Welcome to the World!

This past weekend, on Saturday, in the wee hours of the morning, a baby gave his first cry. And with that cry, our family welcomed its newest member into the world. Easton David is here!

Precious one,

So small,

So sweet

Dancing in

on angel feet

Straight from Heaven's

 

brightest star

What a miracle you are!

Author Unknown
 

Writer's block already???

Every morning when I get up I start thinking about what I should blog about. I have three pieces of paper full of ideas and haven't had to resort to looking at them...until today. My other posts have just come to me, while I'm getting ready for work or during my morning drive. I usually have something posted by lunch time. Today I got nothin. Nada. Zip.

I don't want to write about random crap. That's what Facebook and Twitter are for, although I am not a Twitter person. What's the diff between that and your Facebook status, other than the length? Besides, as all of you know who read this, there is no way I can say anything in 140 characters or less! My sister, Mary, says that I am long winded. I like to think of it as being able to spew mass quantities of ideas in a single post. I'm not sure if that makes it sound better or not, but since I'm struggling with what to blog about today, I'm going to leave it. It takes up space and is somewhat humorous.

I knew at some point it would come to this. I just didn't think it would happen after only seven posts. I can always write about the weather or traffic, I guess. Or maybe our quest to find a new place to live. Or the loser neighbor. Maybe the dogs. See, those are some of the ideas I have written on those glaring in my face, c'mon use one of us, pieces of paper. None of them just seem right today.

I do know that I am slightly obsessed with blogging. I am constantly thinking of things to write about, putting sentences together in my head, questioning how they sound and wondering if they are funny. I like my posts to be funny although I realize that I am not much of comedian and sometimes may have to resort to serious topics. Nah, I really don't want to do serious topics. Not gonna do politics or world peace or the end of the world. No controversial subjects like illegal immigration or the legalization of marijuana. I want my blog to be a "place" where a person can kick back, relax, take a load off. Hey, maybe even enjoy a drink.

There's a cool feature on this blogging website, one that allows you to check your stats. Once I post a new blog, I am right there, hitting refresh. And refresh. And refresh. You can see how many page views you have, which I take to mean how many people are reading or have read a particular post. For instance, I have 105 page view for my first post "Do you think anyone will read it?" Awesome, right? I thought so, too, until I look at the rest of the posts and the numbers go down, dwindle, all the way to 23 for "What the fuh?" To me that means that possibly 105 people read my first post but only 23 deam my blog interesting enough to follow. What the heck? C'mon people! It gives you a little laugh, makes you smile. Keep reading already!

Another stat I like to look at is the timeline. It shows page views based on time. Right now, nobody, not one soul is reading my blog. The last time it was read was 10:00 am. You should see the spikes on the graph after I post! For about an hour, it's like looking at an EKG readout. You can also see who your audience is. I have an audience? It shows a map of the world. Countries that have visited your page are colored in green and also listed. And guess what? I've gone global! Somebody in Indonesia has read or is reading my blog. Hello to whomever you are!!

I have to give a special shout out to some peeps on the east coast. CeCe talked to her brother last night and he said that him and his girlfriend have been reading my blog. He's been a bit confused as to who the heck CeCe is. I'm guessing that there may be a few people who are. Man, I hope you have all figured it out by now. Thanks for reading, Skipper and Nancy!

So, I guess I managed to come up with something to write about after all. Take that writer's block! And stick it where the sun don't shine!

What the fuh?!

My jeans don't fit today. And I can't seem to find the 'I'm not going to get rid of these yet just in case I gain some weight" pair. Oh, I have a few of the 'Just a couple more pounds to lose and I'll be able to get back into these'. But those aren't going to help me today.

Our foodie weekend started on Thursday evening. Sitting around the house, waiting and waiting for Alex to get here, CeCe and I decided to treat ourselves to supper. Not the kind that I usually make, which comes from a box or the freezer. An actual restaurant, with servers and drinks with exotic names and a multitude of food choices.

As you know, San Diego has many, many places to dine, which means that it usually takes the two of us quite awhile to decide where to eat. We both let the other suggest someplace, inwardly cringing when the choice is voiced, but politely agreeing that that would be okay. We do this dance for awhile until CeCe throws up her hands in disgust and tells me to just pick something! I suggest TGIFridays because they have had some awesome commercials for their seafood specials. Based on my last experience choosing a restaurant based on the commercials, I'm not too hopeful but am willing to give it a shot.

