Life is just beachy
04/23/2011
I grew up on the beaches of Lake Erie. Beach volleyball, beach bonfires, beach bike rides and (gasp!) even beach fishing were among my activities. I bought economy size baby oil, not because I had a baby, but because it produced a killer tan. Yet, I’ve never considered myself a beach person. Maybe because in my mind “beach people” were only in the cast of Baywatch. I’ve since learned that’s not true, and that I could definitely enjoy life as a beach person…
Day 1:
It’s spring break. I’m not a wild college girl or a Clark County School District student. So what am I doing in Oceanside, California on a Wednesday night at 11 p.m., chilled out on a balcony, beach towel wrapped around my legs, ocean 40 yards away, overlooking the lush grounds of North Coast Village with a salty sea breeze blowing through my turned-curly-upon-arrival hair? Did I mention I’m sipping Corona? My biggest concern…should I run north or south on the beach at sunrise? Life is exceptionally exceptional at the moment.
I had no intention of blogging about my little three-night California adventure with my friend and her 8-year-old daughter. Wasn’t even going to throw my laptop in my duffel. Flies in the face of minimalist packing. Turns out, my traveling companions hit the hay early and I couldn’t resist packing my computer. What’s a lonely girl with a Mac and an imagination to do but blog about it?
So here I sit, reflecting on the past 12 hours and anticipating my date with Shamu tomorrow. Here’s what’s struck me since arriving in my next-door-neighbor state…
- When a 5-hour car ride flies by and your throat hurts, you know you have yourself a great friend.
- Why do I want to wash off my makeup the minute I get to California?
- It’s okay to be as excited as a 5-year-old on Christmas Eve when you get to your oceanfront condo. You can even jump up and down a little.
- Sometimes you just have to eat three huge slices of pizza (and wash them down with bread sticks).
- Walking in the waves under the moon…in a category of amazingness unto itself.
Day 2:
Something about California just makes you relax your shoulders and want to get blond highlights. It also makes you want to write exclusively in bullet points…
- Getting up before sunrise, running six miles in the surf and throwing rocks in the waves…nirvana.
- Shopping at Pappy’s market and checking out with Pauly is as fun as it sounds.
- Did I miss my calling as a killer whale trainer? Shumu rocks.
- Why is cooking dinner in a beach condo kitchen so much more fun than cooking in my own?
- When your 8-year-old travel mate asks you to perform (that is, type as fast as you can with no errors) again and again…and she giggles hysterically…you know you’re officially buddies.
Day 3:
I could get used to this. Life is just easier and breezier by the ocean. Paragraphs are so overrated…dude.
- Makeup, shmakeup.
- Surfers really are cool. So are bait shop owners.
- When you run past cadets and they scream “Good morning, ma’am…” you know it’s going to be a good day. (I know they’re trained like dogs to say that to every “ma’am.” Indulge me, would you!)
- It’s hard not to collect rocks.
- The best days require no car.
- Remember when Monica’s hair went wild in Barbados? That really happens.
- Best bud Donna drove up from San Diego for coffee. Friend Marji drove over from Vista to chat on the balcony. Getting visitors on vacation is excellent.
- While my travel mate made a grocery run, I nervously watched her daughter at the ocean. She began burying herself in sand. I highly encouraged it and readily assisted to keep her in one place. It only seems wrong now.
- I wouldn’t mind starring in a Corona commercial.
- It’s after 11 and I’m on the balcony…should I sleep here? If I crack the screen door I’ll still be able to hear the ocean when I lay down on the couch. Good night…
- Humidity, I will miss you…you made 24 miles of beach running feel effortless.
- I haven’t seen any in Oceanside, but I’m pretty sure the cows in California really are happy.
- When you start thinking about the emotional state of cows, you know it’s’ time to pack your beach bag and head home…
Something about this vacation changed me a little bit.
For the better.
I’ll be back.
They say it’s your birthday
03/23/2011
I remember my Dad’s 30th birthday. At nearly 4, I was given the important job of taping black balloons to the mantle. It was the best bash of my life for a dad I adored! (And I didn’t even get to attend the grown-up portion of the party…that is, the party.)
It’s 30 years later. Dad turns 60 tomorrow. I bought him a driver for golf, which he could have bought himself. What he can’t get at golfwarehouse.com is this, my humble attempt to explain what he means to me…what he’s taught me.
