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on surfing and quitting

It’s hopeless, I had decided. I was obviously never going to surf again, never going to surf enough. Every time someone identified me as a surfer, I cringed. How can I be a surfer when I never surf? Also, from never surfing, I suck.

With this attitude cemented into my brain, I pondered selling my boards. You know, to someone who would actually use them. Because clearly, I wasn’t ever going to. Surfing would never be enough of a priority – otherwise, I’d be doing it. Which I wasn’t. I also wasn’t writing enough or advancing enough or losing that 10 pounds that would make me a better surfer – not that I was ever going to surf again, so why not eat a giant plate of French fries followed up by a chocolate bar?

Sure, I loved surfing. But since when does loving something make a difference? Loving surfing wasn’t going to make me a more dedicated surfer just like loving my kids wasn’t going to stop me from making a million fucking mistakes as a mother. Love might keep me from driving off a cliff on particularly dark days, but it wasn’t going to propel me back out into the ocean, not when so much stood in the way – like mucking about on Facebook or scheduled back-to-back social events or taking a leisurely lunch instead of working through the noon hour so I might get out to the beach in time to suit up and catch some waves.

People have real problems. I have bigger problems of my own. Maybe I should pay attention to them instead of whining about not surfing. If I just quit surfing, I’ll no longer have a reason to whine about not going, I pointed out.

The best decisions are flavored with equal parts bitterness and spite.

And then I went surfing. Not here, not locally, but in Santa Cruz. The first session did nothing to convince me to keep going, but the second, well, some waves were caught. And the third, well, Pleasure Point lived up to its name. I may have grinned. More than once. Some of the ugly weighting me down may have been replaced by renewed faith in beauty. Two weeks later, I traveled again. Not too far, just down to Ocean Beach where I have a couple surfer friends. Friends who would laugh at me if I said I was giving up surfing. I had to go. So I did. And there was sunshine and dolphins and goddamn it if I didn’t fall in love all over again. And I fell back in love with love and decided maybe it did matter after all, maybe even though it can’t sustain us, it colors life and our decisions in such a way that we are drawn to make more of what we have, to get up after we fall down, to return to that which returns us to ourselves. Has anyone ever had such an epiphany?!

Oh, right. The poets.

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution’s power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.

– Edna St. Vincent Millay

So, I’m not quitting surfing. I’m starting off the days assuming I’ll surf, hitting up friends for reports, suggesting we go surfing together. Stoke begets stoke. I’m still not very good and probably won’t ever be. What is good, though, is the sky. The clouds. The way the sunrise colors everything pink and magic. Watching better surfers draw lines across wave faces, ephemeral artists on an ever-changing canvas. Stepping away from the virtual world into the physical one – and I am lucky, because the ocean is the subject matter of both for me.

There may be some hope.

(What I am quitting, at least for this year, is counting my sessions. For the first time since 2000, I’m just going to go, not worry about how many times I’ve gone out, using numbers to know whether or not I’m surfing “enough.” I’ll know by the lightness of my spirit and the quickness of my feet. Besides, I’m out of ways to describe, in new ways, the sensation of paddling into a wave, catching it, riding it successfully. Just go watch a pelican glide along the curving ocean. Like that. How that looks is how surfing feels.)

 

3 Comments
by Jennifer Savage on March 30, 2013  •  Permalink
Posted in life, surf

Posted by Jennifer Savage on March 30, 2013

http://outonthepeninsula.wordpress.com/2013/03/30/on-surfing-and-quitting/

Travel Misadventures or Why Waiting to Get Gas is a Bad Idea

Some disasters are but a split second in the making. A word slips from the lips, an item slips from the hand – in my case, I slipped through Crescent City without stopping for gas. Waiting to fill up across the Oregon border seemed clever; gas is cheaper and this trip to the presidential inauguration needs to impact my family’s finances as little as possible.

What I didn’t understand was how far up the 199 we’d have to go to reach the border, much less arrive at an open gas station. We’d just blown through Gasquet when the car spluttered and died. My traveling companion didn’t realize what had happened at first – we still had momentum and he was deep into Marc Maron’s podcast with Dave Grohl. My phrasing didn’t help.

