Home from Trippin'

It's not like I did a lot in NY. But something kinda happened to me. Good things, I think. A peeling away that has left me a little stripped and unsure, but in ok ways.

It takes years, I think, to scratch away at the surface levels of denial -- it did for me any way -- and some of us don't bother with the deepest of levels. It's easy to be content with just-under-the surface truths. Any new truth revealed is a relief though, isn't it? It's like a new day; we're rolling now, aren't we? But there's more. There's always more. I feel I unintentionally dove deeper and yanked away some bullshit this week. Not regular bullshit, like Purpose and Meaning, but more about obscure self honesty; the type of honesty we don't even know we're not being honest about. Not stark unkind truths really, but blossoming ones that go beyond ourselves that connect us to everything else.

The interesting thing is that I couldn't find a pen this week. Every pen in my purse had disappeared, and I always have pens because I'm always scribbling madly inspired notes to myself. But all the pens vanished, so no notes to write, and I was left without the guarded task of making lists and sorting things out in controlled, organized ways. I can see how the lists have protected me from bravely mazing through my mind to root out things and tear down real veils. It was kinda scary; unchartered really. Because when deeper facades go down, who am I left with?

The pinnacle of all of this happened last night. I had taken the subway to JFK airport early to make sure I'd get there on time. I was anxious to come home, not wanting to be alone anymore with my doing-nothing-practical yet mazing, rooting mind. I was without the girls, missing Husband too, and I was stabilizing a tailspin that was equally uplifting and scooting me to an unknown ledge. My flight was to depart at 6pm. We didn't board until 8. We didn't lift off the ground until 10. By 10, I was all but rocking back and forth in my window-seat chair, trapped in and looking at the monster queue of planes around us waiting to take off too.

I don't typically recognize anxiety in myself. I don't understand it. I squash it down deep. I blame it on sugar. I blame it on morons around me. I drop kick it so others can deal with it. But by 10pm last night, I had no where to put it. I didn't even have a motherfucking pen to scribble out a superficial remedy and I decided to let it stay, trapped there too. We duked it out a bit, in the window-seat. If you had had ring-side seats in my mind, you would have seen it wasn't pretty. I called Husband on the tarmac after an hour of waiting and I said, "I just want to come home now." And he said, "Hang in there, baby." And that worked, for a while. Until that jerk Anxiety made me believe that every call and text was a poetic precursor to the plane going down. The woman in front of me asked if she could get off the plane, but we were in the middle of the queue and there was no way, and I thought if she makes us go back to the gate and start over with the waiting I will beat her ass with a bag of peanuts. I wasn't feeling positive. Or loving. Or grateful. But I kept forcing those thoughts on myself, like, "Be fucking positive already. Surround this plane in some goddamn love, will ya? Don't force fate because then we'll probably crash as we take off -- DON'T THINK THAT." At 10, we took off and the crowd didn't even applaud like a good-natured crowd would have. Many grumbled, but I was thrilled to have finally left. Until the turbulence started. I'm sure many people are scared of turbulence. I don't know many more than me. I'm terrified in fact, but I don't usually show it. Except that one flight where I put my jacket over my head and resigned to it all, and that one time I flew in a private flying minivan to Vegas that shook like we were in an 8.0 air earthquake and I held no fear back then and I held on to the ceiling, my face drained and paralyzed, and I sweated through a t-shirt and I was so tense that I got a spectacular workout, but generally when a plane shakes I mask the raging panic within. The plane shook last night pretty good. Not the worst I've felt, but certainly not the easiest, and my mind and I went on a rollercoaster. It was like I was drunk to the point of emotional blathering, and the unearthing of my bullshit began -- known bullshit, some well-hidden shit, stuff I didn't know what to make of -- right there in the window seat as I covered my face with a pillow and sometimes tried to hold onto the window without a good grip. After an hour, the flight settled into a smooth auto cruise and I was ecstatic; so overly happy about this, though any tiny bump caused me to throw the pillow up to my face again. I was exhausted from the mental prostrations. I simultaneously and nervously read magazine articles and flipped through the TV channels, refusing to stop on anything negative and upsetting. But then I started watching Rescue Me because the writing intrigued me and Dennis Leary is a leathery fox, and I had never seen the show before. And then his kid gets hit by a car while he's on a bicycle and Leary and his wife pick up the limp bloody body and drive him to the emergency room and the kid is obviously dead and it was filmed well enough where I couldn't change the channel and I'm all crying silently in my seat . . .and then me and my anxiety go at it again. I'm begging this time, Don't take my girls from me like that! Please god! And I watch the mom's reaction when she realizes the boy is dead and I spend five minutes trying to clear away from my mind what my reaction would be and I nearly start just screaming in my seat. A long, unhinged guttural scream with all my breath. I changed the channel, finally, and tussled with my mind some more to quell the freak out. More of the same strange universal bullshit came up and I let myself stew in it. I tried to release it, but I'm not sure I have.