“My father didn’t tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it.” –Clarence B. Kelland
I watched him love my mom…I learned how to love.
I watched him marvel at little joys…I learned how to appreciate the everyday.
I watched him take pride in his home…I learned how to make a home.
I watched him work hard, harder than anyone…I learned how to give it my all.
I watched him ski, run, bike, golf and play everything…I learned how to be active.
I watched him laugh at himself…I learned not to take myself too seriously.
I watched him honor his parents…I learned how to maintain bonds across the miles.
I watched him handle disappointments…I learned that life isn’t always fair.
I watched him cry at the national anthem…I learned how lucky I was to be born here.
I watched him enjoy a beer, or three…I learned life is meant to be lived.
I watched him volunteer for Special Olympics, and saw the adoration those exceptional athletes had for him…I learned how to be inspired.
I watched him achieve his career goals in special education…I learned how to set goals.
I watched him build everything imaginable…I learned how to be creative.
I watched him give advice…I learned how to take advice.
I watched him be a loyal friend…I learned we’re all in this together.
I watched him move our mailbox to accommodate my basketball hoop…I learned that everyone deserves a chance.
I watched him back his car into my mom’s car…I learned life is too short to have a hissy fit.
I watched him be the best dad imaginable…I learned that I am one lucky daughter.
Dad, I love you. Cheers to you!
“Where the Sheep Have No Name”
03/15/2011
I’m not Irish. I don’t like lamb. I can barely find something green to wear for St. Patrick’s Day…I do like love Guinness. Bono is dreamy sexy. But, I’m getting ahead of myself.
For an unforgettable week in 2008, I channeled my inner leprechaun and got my Gaelic on with my amazing travel mates. Along with sis Julie and our husbands, Ron (mine) and Matt (hers), we circumnavigated Southern Ireland in a piece-o-junk Opel and made memories to last a lifetime.
Call it the “Luck o’ the Italian-Polish girls” and their agreeable husbands…we scored a rare opportunity for together time. Our only expectation: fun! Our only needs: duffel bag, jeans, travel pants, hiking shoes, sweater, rain jacket, basic toiletries, earrings. Our adventure supported the point of this blog. Less is fabulous.
Matt was photographer. Julie, chief map reader. Ron learned the language (an esteemed and critical role when we were going to go to Italy, not Ireland). I took naps in the backseat. We be-bopped from Shannon to Galway to Dingle to Limerick to Tipperary to Cork to Dublin. We marveled at castles, countryside, 
caves, cliffs, cows and…cream. No non-dairy creamer in the back country. Coffee is served with a big greasy dollop of the real deal. (Hold the cream. Just give me the scone.)
When I look back at photos, it strikes me that our best memories weren’t made at tourist stops. They were made on bar stools, streets, off-the-beaten-paths and in that Opel minivan.
None of it was on the itinerary. Leads me to believe the Luck o’ the Irish is this: they’re lucky enough to know life is best experienced without an itinerary.
This St. Patrick’s Day, I’m raising a Guinness to our shenanigans (origin of that fabulous word is unknown, sure sounds Irish to me!), and to you. Thank you for being a loyal reader and joining me on this journey.
A Viking reenactment? OK!
What exactly did they sell?
It never got old. (Matt left, Ron right)
Neither did this. (Me left, Julie right)
Trip mascot, sheep pencil we named "Baaahhhb."
When we got tired...yep.
Ron kissing the Blarney...wrong stone.
Rock of Casbah? Ohhh! Rock of Cashel.
A souvenir.
Probably frowned upon.
Vegas or bust: Lessons from the road
07/07/2010
Nine years ago today we were homeless.
My husband and I had sold our adorable brick Cape Cod in Erie, Pennsylvania for the promise of warm weather, career opportunities and a new life in Las Vegas, Nevada. We were heading to a sight unseen apartment complex and to-be-assigned one-bedroom rental unit in Sin City. The apartment brochure promised free, hot-from-the-oven Otis Spunkmeyer cookies daily in the lobby. Where do we sign?
For five amazing days in the summer of 2001 our address was 1999 Honda Civic.
