Burn, Suby, Burn

It has been a rough year for my family, with health scares, a house fire, tragic deaths, unexpected major expenses and countless other personal tragedies big and small. They seem to come regularly, just about the time I'm settling into feeling normal and thinking the worst is behind me. And then my car catches on fire.

For sale, as-is.

I've always been a little down on my Subaru. I liked driving our previous Subaru, a snappy red Outback nicknamed Ruby Suby. But Ruby was old and unreliable, and the new Outback we found was much better in every way but one: it was white. My mother had driven a white station wagon when we were kids and I wasn't thrilled to be saddled with a mom-mobile. It quickly earned the name Moby Suby, my white whale. It was a good car, though, and I got used to it. At least it wasn't a minivan.

And then yesterday. I had just exited the winding mountain Highway 17 when I noticed some white exhaust behind my car. Not much, but I knew something was wrong. The power steering started to give out as I scanned the dashboard - no oil light, engine temperature normal. I drove along slowly, hoping I could make the 3/4 mile ride home. The smoking continued so I pulled over into a driveway, wondering if I should go on, when a car coming the opposite direction stopped. I wondered why - there wasn't that much smoke. They drove away, and I decided to keep going. Suddenly brown smoke began pouring from the engine. Another car stopped, and the driver yelled out that the car was on fire. I pulled onto the shoulder - luckily there was one here, and it was asphalt. I jumped out and unbuckled Adele, placed her on the hillside and told her stay put. I turned back to grab Lucas, who had already unbuckled himself and jumped right into my arms. The man who had stopped was now dropping road flares and told me to move further away from the car. By now flames were visible under the front of the car and the smoke was dark brown and gray. I began walking down the road and called 911. A fire unit was on the way, they said. Then an SUV pulled up and I saw it was my friend Jayme. We've known each other for 8 years, long before either of us lived in the mountains, and now she lives just down the road. It was a relief, and I started crying. We got into her car and she drove a bit away to a safe spot.

Nothing to do but smile.

The fire unit took a while to arrive. Moby Suby's engine was engulfed in flames as the hood melted away. I worried the hillside might catch fire. The windshield shattered and black smoke poured into the car. I already held no hope that the car would be saved, but now I also knew everything inside would be lost as well. We were all safe though. The kids were watching a DVD in the backseat. After what seemed an eternity the fire truck arrived and it was all over. I had Jayme take the kids to her house while I waited for Philip and the CHP to arrive. Her husband Denzil came by to keep me company on the side of the road. Eventually the wrecker arrived to scrape our car off the melted asphalt and haul it away and that was that.

I have been focusing rather deliberately on the silver linings. No one was hurt. It didn't happen on the fast and shoulderless highway. I did not start a forest fire. Jayme just happened to drive by so I was not alone. And best of all, a nice discovery: I'm pretty cool under pressure. I didn't panic. I knew that despite the scary smoke and flames that engines do not immediately explode, so I was able to calmly get the kids out. They are curious about the situation but not scared or scarred by it at all. I'm shaken now but at the time I held it together fairly well.

I've managed to do this before. When Lucas' forehead was split open on the playground, my brain clicked into a practical mode and reminded me that faces bleed a lot and he was going to be just fine. When Adele began choking on a piece of plastic confetti (a week later, in the exact same spot) I did all the proper Heimlich steps that people around me were instructing, my brain calmly repeating that she as long as she was still breathing she would be just fine. These scary moments pass and I'm left with a good story. Maybe if I were in a truly hopeless situation - trapped somehow or unable to determine what to do next - I would freak out. But so far I've been pretty damn good at moving through frightening moments.

Moby Suby in better times.

There is part of me that finds it easier to deal with sudden tragic events than the everyday business of life. Getting through a day of school pick-up and errands to run, laundry to fold and dinner to make, rushing home in time for naps and running out the door late again for the next appointment. The endless cycle of activity and my inability to shape any kind of routine around it is a constant source of disappointment and frustration. I can't figure out why my daily life is so hard when it sounds simple. Food, sleep, play, housework. So how do I end each day feeling like a failure?