Have you been to a TGIFriday's during the NCAA tournament? Holy, it was so loud in there! We are sitting across from each other, in a booth, and practically have to shout our way through the meal. Again, deciding what to order becomes an issue because they have a bazillion items on the menu. I know that quantity does not necessarily mean quality and eventually narrow it down to a couple of appetizers.

I'm not going to drag this out as there were far better meals this weekend than this one. My chocolate martini was the best part. The stuffed potato skins were pretty good, the slider was dry and the deep fried green beans were interesting. Thank goodness for left overs as I knew I would have a hungry boy to feed later that night.

Alex arrived safely and was happy with the leftovers. He said he's over In & Out so we did not have to eat there at all this past weekend. That didn't hurt my feelings any as I am also over it.

Lunch on Friday was an experience, let me tell ya. We were talking Thursday night about options for lunch, because that's what we do, talk about food, and he mentioned fuh. I mean, pho. It's like the f-word without the c-k on the end. I mean, it's pronounced like that although after I saw the real deal pho, I could use that word to describe it as well, but I won't. This is a PG blog.

Pho is a Vietnamese speciality and since I was willing to expand my culinary horizons this weekend and try something new, we went in search of a place that serves fuh, I mean, pho. CeCe knew of an area around Kearney Mesa that had a lot of Asian restaurants and remembered seeing a sign for pho so that's where we headed. I already had lunch #2 planned out just in case this was a disaster.

I had a general idea what pho actually was. Broth, meat and noodles. Doesn't sound so bad, does it? But when the words fat and cartilage are used to describe the meat, I had already counted myself out. Broth and noodles, yes. Fatty meat, nope. I opted out of the pho, while Alex ordered a large bowl for himself. CeCe and I shared some noodle type dish with what was supposed to be chicken in it. I don't think it was really chicken but the water chestnuts were excellent!

Breakfast Saturday morning turned out to be a nice surprise. We didn't have any firm plans. I take that back. I had plans to sleep in, savor my coffee while I read the paper, relax a bit and then go to lunch. Alex had other ideas. A friend of his from back home (Derek) was in town visiting another friend of ours (Chase) and he wanted to get together with them sometime over the weekend. After a lot of back and forth text messages, we decided to meet in Encinitas at the Potato Shack, home of the man-hole cover sized pancakes.

No joke. If you think you've seen large pancakes, you really haven't seen large pancakes. They say a picture is worth a thousand words and since I didn't take a picture, I'll have to write a thousand words about the pancakes. These pancakes are a good 12 inches across and at least an inch and a half thick. I went for the good ole fashioned plain while Alex chose chocolate chip. Neither one of us came even close to finishing those buggers. As a matter of fact, none of the five us completed our meal. The portions are huge, the service was great but meeting up with people from back home was, you got it, priceless.

Lunch was the famous Taco El Gordos. Six for Alex, three each for me and CeCe. "Our regular guy", as CeCe put it, wasn't the one running the pork spit that day, so the tacos had a little extra zing to them this time. Again, they were amazing, and I'm telling you people, worth the trip to San Diego.

Sunday was a quick breakfast with my college friend and her family. It was great catching up on our lives. The meal sucked but what can ya say about Denny's. Hey, it was convenient, okay?

So, no Thai, no Greek, no amazing meal made by my Alex this weekend but I can cross Vietnamese off of my list. Not that it was ever on there in the first place. Since he won't be back until the fall, I won't have to explore the cuisine of other countries until then. Just good American food. Oh, and the crap I cook from a box or the freezer.

Now where the pho are my fat jeans?

It's All About the Food

Almost seven months ago, my youngest child, my baby boy, packed up his car and drove west. For about fifteen hundred miles. See, like most kids his age, high school was behind him and he was making that journey to college, which for him, really was the land of the unknown. Unlike most college freshman, he didn't do the campus tour, visit with prospective teachers, get a glimpse of the dorm nor any of the other things that routinely go with that outing.

When choosing a school, there really was only one choice for him. It was the Culinary Institute of America at Greystone or nothing. Located in the beautiful Napa Valley in St. Helena, California, it was a bit too far to do the typical look-see. He didn't have a backup plan should he not be accepted, nor did he feel he needed one. I asked him what he would do if he didn't get in. His reply? "I'll get in, Mom." Alrighty, then! I loved his confidence but was maybe more nervous than he was to find out if he would be moving to CA or not. I didn't want to hear the hurt and disappointment in his voice. I guess I should have been as big a believer as he was, because as most of you know, that's exactly where he is going to school.