We landed at 12:30am in LA. I had been thinking about my reunion with Husband for three days, but when I saw him I felt raw and embarrassed, unbeknownst to him. I tried to explain a little of what I was feeling, but spoken words in these situations fail me because I can't seem to shake the self consciousness from them, and I teared up enough to know that if I kept talking I would have cried for 10 minutes straight. It's not how I imagined our reunion. I didn't want to dump that on him. I talked instead about how earlier in the day I had been caught in a thunderstorm in the middle of the Gay Pride Parade where a couple of men in short-shorts sought refuge under awnings on the street, and some women danced on the top of a halted double-decker bus anyway. I hadn't done either; I had stood in the rain, looking around me. I told him about how much I loved cooking in a commercial kitchen and that taking the gorgeous raw class moved me, and the wonderful cake class left me with a stomach ache, sadly but unsurprisingly. I told him about how I had bought the pretty brown dress I was wearing even though it wasn't really my style because I loved how many women in NYC didn't schlub around the city and that dresses beat the heat well and looked pretty but not too fancy, enough for me to want one. He told me it really was pretty.

My week and the plane ride home didn't make me feel too exposed, I was finding. I didn't feel that uncomfortable. I felt a little unsure of what I had been through. I felt happy to be home. I love NY, but I really, really love California. The Cali breeze was a soothing welcome home as was holding Husband's hand during the rest of the drive home, not having to talk anymore about the bout I had had with myself. I smoothed out my brown dress and squeezed his hand and told him again how much I loved and missed him. I decided I'd wait until the next day to see how I felt about the other stuff. And today I still feel unsure and raw, but mostly I feel underlyingly yet undeniably inspired.

Feeling Family

We're at Mama Luz's and Big Papi's house, chilling. In fact, we're blasting the El Cantante soundtrack and we take turns blurting out the words as we skip-dance around the living room and the kitchen. Mama Luz and I are the types who have to move to this music, we cannot help ourselves. Mama Luz is barefoot, in jeans and a stained tank top. She busted her toe a couple weeks ago, but every time I skip into the kitchen I spy her twitchin her hips anyway, her shoulders hunched, one hand on her stomach and swaying her head to the music. Every other song we make Maya and Mina get up and dance with us. Every once in a while Big Papi says, "He don't do it right" and he means Marc Anthony doesn't do the Lavoe songs justice, and I agree and don't agree. I am a sucka for the graininess of Anthony's voice. He does no wrong in my eyes. Mama Luz neither. We're under his spell. Big Papi and Mama Luz come from the NY Salsa Golden Era of the 70's, when the most spectacular and innovative artists emerged, and Luz and Papi would came in from the Bronx to catch shows in Manhattan wearing wide collars, gold chains, mini skirts and sassy short haircuts respectively. Mama Luz still rocks that cute hair cut and oooo she'd cut off four fingers if she could figure out how get back her chiseled, mini-skirt popping legs again that are really not that far from being what they were. She wore a mini skirt to my wedding for god's sake. She could probably still bat those humongous eyes that take up most of her face to get what she wanted; expedited no less because her smile and stare glint with a spec of no-good.