Yesterday I didn't feel at all like a failure. Tragedy strikes and you act and you cope and you move on. Today I'm already back to dealing with the normal stressful routine of life, the naps and meals and laundry, along with arranging the disposal of Moby Suby's charred remains and researching for this weekend's car buying expedition. A minivan may be in my future after all. It's not the end of the world. Just another day in a life.

Unnature Lover

I’m embarrassed to admit, even to myself, that it’s my favorite place. A small bend in the creek under a bridge alongside a running trail. No doubt it’s a pretty spot, thick with tall trees and ivy, and the soft steady sound of water making its way downstream. But there’s no denying the whole thing is man-made. Sure, the creek looks natural enough, but its true course was redirected decades earlier to make way for the nearby freeway. Less than a quarter mile upstream the muddy pebbled banks give way to the sloping sides of a concrete gulch. This pretty little creek is just a spillway for the nearby reservoir. The dangling vines that give the spot a lush look climb at an unnatural diagonal as they follow a power pole support. The flat cement walls on either side of the bridge have been stamped with a repeating pattern of reeds and ducks. It mimics nature, this place, but it’s not natural.

And still I love this spot.

Why here? Why not a breathtaking green and black valley in Hawaii? Or a peak of a mountain with nothing but the sound of the wind through the tall grass? Or the isolated beach along the Lost Coast where I hiked with Philip just two months after we’d met, where I realized – even without really knowing that I was in love with him yet – that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. No, I like this little bend in the river beside a trail that isn’t really natural at all.

In an effort to infuse this spot with meaning I took my children here. I pointed out the hushed sound of the creek, the snaking vines, the tiny pebbles perfect for throwing into the water. When I asked Lucas what he though of it he said, “It’s a place that makes you tired.” How poetic of him, to notice it was a spot that calmed the mind and brought peace. Then I realized he was just telling me he was bored.

But who am I fooling? I’m no outdoorsman. I grew up in a suburb, where the closest thing to nature was the empty field behind our house that was unceremoniously bulldozed one morning to make way for an office complex. For the next week field mice, rabbits and a beautiful red, white and blue San Francisco garter snake – a species now nearly extinct – sought refuge in our backyard. Our family went camping exactly once, in Yosemite, and we didn’t even pitch our own tents. Even the waterways near our home were artificial, a series of lagoons built from landfill to create waterfront communities. So why should the place I love most be something untouched by man when my whole life has played out against a decidedly man-made landscape?

Since moving to the mountains I am more aware of the natural world. But the Los Gatos Mountains aren’t exactly an unspoiled frontier. We have a bit more space than a suburban home but still have neighbors on all sides. We see more wildlife than our flatland counterparts, but not all that much more. I’m ten minutes from a 24-hour grocery store. We aren’t exactly shunning humanity. And I like it that way. I like screens on my windows. Ready access to bathrooms with running water. The camaraderie of a neighborhood community. The comforts of a man-made life. It makes sense that my favorite spot be not so different from the place I choose to live the rest of my life.

So this quiet shady spot is perfect for me. The trail serves a purpose. At any hour of the day people are strolling, running, biking, often with dogs or kids in tow. I like people. Like seeing them enjoying life. I can reach this spot anytime. I don’t even need to stop there to feel the peace it brings me. Running by is enough. Though sometimes I pause and sit on one of the benches perched by the edge of the bank. Just sit and breath and feel good. Yesterday I noticed a third bench, on the other side of the trail just beyond the bridge. A small memorial plaque noted it had been the favorite spot of a woman named Vi. So I’m not alone in loving this place. Not being alone is an important part of it. To be in place surrounded by the activity of people and still feel that quiet wonder, that wonderful calm. There’s a lot to love about a place like that.

