Remember When 102 Was Hot?

I used to live in Southern California. Where it was hot. And when I say hot, I mean over 100 degrees hot. The kind of hot that melts your butt and makes it stick to the seats. The kind of hot that makes you want to sell your soul for a few minutes in an air-conditioned anything. The kind of hot that causes you to accidentally wander into the walk-in freezer at the liquor store.  And then stay there for a few minutes while you get your bearings.

We moved to Monterey eight years ago.  Monterey, where "hot" is anything over 70 degrees.  I scoffed at this when we first arrived.  I carried a sweater with me in the summer.  You know, because to SoCal peeps, anything below 70 degrees is Uggs weather.

Well.  That has all changed.  My daughter got married on June 20 a couple of years ago and it was the hottest day on record for the little coastal town of Pacific Grove.  A whopping 83 degrees.  I, and all the other wedding guests, were sweating like it was the tropics.  Forget fancy hair, we were lucky to be alive in the scorching sun.  If you look at wedding photos, everyone has that face they make when they just want to get out of the sun and into the car where they can blast the a/c on the freezer setting.  Just take the damn picture!

We are in for a heat-wave this week.  The weatherman is sending out those old people and dogs warning because it is going to get up to 75 degrees by the beach.  Prayer chains are being sent out for those who suffer from heat exhaustion.  Cooling stations are being set up for the homeless.  The vendors are stocking up on the hats and sunscreen and those fancy little hand-held fans that spray water.  Anything to keep us cool.

Remember when 102 was hot?  I find myself scouring my closet for the natural fibers and loose clothes.  I am foregoing my embarrassment over flabby arms and pulling out the sleeveless tops.  Hey, I might be able to actually create a breeze if I flap my elbows a bit.  I'm ready.  Bring on the heat.

Have you seen my big floppy hat?  I'm going to need it.

FUGGLY & THE WONDER KITTY

When he was little, Fuggly was a butterball of lazy energy.  Why stand when you can sit?  Why run when you can mosey?  Fuggly just figured out that slow was better and you couldn't entice him to go any faster.

Wonder Kitty was a full-grown momma cat when Fuggly was introduced into the family.  She outweighed Fuggly by about two pounds and proceeded to teach Fuggly who the Alpha Animal was in our household.  She would lay in wait, hidden just around the corner from the refrigerator, hoping Fuggly would lumber by.  When he did, she would reach out her dainty little paw and smack him right across the nose.  Pointy parts extended for maximum damage.

Fuggly learned to run because of Wonder Kitty.  He would see her and freeze, then turn and dash away, putting as much distance as possible between her razor-tipped weapons and his sensitive nose.  Pretty soon,  Wonder Kitty didn't even have to wait for him.  She would catch Fuggly dozing in the warm sunshine, saunter by, and stop and stare.  In his sleep, Fuggly could feel her watching him and he would slowly wake up.  When he realized he was within striking distance, he would yelp and run as fast as he could to hide between his human momma's legs.

Well.  Fuggly grew up.  And grew some more.  And then grew even more.  Fuggly, it turns out, wasn't a "terrier mix" as promised by the shelter.  Nope.  Fuggly was a mutt alright, but he had the brains of a Dalmatian, the legs of a horse, and was the size of a Great Dane.  He outweighed Wonder Kitty by about 100 pounds.

But all Wonder Kitty had to do was drift past Fuggly, tail waving in the air, and stop.  She would slowly turn her head and make eye contact with Fuggly and he would go into shock.  He would whimper and run and hide.  As much as a dog the size of a miniature horse can hide.

This got me to thinking.

What sort of things have we carried forward into our adult lives that still evoke a puppy fear reaction?  What sort of Wonder Kitty issues have we carried forward that keep us from realizing our strengths and our abilities?  What old beliefs hold us back from living the life we were meant to live?

Fuggly never got over his fear of Wonder Kitty.  But then, Fuggly was a dog with the brains of a Dalmatian, the legs of a horse, and the size of a Great Dane.

EL NINO and the WIND

The wind howls at my front door, the big bad wolf huffing and puffing and threatening to blow down my house made of sticks. The straw mat on the doorstep cannot survive the hound of the forest either, as it tumbles down the deck to the pavement below. The safety of the overhang is forgotten as the rain pelts horizontally against the windows. The clouds overhead are heavy with moisture sucked up from the ocean that threatens to break the seawall and pour into the city. Living on a hill is the only thing that protects me from the high tides that have created a new shoreline in the parkinglot behind the wharf.

Like exploding fireworks in a multitude of colors announcing the imminent arrival of a superstar, El Nino has ridden in on the west wind, daring anyone to not notice his entrance. He is here. He will not be ignored. At first, the conversation is peppered with words of heartfelt gratitude to Mother Nature for giving birth to such a healthy baby boy.