“Hey, Andrew, I need to get gas.”

“It’s a long way to the next gas station.”

“Well, I’m running out. I mean, I just ran out.”

“Wait – this is happening now?”

I cruised into a turnout in answer.

After exhausting every possible way of apologizing for being so stupid, so very stupid, oh my god I’m so sorry for being so very stupid, I took the next step of getting us out of this mess,  to the side of the road, where I waved my arms overhead in the universal signal for “Please stop and save me!”

The car stopped, backed up. Two women agreed to give us a lift to the nearest northerly gas station. A long lift – Goff was right. The miles passed slowly in the backseat, my concern growing in proportion to the distance we were leaving the car behind. The car, in which I’d left everything except my wallet.

Including, I realized as I patted my pocket, my keys.

I tried to squelch the panic. Goff glumly watched our progress on a map — even without cell service, you can GPS yourself, apparently. The women chainsmoked and played teeth-grinding music – although I like to think they’d chosen songs with a hopeful message on purpose. For us. “Everything’s gonna be fiii-yiii-yiiine…” They flicked their cigarette butts out the window.I refrained from sharing the fact that cigarette butts are the number one contributor to garbage on the beach. That the butts don’t decompose, but end up in the rivers and creeks, where they get washed out to sea and kill sea babies who mistake them for food. Nope, I quietly looked at the snow outside the window and thought about the news stories reporting about how some foolish travelers ran out of gas and ended up stuck in the snow and dying or losing limbs or eating each other. While I didn’t think Goff and I had been in danger of cannibalism, the knowledge that I was now one of those “What were they thinking?!” morons added embarrassment to the practical problems needing solving.

The sun set. Things looked dark.

We ended up in O’Brien, a tiny town over the border and about 25 miles north of my Civic. The O’Brien Country Store clerks graciously let me use the phone – cell coverage had gone from nonexistent to still not good enough. I called Triple A. Twenty minutes and multiple service representatives later, we had a plan to meet their driver at the car. How to get to the car remained a problem. Since it was in California and we were in Oregon, the driver would not be coming to get us. I hit up the store clerks. “Um, do you guys know anyone who would be willing to drive us 20 miles south? I have cash. I can pay for gas.”

Welcome to Irony Town, Savage.

They asked the sole customer, a portly, 50-ish fellow with a 12-pack of beer and a shaggy head of hair. He reacted with regret. He’d had too much to drink already, see, and shouldn’t drive. I understood, of course, and appreciated his offer to go to the bar across the street and ask around for us.

O’Brien is a store, a post office and a bar. Our odds weren’t looking good. Goff had vanished to the outside, roaming the perimeter in hopes of scoring cell coverage. I believe he also had hopes he’d reach a friend in Crescent City who would come rescue him from this ill-fated venture.

“You know, we have good people around here,” the older clerk mused. “If I see someone I know, I’ll ask for you.” He went out to the porch, presumably to look for some of these good people. I followed him out. The parking lot was empty.

“I guess I could try to flag someone down.” My breath frosted white as I spoke.

“Well, you could…” my friend answered. His tone suggested that what he meant was, “That’s a hell of an idea,” and by “hell of” he meant, “one that will end up with you shot and dumped down a river bank.”

He paused and followed up with, “We do have a lot of methheads around here, but you can usually tell them by their cars.”

I contemplated that for a moment and in that moment, a truck’s lights came on across the street. The driver exited the bar parking lot, eased into the street and pulled into the store parking lot.

Please please please be someone who will help us.

“Joe*? That you?” the clerk called out.

Joe looked leery of answering. He must have known he was about to commit to something. Maybe the earnestness on the clerk’s face. Maybe the puppy dog look on mine.

“This little lady needs some help.”

Situation explained, Joe acquiesced. I rounded up Goff and we set out for the car. A little ways down the road, Joe mentioned he was about three beers in and, “If you get scared, one of you’ll have to drive.”

He also shared how much he hates California. He really hates California. Grew up in Morro Bay area, got the hell out as soon as he could. Hates, hates, hates California. O’Brien may have its inbreds – “literally” – and methheads, but it’s “paradise” compared to the California’s gangbanging, Mexicans and taxes.

