Carmel-by-the-Sea, California
No small part of our job, as fristers, is to support and encourage. During our recent Las Chicas weekend, Debra, Lydia and I shared problems and fears; our individual, unique takes on life and philosophy -- even religion raised its head during a weekend filled with conversation, discussion, and, well, silliness. This is what we do when we are together. We turn over stones, we question life's meaning, we laugh a lot, and . . . we shop.
Now, remember my blog's mission statement (if you will) which is stated on the home page? Before beginning my blog, I had this epiphany (if you will) that one should focus on three things in life -- three things which bring you joy; about which you feel passion; which are the top three interests in your life. To reiterate, my three things are cooking, dancing, and writing. Well, this topic came up again, when, during the weekend, we started talking about our eventual retirements (as if). Both Lydia and Deb work for school districts, so when the time comes, they will be guaranteed a pension. No small thing.
Financial support aside, the question of how people will fill their time once they are retired remains. I worry a bit about this with Billy. He hasn't really zeroed in on his three things (or five, or one, for that matter). But he's got time to work on this. He is good at art and design. Despite struggling with a learning disability when he was young, he reads a lot. And he has the makings of a pretty good golfer. But, I'm straying away from the subject (yeah, like that's a first . . .). This weekend we spent a little time trying to convince Lydia that she needed to start thinking about her three things.
And, to be fair, it's not like the woman has nothing going in her life. She has a consuming job in special educational administration. She has a multigenerational and multiethnic (it's like the United Nations at her home) family. And, as illustrated in a previous post entitled The Monogram, she has, in recent years, taken on the responsibility of doing all the cooking at her home. She be busy. And, she's also a voracious shopper. Not to put too fine a point on it, but this girl SHOPS.
She pointed out that she already had a hobby, and that is, again, shopping. I responded that shopping was a good pastime (I mean, I'm in), but that she seriously needed to focus on choosing three things as follows: 1) one that is physical; 2) one that is artistic/creative; 3) one that feeds her soul. She gave me a long look then said shopping is physical -- you have to walk around. Shopping is creative because you have to choose to purchase things that work in concert with each other and/or with things you already own. And, lastly, shopping feeds my soul. So, asked and answered. The girl's good to go.
And this is how I got exercise, got creative, and fed my soul yesterday. I bought a table. It was a table from Pottery Barn that I had lusted after for about three months. Yesterday I discovered that, on line, it was sold out. But I found one at a Los Angeles area store. Billy is not a Pottery Barn kind of guy, and I had to do some campaigning to get him onboard. Luckily, he was in Happy Wife, Happy Life mode (he's in LA; I'm in Carmel, and absence makes the heart, oh you know . . .). With the table ordered over the phone, I took off for Del Monte Center to find out if my iPod (which rolled over and died during our recent Las Chicas weekend) could be resuscitated. It could not. But instead of replacing it, I replaced my phone with an iPhone, which I am already loving (I seem to be in total Mac conversion mode). Last but not least, I bought a raincoat (it hadn't rained since we got here on December 17th, but a front had finally passed through late last week).
Ms. LOL was right. I hiked around and got some exercise at Del Monte (which is an outdoor mall -- love that). I got artistic/creative by picking out a table which will compatibly fit in the eclecticism of our home furnishings. Plus, I picked a color (silver) for my iPhone, as well as a color (black) for my raincoat. And, seriously, no one can say that a spree like that didn't feed my soul.
Now, I might consider changing my three things. I think Lydia might be onto something. I've learned, through the many years of our friendship, that you can do a lot worse than to follow that girl's lead. And, in the last analysis, when judiciously accomplished, there's actually a lot to be said for shopping, shopping, and shopping. I thank you, thank you, and thank you for reading my blog.