The CIA at Greystone

The first few days weren't easy, for me or for him. I spent a lot of time on the phone, convincing him that he had made the right decision, that things were going to get better and that every college freshman was feeling the exact same things that he was. Thank goodness those conversations only lasted about three days. He met some people, went to class, ventured outside of the dorm and lo and behold, he loves it there! See, sometimes Momma is right!

Alex is coming to San Diego today. We love, love, love it when he comes to visit. And a small part of us dreads it. Really? Yes, really. An aspiring chef, my amazing son, is coming to visit and we have feelings of dread? I know, it's hard to believe. But there's a really good reason for it.

All we do is eat! Most of our time together is spent planning where we are going to eat, when we're going to eat, and what we're going to eat next. CeCe and I both gain about five pounds while he is here. For some reason, neither one of us has had the idea to go on a really good diet for a week or so before he gets here. Dang it! Too late now.

His plane doesn't get in until 10:00 pm but I'd be willing to bet a good chunk of change that one of the first things he says when he gets in the car has to do with food. As in right now. As in In & Out. Now I love me a good In & Out burger but only around supper time, sitting in the restaurant, enjoying it slowly, one bite at a time. If it's after 10:00 at night, there won't be any sitting down for us. Drive thru it will be and those burgers just aren't the same once you get home. I'm going to do everything I can to persuade him to save that particular restaurant for another time.

One of our lunches is already planned and that idea is one that I love. CeCe introduced me to Tacos El Gordo one beautiful Saturday morning. It's a bit of drive, south of us, almost to Mexico. And if you aren't looking for it, you'll go right by it as it's not the fanciest place. But man, can those people make some mean street tacos. The first time Alex was here, of course, we had to take him to El Gordos. He, too, has fallen in love with their carnitas. The tacos aren't very big, half the size of what you would get back home at Toxic Juans, I mean, Taco Johns. The tortillas are made fresh, right in front of your eyes. The pork is pulled right from a big chunk and the sauce is to die for. Us girls usually order three at a time, Alex starts with four, and he usually goes back for one or two more. They're cheap, about $1.89 each and must be eaten on site. Taking these in the car would totally kill this culinary delight. Maybe this weekend we can get the recipe and Alex can make them for us at home. Better brush up on my Spanish.

Makes your mouth water, doesn't it?

Supper, I mean, dinner. NO, I mean supper. Out here it's dinner and I just can't get used to saying that. I've been converted from saying 'pop' to the more common 'soda' used out here, though. Now I'm off topic. Friday night, Alex is supposed to cook for us. All CeCe asked is that he not cook duck. Huh? I have no idea why she thinks he would cook duck but I passed along the message. We've narrowed our proteins down to beef or chicken as I'm not much of a fish fan, unless it's my dad's famous deep fried walleye. Whatever Alex cooks, I will like it (hopefully) and eat it (hopefully). I'm not one to try new foods, even living here with a million different places and cuisines. In that respect, I am still a small town girl.

Saturday is open so far but he mentioned either Greek or Thai food. He's been doing some research on the Internet and said he found some places on Adams (that's the main drag a few blocks from our house). Close by will be nice but I admit, I'm scared to death to try either type of food. I mentioned my concerns to him and he said he's got my back. I sure hope that means he will order something he knows I might be willing to try. If not, I'm sure he'll eat it for me.

As if that wasn't enough food for one weekend, I also get to see a dear friend that I've known for almost 30 years. She and her family are taking a vacation from their cold, snowy Colorado home for some California sunshine. Of course, our get together will take place over more food. A destination has not yet been determined but the food will take a back seat to the reminiscing, laughing and sharing of our lives, catching up since the last time we saw each other.

Now, where are those fat jeans I wore the last time Alex was here? 

March Madness

I know March Madness refers to the NCAA Men's basketball tournament. I admit, I myself am a little caught up in it this year. Our local boys, the Aztecs from San Diego State University, are making headlines as they won their first NCAA game last week, then their second game and are now, for the first time in school history, in the Sweet 16. Most of you know that I am not known as a basketball fan. Wrestling is where my heart is but I've watched SDSU's last two NCAA games, okay not the WHOLE game, but some of them and getting excited when they win reminds me of back home.

