It is more enjoyable spending time outside when the temperature drops and the air isn’t saturated with humidity. The stickiness is nothing more than a tease, magnified by the falling water table and the rainfall deficit. It hardly seems fair for such diametrically opposed conditions to coexist, but life doesn’t always function in absolutes.

I was cutting the grass and thinking about the willdfires. While I absolutely detest mowing, weeding and trimming shrubs, I was acutely aware that I was damn lucky to have the burden. When compared to camping at Qualcomm Stadium and not knowing if your home was pile of ashes, pushing a mower seems rather benign.

I considered the people in California who will be starting over after the embers have smoldered, and tried placing myself in their shoes. I’ve accumulated a lifetime’s worth of stuff. What if I only had the clothes on my back and a few mementos from the past? I wonder, if I were relieved physical possessions, would I evolve into a better person?

Things distort our view of the world. Few in American society are immune to materialism. If I were less obsessed with technological conveniences, would I better appreciate the world around me? Mankind functioned for centuries without SUVs, cell phones, hell, even shoes, why can’t I allow two days to pass without checking my e-mail, or relying upon my microwave?

Simplicity. The years following college, I lived in an old duplex. The only grounded outlet was in the bathroom. My decorating style resembled refugee/garage sale. The furniture was either hand-me-down or reclaimed. Most of the time, I didn’t have a working television. I kept a broken one in my living room so friends wouldn’t pity me. I only had to track five bills a month. I never suffered from lack. All my needs were met. I appreciated what I had.

There’s a fine line, a place where stuff makes things easier and improves the quality of life, and on the other side, a darker place, in which we collect so much we no longer appreciate, much less, enjoy the things we have. Accumulation may elevate our status in terms of society’s class system, but do things really make us happier?

I’m not likely to abandon to all my possessions because I’m overcome by the weight of decadence, but I am trying to streamline my need for things. Consideration is given to things that no longer make my life easier and more fulfilling. Perhaps they will fill a void in someone else’s life, someone who needs, or enjoys the item for its function. If it becomes a status symbol collecting dust in their closet, so be it, I’ve no interest in judging them, only coming to terms with what I can live with in my own life.

I hope I haven’t left the impression that I believe those starting over after the wild fires will have it easier, having been stripped of the burden of things. I don’t believe it for a moment. An insurance check is hardly a suitable substitute for a house full of memories, photo albums, a bed room suit passed down from great grandmother, and the daunting task of starting over.

If you’re interested in more information about the fire locations and their status, here is an interesting resource.

At the risk of being lemmings, the Mister and I took a day trip to our favorite beach. Our love affair with this stretch of sand and saltwater originated early in our courtship. I convinced the Mister it was one of the cleanest, sparsely populated beaches in driving distance and the Mister agreed to go along. The first time we went away together, we came here for a weekend. The following summer we returned to gather sand dollars. Years later, we out maneuvered a hurricane by two days to exchange our vows on the shore at sunset. I don’t know if the beach actually won over the Mister, it could have been the promise of grilled seafood at Julia Mae’s.

Like Salmon returning to spawn, we return to St. George Island, yearly. Sometimes once, other times more frequently. We’d made two trips this year, but both times we failed to cleanse our bodies in the surf and worship the sun. The first trip we never actually made it to the beach, and yes, I accept full responsibility for this little oversight. You see, I was distracted by a visit to the kayak store. When the owner offered to tow a trailer full of kayaks (think 12) to the bay for us to try them out, I couldn’t believe our good fortune, and voted against baking in the sun, in favor of paddling the marsh. We saw fish jump and cranes wading, but we never felt the sand beneath our toes.

When we made the other trip, we neglected to check the weather. The sky was cloudy and grey, and the air was chilly. There were scattered storms in the area and the water was choppy. Those weren’t really deterrents. We’re too pasty to consider sun bathing, and the rough surf was perfect for the boogie boards the Mister was dying to try out, but the water temperature brought all plans for frolicking to an abrupt halt. I tested the water with y toes and abruptly retreated to the car, and pulled a sweater over my head.