January 25, 2012
January 18, 2012
I Am Better At Hello
Carmel-by-the-Sea, California
Lydia, Debra, and I just celebrated our third annual Las Chicas weekend in Carmel. I don't think I am out of line, speaking for the trio, in writing that we look forward to this getaway all the year long. It is a three-day girlfriend fest with no husbands, no kids, no responsibilities, and almost no worries (residuals remain, who are we kidding, this is life). Prior to their arrival, I campaigned, to no avail, to get them to come for four nights instead of three. The last night of their visit, they took me out to dinner at La Bicyclette, despite my protests (at this stage in life I have learned to not fight it, and graciously accept the generosity of someone else picking up a check). In between: we walked, shopped, ate too much; I drank, Lydia drank a little; two of us went to Mass; we spent an afternoon at The Spa at Pebble Beach; we stayed up late talking; we laughed a lot.
The hard part of these weekends is: A) they only come about once a year; B) the time passes way too quickly. For me, the hardest part is saying goodbye. Whenever house guests drive away from my home, or from the house I rent here, I always wave and call out: Wave until you can't see me anymore. Inevitably, they turn the corner and I can no longer see them. I keep waving in hope that they will realize their folly, turn around, and return to tell me they are staying longer. When this doesn't happen, I dry my tears and go inside. Where goodbyes are concerned, I'm a lot like Karen Blixen. I am better at hello.
Renting a house in Carmel was supposed to be a one-time thing. I was going to spend my time alone working on a novel that I completed that first year. I managed to stretch that into another year (rewrites), and thanks to Billy's sharing my love for Carmel, the house rental morphed into an annual event. Each year I spend some portion of my time here by myself. And that always involves people (including Billy) leaving, and leaving me behind. And, it's hardest when they drive away from the house.
Watching Billy go through security at the tiny Monterey Airport is hard. We throw a kiss and a wave at each other, then I leave, usually carrying a copy of the Monterey Herald. I drive out of the airport and back to Carmel, generally running a few errands, perhaps a stop at Whole Foods, before returning to the house. The first day and evening is always an ordeal, but, as the days pass, it does get easier. And being alone is a bit of a luxury. I still have to work. I still have to market and cook. But the days open up with an extravagant offering of time, with the choice to do pretty much whatever I want. I don't have that at home.
Here, I spend a lot of time walking. I take myself to the movies, which is a solitary pleasure I very much enjoy; much more so than going out to eat alone. Each day at the house, I can eat whatever I want without worrying about Billy's preferences and/or health. I can watch TV, and it can be pure chick-flickness all the way. I listen to NPR; I listen to Sondheim or Pink; I take baths; I even watch TV in bed. While I watch little to no TV at home, here it provides some company at the end of a solitary day.
I think my challenge is to bring those simple pleasures home. At home, I'm always undone by the chore or project that needs attention. These things mount up -- filing, organizing, sorting, storing. All the things that come out and accumulate during the night to taunt you during your busy waking hours. I understand what people who have lost a home to a fire say about the final acceptance of that loss -- it can be freeing. In the end, it's the stuff that gets us, I fear. Here, there is less of it. Three tee shirts, three sweaters, three hoodies -- you get the drill. A book or two; my cookbook binder; checkbooks, and the requisite files of financial material; iPod; a handful of necessary cooking utensils from home; a bottle of single malt scotch; a tin of Scottish Breakfast tea. I live lean here, and the lack of clutter clears my usually chaotic mind.
Years ago, my friend, Joan, rented a house here in Carmel. It was way back before she purchased the tiny home that became the first house we ever rented here. Joan was in Carmel during the summer after her third and youngest son went off for the obligatory backpacking trip across Europe during his gap summer between high school and college (Joan and Don felt that their sons needed an early global experience lest they go off to college with a provincial sensibility). Joan wanted to reflect on what she called the second half of her life. Child rearing was finished. What was ahead? She spent her time mostly alone, walking and hiking in and around Carmel. She said that memories floated back to her -- things she hadn't thought of in years. It was a solitary and reflective period of time, and she came home changed.
Perhaps that was the kernel of the idea that brought me to Carmel for a month in January, 2005. Through the years since, I have spent time here alone, with my fristers, with just Billy, and, on occasion, with a houseful of family and/or friends. I've made memories brimmed with conversation, laughter, and solace. Each year, the time here is filled with these things. And, each year, Billy leaves and before he returns, Debra and Lydia come and go. When they drive away, I stand in the street waving until I can't see them anymore. I hope they will turn around and come back. But they never do. Still, while the transition after they leave is hard, the time alone is worthwhile. It brings thoughts to my mind, and onto my MacBook screen that might become a journal entry, poem, short story, or blog post. This, in turn, helps me to feel less bereft, despite the lingering melancholia I always experience after bidding goodbye. No small thing, especially if you are someone, like me, who is better at hello. Wave until you can't see me anymore, Chicas, and thank you all for reading my blog!
