American idyll.

I watched the sun fall tonight behind a row of terracotta-colored houses. From a chair on the screened-in balcony, I sat and listened to the frogs and the birds and other little things that go chirp in the night. I watched the trees' reflections on the lake as a duck made a slow V towards his little duck family waiting on the opposite bank.

There are 230 homes in my development, and I can't hear a single neighbor.

Not a one.

Not a sneeze, not a cough, not a game show, not a noisy muffler, not a "hey, get me another beer", not a "fuck you, asshole, I'm not your goddamned maid", not a bachata, not a merengue, not a salsa, not a Lil' Wayne, not a Young Jeezy, not a Nirvana cover by the drunk white guy in the back on his gee-tar. Not a fart, not a flush, not a sinkful of dirty dishes, not a screaming child, not a peacock on the loose, not two stray cats fucking, not an argument over cards, not a headboard banging against the wall from the cow next door.

Nothing. Nada. Niente.

I'm the happiest girl in the world.

:)

The Emily-Inspired Haircut

It's the height of summer, and super-sticky outside. I fell in love with my friend Amy's daughter Emily's hair, which is cut up to the nape of her neck and angles down against her jawline. (No, Jackie, I am not turning into that crazy woman that spends hours every morning braiding and curling and taking pictures of her daughters' hair, and I couldn't find that website again if you had a gun to my head).

I didn't cut it as short as Emily's because a)I have no idea what I'm doing and b) I would have kept evening out both sides until her hair fell at eyebrow level.

She looked in the mirror and exclaimed, "I look beautiful!".

I wonder where she gets THAT from??? :)

A Steamy Day

Recently we met up with my friend Amy from Missouri, who is visiting Fort Lauderdale while her husband attends a conference here. Amy and I were pregnant together, but Malena decided to make a grand entrance three months early, so she and Amy's Adam are actually three months apart.

We went over to my favorite park. It was raining lightly, and we set out on a nature hike. By the time we had looked at bugs and flowers and made a trip to the bathroom, the sun had returned and the park had become sticky and humid. We trekked back to the car with the kids (I won't lie, I selflessly carried everyone) and spread out a blanket under a tree while Malena and Adam filled up water bottles from the ladies' room and watered the grass.

Doesn't Emily have the best hair? I took a million photos of it so I could sneak up on Malena with the kitchen scissors and try to replicate it. Emily and Adam are the best kids ever, and I can't get over how sweet they are with each other. There was no beating over the head, hair pulling, purple nerples, or wedgies of any kind. (By the kids, I mean. There's no accounting for me.)

:)

A Girl of the Times

Somedays, I'm just a guinea pig trying to get a food pellet.

It was about 12:30, and I was frantically searching the Starbucks website to find one near me that was open past midnight. My mind was mentally mapping a route to one about 15 miles away with a drive-thru that I was almost sure was open until 2am. I knew I had some work to do tonight, and an appointment in the morning so early that sleep would be more wasted downtime than anything, and I was in desperate need of caffeine.

That's right, I said "wasted downtime". What part of "single mother" are you not getting?

The real annoyance with the Starbucks website is that all the store locations say "Please call this store directly for store hours". Why?? That just means I'll have to talk to someone. No-o-oo, thank you. That is why the internet was born, and I intend to celebrate that concept to the fullest extent. Why not just write them a letter, include a self-addressed, stamped envelope, and ask them to mail me a brochure? Call the store. Jeez.

Frustrated, I walked into the kitchen for a glass of filtered water, because Oprah says we're not using bottles anymore, and it turns out water comes right out of a faucet in my kitchen, anyways. That's when I spotted the thing with the plug on the counter.

Coffee maker. Riiiight. I opened a cabinet, and spotted a bag of... what do they call it? Ground coffee... and it even had the nice Starbucks logo on the side. Thank goodness, or I may never have put two and two together.

Now I just need to go and wake up my neighbor, so someone's in the house to hand me the coffee when I drive up to my kitchen window.