 But soon, the commuters tire of the unceasing pounding. The hospital nurses are tired from pulling double duty as they care for those injured in the multitude of freak accidents that surround the storms. Trees that have withstood the ravages of time have succumbed to the long dry spell and the instant mud bath that covers their shriveled-up roots. The drought had dried up all the twisted and entwined underbrush, leaving nowhere for the rain to go but into the quagmire that is slowly slipping down the hillsides that surround the bay. 

Soon, conversations turn to the appeals to the rain gods to make it stop, to offer some sort of relief. Enough already. Give us a break in the clouds so that we can repair the damages and brace ourselves for the next onslaught of storms. Windshields are pelted with hail and rain so hard that the wipers cannot keep up the pace and wear out too fast. Drivers are moving along, relying on their memory to get them where they need to go, for they cannot really see what is in front of them. Even the arrogant motorists are slowing down, realizing that being late is less permanent than being dead. Many shoppers are deciding that stocking up might be the wise thing to do, for a quick run to the supermarket has turned into a journey of epic porportions.

El Nino arrived on the wings of the wind yesterday. It has only been one day. But the promise of this small child is that he will grow into a strapping young man, ready to sow some wild oats, wreck havoc on the neighbors and leave a lasting tattoo'd impression on our lives. With this much power at his disposal, one would think we would name him. Something strong and mighty. Something to denote that he is a force to be reckoned with. A name that will personify the trouble he will cause. Something that will signify the legacy he is about to leave in his wake. I do believe we should call him Zeus. Thor. Alexander the Great. Oh but no, those names have already been taken by men and gods of greatness. But this is Monterey. I think we could go with something that has a special meaning for us... a name that reminds us of both the joys and the terrors of someone with these characteristics. I've got it.

Dennis. For this El Nino reminds us of another hellion that created havoc. A child who reigned his block, leaving his neighbors with a sense of resignation and acceptance to the fact that hopefully he would one day grow up and move away. And hey. We already have a park in Monterey named after this El Nino. It seems as though we were ready for him. 

So come in on the west wind Dennis. Come and dump your rambunctious rain on our dry dirt. Give us your best beastly weather. We will pull our coats around us a little tighter, throw our hands up in despair, and lock the doors - hoping you will go away and leave us alone in peace.

TRAFFIC BITS

I work in an small office at street level that has windows that face the sidewalk and busy avenue. Every day, three or four times a day, fire trucks wail and ambulances rush down the street, past my window. The police give chase, sirens blaring, and it seems as though the world is coming to a catastrophic end. And this always seems to happen when I am on the phone, in a serious conversation or trying to get a point accross to someone who just isn't getting it.

And I wonder. Where in the heck is the fire? I am beginning to suspect that they are merely going for coffee at the new Starbucks up on Lighthouse. Or maybe the Tuesday five dollar a dozen special on donuts at Red's. There couldn't possibly be THAT much excitement and emergencies in Monterey could there? I feel like Lassie is trying to tell me that Timmie has fallen in the well again, each and every time they go past my office. What is it? Where did they go? And I never read about any sort of siren-worthy news in the paper. Where is the capsized boat? The heart-attack victim at the Aquarium? The overturned vehicle? The doggie trapped in the blazing fire? Where? Where? It's like someone said, "YOU KNOW WHAT?" In a really loud, excited, frantic voice. And when I say, "WHAT?" They just keep on going and don't tell me. It is the audible sucking in of air with the accompanying squeal of danger. The "OH NO!" The "HELP!!!" scream. And then silence. Crickets. Nothing. Well, I'm tired of all this noise. Either get a twitter account and tell me where the heck you are going in such a hurry, call the newspaper and give them a heads up, post something on your city's facebook page... or stop with the sirens. Just go already. It isn't like people won't get out of your way. Heck, they'll even save you a parking space in front of Starbucks. And probably give you free coffee. Just stop interrupting my day with your emergencies that you don't bother telling me about. I'll pull over if I see you in my rearview mirror. You don't have to scare the beejesus out of me to get me out of your way.

SARATOGA BURGERS

If you know my husband, you know that he is rather peculiar as to where and what he wants to eat.  "People just don't know how to cook," he says.  "They think salt and pepper are the only spices," he bemoans.  He is pretty sure that the chef is NOT cooking with love or even paying attention half the time.

So it is with great pleasure that we dine out at a restaurant that wows my husband.  Without breaking the bank.  We found ONE such place in Saratoga.  Village Burger Bar.  Now, some people may want something more fancy - but we like sitting at the "bar" and ordering our food.  It lends itself to a more relaxed atmosphere and you can talk to other people.  And my husband LOVES to talk to people.

We "built" our own burger, ordering it just so.  My husband is a medium rare sort of person and I am a medium well.  We made a bet that the cooks wouldn't get it right.  They never do.  The "cooks" in this kitchen were all women (ahem) and each of them had a different task.  The grill cook.  The condiments girl,  the buns lady, the produce goddess.  All working together, enjoying themselves.  I think that might have made the difference.  They were laughing and having a good time.

And our burgers were perfect.  Just the right temperature.  Not over salted or under spiced.  As close to perfection as a burger can get.  Exactly as ordered.  Imagine that.  A damn near perfect burger NOT cooked by my husband.