New Year, New Blog, Old Lady, Old Habits

I must admit I am very proud of the blog design. 

In October I posted about my quest to capture the story of my grandmother. I envisioned writing a book or a series of short stories but have decided to blog about her life, which seems an odd choice considering how infrequently I manage to post here. But short bursts of writing are easier to schedule in, and giving myself a deadline is handy. I'm a rule follower. I always do my homework. So I've launched My Dead Grandmother to blog about the life of Vovó Flora, updated Thursdays.

Starting a new blog and making other resolutions (weekly yoga, meal plans, try something new and scary every month) have me wrestling with the notion of motivation versus discipline. Motivation is so fleeting.
The rush of inspiration, the vow to change, and the inevitable return to the standard routine. My resolutions are doomed to fail if I rely on motivation alone to keep me going. Discipline is required, the drive to keep at something long after the initial thrill has faded. I may not feel like writing a post, but if I am committed to a weekly deadline I'll do it. If I don't want to roll out of bed to exercise (do I ever?) it's discipline that will get me up, not an inspirational quote I found on Pinterest.

Are you inspired yet?

The self-improvement blog Pick the Brain has a good feature by Peter Clemens on the power of discipline when motivation fails. This passage summed up so well what I've been missing from my past resolutions:

Self-discipline involves acting according to what you think instead of how you feel in the moment. Often it involves sacrificing the pleasure and thrill of the moment for what matters most in life. Therefore it is self-discipline that drives you to:

• Work on an idea or project after the initial rush of enthusiasm has faded away
• Go to the gym when all you want to do is lie on the couch and watch TV
• Wake early to work on yourself
• Say "no" when tempted to break your diet
• Only check your email a few of times per day at particular times

If I decide something will be good for me, I need to keep at it even when temptation, exhaustion and moodiness drain my resolve. So I start 2013 with more than another list of good intentions, but a better approach to achieve what I'm after. And if I fail, well, that's what this blog is all about. Trying, failing, learning, living.

How Sweet It Isn't: Part Two

In Part One of this underwhelming series, I explained how I've been eating lately. Along the way I've found plenty of little tricks to keep the low carb thing going without missing out on life. These work for me and might not work for anyone else, but I’ll share.

kale linguica soup

Subs. Just Not the Jared Kind. 
Get creative with substitutes. If you can find some healthy alternatives that work for you it will easier to stick with the plan. I tend to try white beans instead of potatoes in recipes like soups. Experiment subs that work for you. A Word of Warning: Anyone tells you that mashed cauliflower tastes just like potatoes is not to be trusted.*

Veggie Love
Seek out yummy ways to prepare vegetables and you'll find they make up more of your diet. I love greens sauted with olive oil and garlic and brussel sprouts punched up with parmesan. Find your veggie happy place and you'll miss the bad carbs less.

Fight Fat With Fat
Fats are not that bad. That doesn't mean bacon should be a daily staple but for the most part meats and cheeses aren't going to make a huge impact on weight loss. You'll stay on course if you’re getting delicious fats instead of trying to go both lean and low carb.

Search Far and Wide
The internet is jam-packed with low carb recipes that are not all horrible. Some call for specialty substitutions like splet flour but many are easy to whip up with what you have on hand. Search around and be brave - some dishes will be great, and others not so much.

Resist the scones, double up on fruit.

Eat in, Cheat Out
Cheat but be discreet. Terrible advice for a relationship, but helpful when trying to stay healthy in the face of birthday parties, wedding buffets and every major holiday. Plan smart meals for every day but don't deny yourself on special occasions, like the upcoming Thanksgiving food-fest. Just double up on the the turkey and veggies, and take smaller bites of the pumpkin pie and mashed potatoes and homemade rolls. 