Joe is also not a guy who “bends over and takes it,” he’ll tell you. That’s why he hates unions. He’s also a commercial fishermen who hates regulations. When he got around to asking what Goff and I do, I opted to not share my identity as an ocean protection advocate and instead answered, “Oh, we work for the local paper.” Technically, I am on a freelance assignment, so it wasn’t a total lie. I also didn’t mention we were on our way to the Obama inauguration.

We needed a ride and Joe provided.

Arrived at the car, where I’d left the keys in the ignition and the door unlocked to no harm. All contents accounted for. A few minutes later, the Triple A driver arrived, poured some wonderful, life-saving gas into my tank and we were back in business. Looking at a long and much-later drive to Portland than anticipated, but nobody froze to death or resorted to gnawing off body parts. I’d gotten us into this mess and out. Everything was going to be A-OK.

Goff even started speaking to me again… sometime around Grant’s Pass.

* Not his real name.

(Official adventures to be reported in this week’s North Coast Journal!)

4 Comments
by Jennifer Savage on January 20, 2013  •  Permalink
Posted in irony, life, travel

Posted by Jennifer Savage on January 20, 2013

http://outonthepeninsula.wordpress.com/2013/01/20/travel-misadventures-or-why-waiting-to-get-gas-is-a-bad-idea/

Not all who wander are… oh, heck! I was lost.

First my mind wandered and then my feet did, too. Suddenly I had no idea where I was. Well, some idea. The Ma-l’el dunes, a couple miles north of my house. The ocean was that way and the highway somewhere over there. But the trail I’d been spacing out on just sort of faded into brush without delivering me to the parking lot where I’d left my car.

This wasn’t a completely unprecendented twist. Much as I start out determined to live in the moment and observe the minute details of the wilderness, my brain tends to untether. Admiring the sea rocket and goldenrod gives way to daydreams. The ocean’s expanse sends me mentally adrift.

Until the realization I don’t know where I am smacks me back into reality. Oops. At least I’m not deep in the woods. The weather’s pleasant, mild. I won’t have to eat tree bark or dig a hole to survive. I just need to get back to my car.

I tip-toed over the native plants until another path opened up. I considered scaling a dune, figuring the higher ground would reveal my location. But I didn’t want to trample anything and besides, now that I was on a trail again, I felt as if I couldn’t abandon it. I pressed on.

Around a corner, the dunes opened up revealing an expanse of beach grass and a stretch of 255. Great. I cut across to the chain link fence dividing me from the road. Oh, good — someone had cut out a human-sized hole, allowing me to clamber through without catching my clothes. (I’m no good at fence-hopping, either.) Looked right to see the sign for Stamps, which meant I was south of Vance, which meant I could either trek back through the dunes or walk up the highway and around to the BLM parking lot. I opted for the highway, figuring I’d better not chance losing my way again.

So there I was, hoodied out, wearing sweats and battered sneakers, an old bag slung over my shoulder, striding up 255 with an old beach bag slung over my shoulder, deeply aware that I was not, in fact, emanating the highly competent professional image I strive for. No, what I looked like was all the other unfortunate people who don’t have a way to get from the peninsula to town other than walking or thumbing. At least they have an excuse: poverty, drug addiction, illness… Me, I was just dumb. But at least no longer lost.

3 Comments
by Jennifer Savage on September 10, 2012  •  Permalink
Posted in life, walk

Posted by Jennifer Savage on September 10, 2012

http://outonthepeninsula.wordpress.com/2012/09/10/not-all-who-wander-are-oh-heck-i-was-lost/

An exercise in gratitude

One night last week, I found myself setting the alarm for 12:30 a.m., then 1:30, then 2:30, then 3:30, then 5:30 a.m. Nick’s blood sugar hovered in the 300s despite my continued dosages of insulin, refusing to drop into normal range until that last 5:30 check. Why does this tend to happen throughout the night instead of the day? I don’t know. I was too tired to ask, “Why?” at the time. I am often too tired to ask, “Why?” these days; I just want to figure out, “How?” How can I resolve his blood sugar problems? Why something isn’t working is only as relevant as how knowing the answer will help me fix it. I am a carpenter these days, not a philosopher.

