2012, the Year of Yes!

{raven over Joshua Tree, December 31, 2011}

I bought Tom a tent for Christmas two years. We've been talking about going camping for at least that long, but for some reason, we never made it happen. When December 29th rolled around and we found ourselves without New Years plans, Tom suggested a spontaneous trip to Joshua Tree. I thought about it for about ten seconds before saying that it sounded like a splendid idea. See, I have decided that 2012 is the year that I say yes to activities that I might otherwise have avoided in favor of hermiting at home. Now, I'm not saying that I'm going to completely forgo hermiting (spell check does not approve of my use of that word as a verb, but I stand by it). I love a cozy evening at home as much as way more than the next guy, but let's face it, exciting adventures are never uncovered from the viewpoint of the couch (not my couch anyway), and I'm a person who considers herself fond of adventure.

It is highly unlikely that my idea of a fun adventure will ever include backpacking into the wilderness with food and shelter strapped to my back, so staying at the campground that featured chemical toilets instead of the flush variety was "roughing it" enough for me. There were, however, signs posted everywhere warning about Africanized "killer" bees, so it still qualifies as adventure. See how that works? We decided to risk it, and settled in at campsite 62.

The night before we left for Joshua Tree, Tom and I split up to run errands. I went to the grocery stores and he headed to the camping store to use a gift card to buy some camping necessities. He came back with the blue bandana you see below (and in almost all pictures from the weekend) and something he called a "poop shovel." When I made it clear that I would never be saying yes to camping where such a tool was necessary, he attempted to backtrack and say that it was for putting the campfire out at night...I remain suspicious.

After setting up camp, i.e. unpacking the car, we explored Indian Cove Campground and climbed around on some of the rock formations.

My favorite moment of the afternoon was looking down on this little amphitheater in the middle of the desert and seeing this guy randomly singing opera music. He was just sitting there, watching his friends rock climb, practicing opera. It was awesome. Thanks to iPhone, I managed to capture a few seconds of the performance. I was so transfixed by the singer that it took me a few minutes to realize that Tom was halfway up this giant rock formation. It's not the greatest recording, so you'll need full volume to hear anything.

After scampering all over the rocks, we headed back to our campsite to enjoy the last couple of hours of daylight.
I checked out the view from the tent.

I did a little reading on rocks and in chairs.

I took pictures.

{Joshua trees}

I made Tom pose for pictures.


Then I made him learn Auld Lang Syne on the guitar.

Then I asked him go to the store (I told you we weren't roughing it) for more wood.

Perhaps it's not surprising that before too long, Tom was sitting on top of this rock.

{Tom's view}

Later, I was invited to join him.

As soon as the sun started to go down, it got really cold*, so we built a fire, and I piled on the layers and snapped a few last pictures.

 

By six o'clock it was completely dark. Like dark, dark. The kind of darkness where it seems like you can see every star that ever was, but you can't see two feet in front of your face. I miss that kind of darkness. It does make it rather difficult to do much of anything, however. Even card games were out. I feel a little bit guilty about this next part because it seems to go against the spirit of camping, but...we eventually whipped out the iPad and played Scrabble. And, actually, it was super fun, so I guess I don't feel that guilty.

The rest of the night consisted of drinking, talking, laughing, and the cooking and eating of steak kabobs and baked sweet potatoes. And, of course, s'mores.

At midnight, we popped the champagne and danced to Sinatra fireside. So cheesy, but so perfect. Maybe it was the champagne or maybe it was the four layers, scarf, and hat that I was wearing, but when it was time for bed, I wasn't terribly cold and I was fast asleep in no time.

The next day, we were up bright, Tom cooked a delicious breakfast of bacon and eggs before we headed out.

{I don't care what he says, this will not be the year of the blue bandana.}

After breakfast, we hit the road with plans to absorb some road trip Americana on the way home.

First stop on our way home - the motel where Gram Parsons died. [He was in The Byrds and The Flying Burrito Brothers; I wouldn't have known either if the documentary that Tom was watching hadn't caught my attention when they detailed how Mr. Parsons' buddy dressed up as a hearse driver, stole Parsons' body from the morgue, drove it out to Josuha Tree and set it ablaze in order to fulfill the singer's wish that he be cremated in the desert and his ashes spread over Cap Rock. Weird, right?]

