As I write this post the last hours of Official Summer are whizzing past. The alarm clock has already been dusted off and inspected for operability and now we’re just killing time on our way to its first rude squawk since school let out in June.

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.

I promise not to publicly embarass you this year by doing something like, oh, telling the internet that you own the soundtrack to every major Broadway production since Stephen Sondheim was born. Or that you slavishly sing along to them in the car and at home. Or that you have a particular yen for “I Feel Pretty” from Westside Story. 

See? I totally wouldn’t do that because I realize that informing people that this: 

…likes to sing this:

…most definitely qualifies as a violation of the “don’t ask don’t tell” policy. So enjoy your birthday and know that, for once, I will do my level best to preserve the perfectly macho facade that you have so carefully cultivated over the years.

P.S. - Is it physically possible to fit 57 candles on top of an MRE?

P.P.S. - Do you still make the Taliban POWs sashay around and call you Maria, or has that been declared an official violation of the Geneva Conventions?

Yes, I am as surprised as you, but it so happens that I have managed to sell a few photos. My customers were not so much interested in purchasing them for the kind of cash that would allow me to retire - or super size my meal at a McDonalds for that matter - nor were they interested in purchasing the rights to the photos which would have fetched a far prettier penny, but I’ve now actually sold photos and that makes me incredibly surprised as I am a complete novice-without-formal-training-and really not-such-a-great amateur photographer.

Still I would be lying if I said that I was not a little overwhelmed and filled with gratitude that someone wanted my stuff! Mine! And they wanted it enough to give me the kind of cash that will cover roughly thirty seconds worth of broadband service. During off-peak hours of course.

Sold! To an environmental group in Southern California:

Moon jellies.

Sold! To another environmental group in Argentina:

Some kind of sea creatures whose name escapes me but are quite pretty nonetheless, no?

Given away! Because I’m retarded and didn’t know better! To a company that publishes tourist guides:

A photo of the marina at Fisherman’s Wharf in Monterey Bay. (Honestly? This photo isn’t even all that great which just goes to show you that it’s really true: if Gustav Klimt can sell utter crap then so can you.)

Donated upon request! To the fine folks who work for the local government in Placer County who requested the right to use as part of a display:

North Fork of the American River at the bottom of the American River Canyon.

If this keeps up I may just have to take my earnings down to Trader Joe’s for a celebratory bottle of two-buck-Chuck. Yee haw!

Well, last night I was able to throw out the rest of the meds that I was prescribed when I tested positive for the tuberculosis. Meds that I’ve taken for six months. Meds that could not be combined with a variety of foodstuffs that - if typed in 10 point times new roman - would form a list that could wrap around the earth four and a half times.

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.

Last Saturday a couple of friends of mine - friends who prefer anonymity to the social flogging that would result if people discovered that they hung out with me - and I went to 2nd Saturday. For those outside of Northern California, 2nd Saturday is a gathering of local artists who converge on the streets of downtown Sac to celebrate yet another month of not having a real job.

So there we were; Maria, Lori and I (I only guaranteed anonymity until the second paragraph ladies), walking around minding our own business when I spotted a bicycular contraption that looked like it had been pieced together by Dr. Frankenstein himself. Never having been one to avoid something interesting even at the risk of communicable disease, I moved closer to investigate and discovered that the thing was basically a makeshift plywood chassis lashed together with bungee cords. In true homeless hippie fashion, it had been loaded up with an ice chest, easel, mismatched handlebars, bag of recyclables, mongrel dog, bucket seat from a Dodge minivan and - inexplicably - a car battery.

“You want I should take your picture?” The owner materialized out of the crowd. Dude had the hard scrabble look of someone who hadn’t seen the inside of a bathroom since the Ford administration.

Still, the guy seemed friendly enough as he stood there smiling, oblivious to the fact that I plan on voting for McCain. He held his hand out expectantly and I handed him my camera - my brand new Canon SLR that had been purchased with the blood of my children - without so much as a hitch of hesitation.

Had he been there, my husband would have immediately gone into cardiac arrest. But he wasn’t there and the homeless dude snapped a pic and returned my camera and all of us went on our merry way.