March in North Dakota is tourney time. Boys and girls basketball teams are in the heat of district and regional tournaments, playing their hearts out, hoping to make it the Big Dance, the state tournament. It is a big deal as only eight teams get the opportunity to showcase their talent on live TV, in front of sometimes thousands, yes thousands, of excited, rabid, crazy fans. There's nothing like a Class B State tournament. School calendars are built around the state tournament. Little towns across the state virtually shut down for three days, leaving a few people to mind the store, so to speak, while everyone else goes to the big city, Bismarck, Minot or Fargo, for three fun filled days of shopping, swimming in the hotel pool, junk food eating, and of course, basketball.

My first March spent in San Diego, the WC boy's BB team earned the right to play at state. I followed their trip through districts and regionals via phone calls, text messages and Facebook. I couldn't wait to be able to watch them, YES, watch them play their first game at state. Through the wonderful awesomeness that is the Internet, I was able to do just that.

Huddled in front of my laptop, snacks nearby, I wait, somewhat impatiently for the game to start. And soon, there it was, in all its glory. Okay, maybe not glory, because the screen shot was only about a 4" x 4" square and zooming it to full screen made it all grainy and blurry but I was glued to it anyway. I cheered as they scored, yelled at the refs along with everybody else and wished I was there in person, amongst all of the fans, losing my voice, waving my sign, and being proud to be from Watford City.

Honestly, I don't remember the outcome of the game or the tournament. I know we weren't crowned the champions that year. That honor went to another small town, one who probably had a big celebration that Sunday in their high school gym, complete with the pep band, speeches from the coaches and players and maybe even some good food afterwards.

This year, the WC girl's team got to make the trip to Bismarck. I printed the brackets early in the week, glad to find out that the game would be at 6:15 my time on Thursday so I could watch it at home, in my comfy clothes and if any yelling needed to be done, it could involve swearing and I wouldn't be risking my job. I fired up the laptop, cursed the 4x4 screen and watched, and cheered, and yelled and swore. I so wanted them to win, not only for them, but for me.

Watching hometown teams takes me back, back to the simpler days of high school, attending every game, not only because there was nothing else to do but because those players were your friends, your buddies and you cheered them on and supported them, no matter what. As an adult, living in WC, I still went to those games. Those players weren't my friends, but their parents were. Some of them were my students and I was there for them.

Out here, I don't know any students in high school. I don't read the local sports, although if I see an article about wrestling, that will get my attention. San Diego is full of the Chargers, Padres and for the past couple of weeks, the Aztecs. I miss the small town pride that comes with following your favorite sport, attending games and pep rallies, buying every new Wolves tshirt, readying your car for the out of town games.

I guess I'll have to be content with watching the Aztecs tomorrow at 4:15 via the Internet. Once home, changing into those comfy clothes and watching the remainder of the game on TV. And I'm pretty sure there will be swearing because the Aztecs play UConn. CeCe has been a fan of theirs for years. She's originally from Connecticut, so it's her right. I told her that whomever wins, she can be happy but I know better.

It could get ugly at our house tomorrow.

It Never Rains in Southern California

I'd take a snowstorm, a wicked 50 mph white out, 40 below, bone chilling blizzard to drive in anyday than having to drive in the rain out here. Back home, the first snowstorm does tend to bring out the forgetfulness in drivers. They drive like the roads are dry and the visibility is a mile, when it's exactly the opposite. This happens ONCE, people! Then the brain remembers the crazy winter driving and for the rest of winter, for the most part, people drive under the speed limit, with caution, and a trunk full of winter survival gear.

I wish I could say the same for the idiots (no offense to my CA friends) who drive the highways and biways out here. When I listen to weather and traffic in the morning, which has now become a must-do prior to my commute, I cringe when I hear the word rain. It takes all of ten drops to turn the freeways here into an oil-slicked skating rink, one in which every driver wants to be a part of. Well, I guess they don't have a choice in whether or not they want to be a part of it, but I get the feeling that many of them enjoy this type of weather-induced craziness.

My commute takes anywhere from 20 to 30 minutes, one way, on the 15 North. I have it down to a science now, since I've been driving this route for over a year. As soon as I merge onto the freeway, I want to be in the #1 lane. For those who drive on the INTERSTATE back home, that's the passing lane, the go lane, the hurry up and get by that dang slow driver lane. So, I have to make my way across three lanes of traffic to get to the #1. If I get stuck in the #4, don't ask me how I will get to work because it's a forced exit and I would be totally screwed. Once in the #1, I physically relax, sitting back in my seat, turn up the radio a bit, and start on my second coffee of the day.