Saturday was absolutely perfect. It was eighty degrees and breezy. The air was free of humidity, and the water felt refreshing. We arrived at lunch and stopped at a beach side restaurant for fresh seafood. From our table, we watched shrimp boats drag their nets, and porpoises play in the surf.

We drove to the state park to unload our gear and get reacquainted with the sea. We’ve accumulated an overabundance beach paraphernalia due to end of season sales and Father’s day presents. We looked like that family from the Grapes of Wrath. Towels, sunscreen, snorkel gear, flippers, short wet suits (weren’t going to freeze our nads off this time), cabana, boogie boards, and cooler.

There we were after two trips from the car, struggling to assemble a cabana a boy scout could master after drinking a six pack. We were both battling the impulse to use personally directed expletives…but it was totally worth it. If you’ve never had a small tent’s worth of privacy on a beach, you should. If you have someone special in your life, he or she will thank you for it later.

Mister Hombre was disappointed in the waves, they weren’t magnificent enough to live up to his North Shore fantasies, but such is life. We mostly used them for buoyancy, floating beyond the sandbar and the breaking waves. In a fit of madness, the Mister dared me to try and balance on the board supporting my weight on my knees. So NOT going to happen, but it was worth a laugh, or six.

Exhausted from the surf, we returned to the cabana. I caught a lovely snooze. I don’t sleep well at home in my own bed, but I can snag a major power nap in a public space. I think it was the gentle sounds of the waves breaking, the shady cabana, the soft touch of the breeze caressing my salty skin, and the warm hip touching mine.

When we left late in the afternoon, we spotted a family carrying a cooler down the boardwalk. Someone was having a picnic later, and watching the sun set. Maybe another time.

On the drive home, we stopped for dinner at our favorite Italian franchise. Steamed mussels, grilled salmon, and chicken marsala (all diet approved). Seated at the counter, we watched the pizza chef toss dough into the air, and miss. He looked at me, smiled, and said, “You’re not supposed to watch.” Luckily, he didn’t honor the five second rule.

Have you ever had one of those days when things were out of synch? Not the, life is so terrible will an hour past when I don’t want to chew my own leg off to escape, but the casual, WTF, itchy ant bite between the toes annoyances that occur. Tuesday, I fell down the rabbit hole. The morning began in throes of sleepless dreams leaving me scratching my head and wondering whatever happened to the peacefulness that used to envelope the fluttery sleep of my youth. Then again, maybe it was just the pizza from the previous night. I staggered out of bed in search of coffee, and the Mister joined me conveniently AFTER the litter pan was scooped and the cats were fed.

Mister Hombre and I have agreed to improve our eating habits. Neither of us has the metabolism of a sixteen-year-old male pursing a bed buddy, and both of us have grown too fond of desserts, and then there is an issue with a certain favorite pair of pants. We need to reestablish our willpower. This change in consumption shouldn’t be difficult. We’ve already cut down on heavily processed and preserved foods. Most of the vegetables we eat are fresh, little comes from cardboard boxes, and we enjoy fish and pork. The hardest food to part with will be the bread dipped in olive oil. There is something about the formality of the agreement that increases the pressure. SInce we took the pinky swear, I’ve been bummed about the whole thing.

For breakfast, I irritably sauteed mushrooms, scrambled eggs and brewed fresh coffee (incidentally, this would have been a typical breakfast, pre-diet pact). The Mister crawled into the kitchen complaining of congestion and feeling run down and blah. Translation: the Mister will feel uninspired and inhabit the sofa for long periods of time.

After breakfast, he felt compelled to offer his sympathy about menstruation in general, stating he thought this must have been similar to the way I felt last week. I offered to punch him in the lower abdomen and pour a gallon of water down his throat so he too could share the joy. He said no thanks and retreated to the sofa. I took him a fresh cup of coffee as a peace offering.

