leavin’ you makes me want to die.

Chicks, we’ve made it to Friday. And although it’s only 9:30, I am sure this day will go smoothly and soon I will be cruising in to Saturday, beach, sun, and waves.

Despite the fact that we’re smack in the middle of June Gloom.

This is the view from my office window as we speak. The marine layer should burn off by noon, which is my thinking for tomorrow when we head to Zuma beach.

This is Zuma beach. It’s a great beach to spend a Saturday on. It’s up in Malibu, and it’s quite, clean, and the sand and surf are pristine, calm, and yet full of energy.

I plan on reading most of the book club, catching on National Geographic, and doing a crossword puzzle. And wearing my new bathing suit. And swimming. And listening to tunes. Preferably Martha’s Vineyard radio.

Sunday brings farmers market, cleaning.up.our.act, massages, and maybe laundry if we’re feeling particularly adventurous.

What are y’all doing this weekend?

 

 

Must of been love (could've been fate…)

Here comes fall. Here goes nothing. Here comes nights darkened by five, evenings of tea, book club, crafts, laughter, love. Here comes yoga, brisk walks home, smiles at work, a season full of hope. Here comes soccer, children running, trying to keep warm, here in this 55 degree weather, these cali-babies can’t handle it. Here comes squash, Thanksgiving, truly being thankful for this LA family and LA life. Here comes pumpkin carving, a new tradition. Here comes face paint. Here goes nothing. Here comes you, and me, spending time there, and here, and all over. Here comes new restaurants in LA. Here comes date nights. Here comes wool socks. Here comes try number three, turkey number three. Here comes another tree. A second Christmas at our first apartment. Here’s to our home. Here comes Camp Waterloo, Christmas cookies, New Year’s with my sister and her fiance and those Chicago friends I’ve missed.

Here goes nothing. 2010, I know we’re not through, just yet…



Triathlon Blues

This is my sister.

This is her climbing a wall in LA. She’s afraid of heights, but when she came to visit, she insisted we go rock climbing, as it is something she wanted to try.

Nikki is having a little Triathlon Blues this week, and who can blame her? Her Tri is less than two weeks away, and she’s sick of getting up early, of only ever working out, and probably sick of writing about it. That’s where I come in.

When my sister and I were younger, we both played soccer. She was better (but I still maintain I was faster.) We played piano: she was better. We both wrote (she was better) and we both took joy out of being mean to each other (she, most definitely, was better.) I had a blog: she wanted one. (Hers is funnier.) Although I am mostly better at bossing people around, and baking, she is better than most things. I’d like to think it’s because she is two years older, so two years wiser, but I suspect it’s because she maintains the attitude of “oh yea? I can’t do whatever I want, just because I am a woman, short, and don’t have much directional sense? Watch me.”

And so, when my sister, who used to share an equal hate with me of running, declared that she loved running and was going to do a triathlon, (the idea of my sister swimming in open water made me laugh and want to call the Coast Guard all at once) I wasn’t that surprised.

She ran, a lot. She had already run 5ks, and a half marathon. With hills. Which had ALREADY surprised me.

She started swimming because the doctor told her she couldn’t run. Tendinitis be damned, this girl was GOING to work out, and you couldn’t stop her. This was nearly a year ago, and she’s now up to swimming a full mile, in OPEN WATER. Do you think I’ll be hoping in the Pacific any time soon to swim a mile? (Nope, not after this year’s special on Great White Sharks, and also, I can’t swim really…)

Then, girl writes on April 1 (so let’s be honest, she could have been joking) that in August she was going to do a Triathlon. SERIOUSLY? Is there nothing my sister won’t do? All I do is yoga, Nikki: you’ve beat me. You can stop now, I swear.

In June, my sister bought a bike.

For those of you who don’t know, my sister and I learned how to ride bikes at the same time. I am pretty sure I was up and off training wheels first. Her coordination is lacking, and although I bike through the streets of LA, I couldn’t foresee my sister EVER wanting to do so in Chicago. But here was the evidence, on her blog, of her, fearless (almost) and biking to the lake.

So let’s go over the timeline, one more time:

October, 2009: My sister gets tendinitis, and is told she can’t run. So she swims.

April 1, 2010: My sister decides that she’s going to do a triathlon.

June 11, 2010: She buys a bike

July 14, 2010: She gets into the open water for her first open water swim.