(I wish I was a carpenter – what a lovely, practical skill to have.)

The following day I was, of course, exhausted. Sometimes rallying to face all that needs to be done between 6 a.m. and midnight challenges me more than I’d like to admit. In my daydreams, I waltz through the mornings, salsa through lunchtime, samba across the evening and tango into the night.

(I wish I knew all those dances – what an exquisite way to live.)

Reality finds me more often stumbling, tripping over my words and slumping at my desk. I confess, I felt a little sorry for myself. Life felt too heavy. I hadn’t even had a drink and still I just wanted to lie down on the nearest floor and say, “OK, I give.” But as always, in my stupid, brilliant, complicated, straightforward life, the good happenings continue to twist around the bad, impossible to separate or ignore. So even as I spend another night awake at 3:30 a.m. because I needed to check Nick’s blood sugar, which was high, again, and because while checking him, he complained that his pump kept beeping because the battery was low, so I had to go find a spare battery in the truck, where I keep some emergency supplies, and throughout all this, my poor old dog lies on the floor without getting up because her legs went out yesterday and she’s not getting past it despite my hopes that she might just be really, really worn out from walking to the beach, and now I am likely going to have to make the call to have a vet come out and end her life because that would be the right thing to do if she can’t walk (right?) and I’m really not ready for that because she’s so sweet and I didn’t pet her enough or walk her enough and fuck, I was trying to get to the counting-my-blessings part of this.

Right, blessings. Despite all the above and other, less tragic, bad news, in the last week, I’ve walked out from my house four times to watch the sun, all fiery orange and ringed with red, settle into the blue-black ocean. Each time, the fact that I can walk from my house to this experience stuns me as much as the gold glittering from the horizon to the sand as the sun balances on the edge of the world.

I am awed. And in this same span of time, I’m hiked out from my house twice to surf and once to play Frisbee with Bobby and Nick on an afternoon so clear, windless and balmy I’d longed to transport everyone I loved to the water’s edge so they, too, could bask in the beauty. We winged the Frisbee around like we’ve done a hundred times and I could see our lives together stretch back, stitched together by perfect moments like these. I remembered a similar afternoon years ago – seven? eight? – with Nick zipping across the low-tide shallows on a skimboard as Sandy galloped alongside.

I still have a job I love, one that pays enough to cover the bills and a little more, keeps my family in health benefits. I have at least a half-dozen people I believe I can tell anything to and will still be loved, despite sometimes saying and doing stupid things. I had lunch with one of these fabulous people, last Tuesday, sitting outside at Café Nooner, eating my favorite sandwich in the sunshine. I took two others surfing in Crescent City yesterday, the only place on the entire North Coast that wasn’t sunny, where the wind stayed onshore despite predictions of off-, and they graced me by being not only good sports about the weather, but genuinely having fun. Even with all the fighting my family does, I never feel unloved. My body holds up. My husband finds me beautiful. His garden bursts with flowers and veggies, the backyard a testament to his devotion. The calendar attests to good times to come.

I worry about the dog, about Nick, about our daughters. Please let Sandy not suffer. Please let the children be happy and healthy and outlive me. I make my to-do lists each day, hopeful that if I get everything checked off, life will proceed in the best possible way. I never quite get there. Some nights remain particularly long, some days still bring bad news. In the midst of it all, however, some joy bubbles up. Good things happen. Exhausted as I may be, I can never completely despair.

And for that, I am grateful.

1 Comment
by Jennifer Savage on September 4, 2012  •  Permalink
Posted in beach, beauty, diabetes, family, happiness, Humboldt, life, parenting

Posted by Jennifer Savage on September 4, 2012

http://outonthepeninsula.wordpress.com/2012/09/04/an-exercise-in-gratitude/

What I’m not sharing on Facebook

Because I am ever displaying my maturity, when some friends teased me about being on Facebook “all the time,” my initial reaction was “Nuh uh!” followed immediately by, “I can too stay off Facebook!”

Look, it’s a timesuck and a distraction, to be sure, but it’s also a great and useful tool in some ways – and enough has been written about the influence of Facebook on our lives that I don’t need to get into it here. Mostly, I try to be mindful about how I use Facebook. Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes the bright shiny things people post make my brain go, “Ooooh!” and next thing I know, I’m caught up in the silly.

