Then there are times when the benefits of living here come very, very, very close to eclipsing the myopic din of blood oaths against capitalism. 

Yes, I’m talking about the benefits of living in wine country, where you can almost get drunk enough to make hippies tolerable. Yes, I have photos. Yes, I am hard up for material for a post. 

Wall with grapevines trailing up it.

Prickly pear and nopales cactus.

Winery door. 

Mission San Francisco Solano.

Holy water font at Mission San Francisco Solano.

Limantour beach.

Running on the beach.

Anyway, with today being a Monday and all and what with having two exams this week I don’t have a ton of time to post the f-lists right away. Therefore I’ll compile them in a post for Friday, so if there are more of you out there who’d like to give the internet an earful about those things you are sick of and never want to hear about again, leave a comment or e-mail me here.

…and now I’m going to post a bunch of photos from the weekend.Because I’m lazy like that.

A father and son paddle out in the surf at Lovers Point in Pacific Grove, California on October 26th, 2008.

A teenaged surfer hauls out of the water and heads over the rocks to the extreme end of Lovers Point where the larger waves are.

A mother and her son stop to take in the view from the Pacific Coast Highway where it winds through Monterey.

A sign designating the site of the Stanford-run Hopkins Marine Station.

Anchor Rock.

Bubble station at the JDRF walk in Pacific Grove on October 26th, 2008.

The fruit of a banana tree in my backyard.

A sign along the PCH during the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation’s annual fundraising walk.

Well, the morning started off with me having my transition point ganked by Athlete Number 948 who had apparently failed to realize that while number 948 was relatively close to 958 which was my number, they were not in fact one and the same. Luckily for her, Athlete Number 948 reappeared before I had the opportunity to douse her wetsuit in Tabasco or deflate her bicycle tires.

The incident was quickly forgotten however when, just five minutes later – I was at the inflation station letting the air out of the tires on my coach’s bike. To be fair, I hadn’t intended to let the air out of her tires but it sorta happened because, well, I’m retarded and I don’t know any better.

So it was that during the moments when my coach and I were supposed to be down at the beach enjoying a nice pre-race anxiety attack I was still in the transition area pleading with random strangers to please, please, please help me operate this hand-held device, I believe it is called a bicycle pump? Because I haven’t yet mastered the use of simple tools and I need to un-sabotage my coach’s equipment.

Finally we made it down to the beach in time to see this:

Of course video, photos and words cannot adequately convey the beauty of kelp forests or the thrill of the open water experience either and that kind of made up for the multiple elbows I took in the nose and having my goggles ripped off in the kelp.

In other words: the swim was crazy fun. However, I just have to ask: would it have been terribly unfair to shove the photographers off the cliff and into the sea? So far as I can tell there has never been a flattering photo taken of anyone wearing a wetsuit and I, for one, wouldn’t be heartbroken if I could make a beach exit without these people standing around prepared to create images of me looking like a bloated harbor seal.

Anyway, the rest of the race was pretty much a blur; I did intentionally crash on my way into Transition 2 when I failed to unclip from my bike in time. Basically, it came down to crashing or staying on the bike and being disqualified and I chose to eat asphalt. And if that choice makes no sense to you whatsoever then don’t worry – it just means your normal.

This is the entrance into T2 where every bicyclist except for me dismounted in an orderly  – and vertical – position. I only post this photo to show everyone the big DISMOUNT sign that notified people as far away as Japan that THOU SHALT GET OFF THINE BIKE HERE. And? Just in case athletes missed that message the sign was flanked by a bunch of over-caffeinated race officials shouting “DISMOUNT! DISMOUNT! DISMOUNT!”

Such features are very useful for people who, unlike me, have mastered the art of disengaging themselves from the tiny clips that keep their feet attached to their bike.

So after the swim was the bike and after the bike was the run and when my coach caught up to me during the run we looked at each other and simultaneously mouthed the words, “Dude, seriously… next year we sit on the sidelines and drink beer.”

If I don’t report back by Monday send out a search team.

Ok. For the last week.

Oh who am I kidding? I’ve been asking myself that question since a month ago when my quasi she’s-kind-of-my-coach divulged to me that, you know, that whole ocean swim thing? In water that’s only a few degrees shy of freezing and filled with jellyfish and kelp and great white sharks that are capable of killing you so dead you won’t move? She’s totally not done that like, ever. Not even so much as dipped a toe in the ocean. She just figured she’d prance down to the beach all La!La!La! this Saturday and just dive in.

Side note: that’s how I know that she’s a REAL Californian. Because most Californians are smart enough to know that dude! That water’s freezing. And they don’t go in. Our beaches are populated solely by out-of-state tourists who’ve seen too much Baywatch.

Side-side note: I’m so fucked.

Anyway, this here is probably a post that will come as close to honesty as you’ll ever get out of me and you can thank my profound fear of water for that. Or anxiety. Or the bottle of tequila that’s sitting on my desk mocking me with its emptiness because I finished it before it finished my anxiety about this Saturday.