It was just us, travel essentials and our most important worldly possessions. The list included our wedding album, family photos, our computers and an aloe houseplant that made the entire cross-country journey perched at my feet on the passenger side. Why did I feel the need to let a meaningless houseplant crowd my feet for a 3,000-mile ride? Hey, I was about to sign a lease because the management company dangled chocolate chip cookies in front of me. People do weird things when they leave home.
Knowing that we could never go back (even though physically it would have only required throwing the Honda in reverse) and that a huge question mark punctuated the horizon was both exhilarating and terrifying.
We had no home. We had no idea what Vegas was really like. We had no friends waiting to greet us with open arms.
We had no cell phone of our own.
Oh, and our stuff was en route via moving van, with no guarantee as to when or in what condition it would arrive.
It was the best journey of my life.
I’ve been fortunate enough to enjoy some pretty good times too, including visiting cities from sea to shining sea, hanging out in beautiful Canada, cruising the Caribbean and exploring much of Ireland. I’m no Samantha Brown, but I’ve logged a few frequent flier miles and have had some amazing dining (and drinking, thank you Ireland!) experiences.
None if it compared to our time on the open road.
Here’s what I learned from that once-in-a-lifetime trip:
- The United States is overwhelmingly beautiful, vast and amazing. You should drive cross country at least once.
- The best experiences aren’t the most expensive ones. We spent less than $500 on gas, hotels, food and sightseeing. Primitive, yes. Thrilling and a little gritty in a reality TV show kind of cool way, yes.
- Stuff doesn’t matter. All that matters is the person sitting next to you in the driver’s seat and the loved ones back home cleaning up from the goodbye parties.
- Don’t try to make good time. If you do you’ll miss seeing the horse race at Churchill Downs, the Grand Ole Opry, the Oklahoma City Memorial, Graceland and the Painted Desert.
- Don’t make reservations. There will always be a Motel 6. They’ll leave the light on for you.
- Do pose in front of the Route 66 sign. You might not be back.
- Put down your book and keep the toothpicks handy. Read and sleep later. Keep your eyes open and inhale the landscape.
- Don’t ask “Are we there yet?” You will be soon enough, and then your magical coach will turn back into a pumpkin. You have the rest of your life to drive the pumpkin. Enjoy the coach.
- Arkansas is scary. There are highways in Texas with no speed limits. The mountains in New Mexico really are purple.
- It’s true what they say. The journey is the destination.
The Early Bird Gets Way More Than The Worm
05/20/2010
I would make a good farmer.
Although I’ve never seriously considered it a career option, I have at least part of the trade mastered: I am an early riser. I’m not talking crawl out of bed at 7:45 a.m., linger in a bathrobe, sip coffee until 9 a.m. and then consider a shower and the day’s itinerary. I’m an extreme early riser, as in up and at ‘em between 4:30 and 4:45 a.m. Sleeping in means 6 a.m.
Once following surgery I slept until 10 a.m. Meds were involved.
Getting up pre-dawn is part of my DNA. I’ve done it my entire life. I love it. It’s the best-kept secret.
The early bird gets…
- The first hot shower.
- Satisfaction in keeping pace with the East Coast.
- Silence.
- The laundry done before breakfast.
- The pick of cardio machines and weights, plus room to stretch.
- A Starbucks barista at the top of her game.
- To see wildlife before humans interrupt. (Recent sightings include a coyote and peacock.)
- Quiet time to read and write.
- The freshest produce. (Grocery stores stock in the wee hours.)
- No line when paying for said produce.
- An easy, breezy drive to wherever.
- The best parking spot.
- To listen to BBC. (Can’t get enough of those accents!)
- An amazing feeling when the to-do list is done by 8:30 a.m.
- The calm that comes from never feeling rushed.
- To see the sun come up.
- Confirmation that Las Vegas does sleep. (You could walk down the middle lane of the Strip safely at 5 a.m.)
- The entire day to just…ahhhh…enjoy.
- To wonder if she could really make it as a farmer.
- The worm.
When you sleep until noon on Sunday, isn’t getting up for work on Monday a nightmare? When you lay around, don’t you just want to lay around more? I’m a firm believer that excess sleep is a waste of time. We need what we need, and then we should get up and move on with it. Sleeping shouldn’t be a hobby, pastime or excuse for not (insert excuse). Less is fabulous once your batteries are recharged.
Do you agree? Disagree? Want to sneak that worm into my plate of pasta? Let’s talk. Share your comments or add to my list if you are a fellow early birdie!
