the day has finally arrived...

When gas in San Diego dips below the $2.00/gallon mark. Yeah! I was waiting to turn right at a stoplight on my way to Target on Monday, and on the corner of the intersection, there was a guy with one of those ridiculously long gas-price-changer-rod-thingies pulling numbers down and putting numbers up.


He was working his way up from the diesel price up to the regular unleaded. When he pulled the number 2 away from the price, I was suddenly filled with a sense of anticipation. What was he doing with that number 2? Was it possible he was replacing it with a number 1? He stuck the new number on the end of his long stick. Began to raise it up, and it fell off. Come on, man! The light's not that long! What's it gonna be?


Replace the number. Raise the bar high. Aha! It is a number 1! Gas in San Diego (reportedly one of the most expensive cities in the United States) is now below $2.00. I truly never thought we would ever be able to purchase gas for less than $2.00 a gallon ever again anywhere in the U.S., much less Southern California.


My only regret was that I have a full tank of gas and do not need to purchase the cheap gas.

The Perfect Stranger

"We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken."
-Fyodr Dostoevky-

I like people. I like seeing the same people in the same places at the same time. It makes me feel the oneness with the rest of humanity--we're all here living our lives together.

There is a man who walks his dog up Gilman Drive. I often see him when I am heading to the freeway on my way to work. He always looks slightly disheveled--the I-just-got-out-of-bed-and-I'm-not-quite-awake-yet look. His brown hair will be mussed. The dog, on the other hand--the most adorable beagle--is always ready for the day. Alert, perky, and overjoyed to be out and about. They walk slowly, and the man is almost always wearing a blue or gray shirt. Recently, it has been a fleece pullover, as autumn brings on its damp morning chill.

Then there is the couple who I almost always see from my office window. They arrive in their red two-door car. He, driving, and reverse into the empty space across the lot from where my car is parked. They both get out. He pulls his plastic grocery bag containing lunch from the back seat. She is always wearing jeans and heels. They hug. He kisses her. He heads in to work, and she gets into the car and drives off. It's a sweet ritual.

Amazing how these people--these strangers--become a part of our lives, our daily routine, and when we find that they don't appear as scheduled, a twinge of disappointment floods the soul. There was a series of weeks when I did not see the Man Who Walks the Beagle. When he finally reappeared, this huge smile came to my face the morning I saw him again. I think I actually said out loud, "He's back!"

Cheers to all the unknown folks who surround us, knit us in to the never ending circle of humanity.

Age is something that doesn't matter, unless you are a cheese

Billie Burke said that (FYI: she was the actress who played Glinda, the good witch in The Wizard of Oz.).

Last week I went to a free concert at the Hard Rock Cafe in downtown San Diego. Justin Nozuka was playing. (Very talented young man--check him out!) It was a great free event, hosted by the radio station Sophie @ 103.7. It was low-key and Nozuka has this soulful voice that's so easy to listen to.

But the reason I'm posting this blog is not about the music, although I would recommend the artist. The reason I'm posting is the mid-life crisis lady in the women's restroom.

After the show ended, and before my friends and I headed out in the Gaslamp District to walk around, we hit the loo. There was a woman in one of the stalls chatting away--I assumed she was talking on the phone. No one else in the restroom was responding to her, or even seemed to be listening. But after she left the stall and went to the sink, she continued her ranting and raving about how she wished she was young again. "I wish I was young and beautiful again." It was so much more fun.

I peered through the crack behind the door of my own stall. No phone. No blue tooth attached to her ear. She was definitely talking to herself. For what seemed like endless minutes. I was afraid to come out. I didn't want to walk out in all of my twenty-three years while she bitterly commiserated about her lost (and apparently ancient) youth.

When I was a kid, my dad used to jokingly sing the golden ticket song from the old 1970s Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (which was, in fact a musical). Only he changed the words. Instead of singing "I've got a golden ticket, I've got a golden twinkle in my eye..." yada yada, he would sing, "I've got a golden ticket. Nobody else but me! I've got a golden ticket. Nee-ner, nee-ner, nee!"