But not this month! I suppose I should expound upon how liberating it is, how instead of feeling obligated to document and share my every move, I have re-learned how to live in the proverbial moment.

That would be an exaggeration on all fronts, however. True, people who pay attention to my newsfeed have been spared yet more photos of flowers and the ocean. But the three things I miss most have little to do with broadcasting my life: So many people use FB messaging instead of email that a substantive percentage of my communication has been curtailed; Instead of posting a question – “Hey! Anyone an expert at seasoning/reconditioning cast iron pans? I really need help!” – and receiving advice from a self-selected group of experts, I’m forced to trudge through Google results and try to suss out the best course of action myself; I really miss seeing all the photos of people’s trips and families.

Topping it off, my cell phone was swiped out of Jacoby’s Storehouse last week and I have yet to get a replacement. No texts and the only calls I’m making are via the rotary phone (seriously) landline – I’m suddenly living like it’s 1976.

Okay, that’s also an exaggeration.

What’s not an exaggeration is, the evening’s promise to be gorgeous. If anyone’s looking, I’ll be at the beach. Sans phone.

But here’s a photo from last time:

2 Comments
by Jennifer Savage on September 2, 2012  •  Permalink
Posted in life

Posted by Jennifer Savage on September 2, 2012

http://outonthepeninsula.wordpress.com/2012/09/02/what-im-not-sharing-on-facebook/

Parenting gets easier? Then why am I still freaking out?

It started when Chelsea turned 16 and people said how excited I must be for her to drive. We were in the thick of a challenging adolescence and at the time I worked at the Arcata Eye newspaper, which meant I saw every CHP collision report come through the fax machine. The knowledge that cars were death machines permeated my every work day. Facing the emotional wallop of raising an angry teenager left me raw and on edge nightly. The idea of my child behind the wheel was not exciting – it was horrifying. That so many people imagined otherwise made me realize how incomprehensible one person’s life can sometimes be to others. How even such a common experience as raising kids does not always translate to having something in common with other parents. That the greatest difference between having kids or not is the amount of fear that lives lodged in your brain, throat, heart, gut.

Of course, I tend to worry. Not everyone does. Some people are born with, or cultivate, this trust that God, the universe or some other benevolent force will “watch out” for their children. I assume they sleep well at night. I’ve considered turning to religion if it would help alleviate my insomnia.

Now that Kaylee’s 18 and graduated from high school, and Nick’s launching into his senior year, Bobby and I get a lot of, “Hey, you’re almost done!” Which I understand – and certainly, some things are easier. I am mostly confident that none of my children will stick keys into an electrical socket or choke on grapes if they’re not cut carefully into halves. I’m even mostly confident they’ll go off into the world and thrive. But this assumption that they’re grown and therefore I have less to worry about confuses me.

I do not feel less worried.

What I do feel is more helpless – my friend describes the shift as, “You spend all these years as their manager and then they fire you. The best you can hope for is to be hired as a consultant.” There’s an accompanying awareness that this is it. These years were the time I had to do things right and make up for things I did wrong. It’s too late to fix my parenting mistakes, which is so unfair because I finally have enough experience to raise children.

I would have lost my temper less, for example. So little sleep, so much stress, often translated into me snapping at the kids above and beyond what could have been called a “reasonable” amount. I don’t know where more sleep would’ve come from, but maybe I could have found ways to offset some of life’s seemingly relentless pressures.

Lack of money, for example. If I could redo things, this would be a big one. Not that I would’ve traded having jobs that allowed me to spend the most time with my kids, but I would have had a far better grasp on managing my money. I would have liked to be one of those people who managed to save a shocking amount of cash while working two waitressing jobs and never letting her kids go without. (I would still like to be one of those people who manages to save a shocking amount of cash.) You could’ve read about me in O magazine. I would’ve maintained a money tips website for several years, but decided to retire once all the kids were grown. Bobby and I would be planning our Costa Rican lifestyle about now.

(Note use of humor as a coping mechanism. I’m still trying to figure out the path connecting my daily actions to my dreams.)

