Strawberry Blonde + Strawberry Festival = LOVE

Jeff and I took a trip last weekend to celebrate our anniversary. We arrived in Agoura Hills Friday night around nine. The hotel was warn and welcoming, once we got past the gatekeepers.

Not so scary during the day, but decently foreboding at night. "Nevermore!"

We slept in 'til noon Saturday and spent the rest of the day drinking ridiculously over garnished cocktails on the beach in Malibu.

I was really looking forward to Sunday because we were planning to go to the Strawberry Festival in Oxnard. I hadn't been since I was eight, and the only memory I had of it was getting to build my own strawberry shortcake. Picture a bowl full of strawberries and cake topped off with 3-4 inches of whipped cream. This is my version of Heaven.

Jeff was a little skeptical about the festival. I think he only agreed to go because I got so excited at the prospect, and he couldn't bear to disappoint me. We decided to get there early and beat the crowds. As we were pulling into the parking lot, Jeff's ears perked up.

"Babe, I hear a marching band. Their drum line sounds pretty good."

As we walked through the gate, Jeff's eyes got huge. There in front of us was the marching band, and surrounding it on all sides were booths selling every kind of food imaginable. This was Jeff's version of Heaven.
We listened to Oxnard High School's band perform while munching on strawberry popcorn. Then we headed for the vendor booths. The vendor area consisted of rows and rows of tents full of homemade wind chimes, tie-dye clothing, amateur art, chainsaw sculptures, and handmade specialty soaps. I bought a delightfully strange print from a Haitian "Modernistic Artist/ Chef Creole/ Vocalist/ Percussionist Extraordinaire" named Willie Louie Jean Paul. I'm NOT making this up. I don't even like Chihuahuas. I just thought this was awesome!

Jeff thinks I'm insane.

Next we decided to grab lunch. Jeff had a boring old tri-tip sandwich. I opted for a strawberry glazed chicken skewer. MMMMMMM. Lunch in hand, we made our way to the main stage to see who was playing.

The band was called "Mini Driver"(like the actress only smaller?). It consisted of four grown men in rock star costumes singing and playing to Black Eyed Peas and Lady Gaga tracks. Once again, NOT KIDDING. In the presence of such absurdity, there was only one thing I could do... dance...with this guy:

After my dance floor workout, I decided it was time for round three of festival food. Roasted corn on the cob and strawberry wine for me. Curly fries and strawberry beer for Jeff. Yum!

By this time, the crowd was getting thicker, the sun was getting hotter, and the BBQ smoke was stinging my eyes. We both were ready to go, so we bought two flats of the world's greatest strawberries, and I got in line to make myself a bowl of strawberry shortcake that would put my childhood memories to shame.

"So, how did you like the Strawberry festival, Babe?" I asked Jeff as we searched the crowded parking lot for our car.

"Oh my gosh! The food! The crazy people! The amazing strawberries!"

We set one of the baskets of berries between us in the car and munched on them the whole way back to Bakersfield, the perfect ending to a perfect weekend.

Ode to Mom - Better Late Than Never

Meant to post this on Mother's day, but things sort of got away from me.

Ways my mother tortured me as a kid, and the reasons I'm so thankful:

1. She insisted on correcting my grammar.

Me: Mom, can I have some ice cream?

Mom: I don't know, can you?

Me: Where's the ice cream at?

Mom: Rebekah, don't end your sentence with a preposition. It's unbecoming. Now, what did you need?

Me: I've forgot.

She also insisted on using vocabulary generally reserved for for SAT testing in everyday life. My sister and I were never "grounded", we were put on "restriction" or"temporary privilege suspension". Nothing was ever "pretty" or "good". Things were always "resplendent", "exceptional", or "prepossessing".

In my cretinous state of adolescence, I tended to take umbrage at my mother's attempts to instill in me a firm grasp of the English language. I found her magniloquence pretentious.(Thank you Thesaurus.com) I did not understand at that time that she was doing in my daily home life what most schools in this state fail to do in 12 years: instilling in me the ability to communicate with anyone on any level.

As the great Ludwig Wittgenstien said (according to Google), "The limits of my language are the limits of my mind. All I know is what I can communicate and comprehend."

2. My mother made me clean, cook, sew, and garden.

I resented and resisted it for the most part. The cooking and gardening I didn't mind so much, but I couldn't help feeling that I was being groomed to become the perfect 1950s housewife.

At age 17, the day of reckoning came. I moved out of the house and into my first college dorm. My freshman year at college I was surrounded by girls who had never lifted a finger in their lives, so I took advantage of them. I cleaned their rooms, and did their laundry for cash. Thanks, Mom!

3. She didn't let me have a boyfriend until I was 16.

She should have made me wait til I was 20.

4. She never spoiled me with the latest trends.

I can remember wanting the name brand clothes as a kid (BUM Equipment, Stussy, L.E.I.). That stuff was pretty expensive and my mom didn't believe in wasting money for the sake of my vanity. I also really wanted Nintendo and cable TV. Everyone else had that stuff! I felt so deprived. Mom always encouraged me to look inward to find my self-worth.

"Why would you want to waste your mind on video games or television?, she would ask. "Do you want to go to the library?"

I learned pretty quickly that if I wasn't ever going to have the things I needed to be truly "Cool", I would have to establish myself in other ways.

Please note the extremely uncool flowered turtleneck.