Big Papi, the soft-spoken and kind one, just finished telling us a story about how he bitch slapped an employee a couple years back. Some new guy at his job kept calling Big Papi a cabron and hijo de puta and chinga tu madre don't you know, but in an endearing way the guy said; no harm meant, that's just how he talks. Big Papi, thirty years this kid's senior explained that this may just be a cultural misunderstanding, but PR's don't talk casually in this manner and he better cuida la boca , watch his mouth. Of course the kid said, "Sure, Cabron." And Big Papi slapped him up twice; it's documented right there on the company camera. I said, flipping up my hand, "You warned him fair and square." He said, "Yes, I did." I added, "I thought you were the non-violent one in the house." I glared over at Mama Luz as she laughed. "He can throw down if he needs to," she said with pride.

Needless to say, we're having a great time.

Mama Luz and I went dancing a couple days ago, and it hurts me to report that the salsa scene in New York is dead, temporarily I'm praying. I told her it's a travesty that Cali is KILLING the NY scene and she agreed. The other night we went to a place called the Crazy Donkey. This was probably mistake number one. When they advertised "Latin Night" it didn't occur to us that they mainly meant reggaeton. I like reggaeton ok, but certainly not without Husband because this is a let-me-get-my-grind-on dance if there ever was one. The last time we were in Puerto Rico over four years ago, reggaeton had taken over the island and we spied out two couples on a double date in the parking lot of Luquillo Beach. A pair of well-endowed thick sisters were coupled with two skinny and thrilled dudes. When I say date I mean to say that they were standing outside a car with wide open doors and reggaeton was blasting over the car's speakers. The kids were dancing or should I say the boys were kind of standing there, kind of gyrating and the girls, both of them, were bent over in front of the boys working it out: Hands were flat on the ground, booties shaking and stirring. As Husband says, their butt cheeks were wrapped around these guys. We stared and sang, "Daaammmn." At the Crazy Donkey there were no dancers as interesting as the couples at Luquillo, but there was still blatant attempts to rub against something and every time a reggaeton came on I hid out near the bar. When they played the infrequent salsa, Mama Luz and I would naturally dip our knees to the beat and move our feet. No men knew how to dance beyond a basic, sad step so Mama Luz lead and I followed and we turned and shook it and laughed. A group of women kind of semi-circled us and after the couple songs ended, one of the women pulled Mama Luz aside and said, "If we could just get these guys to dance that old school stuff like you ladies we'd be so happy." Mama Luz said, "I hear you." When she told me, I said, "That's old school?" And here I thought it was timeless.

Mama Luz is boiling meat in a pot right now. It smells disgusting. I tell her so. She made a salad too, to impress me and I secretly love that she tries hard to impress me on that level. When she accidentally puts marinade on the salad instead of dressing she yells, "MIERDA COñO MOTHER FUCKER" and we laugh. This is the tone in which Mama Luz usually speaks. We're always like, "Why are you yelling?" And she says, "SHUT UP." Food is the funniest topic in this house. Mama Luz says, "Mira, I don't know why my cholesterol is so high." I say, "Yo, you're still drinking whole milk. That's nasty." And she yells, "THEY SAID ON TV THAT THERE IS NO DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THAT AND 2%. I CAN'T DRINK THAT FUCKING 2%." I say, "Gimme a break." And she smirks. When she comes in with a grocery bag, she likes to announce what's in the bag. She says what she thinks is the healthiest stuff loudly: "I GOT BROCCOLIS" (The fact that she adds an "s" to the end of many words might be the trait that endears me the most to her.) So she got broccolis "WHOLE WHEATS AND BANANAS." Then she pulls out whole milk, salami, cheese danishes and cigarettes, but she doesn't announce those. "OH AND I GOT MY WATER." What she means is that she got a bottle of diet pepsi which she splits between two other empty bottles and fills the rest with water. She claims this is the only way she can drink water. "I HATE THE TASTE OF WATER. AND THIS WAY IT'S STILL HAS NO CALORIES."