That's on a normal day. Yesterday was anything but normal. See, those 10 drops of rain materialized overnight into lots and lots of rain. I knew as soon as I turned onto the off ramp that it was gonna be one of those days. A sea of brake lights was all I saw. So, my merge into the #1 took a bit longer than usual. I did the slow and go thing for quite awhile, sipping my coffee, checking my mirrors often for crazy drivers. When you are putt putting along you see all kinds of things. People on their cell phones, which is totally illegal and in my opinion, the fine is not nearly high enough; people eating their breakfast, and one chick was putting on her make up!

We finally get up to 65 mph which is good enough for me on rain slicked roads. Others are creeping along slower than that, causing many to go whizzing by them, shooting them a dirty look. Maybe even the finger. I know my license plates get me lots of dirty looks and no doubt, the finger. I still have my North Dakota plates on my car. It's so expensive to register a car here and as long as they continue to let me do it, I'm gonna keep on doing it. Now if only I could flash them my CA driver's license when they flip me the bird, maybe the dirty looks would stop. If only...

About a half mile from my exit, traffic starts to slow again, although only in my lane. This has happened before and totally freaks me out because I feel like a sitting duck out on the freeway, exposed to hundreds of cars flying by me. I'm hoping this delay won't be a long one. I leave early enough for work so at this point, no worries there. I just hate feeling like a target with a big bullseye on it.

The lane to the right of me has also started backing up and I see a huge line of cars behind me. This isn't looking good. We are moving at 1.5 mph, inching ahead, slowly. Not surely, just slowly. Many people probably use this opportunity to text somebody or update their Facebook status that they are stuck in traffic, but not me. I keep my eye on my rear view and side mirrors, looking for potential disaster.

A full 30 minutes later, I am finally off the freeway and at the top of my exit ramp, waiting patiently through the 10th red light. I still have no idea why traffic backed up like it did. This particular ramp is always kind of a nightmare. On days with no traffic problems, I do a little cheer when I get to sail through the green light on the first go.

Up ahead, I see the problem. And it makes me angry because this is not the first time it has happened. When we get a good dousing of rain, one of the stop lights on this street always goes on the blink. And I mean literally. Blinks red, red, red, red, red. Turns it into a four way stop, which is not a good thing on this street because it's a busy one. Trying to get people to behave in a civilized manner when they've just sat through 30+ minutes of gridlock, knowing they are probably 20 minutes late for work, for it is now 8:20, could mean tempers flaring and an accident or two.

Surprisingly, when I get to the dang blinking red light, it's a breeze. No stuttered starts and stops by anybody, no tires screeching or black marks left from somebody slamming on the brakes. Just a nice easy flow through the intersection. I shake my head, wondering if I'm really in San Diego, California or if I got dropped down onto a street back home. Sure, noboby was smiling and waving you through because they actually know your boss and are aware of the fact that you're gonna get a butt chewing when you get to work, but all the same, it kind of felt like it. It didn't quite give me a warm fuzzy feeling, but it definitely made me think about how I might react the next time some idiot cuts me off in traffic or does a quick lane change in front of me without using his blinker.

And for the record, I was about two minutes late for work. Boss was so busy she hadn't noticed that I had texted her that I was stuck in traffic. Hey, in my defense, I did this once I was off the freeway, waiting for an actual red light to turn green. I hear that is still an illegal use of a cell phone but there are billboards up here that tell you to call 9-1-1 if you see a drunk driver. Now that's just crazy talk. Report a drunk driver but get a ticket for using your phone to do it. Not sure it would actually happen that way but one never knows.

PS...My almost warm fuzzy feeling didn't even make it 24 hours. This morning, some bozo went around me in a turning lane and then cut me off! I can only imagine the words he was using. I'm sure they were similar to mine!

Louisiana Chicken at a Chinese restaurant

Saturday we had to go downtown. For those of you back home (when I say back home, I'm referring to you Watford City peeps but I think my friends in other small towns can relate), going downtown in San Diego is not something you do unless you HAVE to, for many reasons. In Watford City, we say we are going uptown, which usually does not refer to a trip to Meyer's or Larsen Service Drug but more than likely it is a Friday night and we have plans to enjoy some adult beverages and conversation with good friends at one of the local establishments.