The other, biggest, thing I’d fix is, I would’ve addressed and resolved the conflicts between Bobby and I sooner and more often. Becoming a mom, wife and adult simultaneously wasn’t easy; I was 20 when Chelsea was born, 21 when Bobby and I finally moved into the same place, 22 when we married. While I strongly reject all notions that only older, well-off women should have kids, I can’t deny being young and broke is inherently more challenging.

I was lucky – Bobby’s commitment to our family has never wavered – but being in love isn’t the same as being prepared. And I’m lousy at conflict, preferring to let things build up until something triggers a total freak out. I’d rather flee than fight. A lot of years were wasted in unnecessary unhappiness because I didn’t know how to fix what ailed us and was intimidated by the hard work and seeming impossibility of finding a solution. We still created many moments of joy with the children, but my dream of home always being a haven didn’t survive intact. I regret that. I know all families have their drama, but I wish I’d known how to spare mine from the amount of dysfunction I allowed to happen.

(This is the part where I note that if one compares dysfunction in families, we’re not too far off from the norm. I do not mean to imply otherwise. I’m only saying some things could’ve been better and I wish I’d been able and willing to make the changes then.)

Fortunately, none of the damage has been irreparable. Yet. But our children are always our children and with the pride and relief their independence brings comes whole new forms of heartache. The world may not be nice to them. In fact, I know it’s indifferent. Bad things happen all the time. But good stuff, too! I may not trust in the universe, but I muster faith that they’ll create their place in it. And hope the place they make brings them more happiness than sorrow.

I’m speaking in generalities now, which pains me as a writer even if some comfort is offered my mothering side.

Maybe I was wrong earlier. Maybe I’ll never have enough experience to have this raising kids thing figured out.

 

1 Comment
by Jennifer Savage on August 9, 2012  •  Permalink
Posted in confession, family, happiness, life, money, parenting, teenagers, writing

Posted by Jennifer Savage on August 9, 2012

http://outonthepeninsula.wordpress.com/2012/08/09/parenting-gets-easier-then-why-am-i-still-freaking-out/

New York Epilogue (aka Unnecessarily Deep!, part 1)

Odd that New York would ground me. I’m supposed to feel most at peace on the beach, in the ocean, in the forest, lying on a riverbank, hot sun dizzying me until I stumble into river, the cold water snapping me back into clearheadedness.

All those things do provide a sense of place, a certain perspective only gained by trading the computer screen for some fresh air and natural beauty instead — but even in the line-up, peace can be hard to come by. Someone wants to know something about an upcoming event. Someone else saw a lot of trash needing picking up. This is good, the sharing of information, but precludes any total escape from responsibilities.

Even when I’m alone, striding along the waveslope, delighting in the avian acrobatics and occasional perfect sand dollar, my brain whirs with to-do lists and worries. At the river, the rare exposure of skin usually covered reminds me how much younger I’m not getting — ack — and how much I have left to do.

And everywhere, we run into each other — it’s a small town, the entire North Coast of California. For those of us unskilled in hiding out, disappearing becomes impossible. Mostly, I like this. Recognition makes a person feel like she belongs.

But the flipside is always being poised to measure up, to respond to people’s needs, to be ready for conversation on any topics of the day. To be at one’s best. I fail at all these regularly (sorry) — which is why New York was such a relief.

So many people inhabit New York City with their own stories, hopes, dreams, responsibilities — to try to grasp them all is unfathomable. The number of languages. The variety of lifestyles. The fact that the level of talent, beauty and fame is so far beyond what’s achievable in the short span of time I’m visiting  means I don’t even have to try — and that’s the most lovely part. New York takes all comers. For once, I get to accept without question all my flaws and in being kinder to myself, I noticed an expansive love for everyone sort of blossomed within me. Is that what it feels like to attain enlightenment? And how silly is it that I would stumble upon such a purity of emotion in a town constructed primarily on artifice and legend?

I have not yet returned home — and I still love Humboldt first and best — but with each step back into regular life, the glow fades a bit. People need stuff. I will do my best to provide. A glance in the mirror reveals I need stuff, too; a turn to the page where I’ve listed my goals highlights even more clearly how I need to step up, do more, be more. My fondness for the world remains unabated. It’s the kindness I felt toward myself I’m afraid will slip away.