And since alcohol is supposed to remove inhibitions can I just say one thing before I go on?

I love you guys. Like, love. No really. LOVE. My readers are the BEST. I LOVE YOU GUYS.

Can I just say one more thing? 1 mile swim. Through kelp. 25 mile bike ride. 6 mile run.

Reprise of side-side note: I’m so fucked.

So I figured that since my most recent triathlon started off with a swim during which I freaked out in a most royal fashion and nearly had to abort, (I didn’t, I finished the damned thing more out of spite for my fear of water than anything) I would watch videos of last year’s event so that I could get a better idea of what race day will be like and therefore be mentally prepared.

And here’s what I was treated to:

Addendum to the side-side note: I’m so totally fucked.

At least I have the out-and-back bike ride through Pebble Beach to look forward to. And the run is through Monterey’s Cannery Row, which should be a delightful experience if I should make it that far without drowning or being eaten by a shark first.

I’ve never been more frightened in my life.

And I do this for fun?

I always get pretty depressed about the end of my summer. Not so much the weather part of it. That is guaranteed to hang on for another three months in these parts. I’m a little bummed about the end of Official Summer during which there is no school, no PTA and therefore no obligation to set down the tequila or put on clothes. I’m not ashamed to admit it: summers around here are kinda sorta clothing optional. 

Not strictly speaking of course – we don’t run completely naked through the hallways of Matulich Manor – it’s just that short of a presidential visit, I rarely find occasion to dress myself or my offspring up in anything more formal than swimsuits. I even managed to start my own salsa company last July wearing nothing more complex than a stringy tie-dyed number.

Pajamas. Bikini. Pajamas. Bikini. Pajamas. Bikini. Sunrise. Sunset.

Therefore I figured that I’d mark the final morning of Official Summer by jumping into the ocean for a swim over and through the massive kelp forests of Monterey Bay. 

I even wore a bikini for the occasion because I’m sentimental like that.

And I wore a wetsuit over the bikini because dude, that water’s freezing.  

If a better way to spend time has ever been devised I have yet to discover it. There is nothing more enjoyable than treading water offshore in the lift and roll of swells, pulling oneself through kelp beds in a half swim half crawl and watching the tourists watch the sea from the sea. Where else but a kelp bed can you lay around and watch the harbor seals pop their cat-like heads up close enough to cop a whisker feel?

And when it was over I was kinda bummed that this really, truly was IT. The End. Adios. Over. Gone. The period at the end of a well-loved quote.

I tried to be ok with it. And I was for a little bit, until I found myself sitting at the top of the stairs at my in-laws house in Santa Cruz where I could still smell the saltwater and seaweed coming off my sand-covered flip flops.

And that’s when I realized that I need to sell a ton of salsa or begin a life of high-paying white collar crime so I can just hang out at the beach year round.

Now that the six months are up I’m taking my newly chemically-cleansed liver out for a little recontamination session involving red wine, sashimi, beer and unprocessed cheese. I’ll probably be gone for a few days. Red wine and I have a lot of catching up to do.

Therefore I’m going to be lazy and do another photo post. I figure I have way too many photos piling up in the ol’ Flickr account lately and who better to put to sleep than the fine group of alcoholics who read my blog? Not that I believe for a second that all of you are alcoholics. I’m guessing that quite a few of you are potheads. I may even have a handful of closet painkiller addicts in here.

…but who am I to judge? I’m off to the nearest barstool where I plan on slurping margaritas until my liver is brought to its fleshy brown knees, so trust me when I say I’d be the last person to condemn the Mormon housewife up the street for popping a few vicodin in the morning to help her get through another day without abusing her seven offspring.

Anyway. Photos. Here.

I’m throwing you a bone Jay, since I know you are an enjoyer of the feminine curve. This bellydancer was dancing on the sidewalk in front of her studio as part of a larger community art festival held once a month in Sacramento.

A starfish adhered to the side of an aquatic column.

This one’s for you Neisel, I’ve never been able to go to an art show without thinking of you. This is a close-up of a gorgeous metal sculpture on display as part of Second Saturday.

At first I had wished that this photo had not been so horribly out of focus but after a while I came to like it better this way. A soupfin shark circles directly above my head while a bat ray and yellowfin tuna tool about closer to the water’s surface.

My local readers should recognize this vantage point immediately. It’s an east-facing view of the J Street Corridor taken from the north side of the street at Caesar Chavez Plaza.

Sunlight glints off a school of mackerel as they swim around and around and around and around and around and around. Hey, anyone else dizzy?

Detail of the hood joint on a Morris Minor parked as part of a larger display of vespas and unique automobiles at Second Saturday.

 A gaggle of stuffed snakes hang at a game booth on the boardwalk in Santa Cruz.

This one’s for you LL and DNR. This Harley was parked as part of a larger display illustrating how these bikes double as moving art.

Speaking of moving art, these fleshy little jellyfish are part of a display in Monterey in which the movement and color of the simple-minded invertebrates was highlighted.