I can't tell you enough stories to explain how much I love these people.

This Just In & Other Cosas

My horoscope the other day said this: "The final count is in. Your stars are claiming that your obstacles are 90% imagined. Just un-imagine them and you're free to move forward. It's as easy as it sounds." The final count is in, it said. Do you believe the balls of my stars? Why do my stars have to have my exact personality? Why can't I get all nurturing, coddling stars like everyone else. The horoscope is so great, it's now pasted at my desk at home. "This just in from the stars: Get over yo'self. " It's too good.

In Other News . . . When I was young, I wanted five children. I named them all and I practiced caring for that many. I drew pictures of myself with a lot of kids. I babysat a ton. I was psyched to have a huge family especially since I'm an only child. After Maya was born I thought, Whoa, wait a second. I immediately wondered if I had been insane to have wanted five kids. How could I have five children when all I wanted to do was stare at this one? I revised the number of kids to three. I could surely handle three. After Mina was born I though, Uh whoa. How on earth am I supposed to watch after three when I only have two eyes? I decided that enough greatness had passed through my body. I packed up my womb and declared No Mas.

What I feel for my girls and how much they mean to me is a constant hum of energy that gives form to my existence. Duh. But it doesn't mean that I don't remember very clearly how hard parenting was in their youngest years. The worry was much more intense back then. The Brink always seemed nearby. Remembering that particular brand of exhaustion makes me anxious; it is a bottoming-out kind of exhaustion, a cry-along-with-the baby-praying-to-be-knocked-unconscious type. Being a mother is the hardest job I've ever had because I've always wanted to be great at it. The balance to be a whole person, and not just a mami, maybe that's the hardest aspect of all.

Which is why whenever someone asks if Husband and I want another child -- a boy, we must want a boy! -- (and we've been asked this almost every month for nine years since the day Mina was born) Husband and I, in unison, say, "Hell no." Sometimes we bark it. Sometimes we sing it. Sometimes we punctuate it in different ways. Hell. No. Sometimes we Whitney Houston it: Hell to the no.

There was a tiny window when Mina was about two where I told Husband I'd be willing to shoot for a boy if he felt that was important. He kicked off our current resolve with a resounding, "Hell no." The concept of carrying on a family name is lost on us. What does this have to do with our immediate existence and making the most of our lives and raising good people? We don't know. So, Hell No has remained our answer.

This is on our minds as of late because there is an eerie baby boom going on with people we know. Babies are being born all around us. Grown ass women my age are deciding to have another baby when they have kids ten and fifteen already. And Husband and I cower and deflect the incoming "Don't you guys want another" left and right. Our friend Amy had a baby last week. Her sweet angel baby was born on the heels of her year-and-a half old sweet angel of a son. Her oldest is four. I instinctively cringe at those numbers. We visited Amy and them last weekend and as she took a shower I cradled the newborn for over an hour. She fussed once and though I felt rusty handling the fragility of a three day old, instincts dusted themselves off and the baby was a joy to hold. I hardly stared at her, which, back before my own children I would've soaked her in through my eyes, not able to absorb enough. I held this little one and flipped through a magazine. I looked down at her tiny face a few times, mainly hoping she wouldn't cry for the sole reason that I wanted to give her mother a break. When mommy came downstairs refreshed and arms outstretched she asked, "Does it make you yearn for another?" "Not in the least," I said too quickly. Amy seemed surprised and maybe I was too blunt. I added, "She is a sweetheart of a baby, but they grow and soon they're running around like --" I looked back at her son who was being followed by a hawk-eyed nanny. "Like My Little Monster?" she said. "He's hardly a monster." I said. I thought too of all the help she has; nannies and family and friends. I answered solely from my own experience: "If they're good or bad, you are constantly running after them. Nonstop. I just don't have any desire to feel that sense of Red Alert every waking moment, y'know?" Her four year old walked in trailed by Mina who was watching after her. I thought I heard Amy sigh even though she didn't have to have a second set of eyes to track her toddler son. Either way, she's going to be on Red Alert for years to come, and I was doing a happy dance on the inside that I wasn't her.

