SoCal 2013: Chasing Gulls, Waxing Sentimental

I stood on a sandy shore in Malibu this weekend, my toes digging into the soft sand, and couldn't help thinking, hey man, my life is pretty groovy. Behind me, my best friend and her husband were enjoying the shallow waves crashing into the shore and J was running around terrorizing filming seagulls in slow motion.

We were all having the kind of day that is only possible when you make no plans and let the universe lead you from one serendipity to another.

We started out taking a casual stroll through Gardens of the World, where we found an extremely harried little squirrel trying to collect materials for the harshest and coldest of SoCal's 65 degree winters. Imri pointed out flowers and smells that we would otherwise have passed over, and I attempted to get my iPhone to bokeh, with some success.

We covered the gardens in a hearty twenty minute ramble and were left wanting more without having a clue as to where to go next. Dror threw out the possibility of checking out the Getty Villa in Malibu but all the time slots for the next four hours were already booked. Instead we thought we'd check out West Lake, rumored (by Dror's dad mostly) to be a hidden gem in the Westlake Village hills. Siri informed us that the lake was nearby and we drove to it, but we could only gawk at it from the safety of our vehicle because the man-made lake is surrounded by a private community in which you may not park just to access the lake. Thwarted, we decided to drive around the surrounding hills and canyons to find a hiking path to meander on. We did that for about a half hour, driving further and further up and into the windy canyon, until we were forced to give in to the fact that there were no public hiking paths on this road and that we might as well just continue driving until we hit the beach.

That's how I ended up wistfully wondering how in the world it was possible to have such a pleasant day in such ideal company while waves crashed at my ankles. It truly is a shame that this kind of day cannot ever be a regular occurrence. To bring the four of us together takes a 15 hour flight from Israel and a six hour drive to SoCal. Dror tries to make the flight at least once a year but it doesn't always happen; the last time we saw each other was October 2011. Imri usually stays in Israel unless a special occasion brings him to the States with Dror. Yet here we were, getting on as comfortably as family. This was J's first meeting with Dror and Imri and only my second time spending time with Imri, yet I felt like we'd all known each other forever.

The day ended all too soon but will be one I'll remember for a long time. Maybe it will be more special to me because it is such a rare occasion, but also I think it will be a glaring reminder that I am extremely lucky when it comes to meeting and keeping quality people in my life. Here's to many more rare days together, dear friends.

7 Quick Takes: Perfect bananas, public bathroom etiquette, and SGB

I've never linked up before. Is there some kind of blog etiquette for this? Should I have introduced myself somehow to the linkee before linking up? I guess I'll just say I've been following this blog for a little while and really enjoy Jen's humor and writing style and maybe we can be blog friends? No? I dunno. Onward we go... 

one.
J was held up with krazy karaoke by his work peeps this week so I found myself engaging in some Single Girl Behavior. I think this concept was introduced on an episode of Sex and the City, and while it made my then-single self think, ohemgee Carrie et al are so quirky!, I couldn't really relate to the idea at the time because my Single Girl Behavior was just regular ole Behavior then. But now I can relate! It's rare that J is gone from the house for very long so mostly the SGB is on lockdown, but this past month J has been waylaid long into the weeknights by work events and I've found myself alone with two dogs and Netflix. We only use one Netflix account at the moment because of the way our media is set up and it's technically J's but if you perused the Recently Played list you'd mostly find that "J" has been watching a lot of indie dramas and Comedies with a Strong Female Lead (I know, he's such a feminist). In the last couple of weeks, "J" has watched The Kids Are All Right ("he" gave it four stars), Friends With Kids (three stars), Bachelorette (a surprising four stars, but only because the movie pulls itself together at the end and Lizzy Caplan is my favorite at the moment), and Orange is the New Black (fivefivefive stars!!!). It's not that J wouldn't watch these movies and shows with me if I really wanted to watch them together, but for some reason I really prefer watching these girl-feelings-pseudodramas by myself. It's my SGB. 