Lydia, Debra, and I just celebrated our third annual Las Chicas weekend in Carmel. I don't think I am out of line, speaking for the trio, in writing that we look forward to this getaway all the year long. It is a three-day girlfriend fest with no husbands, no kids, no responsibilities, and almost no worries (residuals remain, who are we kidding, this is life). Prior to their arrival, I campaigned, to no avail, to get them to come for four nights instead of three. The last night of their visit, they took me out to dinner at La Bicyclette, despite my protests (at this stage in life I have learned to not fight it, and graciously accept the generosity of someone else picking up a check). In between: we walked, shopped, ate too much; I drank, Lydia drank a little; two of us went to Mass; we spent an afternoon at The Spa at Pebble Beach; we stayed up late talking; we laughed a lot.
The hard part of these weekends is: A) they only come about once a year; B) the time passes way too quickly. For me, the hardest part is saying goodbye. Whenever house guests drive away from my home, or from the house I rent here, I always wave and call out: Wave until you can't see me anymore. Inevitably, they turn the corner and I can no longer see them. I keep waving in hope that they will realize their folly, turn around, and return to tell me they are staying longer. When this doesn't happen, I dry my tears and go inside. Where goodbyes are concerned, I'm a lot like Karen Blixen. I am better at hello.
Renting a house in Carmel was supposed to be a one-time thing. I was going to spend my time alone working on a novel that I completed that first year. I managed to stretch that into another year (rewrites), and thanks to Billy's sharing my love for Carmel, the house rental morphed into an annual event. Each year I spend some portion of my time here by myself. And that always involves people (including Billy) leaving, and leaving me behind. And, it's hardest when they drive away from the house.
Watching Billy go through security at the tiny Monterey Airport is hard. We throw a kiss and a wave at each other, then I leave, usually carrying a copy of the Monterey Herald. I drive out of the airport and back to Carmel, generally running a few errands, perhaps a stop at Whole Foods, before returning to the house. The first day and evening is always an ordeal, but, as the days pass, it does get easier. And being alone is a bit of a luxury. I still have to work. I still have to market and cook. But the days open up with an extravagant offering of time, with the choice to do pretty much whatever I want. I don't have that at home.
Here, I spend a lot of time walking. I take myself to the movies, which is a solitary pleasure I very much enjoy; much more so than going out to eat alone. Each day at the house, I can eat whatever I want without worrying about Billy's preferences and/or health. I can watch TV, and it can be pure chick-flickness all the way. I listen to NPR; I listen to Sondheim or Pink; I take baths; I even watch TV in bed. While I watch little to no TV at home, here it provides some company at the end of a solitary day.
I think my challenge is to bring those simple pleasures home. At home, I'm always undone by the chore or project that needs attention. These things mount up -- filing, organizing, sorting, storing. All the things that come out and accumulate during the night to taunt you during your busy waking hours. I understand what people who have lost a home to a fire say about the final acceptance of that loss -- it can be freeing. In the end, it's the stuff that gets us, I fear. Here, there is less of it. Three tee shirts, three sweaters, three hoodies -- you get the drill. A book or two; my cookbook binder; checkbooks, and the requisite files of financial material; iPod; a handful of necessary cooking utensils from home; a bottle of single malt scotch; a tin of Scottish Breakfast tea. I live lean here, and the lack of clutter clears my usually chaotic mind.
Years ago, my friend, Joan, rented a house here in Carmel. It was way back before she purchased the tiny home that became the first house we ever rented here. Joan was in Carmel during the summer after her third and youngest son went off for the obligatory backpacking trip across Europe during his gap summer between high school and college (Joan and Don felt that their sons needed an early global experience lest they go off to college with a provincial sensibility). Joan wanted to reflect on what she called the second half of her life. Child rearing was finished. What was ahead? She spent her time mostly alone, walking and hiking in and around Carmel. She said that memories floated back to her -- things she hadn't thought of in years. It was a solitary and reflective period of time, and she came home changed.