In 5th grade I decided to learn to play the tuba. I wrote poetry. I painted. I read. I embraced my general lack of coolness. Jeff is the same way, and I think that's one of the things I love most about him. He has never been concerned about having the latest and the greatest things. He needs very little to be happy. Even as adults, we take pride in our ability to revel in lameness. We don't have IPods, Wiis, new furniture, or cool cars, but we have a ton of fun together. I wouldn't have it any other way.

I can honestly say that in retrospect, I consider it a blessing to have been raised counterculturally, and I certainly feel better off for it. Mom, you did a great job! I hope that one day I can be half the mother you have been. Happy Mother's Day!

Is Your Fridge Running?

Another excellent video by my teenage cousin, Micah. Guns, cars, and action. What more could you ask for in this classic tale of a fridge gone bad?

A Little Retro Fun

One of my greatest memories is the time I spent at the rollerskating rink as a child. My uncle owned a limousine service, so he would often ferry my cousins, my sister and me to Skating Plus in style. We felt like celebrities. I spent hours skating around in circles under the glistening disco ball, the pink wheels of my barbie skates squealing in time to the latest hits by TLC, The Real McCoy and Michael Jackson.
The hours passed like minutes, and before long, a familiar announcement came over the loudspeaker.

"Ladies, your limousine has arrived. Please make your way to the exit."

All through my childhood, the rollerskating rink always made for a perfect Sunday afternoon.


These days, my idea of a perfect Sunday afternoon is a little different. Usually it involves at least two hours passed out on the couch with the television on. Last weekend, however, in a moment of nostalgia-inspired spontaneity, I announced to my husband that I was craving a little time on the rink.

"Sure, Babe!", he replied enthusiastically. "Oh, and by the way, I'm awesome at skating!"

He wasn't kidding. Time had not had the same cruel effects on his skating ability that it had had on mine. I attribute this to the fact that Jeff has always been tall and thin, whereas my proportions have changed significantly since age ten. Jeff could hardly suppress his amusement as I wobbled, teetered, and fumbled awkwardly though the obstacle course of six-year-olds. I used to be so good at this! My husband immensely enjoys any activity that allows him the opportunity to show me up. He whizzed gracefully past me, the picture of perfect coordination.

Soon after our arrival, a delightfully effeminate young gentleman announced that it was "like totally time to, like, move to the thenter of the rink and, like, form a thircle!"

"Finally, " I thought, "a chance to get a Diet Coke and sit down!"

But Jeff had other plans. He grabbed me by the hand and drug me into the circle with all the little kids.

"Come on, Babe! Who doesn't love the Hokey Pokey?," he teased.

"ME!"

The music began and with extreme reluctance, I did my best to "shake it all about". Now I know why Jeff loves the Hokey Pokey so much. To him, watching me try to dance in skates is definitely "What its all about".

All in all, our afternoon of retro fun hit the spot.

In summation:

Pairs of brightly colored rental skates: 2
Six-year-olds nearly killed: 4
Times I fell on my butt: 2
Blisters: 0
Licorice Ropes consumed: 1
Excellent Sunday afternoons: 1

How Jeff Unwinds: Part 3

Because there's nothing more relaxing than a massage chair, an old issue of US Weekly, and the soothing aroma of Acetone. In truth, his feet are so big and nasty (size 15!), he needs professional help.

How I Found Love on South Union

"Becky, don't you drive a white Ford Explorer?", Seth asked with concern as I emerged from the church sanctuary on Sunday morning.

"Uh, Yeah. Why?"

"One of your windows is smashed in."

I hurried across the parking lot to see for myself. Sure enough, there was glass all over the ground and in the back seat, and the rear passenger side window was gone. Nothing was missing from the car, although I can't imagine what anyone would want with my fishing tackle, bowling ball, half dozen empty Diet Dr. Pepper cans, a waffle iron, and an old crumpled Thomas Guide.


Theories as to how/why my window was smashed:

• Disgruntled worshipper who didn't like the music
  
• Jealous Ex


• Mischievous squirrels


• Auto glass repair shop trying to create more business


• Mob hit


• Suicidal bird
  
• Hormonal pregnant lady with a pick ax


• Meteor


• Stray bullet


• Aliens
  

Whatever it was, I can rest in the knowledge that, from now on, Seth has volunteered to sit in a lawn chair on the roof of the church with a case of PBR and guard the parking lot with his beloved shotgun, Ol' Bessie. Vandals Beware!!!

Now the problem with living in the ghetto is that I don't have a garage. If I park my car on the street with a missing window, someone WILL break in, especially for empty cans. Fortunately, Jeff's aunt and uncle were kind enough to let me park poor Dora (yes, my car has a name) in their garage overnight.

The next day I began the grueling process of trying to find a cheap window replacement for my thirteen-year-old car. The lowest quote I could find was $459.00 and they couldn't install it until Friday! Cardboard and duct tape were starting to look better and better.

I decided to get one last quote from Lowest Price Auto Glass, a locally-owned hole-in-the-wall (literally) on the shady side of town.

The owner's name is Jimmy, and he is my hero! He did the job that day with a salvaged window for $110 and saved me $350 (that's a lot of shoes!). The service was friendly, professional, and FAST. Part of me wants to grab my tire iron and go nuts just so I'll have a reason to go back. If you EVER need ANY glass work done on your vehicle, go see Jimmy. Tell him the white girl sent you.

Lowest Price Auto Glass 836*0964 1945 S. Union Ave.

Will Not Work for Food, However...

This guy won my vote for best panhandler, and $1.52 in dimes, nickels, and pennies as I screamed, "Hey, Asshole! Let me take your picture!"