You never know what traffic is going to be like on any given day so I'm always mentally prepared for some type of detour, accident, plenty of swerving to avoid potholes and maybe a bit of swearing at the idiot drivers on the freeway. Lucky for us, we managed to get downtown without any problems or delays. Things were looking good.

Until we actually got downtown. We've only been there twice since I moved here and I immediately remembered why. It's kind of like giving birth. As soon as it's over, you forget the pain. Until you go into labor with baby #2, and it all comes rushing back. Okay, so going downtown is nothing like giving birth, but it's all I got.

Where the flip are we gonna park? The street we need to be on does not allow parking on the street. What? Are you kidding me? There isn't a street back home that I can't park on, unless I'm driving a semi-truck. Here, on Broadway, there is no street parking. So, we start doing the circling, driving around the block thing. Which involves one way streets, lots of pedestrians who do not know how to use a crosswalk and taxis shooting all over the place. We circle a three block radius, twice, having spotted a possibility the first time around and were hoping it would still be there when we tried again.

Yes! It was still there. Problem #1 is solved. Oh and let me point out, CeCe does most of the driving. She's a pro at it, having lived here for over 20 years. Me, I'm a newbie and although I travel the freeway everyday, I'd much rather sit back and let her do the driving. So, we find the spot and we have to parallel park. Piece of cake, right? I admit, I'm a pretty dang good parallel parker but I wasn't driving so I just sat there quietly in the passenger seat. CeCe can drive a ten-yard (some big damn truck she drives at work) with a trailer and loader attached but for some reason, she has a hard time backing up my car. Says it's too wide or high or long or something. And she's kind of a perfectionist, which only complicates matters. There was some swearing involved, lots of shifting from reverse to drive and back again, but finally, it was deemed "good enough".

Then we both realize that we are in a metered parking place. I know you know what a meter is. And so we're digging through our purses and my emergency coin fund in the cubby to see how much change we can scrape up. Sorted through the Canadian coins I still have, took out the pennies because they aren't worth anything in a parking meter and managed to come up with a couple bucks worth. Should give us plenty of time for what we needed to do.

The meters here are kind of stupid. You think they would be self explanatory, but they're really not. You get 2 minutes 3 seconds for a nickel, 4 minutes 28 seconds for a dime and 12 minutes for a quarter. I have absolutely no idea why they even bother with the seconds. It's not like the seconds even show up on the time anyway. So, I throw in a few quarters and yet my time doesn't go past 15 minutes. Well, crap. That's not enough time. I read the tiny little info again and see that the maximum time is 15 minutes. Not only did I waste a couple of quarters but now we had to hurry the flip up!

See, the reason we are even venturing downtown is because CeCe needs a new pair of shoes. Well, boots really. We have looked high and low, over and under and in between every type of store in San Diego looking for work boots that will fit and do the job. The last time we were crazy enough to go downtown, we saw the Shoe Shop, stopped in, inquired about her need for a size 5 boot, found out they had them but didn't wanna fork over the cash for them that day. Hence, our trip today.

Fortunately, we are only a half block from our destination. She to the boot place, me to Payless, hoping to score some cute sandals for spring and summer. Just so you know, you really could wear sandals or flip flops here every day of the year. I choose not to as some days it's a bit chilly in the morning. My two pair of decent sandals have seen better days and I have no problem buying shoes on the cheap, so Payless it is. To my dismay, I find nothing. Sure, friendly staff and a decent selection but just not any that call to me, beg for me to buy them and wear them on a beautiful sunny day here in America's finest city. I leave the store, a little downtrodden, but hopeful that CeCe found what she was looking for or this outing will be a total bust.

At the Shoe Shop, CeCe is just being handed a pair of boots to try on by the clerk. Now, I think clerk is being awfully generous because this boy, dressed in jeans and a baggy sweatshirt looks not a day over 14. I look around for an adult. Sure, there's an adult, but he's a customer, looking for his own new pair of shoes. CeCe tries on the boots, while the "clerk" keeps up a running sales pitch, telling her that the reason they are a little tight in that particular area is because of the laces. WHAT? He says they will stretch out if they are a bit tight, suggest the next half size up if she's not happy with the fit. I'll admit, the young guy has it goin' on when it comes to selling shoes. I'm pretty sure his dad is around here somewhere, maybe peeking out from behind a curtain, watching his young son, smiling when he hears CeCe say she'll take them.