A telephone box hangs next to a posted plea on the Golden Gate Bridge as part of an unmanned effort to waylay potential suicides. The text of the sign reads: Crisis Counseling – There is hope make the call – the consequences of jumping from this bridge are fatal and tragic.

Early morning in Pajaro, California.

A view during a luscious bike ride along the Pacific Coast Highway.

A banner commemorating one of my favorite authors.

That’s it, I’m out. There’s raw fish to be eaten and tequila to be swilled. See you folks on the other end of the coming weekend.

Also, the in-laws had taken their RV and skipped town, thus leaving their Santa Cruz County digs, fully-stocked liquor cabinet, porn collection and cache of guns lonely for company.

Kids? Meet Mr. Tequila and Mr. Glock. They’ll be your babysitters for the next two weeks.

Before our vacation I decided to try my hand at triathlons which means enduring the Pacific Ocean’s sub-Arctic conditions which means purchasing a wetsuit which means that somewhere between the words “Honey” and “I’m thinking about doing triathlons” my husband shelled out a few hundred bucks to cover his wife from neck to ankles in neoprene with nary a blowjob to show for it.

But he got even. And how.

So while we’re in SC we decide to take the kids out to the beach. He picked Sunset Beach; a lovely stretch of sandy coastline that shelves gently into Monterey Bay. It is quite a relaxing spot if you are, in fact, intelligent enough to remain on dry land.

At any rate, we arrived at the beach. I had my wetsuit. My husband and kids had parkas. We were ready for an authentic Northern California beach excursion minus the hypothermia that seems to plague bikini-clad tourists who’ve watched too much television.

I’m not going to bother going into detail about the ambivalent signage everywhere that indicated that yes, while it was true that one could technically swim at this particular beach, it was not generally advisable. Not that there were signs that specifically said “Keep Out” or “perhaps you should reconsider” or even “update your life insurance.” Instead, there was a plethora of directions on how to survive should the ocean throw an undertow, sleeper wave or riptide your way.

I’m also not going to bore you with details of waves several feet taller than me, jellyfish and kelp infested swells, or even the fact that I would have had to swim halfway to Japan to get beyond the surfline.

Sufficed to say, things were not going well. I was taking a ton of foam in the face and within ten minutes I felt like I had eaten a salt lick. Have I mentioned that I’m terrified of water? These are but a few of the reasons why – when I saw the nice boy with the lifeguard gear waving at me from the beach – I was more than happy to pack it in.

“What’s up? Is there a problem?” I asked the kid, not that I didn’t know the answer. Of course there was a problem; some idiot at Fleet Feet had set me loose with a wetsuit.

“Um…” The kid started to hem. He didn’t need to talk. His expression said it all, Lady, there’s a whole list of reasons you have no business being out here but you’re a sasquatch and I’m afraid you’ll rip my arms off before I reach #50.

“There’s an awful riptide comin’ through here today.” The kid stammered. He pointed to a red warning flag that was most definitely not there before I’d gotten in the water. Not that it wouldn’t have been helpful to know. “Could you, uh, just swim closer to the lifeguard tower?”

“Do you mean swim closer to it or get out?”

“Um…” The kid looked at me and then looked at his feet.

“Look, what would you do?” I asked.

“Well, I wouldn’t be swimming. Not out here anyway.”

“Can you just tell me that I’m being kicked out of the ocean?”

“You’re being kicked out of the ocean.”

“King Neptune thanks you.”

Still, my online presence has been next to nill and I have been neither posting nor visiting other blogs which, I realize, makes me A Very Bad Person And Flaky Blogger and really? After such prolonged neglect who could blame my laptop if it decided to break up with me and move on to a more dedicated end user who would caress it with soft kisses and a tender upgrade to Windows Vista? Not I.

But I’m back now and boy, I have to say that after several days of choking on smoke and ash from wildfires in Monterey, Big Sur, Watsonville and Santa Cruz it sure was refreshing to return to the Sacramento area and find that it too was a charred and smoke-filled bowl of Hell.

…and I’ll bet a $20 Starbucks giftcard that every televangelist in America is gleefully proclaiming that these wildfires are proof that God is still in the smiting business and legalizing gay marriage is as good a reason as any for him to convert every Californian’s home to ash.

At any rate, I’m back. But not that back since I am going to have to further neglect my laptop while I complete a huge project for my summer accounting class and if the words “summer accounting class” didn’t cause whatever was in your hands to fall to the ground and shatter while you crossed yourself and said a Hail Mary for me then you are a black-hearted and soulless being beyond salvation.

Also, in case you’re wondering, that top photo is a rather large jellyfish that my husband and I found washed up on the beach in Marina last week. I’d love to say that I picked it up and relived my glory days by starting a jellyfish fight with my husband using that hamburger-sized monster but I’d be lying.

Nah, I was feeling rather kind that day so I picked up this little half-dollar-sized jobber and hucked it at him instead. 

Jellyfish fights… good times!