I have an IUD. It will expire next year, and Husband and I have had many conversations about him going in to get is junk adjusted to No Baby Mode. He's not hesitant in the least, but we're Busy and we're This and That. I say, "If we end up with a surprise, ooo Lord have mercy on our souls . .. " He said, "Oh my god, I know. I'll call. For sure, I'll call the doctor this week. The omens around us are too great." It has dampered our intimate life. Well, that and the fact that he's still sleeping on the goddamn air mattress in the living room.

This just in from the stars: Obstacles Imagined!

I leave for New York on Friday. The girls will be staying with family for a couple weeks and I'm kind of like a shuttle service. I'll hang with family too, but I'll get knocked to the side so everyone can dote over the girls. It's how it should be as far as I'm concerned. After five days in Long Island, I'm going to steal away to spend 3 nights and 4 days in Manhattan by myself. Can someone say Dreamy? I'm gonna take two more classes at the Natural Gourmet Institute. I am taking an Elegant Vegan Cake class, which will be cool, but the class I'm most excited about is the Raw Mexican Fiesta! class. Taking this raw class was a last-minute decision. I've been feeling a lot of conflicted feelings about baking lately, which I'm a little too torn to really express right now. I tend to always gravitate back to raw food. Some say that's a natural progression: Vegan to vegan raw. We'll see. All I know is the thought of mastering some raw chef-ery excites the shit out of me. And check out what we'll be learning:

Creamy Avocado and Chunky Golden Corn Soup; True Mexican-Style Chili with Crunchy Cheddar Nut Cheese and Macadamia Sour Cream; "Grilled" Red and Yellow Peppers, Garlic Spinach, and Summer Squash Fajitas with Guacamole and Pico de Gallo; Flan de Coco with Mango Sauce.

Dudes, raw flan de coco?? I'm so all over that.

Obstacles Be Gone! I un-imagine you.

Talk to you later, mi gente.

Self Portrait Challenge - Nude June #3

More Nudie Junies aqui.

Self Portrait Challenge - Nude June #2

I sat on the bed naked, with the camera. It was a combination more explosive than I thought it would be. After work I had locked my bedroom door, stripped down and sat on the bed. My legs were creased from where my jeans had dug into my skin. The dogs curled up at the head of the bed, half intrigued. This felt liberating and ridiculous. When I started snapping shots I felt like I was pushing the limits with the photos -- I mean I had no underwear on -- but I look at this rather pedestrian picture and sigh. I realized then that I waffle between liking to be naked and not liking to be naked.

I sleep in a jog bra. I like the feel of a corset. I like to be cocooned in clothing, and this isn't a fashion-driven decision, but often one of security.

But once, on vacation with Husband at a woodsy hotel, the balcony faced only pine trees and I sat out there often, naked, without the least bit of self consciousness.

And a few times when I was a child, I swam naked in my mother's rich boyfriend's pool while they holed themselves up in other parts of the house. And I loved it. I was floating away, completely in control of my own self. I haven't swam naked much since without overt flirtation and sexual coyness that embarrasses me now. I miss skinny dipping just for fun, because it felt good. Maybe I just like to be naked in Nature. Strange.