I finished my first triathlon on Saturday and if you have me added as a friend on myspace you are undoubtedly sick to death of hearing about it and are probably wishing that I would shut up or drown or at least get my toes run over by a bicycle during the next one.

I wouldn’t mention the whole thing again if it weren’t for the fact that I almost didn’t finish my first triathlon because I almost gave up and swam back to the beach because about seven minutes after the gun went off ye olde Evil Voice Inside My Head shook off its Zoloft hangover long enough to remind me that I was, in fact, terror-stricken.

Boy is that water murky.

Shut up Evil Voice.

Casket murky.

Thanks Hemingway, what the hell is that even supposed to mean?

It’s just, well, it’s dark down there. When you’re face down, you know, like in the water, swimming? Don’t you feel a little like you’re having something slammed shut in your face?

No.

Like a casket? Or a shroud?

That’s really sick.

Sure gives a whole new appreciation of the phrase “watery grave” doesn’t it?

Are you going to start in on that Jenny Greenteeth bullshit again?

Nah. But I bet being in it’s a lot like being buried.

Go to hell.

Well, that is, if being buried meant you couldn’t breathe. I guess in that sense the water is worse than a casket, huh? Because you know, you can’t breathe.

I’m a strong swimmer.

Suuuuuuuuure you are…

(A few silent moments during which I begin to hope the Evil Voice has succumbed to an adrenaline overdose.)

Woo boy! I bet there could be ten… fifteen… maybe even thirty bodies down there and you’d never know for all the murk.

Steph?

Steph?

Get lost. You’re not the boss of me.

Yeah, yeah. You’ve trained for this, blah-ta-te-blah-blah-blah.

Don’t you have anything better to do?

Better than this?

(Looks around. Kicks at my frontal lobe.)

No, not really. Hey! How’s your breathing?

Get lost…

I bet you’re feeling a little straved for air about now huh?

No.

Sure you are. Can’t breathe?

I’m breathing just fine thank you very much.

You know, just because nobody’s drowned in this event yet doesn’t mean there can’t be a first…

Gah! Shut up! I’m fine!

Are you? Sure you’re not having trouble breathing?

Yes.

Positive?

Yes.

Absolutely certain?

Oh honestly… 

You’re panicking. I can see it. Here. Let’s get one of those medics in the kayaks.

Do that and I’ll…

You’ll what? You know you want out of here.

I’ll switch from Zoloft to Jack Daniels and Xanax cocktails.

Sure you will. Hey, what’s say we get out, dry off, catch a movie. What’s the point of this whole thing anyway? To prove that you’re better at not drowning than the next guy?

No.

Oh, yes. You’re outta here.

No.

Sure you are. Tell you what we’re gonna do… we’re going to flag down one of these kayaks, tell ‘em you need to get out of the water…

And that is when I had an honest-to-God, full-blown, hyperventilating-holy-shit-I-can’t-breathe-and-I-think-I’m-going-to-die panic attack right there in the middle of the water during which I blew several precious minutes floating on my back and trying to decide whether I would continue chasing the pack into deeper water or accept disqualification and drag my sorry ass back to the beach. The Evil Voice almost won. But that was before I started thinking - really thinking - about what it would be like to quit and how stupid I would feel once I was back on shore watching everyone else finish the swim and move on to the bike and run portions.

So I turned back over and continued even though all I really wanted to do was get out and run home where I could curl up in bed and suck my thumb.

A few weeks ago a friend of mine gave me a self-help book on coping with panic disorders. I have yet to read the book but the title popped into my head; Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway. It probably sounds stupid but I repeated that damned phrase to myself over and over and over and over again until the panic attack was over and all there was left to do was try to make up for time lost.

I set my peripheral vision on the strongest swimmer in the pack: a competitor whose wetsuit had an orcan stripe that gleamed white through the murk, and I kept my head down and stuck to her side until we made it back to shore.

Then I passed her and just about everyone else in my division on the bike.

(Pictured above: This is me on the verge of a total psychological meltdown.)

I’m planning on launching my own salsa company next month because, you know, a marriage, two kids, mortuary school, training for a triathlon in August and another one in September, a half marathon in October, a convention and writing a book? Totally not enough chaos for my over-caffeinated ass.