It's Got a Basket, a Bell That Rings and Things That Make It Look Good

I woke up in a crappy mood today. It wasn't intentional. I'm trying to figure out the cause of my insomnia, so I'm in a "test phase" while I try and determine why I can't sleep and how I can start sleeping again. The crap mood was just a result of getting three hours' sleep.

I realized the best thing for me was to get on the bike and ride, so I headed over to the park for a little while. It was so hot out that the park was practically empty, but I did see a fantastic turtle, a cardinal, a racoon, and a bunch of bright green iguanas that looked like miniature dinosaurs running across the road. For a girl that grew up in New York, I get really happy when I get to witness small moments in nature by myself.

The bike ride did the trick. I rode about 7-8 miles. I would have done more, but I had to work. It was so hot out that I was totally covered in sweat by the time I was done, but my mood had improved by 1000%. I was listening to Pavarotti and cello concertos on my iPod and singing along as I rode the loop under sea grape trees and oaks.

So now I know that biking and singing in italian can improve my mood - I just wish I knew what would knock me out so I could avoid cranky altogether. I think detaching myself from my laptop may be a fabulous first step. :)

How are you? Shut up.

Today I was at Whole Foods. The cashier made eye contact, and said "Hello". I said "Hello”. He said "How are you?". I said "Fine, thank you, how are you", and he said nothing and started ringing up my groceries.

Why do we ask each other how we are?

And why, when someone we don't really know or have any particular connection to asks us how we are, do we say "fine, thank you, how are you"?

Seriously. Do you really care how I am? And seriously, am I ever really going to tell you? What if the answer was "gassy" or "in love with your husband"? What are you going to do with those bits of information?

What you're really saying with "how are you" is "I'm supposed to be interested in your well-being" or "I care about people other than myself". Do you really? Tell you what. I don't care.

Hello.

And then, she finally got tired of living responsibly.

Hey, there, other drivers in my city.

You don't think I see you, but I do. I see you.

I see your frightened little faces in my rearview mirror as you stare at me, open-mouthed, while I drive over railroad tracks or a strangely enormous speed bump. I'm watching you, looking in horror at the bike bouncing around on the bike rack that appears to be attached to my trunk, although, it doesn't really look like it's attached to anything.

Guess what?

It isn't.

Can you see the 7,000 straps attached to the bike rack that are currently flying in the breeze? That's right. I can't figure out where they go. There are some black nubby things with some velcro straps on them that look like they would be helpful in holding the bike down, but seriously, I've tried securing that velcro three times, and it just doesn't stick to anything.

You think this bike rack came with a certification, or a class or something? Honey, I don't even know if it came with instructions. I certainly didn't read any. And that's why, as you drive behind me clutching the steering wheel with white knuckles, I'm giggling softly to myself, because I know something you don't know.

You couldn't pay me to drive behind me. I know just how incompetent I am. I also know that as we near this next speedbump, I'm sending a text message with my thumb and singing along with "Baby Got Back", and yet there you are, driving behind me for FREE, and you have the nerve to look at me funny.

Dummy.

WHEE!!!!!!!

You're not the boss of me.

Tonight, the kid and I had dinner at Zona Fresca, and I spontaneously decided to head over to the park for a quick walk before they closed. The park closes their main road an hour before closing for exercising, which is great. I think the loop is 1.7 miles. It's really pretty, and there were a bunch of people rollerblading, running, and bike riding. I pushed Malena in her stroller as she chatted away.

It was a beautiful night, just around twilight, but I was totally wearing the wrong shoes. My new and hastily-purchased flip flops started ripping the skin off of my feet about 1/4 mile into our walk. And so I did the rest of the walk barefoot. The asphalt felt much better than the hellshoes, but my feet started to sting by the time we got back to the car.

I must have winced while tiptoeing around and opening car doors, because Malena looked at me and sternly admonished, "You can't just walk in your feet. You have to put shoes on. Look at me, I have shoes on." Then she turned and began climbing up into her carseat in a serious manner.