Anyway, the motel is now run by a certified hippie who sells chai tea that he makes based on his friend's grandmother's recipe from the old days in India...true story. They also have a little monument there that includes the door of the room where he died. You can also stay in that room. Weird, right?

The next stop was the Claude Bell's Dinosaurs, giant roadside sculptures located next along the 10 outside of Palm Springs. Apparently these creatures have been featured in such cinematic masterpieces as Pee Wee's Big Adventure and The Wizard, which according to Wikipedia, is a 1989 "adventure dramedy" starring Fred Savage. Apparently, weird was the theme of the day.

And it just gets weirder. Built in the 1960s as harmless roadside kitsch, the giant prehistoric dinosaurs were rather ironically purchased in the mid-90s by a group who advocates a creationist "Young Earth" perspective.

I know. Just wait, it gets worse. Inside Dinny (pronounced Dine-y), the giant brontosauraus, is a whole creationist museum/gift shop. Actually, weird doesn't really cover this place. At first it's sort of  funny because it's so ridiculous. I mean, the "museum" featured murals depicting humans and dinosaurs walking the Earth together, Flinstones style.

{I was afraid of getting yelled out for openly documenting the absurdity of this place that all of my pictures are blurry, but that is a painting of cave men with a triceratops in the background.}

So, at first I'm wandering through this place, just shaking my head in disbelief at all of the Darwin bashing and biblical arguments that humans and dinosaurs inhabited the Earth at the same time. One popular piece of evidence is this quote from the Book of Job:

Their theory, it seems, is that Noah, in some sort of epic fail, shoved off without checking to make sure the dinos were aboard. No joke, according to some Young Earth creationists that's "what really happened to the dinosaurs."

Anyway, this would all be sort of amusing except for the fact that these people are selling their belief system as a legitimate alternative to evolution. And they make children's books! My stealithly caputured snapshots of said books are super blurry, so these from the interweb will have to suffice.

I mean...have you ever? I just don't know. I'm all for religious freedom, but...I don't know. Imma take a deep breath and move on now...  It was a fun photo op anyway.

So, to sum up: 2012 is the year of yes, Joshua Tree is beautiful, I like camping when it's not too rustic, roadtrip Americana is weird to the max.

*"Really cold" by my standards means fifty-two degrees.

Apparently my neighborhood is not as gentrified as I thought it was...

So, there I am - in my Prius, listening to NPR, on my way home from the art store where I purchased watercolors and paper for a little project I have in mind. I am also wearing yoga pants. Basically, I am the picture of yuppiedom. [Yes, I am aware that the p in yuppie stands for professional and that I am currently unemployed, but that is not strictly relevant to the story at hand.]

As I am about to turn down my quiet tree-lined street, the police car coming from the opposite direction lights up and turns in front of me. Before I really register what's happening, the officer has parked diagonally across my street, hopped out of his car, and pulled a gun on a guy sitting on the steps of an apartment two doors down from mine. Things then proceeded just like they do on Law and Order. The cop started yelling and cursing at the alleged hoodlum. The (alleged) hoodlum put his hands up and dropped to his knees. The cop continued, "Lie down! Put your fucking face down!" Etcetera.

I didn't know whether to try to squeeze past the patrol car or stay where I was. I mean, it was just the three of us on the street; what if Officer Saves-the-Day needed back-up? By this time there was a helicopter circling over head, so I opted for slowly rolling through the intersection, pausing briefly to take a picture (you're welcome), and continuing to my garage.

By the time I made it up to my mailbox from the garage, there were four more cars and a half dozen cops outside, and the suspicious individual was in handcuffs.

Cut to commercial. Cue Law and Order theme music.

RIP, Jetta

 

"It's not as bad as it looks," people always say. In poor Jetta's case, it was exactly the opposite. 

A week ago today I got into an accident in the middle of a busy intersection. Other than a skinned knee and a new skittishness behind the wheel, I escaped unscathed. The same cannot be said of the Jetta. What looked like a relatively minor dent concealed a broken axle and various other ailments that are apparently quite costly to repair. Bottom line - it's totaled. 

On Tuesday, I went to the body shop to pick up all of the stuff that had accumulated in my car over the years, and I was sadder than I had expected to be to say goodbye to the old gal. Despite my frequent complaints about tricky German engineering, I really did like my little Jetta. It was the first car that was just mine, a college graduation gift from my very generous parents, and it served me well for eight-plus years. 