Perhaps that was the kernel of the idea that brought me to Carmel for a month in January, 2005. Through the years since, I have spent time here alone, with my fristers, with just Billy, and, on occasion, with a houseful of family and/or friends. I've made memories brimmed with conversation, laughter, and solace. Each year, the time here is filled with these things. And, each year, Billy leaves and before he returns, Debra and Lydia come and go. When they drive away, I stand in the street waving until I can't see them anymore. I hope they will turn around and come back. But they never do. Still, while the transition after they leave is hard, the time alone is worthwhile. It brings thoughts to my mind, and onto my MacBook screen that might become a journal entry, poem, short story, or blog post. This, in turn, helps me to feel less bereft, despite the lingering melancholia I always experience after bidding goodbye. No small thing, especially if you are someone, like me, who is better at hello. Wave until you can't see me anymore, Chicas, and thank you all for reading my blog!
January 12, 2012
Thar She Blows!
Carmel-by-the-Sea, California
Billy flew home this morning. Although, home is an ambiguous term at this juncture. He flew back to Los Angeles, to take care of some personal and business business (does that make sense?) for both of us. He'll be back in ten days. I suppose I could just as honestly say that he will be flying back home (here) at that time. For more and more, Carmel feels more like home than Los Angeles does.
Yesterday morning we took a long walk along the point, then around and up Scenic Drive. Then, in the late afternoon, we drove down to the beach to watch the sunset. It was slightly chilly, so we stayed in the car, looking for parking where we could watch the dogs playing on the beach. We didn't find parking where we wanted it, so we wound our way towards the point. And that was where Billy saw it -- the spume of water in a 90-degree trajectory from the ocean surface. Whales! As we watched, we conjectured that there were two of them -- one larger as evidenced by the larger spout of water. We stopped the car to watch, then crept along as they moved further south, into the cove between Carmel and Point Lobos.
Other people gathered at the ocean's edge to watch and point, including two men dressed in jeans, wearing athletic shoes -- one whom I recognized as Father John, the pastor at the Carmel Mission Basilica. I have heard him say Mass about, let's see, four times since I have been in Carmel this year, and many more over the past few years. He has a resonant speaking and singing voice, and it was kinda cool to see him in civies, enjoying a walk and the sight of the whales.
Finally, the sun had set, and, in the dimming light, we were losing track of the whales. So, we headed over to Rio Grill. Rio Grill is usually our first night spot (as those of you who have been following along should know, and this will be on the final), but we didn't get there on our first night after our return this week, as that was our wedding anniversary, which necessitated a different, more romantic (read: Italian) restaurant. So here we were on Billy's last night of Carmel -- for awhile, anyway.
We walked into the crowded bar (Happy Hour equals house cocktails priced at $3. Are you kidding me?), where we've been enjoying martinis for a decade or so, and happily spotted a few empty stools at the bar. But before getting to them, Billy noticed someone we know from town at one of the tables. We stopped for a brief schmooze. See! One more thing I love about this town. We spend only four to six weeks a year here, and yet we know people. We know Dennis, who used to work at New Masters Gallery. We know Celeste, who works at the cool tapas restaurant, Mundaka, and we know Gabe who owns it. We know Erica and Katie at Mission Ranch. It's all just, I don't know, kinda sorta perfect.
We had our martinis, shared an artichoke, a duck tamale, and another thing or two. When we left to go home (see! home!!!), I thought about what a perfect night it was. And how much I wished Billy wasn't flying to LA the next morning, and how very much I wished that we lived in this magical place ALL THE YEAR LONG.
We are not so naive as to think that the experience of year-long residence in Carmel would be the same as our annual retreats here. I mean, there probably are rude people here, and even some traffic. Probably not all people here say Merry Christmas or Happy New Year or even just good morning when they pass you on the street. If you worked hard at it, you could probably find a waitperson or a shop clerk who is in a bad mood. I know that living here wouldn't be all bliss all the time. But it would be better.