No, I need more stimulation. Also, I need money to fund all the stuff I’ve already signed up for and all the stuff I have yet to do: like cage-diving with great whites. Because I’m not leaving this world until I’ve found my way into a shark cage even if it means saving for a couple of years because yikes people, have you seen the price tag on that little adventure?

Anyway, I figure what better way to generate some cash than to start up a little side-gig doing something I love to do and would do and already do regardless of whether I’m being paid to do it or not?

To this end I’ve checked out tomato suppliers, gathered jars, learned how to can, experimented with growing a bunch of my own stuff and armed myself with some fancy accountin’ book-learnin’. I’m even opening an online store.

The only thing missing is label art, but I haven’t been too concerned because for once my dedication to ambivalence has given way to certainty and I know EXACTLY what I want. I have a mental picture of the perfect label to complement my new company’s name and I have no doubt that once I put it all together I’ll be able to take over the world one tortilla chip at a time.

Plan? Meet monkey wrench.

Enter my boundless lack of creativity. I’ve never been able to draw. My kids look at me sideways if I so much as eyeball a crayon. Forget software, I can’t even name a single program for illustrating much less one. In short, I’m having a hell of a time getting what’s in my head onto a flash drive so it can be printed on a sticker that can be slapped on a jar.

Until someone sent me this:

Which contains almost exactly what I was looking for in this:

Don’t get me wrong. I still have no clue how I’m going to make the changes I want before getting this onto something as useful as a label. Still, I now have my skeleton dog safely stowed in a file on my desktop and every so often I’ll whip him out so that I can stare at him admiringly in between yelling at my paint program for not being Adobe Illustrator. And yes, I had to google “illustrations software” to come up with the name of that program.

I’m sick with something. I’m not sure what bug hit me but it’s chewing at my throat and making every muscle fiber in my body sore and achy. I’m pretty sure the damned thing is gunning for my sense of humor as well because I just puked on my husband’s side of the bed and I haven’t been able to muster the energy to properly savor that moment the way I should.

At any rate, I can barely sit up so I’m just going to post photos and try to come up with something to go along with them. Sound good?

Alright, here goes: 

Ok, so let me explain; yesterday was our new housekeeper’s first day (yes, I am quite the spoiled bitch) and while I was taking a bath last night I noticed that not only did she manage to get the hard water stains out of the toilets and sinks, the woman made spotless our soap savers. 

I have no idea if she scrubbed them or soaked them or dipped them in a substance that will eventually eat my face off but who really cares, really so long as they look good. After seeing this I proceeded to throw the contents of my refrigerator on the floor before letting my children lick the tile clean. Just because I could.

This carving was a gift from a friend of mine who was gracious enough not to kick me out of her house when I ran rough-shod over her southern sensibilities:

It’s called “Love of Learning”. Isn’t she adorable what with her books and no face? And totally unexpected since just two days prior I had the audacity to ask my southern girlfriend about her rib recipe which, apparently, is grounds for justifiable homicide where she’s from. Even when the southerner in question is a white woman who threw off enough of her old-fashioned southern upbringing to marry a black man.

Went to Tahoe the other day: 

There was no real reason for the trip other than the fact I was about to kill and eat my offpsring if I spent one more day cooped up with them. In the end the pile of gold kugrands required to fill my gas tank was worth getting out of town for.

I helped out with a jog-a-thon at my kids’ school: 

Quite a few parents turned out, which was nice since it meant we didn’t have to jump through hoops for permission to beat students when they got out of line.

I finished up finals, but not before I snapped a few photos inside the Winchester Mystery Trailer: 

You know what I love best about this photo? The fact that right next to the infant casket is a Costco-sized package of granola bars and a sign admonishing people to pay fifty cents before taking one.

I received straight A’s by the way. Not that anyone really cares, but I figure what’s the point of getting straight A’s if you can’t lord it over everyone? Oh, and there’s more funeral education photos here.

I’ve been growing stuff: 

It’s large and loud and orange and therefore I am totally in love with it.

Ever see a wind farm?  

This is a photo of the wind farm on the Altamont Pass taken during the drive between Sacramento and Santa Cruz.