two.
Speaking of strong (or not so strong) females (and if you're the type of woman who does this, please don't take this the wrong way because I understand everyone has her own path in life and sometimes that path requires emotional indiscretion in public places) -- Ladies. Please stop having life altering conversations with each other in public restrooms. Your emotional catharsizes might be feeling great as you weep it out on the groady tile floor while your sympathetic gal pal nods and offers you advice on which life path to pursue next, but you have to remember that there are innocent women attending to their business in stalls just a few feet away from you and they (I) don't want to bear witness to your breakdown. Some women (me) seek the public restroom because in addition to having to pee they need to momentarily escape from the tumult of the outside world, but here you are in their (less than ideal) sanctuary, tumulting all over the place. Also the more you weep the longer you stay in the bathroom and some people (me again) are self-conscious about their bathroom habits and want to walk out of their stall to an empty bathroom and not feel judged for not washing their hands because public bathroom soap always dries their hands out and it's not like they've really touched anything to warrant washing their hands anyway plus they have hand sanitizer at their desk so back off! So please. Take it elsewhere. 

three.
I'm starting to wonder if these takes are quick enough. Am I doing okay? I really hate doing anything incorrectly. 

four.
Speaking of which. The Boy is showing traces of perfectionism at the ripe old age of 7. It's both incredibly endearing and nail-bitingly frustrating. Last night he had a melt down because he couldn't fit his Spanish vocabulary word into the allotted box on his homework worksheet, and if he can't fit it in then what's the point of doing any of it at all and the world is a horrible place and why do I even have to do this and on and on and on. There were alligator tears and a lot of fist clenching. J sat with him and tried to calm him down while I tried to think of ways to explain the perfectionism trait to a seven year old in a way that would both inform and comfort him. If someone had told me at a young age that I would never be done chasing perfection in my work I really think the following years of junior high and high school might have felt less hectic to me. I would have spent less time wondering why I was worrying my essays and math homework into perfect margins with perfect penmanship and perhaps more time focusing on the content of the assignments. Perhaps. 

five.
I am realizing that most Americans have never experienced the perfect banana and probably have no idea what they're even missing. I know all about perfect bananas though, so let me tell you how they should taste. The perfect banana is just barely green. Like it's coming off its green and it's mostly yellow but that delicate canary yellow bordering on meringue lime yellow, not the sunflower deep yellow. It should be nice and firm without a single brown spot or soft spot to the touch, and when you take a bite out of it, you shouldn't hear the soft sound of banana slowly separating from banana but a pert and brisk sound or no sound at all. Also when you chew it, it should offer just the slightest bit of resistance and then when you swallow it should have the most pleasantly fruity aftertaste, not a dull sugary aftertaste that sticks to the back of your throat and makes you want to inhale water and scrape your tongue.

The reason I know all of this is because when I was still a tot in Russia, perfect bananas were all that we ate. They got imported from somewhere tropical because goodness knows no banana tree would survive a Russian winter, but because they were imported they were all very exotic and special and perfect. I remember standing in line for them at five in the morning with my mom to get some.

The reason I bring this up at all is because I hardly ever buy bananas anymore since they're usually overripe and gross or under-ripe and never ripen properly at home, but I bought one at Raley's on a craving whim this past Monday and it was the perfect banana. I scarfed it and with each bite I was taken back to my young days in Russia. Food is powerful. 

six.
The Girl was getting her bedtime on yesterday. Her eyes were already half-closed and her voice groggy with sleep when she busted out with, "Leila, girls don't have beards, only boys do." And then she was down for the count. This wasn't her first nighttime revelation. Just a few nights prior she observed that caterpillars don't have noses. Check them facts. Girl ain't wrong. 

seven.
It's fall and there is yellow evvverrryyywherrreee!

I loooveee yellow!

Happy Friday everyone!

Brown Thumbing

I'm starting to think the third floor is not hospitable to plant life. Either that or we just have thumbs the color of dirt up here. First the cucumbers succumbed to an aphid infestation. Then the pumpkins went the way of the dead and decaying only two days after we carved them. Now the IKEA tree is drying out.

Aren't IKEA plants supposed to be indestructible? It's not like we're not watering the plant life up here. It's not like we're not feeding the plants nutritious soil bought in a prefilled bag from Target. I mean what does it take to keep a plant alive around here?

Oh good lord I just googled the tree we have. It's called the money tree people. These trees are typically associated with good financial fortune. Does that man our financial "fortune" (snort) is going the way of the dead and decaying too?

Are our bank accounts going to dry from the roots up? And no wonder the tree is drying out. These trees need a tropical climate. Folsom had a particularly dry summer and now the winter chill is setting in and bringing with it central heating and closed doors and windows. Also we happen to keep this guy right by the gas fireplace. Whose bright idea was it to sell these in Northern California?

At least the dogs are still alive and kicking.