Most of my day was spent in the kitchen. I don’t mind cooking, but when there are regulations involved it sucks the life right out of me, and the f-bombs roll. Rules are inhibiting and stifle my creativity. I prefer a freeform approach to food preparation. At least the eating restrictions don’t place limitations on coffee consumption, but it hardly compensates for the planning required. Lunch was simple, but you wouldn’t have known by the number of complaints that escaped my lips. I suppose I left the Mister with the impression I to slaughter the chicken myself, grow the lettuce, harvest the tomatoes, and light the grill with two sticks and a piece of twine.

The afternoon required more time in the kitchen, followed by a trip to get groceries. We returned home in time to cook again. Damn it! The Mister is most excellent when it comes to pitching in for dinner preparations, but he was still feeling a bit blah, so I left him on the sofa. The evening meal was nothing special but satisfying. (Grilled tuna and asparagus, for those of you who just need to know.) The absence of wine was rather disappointing.

Okay, it was more than disappointing, it was the source of most of my complaining. Granted, I can function without wine. My beverage palette isn’t big. I drink water, coffee, hot tea, wine, and martinis. This new eating regimen forbids all alcohol for two weeks. Fine, I can do this, but I don’t have to like it. Due to sleeplessness, I’ve stopped drinking coffee after six. That leaves water and tea. While they are healthy alternatives, they don’t excite my taste buds. (I suppose the fact that I only have chamomile in my cupboard at the present time could be part of the problem. So, all you tea drinkers, tell me your favs, mkay?)

After eating, I was still in a foul mood. To add insult to injury, the cat chose to lay next to the Mister on the sofa instead of with me in the studio, our internet service provider was M.I.A. and not answering phone calls, there was a baseball game playing on television at rock concert volume, there was an idiot stationed in a powerful white house position, and Phil Hartman was still dead. In my defense, I could have dealt with all these little inconveniences…if only there had been wine.

We play games when we become half of a whole, one of a pair, members of the same club, partners in life. It falls under presumption. Because wasn’t everyone’s youth exactly the same as ours? Same flavor of dysfunction, same traditions of love, hate, passive aggressiveness and etiquette. If only it were so easy. I’m still waiting for my marriage syllabus. Apparently the damned thing is on backorder, or maybe it was delivered to my neighbor’s wife by mistake. An error which should prove useful for her in her present situation with three children, deceased in-laws, a gas guzzler and a poodle.

Okay, sarcasm aside, (although it was fun, wasn’t it?) I’ve been thinking about the notions of “dropping hints” (not to be confused with “reading between the lines”). Mister Hombre told me, straight men don’t take hints, you must tell us exactly what you want. Okay, I get it, and I appreciate the brief glimpse of the secret decoder ring which is key to communicating with the lascivious American male. I prefer direct communication, and I appreciate it can be easier on some levels to communicate with men than women. Mystery solved, but not so fast…My man may not be receptive to taking hints, but he frequently drops them… less like hot potatoes and more like fumbling a football. Excuse me, you’re changing the rules? I thought only women were authorized to change the rules.

The Mister doesn’t drop hints like, “Wow, it’s been a long time since we ate cheesecake.” His method is more like, “I need to go visit my folks,” but he says this four times in less then twelve hours, which really means,”will you go with me?” or when he says,”Family member ‘x’ isn’t feeling well” and he says it more than once, what he really means is, “Family member ‘x’ is sick, would you please call, because when you don’t call, then I look bad”. Rather than admit he has expectations of how I should behave in the traditions of his family and friends, he’s cryptic and tries to convince me these are my ideas.

I doubt the Mister considers this manipulative. I suspect, he’s trying to appear undemanding, while he attempts to diffuse situations. As far as the big picture is concerned, it’s mostly an issue of semantics. He doesn’t want to TELL me I should do something, because he’s concerned that he might look oppressive. He doesn’t want to ask me either, because asking requires humility. Humility can lead to indebtedness, and face it, most of us (especially myself) detest the thought of owing anybody anything.