Meanwhile, I am grateful for the very large favor of being here now. People here often ask us if we live in town, and I always say for six weeks, we do! So, on my own here today, in the afterglow of a beautiful sunset with whales migrating in the foreground, and those good martinis at Rio Grill, I am thinking that, maybe, if the new year is really, really good to us, we will somehow find the way to be here for good. For that would be better than good. That would be very, very fine. The whales and I thank you for reading my blog. Really they do!
Yesterday morning we took a long walk along the point, then around and up Scenic Drive. Then, in the late afternoon, we drove down to the beach to watch the sunset. It was slightly chilly, so we stayed in the car, looking for parking where we could watch the dogs playing on the beach. We didn't find parking where we wanted it, so we wound our way towards the point. And that was where Billy saw it -- the spume of water in a 90-degree trajectory from the ocean surface. Whales! As we watched, we conjectured that there were two of them -- one larger as evidenced by the larger spout of water. We stopped the car to watch, then crept along as they moved further south, into the cove between Carmel and Point Lobos.
Other people gathered at the ocean's edge to watch and point, including two men dressed in jeans, wearing athletic shoes -- one whom I recognized as Father John, the pastor at the Carmel Mission Basilica. I have heard him say Mass about, let's see, four times since I have been in Carmel this year, and many more over the past few years. He has a resonant speaking and singing voice, and it was kinda cool to see him in civies, enjoying a walk and the sight of the whales.
Finally, the sun had set, and, in the dimming light, we were losing track of the whales. So, we headed over to Rio Grill. Rio Grill is usually our first night spot (as those of you who have been following along should know, and this will be on the final), but we didn't get there on our first night after our return this week, as that was our wedding anniversary, which necessitated a different, more romantic (read: Italian) restaurant. So here we were on Billy's last night of Carmel -- for awhile, anyway.
We walked into the crowded bar (Happy Hour equals house cocktails priced at $3. Are you kidding me?), where we've been enjoying martinis for a decade or so, and happily spotted a few empty stools at the bar. But before getting to them, Billy noticed someone we know from town at one of the tables. We stopped for a brief schmooze. See! One more thing I love about this town. We spend only four to six weeks a year here, and yet we know people. We know Dennis, who used to work at New Masters Gallery. We know Celeste, who works at the cool tapas restaurant, Mundaka, and we know Gabe who owns it. We know Erica and Katie at Mission Ranch. It's all just, I don't know, kinda sorta perfect.
We had our martinis, shared an artichoke, a duck tamale, and another thing or two. When we left to go home (see! home!!!), I thought about what a perfect night it was. And how much I wished Billy wasn't flying to LA the next morning, and how very much I wished that we lived in this magical place ALL THE YEAR LONG.
We are not so naive as to think that the experience of year-long residence in Carmel would be the same as our annual retreats here. I mean, there probably are rude people here, and even some traffic. Probably not all people here say Merry Christmas or Happy New Year or even just good morning when they pass you on the street. If you worked hard at it, you could probably find a waitperson or a shop clerk who is in a bad mood. I know that living here wouldn't be all bliss all the time. But it would be better.
Meanwhile, I am grateful for the very large favor of being here now. People here often ask us if we live in town, and I always say for six weeks, we do! So, on my own here today, in the afterglow of a beautiful sunset with whales migrating in the foreground, and those good martinis at Rio Grill, I am thinking that, maybe, if the new year is really, really good to us, we will somehow find the way to be here for good. For that would be better than good. That would be very, very fine. The whales and I thank you for reading my blog. Really they do!
January 5, 2012
Two Thousand Hits
Carmel-by-the-Sea, California
The holidays have come and gone. The house guests have done similarly. Our friends, Todd and Christopher, rented a house here for the week including Christmas and New Year's. Their house was a nine-minute short walk away. Actually, it started at nine minutes. Then it got shorter as I pushed the envelope on the walking speed. I got it down to seven, maybe seven and-a-half.
It was great fun to have the two houses and go between them. Their house has an ocean view from the balcony, whereas ours, almost five blocks further from the beach, has no ocean sound whatsoever. Small price to pay for two fireplaces and a short walk to Mission Ranch, is what we think.
