I live in a modest apartment. I use a secondhand dining room table as my rickety desk. I make words come to life by the speed of my thoughts and fingers.
This is how I write.
Along comes a cat. Yet I power through, attempting to ignore warmth for the sake of accomplishment.
Then, I surrender. Because a welcome distraction is always welcome. It reminds me of life—its tangibility, its humor, its comfort.
Today…get distracted.
Ah, the curious subject of food anomalies. People claim to see celebrities in their toast, animals in their crackers (pun intended), and UFO’s in their oatmeal. There’s even a Museum of Food Anomalies dedicated to this edible hoopla. Who knew?!
To this day I still childishly identify cloud shapes and have been patiently awaiting my very own food miracle. Well folks, here it is.
The hubby made salmon and sweet potato and carrot mash, one of my favorite meals. I was beside myself when I peered down at my plate.
I exclaimed, “My salmon looks like Africa!”
I took a picture, because who knows if something this monumental will every happen again. It had to be documented.
Then, the nerdy geography enthusiast side of me struck up an internal debate over whether or not the salmon looked more like Africa or South America. After carefully comparing the image with my world map, I’m leaning towards South America.
I think you guys should decide in this poll. And, please feel free to share any of your oddball food sightings in the comment section. You know it’s fun!
Yesterday’s romp in the Pacific seems like another universe—like I imagined it all.
I saunter into the lavender-lit foyer of the dazzling W Hotel. I’m out of my element, an outsider at the after party for the Art San Diego Contemporary Art Fair.
No more “surf’s up, dude”…only chic’s up.
Predicting cheap, bitter booze, the type always served complimentary at these glamorous shindigs, I take a hesitant sip of my champagne.
I swish and swallow. Oh, it’s cheap alright.
I fidget with my sequin skirt, the sparkling armor I borrowed from my friend Devon just for the occasion. I didn’t have anything that went with glitz.
Knowing my meager artist’s income can’t afford the creativity for sale, I pass the art auction downstairs. The rooftop is bustling with shiny, tan bodies and seductive tunes from the guest DJ. Nobody dances at an event like this—people stand around and look pretty.
I trade in my empty champagne glass for a standard $7 beer while Devon mingles with her other friends.
I rewind to earlier that same day when we attended the reason for the after party…Art San Diego at Balboa Park.
We had made a quick lap of the mishmash of visual art. One piece that caught my eye had a $200,000 price tag. The environment was stifling and the people were stuffy, so we burst back out into the sunny afternoon for fresh air.
Without remorse, Devon and I abandoned the tidy splashes of culture to begin a snow cone quest. After skulking around enchanting Balboa Park, we honed in on our refreshing treat.
To me, cozy conversation and a snow cone are higher on my list of priorities than meandering around overpriced art—some interesting, some laughable. That’s just me.
I shake off my recollective daze and I’m back on the W rooftop. The party has thinned out considerably.
We cab it into a more lively section of downtown to partake in some mindless clubbing. I grab a mouth-watering slice of pesto and cheese from Gaslamp Pizza to keep my energy up. I’m still on central time, and it’s well past my bedtime.
It’s amazing how four attractive women don’t have to wait in line or pay a cover. Married couples always wait and pay.
The highlight for me is when my sophisticated skirt gets tangled with another girl’s similar ensemble at the bar. Cool never lasts very long on me.
A lip-smacking delight of chicken tacos at Tequila 100 is the perfect end to my sassy heel marathon.
Although my feet are complaining, Devon battles her own demons in vindictive platform shoes. She could barely walk at this point.
I’m ready to curl up on the sidewalk, twinkling skirt and all, as we watch every cab barrel by with boisterous passengers.
A loud ruckus clamors from every direction as drunkards stream out of the bars–staggering, laughing, slurring, and flirting.
Fortunately, a rickshaw comes to our rescue. With numb feet, disheveled hair, and runny eye make-up our rumpled group rides off at a snail’s pace into the San Diego moonlight.
A futon mattress never looked so good.
Tune in next Tuesday for the final part…Day 3, San Diego: Like…Chill, Dude.