During my senior year, it delivered my friends and I to Narragansett when we needed to avoid the reality of our impending release into the real world by spending an afternoon at the beach. It ferried me around Burlington for seven months after college as I tried to figure out what to do with my life (too bad it'll never get to see how that turns out!). Then, in a great show of endurance and commitment to adventure, the Jetta took me from Shelburne, Vermont to San Diego, California by way of Tupelo, Mississipi; Juarez, Mexico; and Yuma, Arizona. It received its first major scratch the first time that I pulled into the too-small parking spot at my first apartment. The Jetta served me faithfully in the daily commute to three different places of employment and assisted in eight more moves after that first cross-country jump. Perhaps most significantly, the Jetta tirelessly covered the 130 miles between San Diego and Los Angeles as I was falling in love with my husband. Less romantically, but more practically - it helped me to race said husband to the emergency room when he sliced his thumb open on a can of beans.

It's just a car, but it was a good little car, and I'm sad to see it go. It feels a little bit like the end of an era, but I'm grateful to the Jetta for safely delivering me to this point in my life. On the bright side, the next era is looking a bit greener; we're going hybrid shopping this weekend.

I Have a Suggestion...

Sooo, earlier this week, I took my car in the dealership so that they could fix a leaky sunroof that was covered under warranty. Fair enough. Stupidly, I agreed to also have the 85,000 mile service while I was there... Next thing I know, Harold, Mr. VM Repairman, is calling to explain the $3,000+ worth of repairs he recommends for my car. My eyes glazed over right around the point when Harold mentioned my collapsed struts and a crooked rotor valve engine coolant hose. Or something. Fortunately for me, I have a husband. This, as you may or may not know, means that I am hereby excused from making any and all car repair decisions...in perpetuity. Or something.

{I cannot even begin to explain how much this sign pains me. The missing punctuation, the random capitalization...I find it truly upsetting.

I reminded Harold that I am just a silly, little woman and he best call my husband. Tom was able to ascertain which repairs were necessary to avoid certain fiery death precipitated by rotor valve engine coolant hose malfunction or other such vehicular disaster. Apparently, preventing the Jetta from becoming a silver, German death mobile costs exactly $942. Better than Harold's original estimate, but still...another reminder of why getting to choose your own bedtime is sometimes just not a worthwhile trade-off for all the other nonsense that comes with being a grown-up.

Anyway, all of this is just to explain why I was sitting, rather grumpily, in the waiting room at the Volkswagen service center. Now, thankfully, I had brought my own reading material because that which was provided by VW was somewhat lacking...

~Musical Interlude~

Ice Ice Baby. Vogue. Hold On. Opposites Attract. Rhythm Nation. Pump Up the Jam. We Didn't Start the Fire. Love Shack. The Humpty Dance.

Now, I chose these songs not only for their timeless appeal, but also because they were number one hits during the year in which the magazines so thoughtfully offered by Volkswagen were printed. That year also happens to be the year that my youngest sister was born.

{This is my youngest sister now. She is old enough to live in Spain. Without parental supervision!}

Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against 1990, clearly it brought great things like Midge and the Humpty Dance. It's just that...well, I feel like reading material that was published in the last decade is not too much to ask from an organization that sees no problem with charging $356 to install a $60 part.

Lest anyone suspect that I am exaggerating...

{Remember Jasmine Guy and A Different World, aka Denise Huxtable Goes to College? Classic programming.}


{I wasn't even into double digits yet when this thing came out.}

I felt like some sort of time traveling anthropologist flipping through this thing. There was the cover story on skiing that made me incredibly grateful that fluorescent lycra is no longer a thing.

Then there were the advertisements. Remember L.A. Gear?

So, to sum up, the Volkswagen dealership has really old magazines, and they should be able to afford better what with my $1,000 tune-up.

So...yeah. That happened.

This, my ninth move in six years, has been the move to end all moves. In the past five days, I have had three addresses and one nervous breakdown. Currently, I am down to two homes (about a block and a half apart) and my emotional state is closer to delirium than psychosis; so that's progress.

The current state of my new(est) kitchen is not conducive to cooking at the moment.

Fortunately, the booze is quite accessible.