Taking this picture was harder than I thought it would be. I had to peel away layers of work clothes and I searched around to turn on an Artistic Switch as the kids whined on the other side of the door about dinner and end-of-the year homework. And my dogs looked at me like, Whatever, and I did what I could fully aware that when we don't take naked photos often we really only want ones that make us look as good as possible; art be damned.

I think I can do better next time.

More nudists HERE.

Photo Journaling y Nude June

I love when I turn on my camera and find photos that the girls have taken without my knowledge. Mina is the most notorious champion of this. I stared at this photo for a long time. I think it's really beautiful.

I tried to take pictures of me riding my bike. I'm not sure why I thought that would be easy/easier. This is as good as it got. I was riding to my Kick My Core's Ass Class.

The girls painted the dogs' nails. Carmen was the most willing participant. She picked that blue color. Maya held up two colors and Carmen sniffed blue. Blue it was. Hmm, not sure why it came out sideways, but there you go. Then the dogs got massages. Doggie Spa Day! I heard Mina say from the patio, "Hey, look. I'm giving Lupe one of these kinds of massages." I thought, Uhoh, but then saw this. I laughed for about five minutes. Here's another random, guerrilla photo this time taken by Maya. She was trying to get a picture of her Interview Outfit. At school, professionals from the community came into their classrooms last week to interview the seventh grades about what constitutes a worthwhile life. Questions like: How are you living your life in a worth while manner? What famous person leads a worthwhile life in your opinion? What non-famous person? I was the lucky answer to that one. She told the business woman that I was constantly trying to make their lives better, that she wanted to be like me. I'm choked up just typing that. So the kids had to wear what Maya calls "fancy clothes" as if they were going on a real job interview, and we realized she had no fancy clothes; not one dress or skirt or pair of slacks hung in her closet. (Man, I love that word: Sl-acks.) We went to Old Navy and got this number. Oh, and she got glasses last week. Glasses to see the board at school. I told Husband that we have one daughter who can't hear and one who can't see. Husband said, "And you can't do either." Touche, Mr. Rivera! I'm sorry for my weak-ass genes, girls. (Dang, Maya's pretty.)
Hey, it's Nude June over at Self Portrait Challenge. I'm digging that. Not so much so I can put my naked ass on the Net, but I find it provocative and interesting in a scary way. During the first week most of the participants nervously rambled about their trepidation doing this. Many said they couldn't. Some posted really nice photos, if not safe ones. That's an awakening for me. I think we would all probably cringe initially at this, but the challenge seems mostly about getting past that uncomfortableness and getting to a place where we find our bodies artistic and beautiful. I'm down with that. I'm double dog daring myself to push my limits on this. I'm mean, don't expect any vagina-as-a-flower shots or anything, but if I can get an interesting photo at the edge of my nakedness then let's do this! I didn't think to check into June's challenge until Tuesday, the usual day to post the entry for the week. I scrambled and posted the new back tat photo. I feel it was a mere warming up. No limits were tested here considering I had posted this photo without any egging on from a challenge or dare.

Happy Weekend. I'll talk to you later.

Today's Commute, LA River Binge

Track 11 waits for the morning train.
I wait for the morning train in plastic party shoes, with serape bag.

Afternoon train along the LA River; CAB MOE. (You gotta click on photos for detailed beauty.)
Not sure which bridge; American flag
Bright Idea/Roten Eva
Goofs, reflection
Punch More CAB

Hammers, The Devil, Bikes and Gypsy Beds

I woke up this morning in the worst mood I've been in in a long, long time. My eyes opened to a perfect day and bam I wanted to yell at kittens. It's bad. A Watch-Out-Now kind of mood. A I will punch you in the head over no more toilet paper kind of mood. A if someone tells me to smile I will side kick you kind of mood. Oh man, it's so bad. There would only be a tiny number of reasons why I feel this way, one reason in particular that is the most obvious culprit. I've been on a sugar binge since I made Maya's lovely birthday cake.