As the suited stranger next to me opens the airplane window, my bleary eyes impatiently adjust, eager to soak in the aerial wonders of San Diego, California. I’m a window seat gal, but I got stuck in the middle.
Me and the aisle guy peer over the window guy’s shoulder to catch a glimpse, hovering over his personal space like kids, no regard for boundaries.
Frankly, after being crammed in that stuffy tin can for hours—bumping elbows and knees, shutting out crying babies, playing musical chairs for bathroom trips—the three of us are war buddies.
Awake since 5am, I’ve journeyed 2,118 miles from Lake Michigan to the Pacific Ocean. I left my precious home, hubby, and cats for the first time in years.
I’m disoriented until that window opens. I relish in the nostalgia of the first twenty years of my young life—Los Angeles, not San Diego. Still, the comforting SoCal vibe soothes me as we make our descent.
Smog commandeers the skies, serving as the tollbooth of pollution. Palm trees dart into the air, posing like tall, skinny girls with unkempt hair. Backyard pools litter the terrain, refreshing the parched landscape in a casual manner.
The California girl is home.
What’s the best way to conquer jet lag? Lunch on the beach.
My gal pal Devon and I relax on the sandy patio of Poseidon. A calamari sandwich with fries and a couple of Bloody Mary’s perk me right up. It’s OK if you’re jealous of our view…
After a tight squeeze into my sassy, retro onesie and a generous coating of SPF 50, I’m whisked away to scenic Windansea Beach in La Jolla to meet up with my other dear friend, Naeiry.
My friends ask me why I’m so quiet and I blame jet lag. But, that isn’t the truth.
The beach and I are enjoying each other’s long lost company. I toy with the sand, digging past the dry surface until I excavate damp grains. I build unattractive mounds of absolutely nothing. I tag my blog in the sand, because I can’t refrain from writing.
The airplane stench is carelessly blanketed by a salty, fishy breeze. The tireless editing of my second novel is shushed by each lulling wave. Any stress becomes unimportant, wiped out by the ocean’s aggressive serenity.
The three of us decide to take a dip to cool off. Our trio makes the unanimous, rookie mistake of sporting our sunglasses in the choppy water. My beachy prowess is rusty and I squeal at the biting water temperatures.
You can probably guess what happens next…wipeout!
Remembering my sea legs, I dive under a commendable wave. It barrels forward, swallowing my unsuspecting friends. If you’ve ever been worked over by a wave before, you know it’s a humbling experience.
Devon proves her aquatic agility by holding onto her pricey shades. Naeiry loses hers during the hullabaloo. Upon resurfacing, off-kilter bikini bottoms are put back in their rightful places.
I whip around to come to their rescue, which of course turns out to be a monumental slipup.
I let the ocean have her way with me—flipping me upside down, stealing my sunglasses (cheapies, but brand new), and best of all, exposing one of my boobs to the lazing spectators.
Miraculously, our sunglasses are retrieved.
We all do the walk of shame back to our striped towel territory. I do my best to straighten out my wonky shades. We pull seaweed out of our suits, wipe our salty snot discreetly, and have a good laugh.
The sea is a finicky saboteur. She lures you in with her intoxicating perfume, her come-hither beauty, her complex tranquility. Then she steals your accessories, beats you up, and makes you flash everyone.
You know what, beach? You’re kind of a beoch sometimes. It’s a good thing you’re a looker. I guess we can still be friends. Love always…California girl.
Stay tuned for San Diego, Day 2: Chic’s Up, the city’s cosmopolitan side, on Friday.
This week I’m shamelessly pimping out my cats, Aphrodite (the black and white one) and Hazel (the stripey one). Some of you already met Hazel during her happy dance debut.
There are a few reasons for this obligatory cuteness distraction: first and foremost, I’m knee-deep in you know what editing my second novel, therefore my brain is fried; secondly, I’m a crazy cat lady; lastly, they’re really cute.
Whether you’re into dogs or cats, furry friends teach us nonstop humans important lessons every day.
I leave you with a few quotes from famous felines. (Warning…this is intentionally silly.)
So, do what Aphro and Hazel do best and change the world with a cuddle.
Britt Skrabanek 