We leave the store, boots in hand, a smile on both of our faces. Her, because she finally has a pair of boots that do not have holes in them, rocks in them that found their way into the holes. Me, because she finally has a pair of boots. Period. For me, this means no more listening to her complain about her lack of decent footwear, as she does have the type of job that requires sturdy shoes. The day is a complete success.

Back at the car, we have four whole minutes left to shop. Nah, that's enough of downtown for me until next year. I figure we are averaging one trip per year, although we did say we are going to Padres game this summer and that means another trip downtown. I'm hoping the pain of this past experience will be gone by then so I can enjoy a wonderful, skip work, go to a day game, kind of day.

As we are pulling away from the curb and heading towards the intersection, I look around, like I always do when we drive. I thoroughly enjoy sitting in a car, being the passenger, and checking out the world around me. Downtown is cars, people, tall buildings, trash, no parking, and cold. And restaurants. As we are driving away, I look to my right. A Chinese restaurant, with advertising in the window, all lit up in neon, says "Louisiana Chicken". Really? At a Chinese restaurant? I don't get it and I'm pretty sure I won't venture back downtown to find out what that's all about.

Life isn't always easy plus potential disaster averted...

Friday is garbage day on my street. Every other Friday is recycling day as well, because you know, California is so progressive in its quest to save our Earth. We recycle in our house, mainly newspapers, junk mail and laundry detergent bottles. Oh and aluminum cans and plastic bottles but those items get sorted and saved for a trip to the recycling center. So on Thursday nights, we clean out the fridge, empty all the trash cans in the house and haul our HUGE, industrial strength, city provided, thank goodness it's on wheels, can down the alley to the street. We live in what's called a back house, a house behind a house, so our curb is not right outside our front door. It's not something you normally consider when you are looking for a place to live but believe me, it's on my list for our next domicile.

CeCe usually gets the job of getting the can ready to wheel out and after supper we take a leisurely stroll, in our comfy clothes and slippers, under the cover of darkness (depending on the time change) and go park that bugger near the curb, facing the correct direction, otherwise the trash would not make it into the garbage truck. Oh, we don't have guys who ride around on the back of the garbage truck like we do back home, hanging on for dear life while their buddy speeds around corners, jumping off at just the right moment to grab our neighbor's assorted hodge podge of receptacles, launching the junk into the gaping mouth of that hungry machine waiting for it's next meal. Our garbage trucks, here, in the land of millions of people and tons and tons of trash, is an automated one. It requires only one person and a cool contraption that lifts the cans, heaves them into the air and dumps them into the back end. Okay, it is way cooler than it sounds. Easy, economical and nobody gets their hands dirty or risks broken limbs to do the job.

Driving through my neighborhood on my way to work on Fridays, I almost always see at least one person who depends on recycling Fridays, probably getting up before the birds, walking the same route, relying on the people of Normal Heights (our cool, eclectic neighborhood) to throw out something worthwhile or at the very least, to put cans or water bottles in their recycling bin. This is their livelihood. Their job. What they depend on to get themselves through the week. The gentleman I saw today had his cart, fully loaded with the aforementioned cans and bottles, big black garbage bags stuffed, moving from blue can to blue can, lifting the lid, hoping against hope that there would be something in there to help him buy his next meal.

I can't read the minds of the people I see doing this. I can only assume that they are doing this to survive. As most of you know the economy is really in the tank out here. Sky rocketing unemployment leaves thousands of people homeless here in San Diego, living on the streets, in their cars, under car ports, in friend's garages, and if they are lucky, at a shelter. Makes me thankful for what I do have.

Which leads me to the 'life isn't always easy' part. We bitch and moan and complain about this and that, him and her, government, politics, the weather, traffic, bills to pay, what to eat for supper, the dogs, the kids, and everything else. Seeing somebody foraging through other peoples left overs made me think about the good things in life.

I have a job that I like, a car that runs, clothes on my back, food in my belly, a roof over my head and people who love me. I can pay my bills with a little left over for other stuff. My family has been blessed with no serious illnesses, disease or death. Soon there will be a new baby, making my sister a grandmother, ensuring that our Fish genes live on. Life is good for me. And for you, if you think about it. So, do just that. Think about what makes your life a good one. Not the things you own, but the people you have. Family, friends, co-workers, neighbors. Be grateful. Be thankful.

