Fish Tales

My first class of the semester was Tai Ji. I spent three hours learning forms and meditating. My second class of the semester was Clinical Counseling. I spent four hours discussing with my classmates the concept of listening as a communication skill and meditating. My third class of the semester was Biology. I spent three hours staring blankly at the professor because, although he was speaking clear English, I didn’t understand a word that came out of his mouth. My fourth class of the semester was Anatomy 1. I just spent the last three hours wishing the human body wasn’t so damn complicated. Who knew the human head was so… dense.

After the movers carried the last piece of furniture into our new home on Saturday afternoon, one of them looked around and asked, “Did y’all move the TV by yourselves?” We explained that we did not own a TV. He laughed and then told us that such a thing wasn’t that unusual these days. Why he said this, I don’t know. Was he trying to make us feel better? Should I be distraught over the fact that my house is missing this vital piece of furniture? Should I be ashamed that we fall into the “not so unusual” category? Or relieved?

Either way, I don’t care. Tonight, Eric and I dined on our back stoop so that we could watch the sun set over the ocean as we shoveled delicious, organic food into our mouths. This morning we sat in the same spot sipping coffee and chatting about the future. This afternoon I walked the length of the beach barefoot. Personally, I’d trade a TV for such opportunities any time, any day.

The move went well. The unpacking when smoothly. Give me a few days, maybe a week or two and this place will feel like home. Already, I love it. My door is always open as are my neighbors. The people are friendly. The atmosphere relaxed. Ocean Beach is not just a neighborhood, it’s a state of mind. I am looking foward to embracing it.

No, I am not sleepless this evening and blogging about OB tampons. Rather, OB is San Diegan for Ocean Beach. Tomorrow morning a truck is coming to our large downtown loft apartment in the sky and relocating us to quaint little house in Ocean Beach with a view of the Specific Ocean. I am too excited to sleep.

Everyone,

I have a problem. It is called Sun-Dried Tomatoes. I’ve been eating them like candy.

Also, I have a pain in my ass. It is called Clueless Leasing Agent. I had to educate him on landlord/tenant law today. Imagine that. Here is how our conversation progressed:

Me: Blah, blah, blah. I want to clear up this misunderstanding.

Him: Well, Aubry, it is written in your leasing agreement blah, blah, blah.

Me: Acutally, sir, I read the lease word for word prior to calling you. That is not written anywhere in the lease.

Him: Oh, but blah, blah, blah.

Me: Acutally, I spent the last hour researching California landlord/tenant law. According to the State of California, a landlord cannot collect rent twice for the same unit. So, we are entitled to a portion of our money back.

Him: Oh.

Folks, this is why it is important to know your rights. It might be a pain in the ass to do a little research or part with $100.00 of your hard earned cash to consult with an attorney for an hour, but in the the long run it will pay off. Most of the time, the people who are telling you you can’t are as clueless as you.

Dear Internet,

It was hot in San Diego this past weekend. A scorching 85 degrees with no humidity. The people of San Diego were devastated. They bitched and moaned like it was the end of the world. As we know it. On Sunday, Eric and I brunched at a pub in Little Italy called the Princess Pub. Yeah, it’s a British pub in the heart of the Italian district. Don’t ask me. I don’t get it either. Anyway, our waitress stepped outside to check on us and commented that it was “hotter than a witch’s tit.” I had no choice but to throw my drink in her face, grab her by the collar with one hand, and smack the shit out of her with the other. “Hot! Fool! This ain’t hot! Hot is Baltimore in August!” That is what I said to her before I released my grip. As she crumpled to the ground crying, I kicked her in the ribs just to get the point across. Oh, Southern California!

Speaking of Southern California, here is the view from the new house:

Yeah, now imagine this photo in a panoramic format. Yup, that’s what I get to look at everyday. Hey, how’s those cornfields?

Love,

Fis(her)

Back in the day, Eric drank his coffee black and I loaded mine with sugar so it was always quite humorous when one of us would misjudge the other’s mug for our own and drink from it. Whenever I took a swig of the bitter black coffee I would wrinkle my nose, swallow hard, and then dance around the kitchen in disgust. In Eric’s case, he would raise an eyebrow, spit the contents of his mouth back into the mug thereby rendering my coffee unfit for human consumption, stick out his tongue and go, “BLAH!” Then, without a word exchanged between the two of us, we’d switch coffee mugs and resume our conversation.

These days I too drink my coffee black so when the coffee mugs mingle we will investigate the Mystery of the Mixed-Up Coffee Mugs like trained law enforcement officers. Detective Eric will analyze the hard, physical evidence. I will interview the witnesses and reconstruct the crime scene. We will waste two (maybe three) minutes of our lives attempting to solve the mystery before we determine that it doesn’t really matter and sip from a mug within reach. But, always, the same mix up will occur fifteen minutes later and we will find ourselves once again trying to crack the case.

I think for his birthday this year I am going to get Eric a coffee mug that reads, “ERIC’S MUG” and it will have a picture of his face on it. Get it! Ha! Mystery solved!

I dropped Eric off at work this morning. I kissed him goodbye and let him get a few paces from the car before I peeled wheels and hauled ass to the beach for a three-mile power run. Then I returned home for a shower, sweatless clothes, and breakfast. In just a few moments, I am going to gather my iPod, head over to the storage unit, and begin moving our things into the garage (or, as Eric insists on calling it, “The Man Cave”) of our new home in Ocean Beach.

I must admit that I am thrilled to spend the final two weeks of my seemingly endless vacation before school starts busying myself with moving. I am actually looking forward to single-handedly hauling heavy boxes around today. It beats the hell out of sitting at home being useless. There is a certain exhilaration that stems from the knowledge that I am free to move about the city at will, even if it means I must labor for most of the day. It takes my mind off the boredom and the anxiousness. It redirects my inner eye so that I don’t spend the next two weeks focused on the failure my life appears to be at the moment. I welcome the distraction, any distraction for that matter.

Moving Countdown: T minus 13 days until its official. Expect photos.

I love yoga for the same reasons everyone loves yoga. It is a great physical and mental workout. It is challenging, energizing, and way cheaper than a fitness center membership.

When I practice yoga at home I spend a lot of time intimately close to the floors of my apartment. And, thanks to yoga, it is there that I can see every crumb, every hair, every piece of dirt that has settled since I last cleaned.

Damn you yoga!