We went thirteen days here before anyone turned on a TV. And, frankly, I was all for bringing in the new year without watching the ball drop on Times Square. I'm the superstitious type. We've watched that (through no fault of our own) the last few years, and look what it has got us! I thought maybe starting the year without it, could put the cosmic tumblers into better alignment. I fool around with the Hoppin' John in this way as well. But, what do I know?
Blogwise, the new year is starting with another milestone. I have just, today, passed the two thousandth hit on What Would Sandra Do? Again, with the joke: either two thousand of you have landed on it once, or one of you has read it two thousand times (I know who you are, Ms. LOL). I was thinking, though, that instead of giving you stats on where the ersatz readers reside, or which posts are the most popular or un-, I would share a couple of anecdotes about my blog's life since One Thousand Hits, which I posted on April 25th of last year.
The first is about my blog doppelganger. On July 1st of last year, I received an email from Sandra. Not my Sandra, however. This Sandra wrote to me to say that she had been dismayed to discover my blog had the same name as hers, and further dismayed to discover that I had started mine quite awhile before she had launched hers (I'm paraphrasing here). We corresponded back and forth a bit, discovering that we had both been English majors in college, and that we actually live near each other in Los Angeles. But the real beauty of this was discovering the other WWSD blog. Her blog is insightful, witty, and, unlike mine, full of photos (my bad). I've enjoyed getting to know her through it, and so can you right here.
Apart from discovering a kindred spirit named Sandra, during the last few months I also got my first comment from a stranger. It was in the post entitled Octoberfest? and it was from Carlos. Evidently, Carlos is affiliated with the Red Tale Ale people in Mendocino. He thoughtfully posted a comment at the bottom of that post -- the second post in which my current favorite beer was mentioned (see Other Cities Only Make Me Love You Best -- available here, for free!).
The only other point I would like to make about my two thousandth hit is that I am gratified that it happened here and now. As those of you who have been following along (again, really . . ?) know, I started my blog just two years ago, on a Dell laptop sitting at a little round table, here in Carmel. And now, here I am again, just two years later in a different house in Carmel, at a small square game table, on a MacBook Pro. Things change; things stay the same. Life is like that . . .
While it is fun to receive a comment from a stranger, I am more humbled by my friends who follow along. As any of you who have spent time with me know, talking is something I like to do a lot. And, increasingly, in a rambling, where the F was I?-style manner. Not that I don't also write in that style (because I do, especially in my love of parenthetical explanations as evidenced in this particularly long one which you are reading right here and now. You're reading this, right? Right?). Anyway, my heart is warmed by the knowledge (or delusion) that my friends are reading, and even occasionally enjoying my posts. That goes for those of you in Hawaii (you know who you are), as well as MCM in New York.
My life has changed a lot since I began What Would Sandra Do? And I needn't reiterate that here. But life does that. Someone said (it may have been Steve Jobs, since there has been so much of that around of late) that change is the only thing that succeeds. I do have a grudging understanding of that. I also know that we mustn't try to stop change. If we do try, it will just drag us along with it. So as the new year begins, I am taking this time to stop; to thank you all, and to take a deep breath before getting back on the big ole, sometimes scary, ride.
Happy New Year. I wish you all health, happiness, and a world at peace. Now, let's go . . .
Thank you all for reading my blog . . . but, what is wrong with you (ok, sorry, couldn't resist . . .)?!
The holidays have come and gone. The house guests have done similarly. Our friends, Todd and Christopher, rented a house here for the week including Christmas and New Year's. Their house was a nine-minute short walk away. Actually, it started at nine minutes. Then it got shorter as I pushed the envelope on the walking speed. I got it down to seven, maybe seven and-a-half.
It was great fun to have the two houses and go between them. Their house has an ocean view from the balcony, whereas ours, almost five blocks further from the beach, has no ocean sound whatsoever. Small price to pay for two fireplaces and a short walk to Mission Ranch, is what we think.