August 29, 2010: My sister will be doing her first triathlon.

Unfortunately, I won’t be there to cheer her on, and see how awesome she does. But for now, I am basically trying to tell her (and you, so you can tell her, too) that she is going to do fine. Better than fine. Great. Wonderful. She is doing something that I have never even considered. She is doing something that a year ago I would have found crazy. She has trained for almost 5 months for something, devoting most of her free time to it, and Tendinitis, coordination, avid triathletes be damned: she will win, because she will finish. And then, by September, she will be on to a new crazy project: the next one, I hope, will involved yoga, and getting herself to a handstand. Nikki: you will be wonderful. Get get ’em.

This weekend was:

Sunshine. Scrambled eggs. My favorite girls. Tunes in my kitchen. Yoga at the gym. “Oh, we’re subleasing.” Downward facing dog. Triangle. Airplane. Walking home in the sunshine. Packing for the beach. Books, towels, blankets, pizza. Sun. In the car, tunes up, windows down, friends surrounding friends. Busy beach, moving on, quiet beach. Laughing so hard you cry. Sun. Blanket spread, friends arriving. “These are my friends from high school.” Loving getting to say that, over and over again. Explaining how we’re all friends. Running in the water. Video taping it. K, B, and I in the water. Getting tossed out of the ocean by the waves. Bruises from the sea [no, thank you, you are not admitted.] Laying out. Showers on the beach. Wedding on the beach. Reading on the beach. Sleeping on the beach. Bleachers on the beach. Nerf football. Chattering away at each other. Birthday wishes. Sun going down, lifeguards arriving. Young lifeguards. Time to leave. Packing it up, in, and out. Changing, laughing, sun dipping. Pictures. Two cars, four girls, makeup on. Smiles, oohs and ahhs, pictures. Camera on timer, on the car. Friendly passerby shooting our smiles, or glances at the sea, and the helicopter. Dinner. Fancy restaurant, by the sea. Seated, by the kitchen. A bottle of wine. New friends, old friends. Seafood, Alfredo. Mud Pie. Laughing, laughing. Smiles. Stories, long and short. Hugs, mints flavored like sugar, and hugs. Valet cars, and home. Traffic. Life stories, on the streets of LA, through the night, to home. Rent. Rent checks. Back in the car. More life stories, because the traffic in LA is never light, and the load on your heart is never lifted.

Sleep. Wake.

Bikes. Farmer’s market. Is that man dead? No, I think no. Garlic, and so large it is. Peaches, because they are too good to resist. Sunshine on my shoulders, bike grease on my hands. “Do you always get this much stuff” because the bag was so heavy. 5 ears of corn. Ride home, dead man walking, dead man gone. Sun. Home. K and M home, too. Some water, some rest. Clean the kitchen — more guests coming. avocado brie toast. Clean out the cooler. Thank you, K. Onto the Grove, for movies. Missed movie…Crate and Barrel. Wanting to own every piece of furniture. “Where do you send your samples?” and Barbara. Loving everything. Teeny spoon. Too late again, fourth row? A fourth friend. Seated two by two, laughing inappropriate loud throughout — parts funny, and not. Movie over, 6:40. Just like she said.

Home, change, borrow clothes, Corelyn you’re a saint. Pink Taco. For five. At eight. No, for three. At eight thirty. Slowly back to five…friends, stories, epic stories, family trees, timelines. Tahiti. Not going to Tahiti. Ever. It’s a volcano. So many tacos, so good. Sangria, by the pitcher, because we can. Dark atmosphere, light hearts.

Outside. Dark. 10:00. Photographs on the stairs, by the blue wall. Jumping, jumping high fives, band photos. I am the lead singer. Smiles, not smiles, advertisements for who knows what. “Remember when we had a band?” “Oh, you mean Frost?” Because I had forgotten we named it. “Just kiss her.” More photos. Tree lights, Jeff lying on the ground, photos. Mannequins, poses, smiles, laughing. “You know what would be a great shot?” Three cameras. 11:02. Let’s get out of here, Diddy Riese.

Diddy Riese. Short line. Share a sandwich, taste all three. More laughs, more smiles. 11:48. “Would you like to be in our short documentary?” Are you sleep deprived? Yes, right now. Laughs, chats. Snapped Achilles? Interesting story. Visual journalism. So, so nice to meet you, good luck. 12:00. In the car, home. 12:20. Best. Weekend. Ever.