Now, do I really want to talk about what an idiot I am? Not really. Do we want to go over the hit-your-hand-with-a-hammer theory; meaning, if you bludgeon your hand it will hurt so maybe stop hitting your hand. So, no, I don't want to fucking talk about that either. Here's my fundamental problem: I do things that make me feel good. I feel so good that I feel I can do anything I like, even the stuff that does not make me feel good. A piece of vegan, natural sugar cake? Sure, I can handle that! Then it rolls into all kinds of shit because sugar is the devil, and all of the sudden I don't feel so good anymore. Que sopresa. This is the cycle of my life though it's been a long time since I've played with the devil like this. I had long stopped hitting my hand with the hammer. And now I'm clawing my way back up, out of the funk, again, towards the light, kicking myself.

I could go on and on about the things that are bugging me this minute -- sugar is a catalyst to unearth the tiniest of grievances into the most major of problems -- but I think instead I'll write about the things that I'm digging right now. It's almost a struggle to coax them out from behind the heavy fog blanketing my demeanor right now, but I think it will be good for me. Just don't tell me to smile. Ooo, don't do it.

I've got a new musical love interest. For the last few weeks I've been listening nonstop at full volume to Gogol Bordello. They are a gypsy punk band from the Ukraine. I yell out the lyrics in broken English and Ukrainian and this makes me happy. I learned about them during my last tattoo session. I had been in the chair nearly five hours and after a series of old metal tracks and some hip hop, one of the artists jammed in his own CD and Gogol Bordello came crashing in over the shop speakers. Everyone bobbed their heads; hardcore artists and clients alike. I watched the owner of the shop with a huge grey rose tat'ed to the side of his neck get up to retrieve paper towels from a cabinet and he trotted and swung his elbows wildly to the music as he did. It's that kind of music. You have to swing and trot and yell out unintelligible lyrics. I love it. Here's some samplings;



What else? Husband feels tremendously better. He has taken to sleeping in the living room on the air mattress we keep for guests. That kind of sucks, but it's all we can think of until we can save enough money for a sleep-by-numbers bed that will make us both comfortable. It's kind of like dating again though he never visits me in my bed. We had the best date on Saturday night -- actually the best day. The whole family took the bus to the LACMA to see a pretty provocative exhibit called Phantom Sightings. The LACMA is looking fierce, everybody. Go, support! We checked out the tar pits on the grounds too and the excavation pit that's been going pretty strong since 1914. It's very, very difficult to wrap my mind around what they are still digging up to this day. As we peered down into the pit we saw a huge pelvic bone stewing in the black pool tagged with a red flag. Another sooty bone was tagged with a yellow flag. They were a giant sloth pelvis and a dire wolf shoulder respectively. I asked the worker from what time were these bones. And she said, "The Ice Age." Of course. The Ice Age. Right there in front to me. Still getting dug up with mammoth femurs and saber tooth tiger teeth and shit. Crazy! We took the bus home and it's been a while since Husband's been on a bus because he was gonna sit next to a guy having a loud conversation with himself. When Husband realized I was waving him back to the middle of the bus, he shuffled to us and said, "Sorry, I didn't realize dude had his homies with him." Later that evening, Husband and I rode our bikes down to The 3rd Street Promenade to catch a movie. I smuggled in snacks and we ate vegan cookies and held hands and laughed, and then we rode our bikes home in the nighttime mildness of our beach city, and man, I was high on life. I looked back at Husband riding. He was aglow from street lights and he looked so handsome in his newsboy cap and hoodie, riding his bike. We're city kids gone green. I told him all of this -- him openly if not loudly being conscientious -- turned me on. Later that night, I visited the air mattress.

Speaking of bikes, how cool is this? Ikea Denmark now has bikes with trailers so you can haul your Ikea loot home with pedal power.

(Photo ganked from Copenhagenize.)

That's all I got for now. I'm starting to level off after The Crash. I'm gonna go toss any evidence left of sugar-like snacks and then hide all hammers.