2 Comments
by Jennifer Savage on May 15, 2012  •  Permalink
Posted in life, travel

Posted by Jennifer Savage on May 15, 2012

http://outonthepeninsula.wordpress.com/2012/05/15/new-york-epilogue-aka-unnecessarily-deep-part-1/

Now, with more cheer!

Whenever I post something gloomy, I’m compelled to follow up with something cheerful. Maybe because I was raised to not be a bother on others and what’s more tiresome than burdening other people with your problems? Especially when so people are really suffering! (Not that I’m making anyone read these ridiculous posts!) Or maybe I need to bounce back from the sad to the happy because the taste of one makes me want the other, like when I eat something salty and immediately want something sweet. Or something sweet and want something savory. Chips make me want chocolate which makes me want cheese. (Maybe I just like to write and to eat.) (Maybe I have some kind of mental disorder.) (Maybe I use too many parenthetical asides.) (Do you think?)

(more…)

4 Comments
by Jennifer Savage on February 24, 2012  •  Permalink
Posted in life, music, parenting, writing

Posted by Jennifer Savage on February 24, 2012

http://outonthepeninsula.wordpress.com/2012/02/24/now-with-more-cheer/

Where you find it

Normally I would’ve Yelped in hopes of finding some cool little coffeehouse with sandwiches and free wifi, but when the Starbucks logo flashed into view, I thought, Look, it’s Redding. Just stop where you need to stop.

So here I am, answering emails and having a late lunch in Redding. Outside, the sun’s shining warmly enough that the people at the tables are happy in shorts and tank tops. I’m inside, at a table next to two glowingly pretty young women discussing their Bible lessons. (All those young Christian women seem to have a uniform loveliness about them.) When I bumped my wrist on the “bento box” lunch package I’d purchased causing my cucumber salad to end up in my lap, they were kind enough to pretend nothing had happened. I’m pretty sure no cool way exists to wipe sauce off one’s crotch in public — secular chicks would’ve at least snorted at the sight. (more…)

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by Jennifer Savage on February 23, 2012  •  Permalink
Posted in beauty, life

Posted by Jennifer Savage on February 23, 2012

http://outonthepeninsula.wordpress.com/2012/02/23/where-you-find-it/

5 things on my mind

I’m aching to write and also achingly tired. Here’s a list:

1. Chelsea’s birthday is tomorrow: 22!

2. Nick’s having a surgical procedure tomorrow. We have to be at St. Joe’s at 6 a.m. The surgery isn’t a major one, but he’ll be under anesthesia and also the diabetes factor complicates even minor operations. Since he has to fast, we need to ensure his blood sugar doesn’t drop into the low range – if it does, he’ll have to eat, which means the surgery can’t happen. But we don’t want his glucose level to be too high, especially since his A1C level was still elevated at his last doctor’s appointment. So I need to stay up late enough to make sure he’s in a good place, then get up early enough to get him to the hospital on time. I expect we’ll be there for hours.

3. I need to record a surf session. Only one, sadly, but a fun one, nonetheless. Thinking maybe I need to get myself up to Patrick’s Point soon. Am I brave enough?

4. A couple weeks ago, I ended up hiking through the dune forest and took a wrong fork. Given that I could see the power lines stretching north-south and glimpse the highway from time-to-time, I wasn’t exactly lost, but when the trail I was on ended and the sun was going down, I began to fear I wouldn’t get home before dark. Plus the trees are scary when they’re in the shadows. And it’s all Blair Witchy. And maybe a hobo tweeker might jump out at me. But, clearly, I survived.

5. Looking forward. Setting goals. Striving.

I just finished writing something for work about a new “No Discharge Zone” to help curb cruise ship pollution. Maybe I should consider creating a similar zone in which I will not spew my random thoughts. This here, though, this poor blog is stuck being a dumping ground.

2 Comments
by Jennifer Savage on February 12, 2012  •  Permalink
Posted in diabetes, life, lists, to do, writing

Posted by Jennifer Savage on February 12, 2012

http://outonthepeninsula.wordpress.com/2012/02/12/5-things-on-my-mind/

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