We enjoyed each bite.  Along with truffle fries that were divine.  Mmmmm.... makes me want to go back again next week.  And the week after that.  You can bet every time we go to San Jose now, we'll organize the trip to head over the mountains to Highway 17 and past Saratoga.  A detour stop for lunch at the Village Burger Bar.

Can't wait! Oh great, now I'm hungry. If you're hungry too.... visit their website at http://www.vbbsaratoga.com/.

MONTEREY SUMMER

I hail from Southern California. "Hell" my husband called it after living through one particularly hot summer. A place where 10 days of 100F plus degree weather was common. In November. Heat is nothing new for me. I remember Summers and Autumns in SoCal where it was so hot you could do science experiments on the sidewalk. A "dry heat" the natives said. The kind of heat that sucked the air out of your lungs when you stepped outside your front door. The kind of heat you stopped, squared your shoulders, and braced yourself for at the door, just before you left the comfort of an airconditioned building. So you can imagine my amusement when someone told me that we were having a heat wave in Monterey. It was going to get over 70 degrees they said. Seventy? Seventy in Los Angeles is the temperature where you think, "gee, I'd better grab a sweater just in case I get cold." Over 70F in Monterey - next to the water? How hot could that possibly be? I remember my first experience when the temperature rose up to 83F degrees here, along the coast. Oh good lord. Women were practically naked. Men were showing off their pasty white, albeit ripped chests. I've never seen so much reflection off of bare skin before! Not a scarf to be found, nary a sweater in sight. Men and women were stripped down to the basics of summer wear, lounging by the water, trying to "cool off" in the oppressive onslaught of a mercury overload on the local temperature gauge.

I've lived here six years now. It is mid-March and we've had several days where the little red dot on the thermometer has gone over the three-quarter mark and has crept upwards toward the 70F line. I find myself wearing layers and sandals to work. I leave the house in the cool of the morning, only to be stripped down to the lowest acceptable level of business wear by noon. I find myself wondering if it is okay to turn on the fan in my office when the temperature gets above 60F. Is it hot in here? And I find myself wandering outside as often as possible. The heat warms my aching bones that stiffened up over the winter nights. Monterey heat puts a spring in my step and makes me want to head down to the harbor to watch the sea otters frolic in the ocean. The orange blossoms are in full bloom in the courtyard of my work and the sun shines through my window. I watch as the blue jay outside of my window builds her nest and it makes me think we've completely skipped spring and have moved right into a Monterey summer. Have you seen my flip flops?

LOST IN THE WOODS

We were lost.  It wasn't hard to do.  A right hand turn instead of going straight.  Or maybe we went straight instead of turning left.  I'm not really sure.  But it was pretty evident that we were hopelessly lost.  The path we were on kept climbing up into the redwoods.  We saw a sign and it told us that the road would narrow for the next eight miles.  We eventually lost the yellow line that marks the middle of the highway and we were having to squeeze up against the side of the mountain to let cars going the other way pass.  Odd thing that.  We didn't see any cars ahead of us or behind us going the same way.  Just a semi-steady stream of day trippers headed down the mountain.

The gas gauge had dipped below the quarter-tank mark and the sun was beginning to dip as well.  The dense green forest we were in was cool and dark and damp.  It was truly beautiful, but the worry marker in my head was rising exponetially to the drop in temperature and daylight.  We knew which highway we were on, but we had no idea where it ended up, how long it would take to get to our mystery destination, or even if there was a filling station at the other end.  Our GPS didn't work because there was no signal in those hills.

My husband knew before I did that I was getting a bit aprehensive about this adventure.  He told me simply to follow my intuition.  My intution was screaming to turn around.  Head back to where you know there is a gas, food, and civilization.

So that's what we did.  Right there in the middle of the narrow road, we did a U-turn.  Don't you know right about then it was a traffic jam on that deserted road.  Four of five cars were impatiently urging me to hurry as I lumbered the truck across the road, back, forth, perfectly executing a twelve-point turn.  But I made it and we were headed back down the hill.

We found the road we had missed back a ways.  Discovered some quaint mining towns that had been in those hills for a hundred years.  We refueled and made it safely home.

As with many of life's adventures, this one had a spiritual message.  See, life is kind of like that excursion.  Am I on a road without a roadmap?  Am I running out of energy and have no idea where I am going? Am I climbing and climbing, enjoying the view, but aprehensive about where I am going to wind up?  Is it getting dark and those beautiful woods are starting to look scary?  Have I reached a point where I realize that I have not prepared myself for this journey?  Is it time to stop.  Trust my intuition.  Back out of the potentially dangerous situation.  Head back to safety and home?

We will go back to those woods.  But know this.  I now know where that road winds up.  And next time, I'll have a plan, a full day of sunlight and a full tank of gas, and sensible shoes and a jacket.  I want to explore those woods.  I want to stop and smell the forest.  And I want to be prepared for whatever adventure awaits.  And a map.  I want a map.