We went thirteen days here before anyone turned on a TV. And, frankly, I was all for bringing in the new year without watching the ball drop on Times Square. I'm the superstitious type. We've watched that (through no fault of our own) the last few years, and look what it has got us! I thought maybe starting the year without it, could put the cosmic tumblers into better alignment. I fool around with the Hoppin' John in this way as well. But, what do I know?
Blogwise, the new year is starting with another milestone. I have just, today, passed the two thousandth hit on What Would Sandra Do? Again, with the joke: either two thousand of you have landed on it once, or one of you has read it two thousand times (I know who you are, Ms. LOL). I was thinking, though, that instead of giving you stats on where the ersatz readers reside, or which posts are the most popular or un-, I would share a couple of anecdotes about my blog's life since One Thousand Hits, which I posted on April 25th of last year.
The first is about my blog doppelganger. On July 1st of last year, I received an email from Sandra. Not my Sandra, however. This Sandra wrote to me to say that she had been dismayed to discover my blog had the same name as hers, and further dismayed to discover that I had started mine quite awhile before she had launched hers (I'm paraphrasing here). We corresponded back and forth a bit, discovering that we had both been English majors in college, and that we actually live near each other in Los Angeles. But the real beauty of this was discovering the other WWSD blog. Her blog is insightful, witty, and, unlike mine, full of photos (my bad). I've enjoyed getting to know her through it, and so can you right here.
Apart from discovering a kindred spirit named Sandra, during the last few months I also got my first comment from a stranger. It was in the post entitled Octoberfest? and it was from Carlos. Evidently, Carlos is affiliated with the Red Tale Ale people in Mendocino. He thoughtfully posted a comment at the bottom of that post -- the second post in which my current favorite beer was mentioned (see Other Cities Only Make Me Love You Best -- available here, for free!).
The only other point I would like to make about my two thousandth hit is that I am gratified that it happened here and now. As those of you who have been following along (again, really . . ?) know, I started my blog just two years ago, on a Dell laptop sitting at a little round table, here in Carmel. And now, here I am again, just two years later in a different house in Carmel, at a small square game table, on a MacBook Pro. Things change; things stay the same. Life is like that . . .
While it is fun to receive a comment from a stranger, I am more humbled by my friends who follow along. As any of you who have spent time with me know, talking is something I like to do a lot. And, increasingly, in a rambling, where the F was I?-style manner. Not that I don't also write in that style (because I do, especially in my love of parenthetical explanations as evidenced in this particularly long one which you are reading right here and now. You're reading this, right? Right?). Anyway, my heart is warmed by the knowledge (or delusion) that my friends are reading, and even occasionally enjoying my posts. That goes for those of you in Hawaii (you know who you are), as well as MCM in New York.
My life has changed a lot since I began What Would Sandra Do? And I needn't reiterate that here. But life does that. Someone said (it may have been Steve Jobs, since there has been so much of that around of late) that change is the only thing that succeeds. I do have a grudging understanding of that. I also know that we mustn't try to stop change. If we do try, it will just drag us along with it. So as the new year begins, I am taking this time to stop; to thank you all, and to take a deep breath before getting back on the big ole, sometimes scary, ride.
Happy New Year. I wish you all health, happiness, and a world at peace. Now, let's go . . .
Thank you all for reading my blog . . . but, what is wrong with you (ok, sorry, couldn't resist . . .)?!
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About Me
- Bronte Healy
- California, United States
- Once, I came up with this brilliant idea (well, I thought so, anyway) that the key to happiness was to concentrate on three things -- to choose three interests, then focus and funnel your energy into that trio. I was an English major in college and have always written in some shape or form. So, my first choice was writing. I've always kept journals, and have also written plays, novels, poetry, and shopping lists. I do have a day job. It deals with numbers (assets and finances). Go figure. I went to college at a California University. I live in California, Los Angeles, but not downtown. No children, and sadly, between dogs at the moment (dog person, not a cat person). Enough info? I was going for just enough to not be a cypher, yet not enough to entice a stalker. And, I started my blog after being dragged, kicking and screaming, to do so. Blogs! Read about ME here, right? But I have been advised that this is a way to write regularly, and to put your writing OUT THERE. So, here goes. My name is Bronte Healy. Thanks for reading my blog.