PS. The title indicates that a potential disaster was averted. This story needs to be told right now! Last night, CeCe discovered the carton of eggs we had in the fridge was dated February 20! How they lasted that long in there is beyond me because she is kind of fanatical about throwing out food that has outlived its usefulness. The can had already been wheeled to the street so the nasty eggs were put in a plastic bag, set by the door with the promise that they would be personally delivered to the curb in the morning for a proper burial. Well, this morning came, her rushing to get ready for work, me with blog thoughts screaming through my brain and my body needing caffeine. The eggs were left on the dog food thingee, you know, the $40 unit I bought to store the dog food. Kibble something or other. I got ready for work, gave the pups their treats and headed to the gas station for smokes. As I'm already thinking ahead to the freeway and the thought of crazy traffic, an image of those eggs, in the plastic bag, sitting on the dog food thingee enters my mind. OMG! If left there, Bella will surely get into them, dragging egg yolk and shells all over the house, giving Gracie a reason to wake up and Maisy an excuse to quit scratching her ears! The mess would not be mine to clean up, as CeCe gets home before me, which would be a DISASTER! She loves the dogs, let me just say that first and foremost, but man, does she hate their messes and this one would have been a doozie! So, another reason to be thankful today. I saved the lives of my dogs...and my own!

Do you think anyone will read it?

After reading a friend's blog from back home (more on her later), I felt like maybe I might have something worth writing about. The more I thought about it, the more excited I got. Ideas were flying through my brain, bouncing off each other, generating another new and better idea. I couldn't wait to do some research on how to go about writing a blog.

As excited as I was to get things started, doubt started pushing its way into my thoughts. Really, Laura? You fancy yourself a good enough writer that people are going to want to read what you have to say? Your life is that exciting in California? Remember, you post weather updates as your status on Facebook and your friends tend to get a little ticked off. What makes you think they want to hear about your glamorous life? Oh, if they only knew, I fired back. Yes, I'm talking to myself, although not loud enough for anybody to hear me.

A second opinon was definitely needed here. Enter CeCe (names have been changed to protect the innocent. Sorry, I couldn't resist that one!). CeCe is the reason I am a small town girl living in the big city. She is the one who gets praised when things are going good here, which is the majority of the time and blamed when life sucks, which is ocassionally. I see a whole post devoted to her in the future, where a proper introduction will be made, but now, back to the whole "you're gonna write a blog?" idea...

When I get home from work, CeCe has plans, which I'm excited to hear because they involve a drive, some money, maybe an adult beverage, and a good time had by all. My wallet enjoys these little adventures, some days more than others, but for the most part, they are a good time. That's probably not enough information for you to figure out what those plans are...should I tell you now? Hmmm, I see an idea for a future post. You think about it and see if you are right, later on down the road.

Okay, the plans involve a drive, at which point I wait until it's my turn to share about my day. I tell her about the friend's blog and throw my idea at her, kind of quietly, thinking maybe if I don't share it out loud, it won't sound so CRAZY. She remembers my friend's blog (getting real tired of saying that, her name is Jessie, dang it and I'm going to put a link in so the rest of you can read it). Anywho, she remember's Jessie's blogs and did hear my whispered idea. I throw some possible subjects at her, which I'm not going to mention here as I know the suspense is probably killing you and I'd hate to give it all away in my first post. The subjects are met with enthusiasm, which leads to a discussion of more possible topics. Then the question...

Do you think anyone will read it?

The mother lode of all questions. The question that could make or break this creative outlet idea. The question that could tear my self esteem apart. The question that every writer asks themselves. No, I don't fancy myself a writer, but it fit here, so I'm keeping it. The question...

I look at her hopefully, waiting, holding my breath, knowing what she will say, if only to assuage my fears, soften the blow of what is sure to come, should I dare to publish for more than just her eyes. She turns, looks at me, and says "Of course, I'll read it. It will be great. I'm sure other people would like to read it, too."

It takes everything I have not to shout WHO ELSE, so I don't. I smile, tuck that good feeling away, and think about a title, font, pics, links, and all of the other little things that will enable me to actually do it...

I just breathed a big sigh of relief. The first post is in the can, so to speak, although saved for a second opinion, for now.

Link to Jessie's blog, my former student, my inspiration :)
http://veederranch.com/