Two guys leaning against a car and drinking water after a long run looked at her with one raised eyebrow, and laughed at me in sympathy.

Whose kid is this?

Those aren't my feet in the photo, by the way. They're Ramses I, and are about 3,298 years old. They look like mine, though.

I Just Can't Get Enough

Today was beautiful. I was driving around town on errands, it was 84F/29C, and the sky was a bright, clean blue. On the radio, the song above began playing -- I suddenly opened the sunroof and all the windows, and cranked up the music of my wayward teenaged years.

First of all, you have to check out the video. It's so horrible, it's wonderful. This song was released in the UK in 1981, and you can just FEEL the 80's exploding in this video. Just look at Dave Gahan. He looks like a 19-year old that just had angry revenge sex for the first time in his life, like, 5 minutes before they began shooting. God bless 'im.

I think I went to my first Depeche Mode concert in 1984. My boyfriend's dad (or was he my best friend's boyfriend at the time, I don't remember) sent three or four of us his limo for the evening. We opened the sunroof as we headed into Manhattan, had the driver put in our CASSETTE (you heard me) and crank it up as we stuck our obnoxious juvenile little heads out the roof of the car and yelled at pedestrians. The seating in Radio City was covered in red velvet, and giant waves of pot smoke wafted into us as we screamed our stupid faces off. I wandered out at one point, looking for the bathroom, and collided with an incredibly wobbly boy with soft, curly brown hair. I asked him if he was ok, and he gently grabbed my shoulders and whispered "I smoked too much". It was my first life encounter with someone of the opposite sex who was out of control and yearned for my help and guidance, even if it was only me who knew it.

(Guffaw).

The boy with the chocolate-brown eyes usually reserved for baby calves and dying war heroes's name was Ben, and at that very moment, I decided that if I ever had a son, his name would be Ben. For the stupid little stoned boy I met at a Depeche Mode concert in 1984.

Let's not question my cosmically moronic decisions right now, the point of this blog, and yes, I do have one, is about the music.

And I began to wonder (here we go) to myself, if it's just the memories of the emotions from my youth that cause me to wing open the sunroof and turn up the music until the back speakers are booming? Am I hanging on to a feeling from a time in my life when I was completely free, with at least TEN solid years ahead of me where I could safely do nothing but fuck up and still come out ok in the end? (Ok, debatable, but roll with it.)

NO, I decided, as Daughtry came on and I stepped on the gas pedal with a big mental "Woo hoo!" and started racing the kid next to me in a blue Mustang. I'm still living.

:)

If you could just smell my blog.

I haven't been cooking lately.

It's hot out, I've been working a lot, I'm going to die alone.... somewhere along there, I kind of lost my mojo. I've been meaning to. The fridge is stuffed with slowly wilting good intentions. I just haven't felt the inspiration.

Tonight, however, I realized that when I'm not completely mindful of the choices I'm making for myself, big or small, I'm probably not taking the best care of myself that I could be. So the kid and I went to the market, and I bought a cartful of vegetables and a gigantic watermelon.

I had watermelon for dinner. I won't lie, I still wasn't inspired. I put her to bed, I watched a movie, and decided I still wasn't tired. I went into the kitchen and started peeling and chopping and trimming and I made a gigantic pot of vegetable soup. Not a big deal. Except it's midnight. And I'm playing my Nina Simone and chopping up a leek and I realized that I love food. Not just eating it, although that's up there, but I like rinsing it off and cutting it up and making it into something. Leeks are sexy. The white part of them can be such a satiny, bright white, but the green parts are such a deep green, and they have such an amazing texture. I like how they look in my hands when I toss them into the pot. I am now in love with the leek.

So I'm sitting here, reading a book that a friend wrote about food, and enjoying my new romance with the Allium porrum. The house smells fantastic. And tomorrow, when I peel myself away from my computer for lunch, it will be like the soup fairies were here.

Seriously. I wish my blog had scratch-n-sniff. You have no idea what you're missing.