Often, when the Mister drops a hint, he is trying to encourage me to say or ask something, I wouldn’t ask. A casual approach of steering the conversation, or chivalrous attempt at drawing me into one. It feels stifled, and artificial, more like a marketing attempt, than a gesture of inclusiveness. I don’t favor being confrontational about differences in opinion, but I don’t believe in misrepresenting myself either.

Both sexes drop hints, in the hope of casually transferring our desires to our partners. On some levels, we want them to share, our hopes, compassion for friends and family, and be so in tune they can read our minds. It’s a romantic ideal, but a misguided one. Most of us have engaged in arguments from misconstrued words that were never uttered, only hinted.

I used to play along with his hints, but have taken to ignoring them. Being too accommodating didn’t make me a better wife or him a better husband, it stripped clarity from communication. One problem with dropping hints is the lack of explicitness. Desires get lost in translation, and the the implicit interpretation becomes a clusterfuck of good intentions.

We joke about hints and we both forget ourselves and engage in the art of diplomatic steering attempts, then we suffer the snubs of being rebuffed, but when all else fails, we’re learning to ask.

Sometimes I wonder what fuels a child’s imagination, regarding the way they view adults. It’s like they construct characters from equal parts observation, interaction, and imagination.

My six-year-old niece (S.M.) has an interesting interpretation of me. I say interesting because it’s more romantic than accurate, capturing an element of heroism that is beyond my reach. I know others see us differently from the way we see ourselves, but to see your reflection from the point of view of a six year old is both humorous and daunting.

S.M. is the youngest of the nieces and nephews, and as a result of both my marriage and happenstance, I have spent less time around her than I have the others. Her memories of me are a combination of legend, brief interactions, and her brother’s memories. Her version has all the makings of a brilliant children’s book, but it creates a tall pedestal from which I will eventually tumble.

One of the most laughable traits she has attributed to me is being a girly-girl. I’m not throwing stones at feminine women, or men for that matter, but anyone who knows me, rolls their eyes about this. I’m more qualified to cut crown molding than to apply make up. My idea of dress casual is selecting a t-shirt without an expletive printed on it. Fingernails are to be neatly trimmed lest they become a hazardous. And high heels? I can’t walk in them; end of story.

At some point, S.M. made up her mind, that I was a girly girl, and we need to have a girls’ weekend. During girls’ weekend, we will take turns doing each other’s make-up and hair, watch movies, clean out her mother’s fishpond, and drink coffee in the jacuzzi. WTF? It gets better. She refers to me as “Barbie Aunt Chica”. There is no resemblance. Barbie is tall, big busted, blond, and capable of accessorizing. I am none of those things, but I can change a flat tire for her, because we all KNOW Ken is such a wuss. . I am to Barbie what Janeane Garofalo was to Uma Thurman, yet the legend lives.

I had the honor of chauffeuring S. M. to dinner this week. Like me, she has an active imagination, like her mother, she has the ability to talk for half an hour without pausing for breath. We only drove for ten minutes, but it felt like I absorbed a week’s worth of conversation. (Yeah, my life really is that quiet). We She talked about cars, her grandma, her brother, her cat, her old “lost” cat, and a whole host of “why” questions. All I had to do was drive, listen and arrive alive.

There are times when I wonder, am I better person in real life or in S.M.’s imagination? So far I’m not diabolical in either setting, which is something of a relief. I remember little about being her age. From the stories my family tells, I was outspoken and had an active imagination, so little has changed.

I remember the girl crushes at her age, and older. I remember being absolutely infatuated with women. Not sensually, but emotionally. In youth, there was something about the way some women, would just listen without judging you. They offered guidance, but not the over-bearing I’m gonna yank a knot in your ass kind of way (unless, of course, you really needed it). Most of all, I remember the strength these women were generous to share with me. I may never feel like a grown up, but hopefully I’ll still pass something useful to those younger than me, or, at the least, continue the art of listening.