A friend of mine made the trip up to Sacramento to participate in the Sac State Alumni recital:

He’s an incredibly talented musician and I can’t think of anything smart to say about him although trust me - I’ve really tried to come up with something. Since we grew up together I try to tread lightly since he’s the only one who can produce photographic evidence that I’m a total tard and not at all as cool as I try to portray myself on this blog. He leaves for Kansas next month to earn his doctorate.

…and since this post doesn’t have nearly enough photos to destroy the bandwidth of most of my readers, how about another photo of the Winchester Mystery Trailer?

Yup. That just about wraps it up. Sorry about the loading time.

My family and I spent this Mother’s Day in Santa Cruz. This was partly due to the fact that - the population of granolas notwithstanding - Santa Cruz does have a few enjoyable aspects. Like the beach. And Natural Bridges. And an easily-accessible water supply that will come in handy when I get my hands on several cubic yards of industrial grade nitric acid I mean, yeah. The beaches.

I wanted to spend Mother’s Day at the ocean, or at least that’s what we told the kids. Mostly my husband and I were long overdue for a tune up on our carefully nurtured dislike of hippies. So we packed up a few towels and a bong for the kids before heading out with the hope that we’d see some shark-on-surfer action. Or shark-on-tourist action. Or maybe, just maybe, we would be treated to the Sistine Chapel of shark attacks and see some serious shark-on-hippie-surfer-tourist action.

For those of you who might not be familiar with Rift Valley of Hilly Hemp People, I give you photographic evidence taken from Highway One:

…and since I’ve been really busy with finals and final projects and PTA and kids and stuff? The rest of this post is going to be a lazy smear of random photos taken on Mother’s Day.

Welcome to Santa Cruz! If Republicans weren’t made of meat we’d kill and eat them! Because we’re peace loving like that!

Local cash crop…

A self-portrait. With monkey-toed foot.

I’ve heard this fuel is made up of the fossilized remains of environmentalists.

Kidding, it’s just the blood of capitalist babies…

Alright, that’s it. I’m outta here!

If you’re like 2% of the population you woke up this morning and thought, “Hey! This is the day that Mexicans everywhere will be celebrating the outcome of the Battle of Puebla. Let’s turn on the History Channel!”

…but chances are that you’re like the other 98% and woke up with the fuzzy notion that Cinco de Mayo beats the crap out of gas prices as an excuse to get hammered on a Monday.

But not so fast gringo. Before you go belly up to the bar at your local Chevy’s there are a few important items you’ll need to remember in order to  keep your celebration of Mexican Independence Day authentic. Like the fact that Mexican Independence Day is actually on September 16th and has nothing to do with Cinco de Mayo. Then again, if beating up on the French military isn’t as good a reason as any to consume horse-killing amounts of tequila then maybe you shouldn’t be celebrating anyway.

Anyway! It is because of such common misconceptions that my nextdoor neighbor and I put together a handy guide to Mexican Authenticness to enhance your enjoyment of Cinco de Mayo this year. Sure the sarape and ersatz sombrero may be culturally insensitive but we figured the occasion warranted their use as visual aids. I mean, if this post keeps even one white person from ordering whole wheat tortillas this Cinco de Mayo the embarassment of putting on this get up was well worth it. Especially since I wasn’t the one wearing it.

#1 - Taco Bell: Two thumbs down.

Maria: I think it’s safe to say that I speak for all Mexicans when I say that Taco bell is not real Mexican food. Hell, it hardly qualifies as food at all. So stop agonizing over the proper pronounciation of chilupa and go eat some lengua already.

#2 - George Lopez: A sideways thumb and look of amused indifference. 

Maria: When are Mexicans going to get with the program and encourage Carlos Mencia to kill and eat this guy? 

 #3 - People who ask me to translate the menu at El Pollo Loco: two thumbs up. 

Maria: Where would I be if I didn’t have people who believed me when I told them that “dos” means “fried bull testicles”?

#4 - Budweiser: Two thumbs up and a bottle of tequila. 

Maria: Save the Corona for the hordes of effeminate frat boys spending spring break in Cancun. Budweiser is what real Mexicans drink… when Natural Light’s not on sale.