That's what I felt like I would doing to this bitter, fifty-something woman if I walked out in my wrinkle-free, no gray-hairs, everything-sitting-exactly-where-it's supposed-to glory. Gallivanting about the restroom of the Hard Rock waving my beautiful youth in her face. So I waited until she finally left to emerge, her last remark to herself, "Well, at least I own my own home. At least I can say that."

I like Billie Burke's quirky comment about age and cheese. I hope that someday when I'm "old," I don't ever wish to be something else, or somewhere else in life. I like to think of old age as an award--gray hairs being the crown of glory, of course. Age demands respect, and that starts with the self.

a haiku regarding the four day work week

Ah, the bliss of one

day less in the week of work.

My heart rejoiceth.

let them eat cake

This weekend my mom and I went to the opening of Les Miserables at Moonlight Amphiteater. We bought lawn tickets, and they gave us little blue lawn chairs to sit on the grassy knoll up above the stage. We brought a picnic dinner--along with hundreds of other people who showed up early to lay claim to their patch of grass--and books to read and pass the time.

The show was great. The orchestra's live music so much better than any CD. The singing and acting was top notch. And we were watching by moonlight, which is pretty cool too!

During the fifteen minute intermission, the large group of about ten in front of us was celebrating someone's birthday. All of a sudden one of the women in the group stood up, turned around with a plate of cake in hand and said, "Cake anyone?"

I thought it was pretty funny. But then she proceeded to walk amongst all the show-goers behind us with plates of cake, offering it.

"We're celebrating a birthday tonight," she said. "My daughter, the one in the gray hat," pointing back to the family behind.

She approached my mom and I with two plates of cake. "Cake? We brought lots of cake to share. I know you want a piece!" We took a piece to share. It was chocolate, with a layer of sugary sweet icing in the middle and piled on top.

I'm pretty sure she handed out a lot of dessert that night. I wonder how big that cake was? Pretty cool way to celebrate your birthday, huh? Sharing your cake under the moonlight, on the grass, with a bunch of fellow drama-lovers.

pride & joy

This week one of our big books came back from the printer. This particular book is big in more ways than one. Size. Price. Quality.

I'm not sure how many pounds that book is, but the hard cover behemoth sure isn't small! Its retail price is over $300. Yes! $300 for one book! I can hardly believe it myself, although I am starting to grow accustomed to these big buck books that actually sell.

But the most exciting thing is what is inside the book. There, on the acknowledgments page, is my very own name. This is not the first time my name has appeared in a book--after all, my mom is an author. But that's a little bit different.

She knows me.

The editor of this book, a genius doctor in the Midwest has never met me. Yet there is my name in the front of his book, thanking me for helping bring the book to reality. How cool is that?

This is the thing I like most about my job in the publishing industry. Not getting my name printed inside a book (that just makes me feel good about myself!). But building relationships with all these authors. Talking and walking them through the process of bringing their manuscript to life. It is their pride and joy.

And then it becomes mine.

Even if it does have graphic pictures of neck surgery on the cover.

under the stars

Last night a couple friends and I headed over to Balboa Park to watch The Parent Trap (the Hayley Mills version--no Lindsay Lohan for us!) out on the lawn by the San Diego Museum of Art. It was, I think, the quintessential summer night. Hundreds of people covered the grass, sitting on blankets and camping chairs, sipping wine and eating cheese and crackers. Dogs hovered on their leashes, yearning to sniff around and see what goodies the neighbors had brought for the event.

There were a some clouds in the sky, and as the movie started, the moon rose up between the eucalyptus trees over the museum. Big, white, and luminous, it shifted across the backdrop of cloud, like a pearl against gray silk.

Unanimous laughter spilled across the lawn at all the funny lines. Some people talked back to the characters in the movie.

It was sensational.