?

Me:        Because I’m using Coco’s dog tag as a key chain and it has your phone number on the back.

Mom:    They mentioned Coco and keys and we don’t understand why they called us.

Dad:       This is all very suspicious, who had your keys?

Me:        The people at the store found my keys.

Mom:    Why didn’t you have your keys with you?

Me:        I must have dropped them somewhere and didn’t notice!  Good heavens, I’m explaining what “lost” means…!

Mom:    Where are you?

Me:        I’m at the store! 

Mom:    What are you doing at the store?

Me:        What?! Panning for gold… I had to get something.

Mom:    What are you getting?

Me:        A panda.  I’m getting a panda and putting it on my head.  How is this line of questioning in any way relevant?!  It doesn’t matter, mom.   A thing, I was getting a thing.

Dad:       I don’t understand why they called us… Where are your keys now?

Me:        They are in my hands! I have my keys now!

Dad:       So, they’re not lost?

Me:        How is this a mystery?!  I lost my keys as I was shopping, the people working here found them and used the phone number on Coco’s dog tag which I have as a keychain to call you and in the meantime I noticed they were missing, came in to look for them and have been reunited with my keys.  So I’m fine, I’m not dead, I have my keys, and I’m going home now.

Dad:       Ok.

Sheesh.

For Coco

Coco

The Happiest Dog in the World

1998 - 2012