Sweetness Is My Weakness
Cravings are easier to curb when you end sweet. Find a sugar-free dessert than you like and stick with it. Mine is Greek yogurt, a little peanut butter and some sugar-free Torani chocolate syrup, which tastes more like a Tootsie Roll than actual chocolate but it works for me. Find what works for you.

cauliflower crust pizza from
eat-drink-smile.com

That's a good motto for weight loss, or anything you want to change about your life: Find what works for you. If you can stay skinny and pleasant while eating all the white carbs in the world, keep on rockin'. If you haven’t quite found your groove yet, keep testing new things. Get ideas, experiment, and stick with the stuff that treats you right. For me, it happens to be red wine and cheese. Just hold the crackers.

*Though I will admit I'm in love with this recipe for cauliflower crust pizza. 

How Sweet It Isn’t: Part One

lemon-garlic shrimp skewers

I've been changing the way I eat lately. I don’t want to say "diet" because diets never work, at least not long-term and certainly not for me. Also I get to pretend that it’s all about healthy living and not losing weight, which isn't 100% crap but neither is it all that close to the truth. I've kept close track of my weight and managed to lose over 10 pounds, which makes my driver’s license no longer a lie. Not that the number is all that impressive for a woman my height, but I take what I can get.

My eating changes are pretty basic. Carbs are the enemy. Specifically the whites are to be avoided: sugar, flour, potatoes and rice. And sadly, beer. For me, the more carbs and sugars I eat, the hungrier I get. Before I cut these out you did not want to be around me when I missed a meal. I never understood how someone could “just forget to eat” (*sidelong glance at my husband*). Now I see that when you eat in a balanced way your body does not constantly plunge you into mood swing hell. I can actually feel hungry without also having an overwhelming urge to murder someone.

spicy pumpkin seeds

I started by going cold turkey, cutting out not only the whites but all sugars and flours, even fruit and whole wheat. And alcohol. I've tried this method before with limited success. My craving for bread is just too strong and I cave. This time around I made sure I had plenty of low carb snacks to grab instead. Beans tend to knock out the bread craving for me, so I loaded up on hummus and three-bean salads. Instead of focusing just on vegetables, I let dairy, meat and nuts played a big role in my diet. I’m sure I would have lost more weight more quickly if I had laid off the fats, but I was still amazed at how steadily the weight came off. After a few weeks I let fruits and whole grains back into my diet, but kept them a small part of my meals. Alcohol is now exclusively red wine, and not too much of it.

Of course there is everyday eating and party eating. If I’m having dinner at a friend’s house I’m not going to turn down a homemade apple pie or skip eating if she serves pasta. I’ll just have a bit less than I used to, and maybe double up on salad. When I’m out at dive-bar karaoke red wine isn't really an option, so I’ll have a Bud light. This way of eating is really about the trend, so the occasional indulgence isn't a cause for concern. As long as the Halloween candy binge doesn't disrupt the healthier habits, no real harm done.

Coming soon... Part Two: That advice you didn't ask for.

Rooster in the Fire

Keeping true to the theme of this blog I have again failed to post much at all. I did manage to publish a couple of pieces for Modern Latina. The articles center around motherhood issues - being a bit kinder to ourselves and being mindful of how we talk to our children. It's motivating to write for something besides my own blog, and scary too. Big questions come up. Just what am I doing with my writing?

For years I've been planning to write about my tough, caustic, slightly crazy grandmother. I mostly knew her as a mean old Portuguese lady. This was a woman who loved to pick a fight just for the sport of it. Without understanding Portuguese I could catch only the tone of her tirades but it's a sure bet she wasn't pouring forth compliments. As she aged her outbursts grew comical. The family couldn't wait to hear the latest Vovó Flora story. Yet I suspected there was more to her than a lifelong bad mood.

As I got older I learned more. About a youth marred by poverty and abuse. About her struggle for a better life. How her harsh words were a cover for shame of her past.  Her health and her sanity declined as she aged but this was a woman who grasped tightly to life. Stubborn will kept her alive 92 years. Even after the fire, a fire that mangled her body and left her blind and unconscious, she did not die. Not that first night, as the doctors predicted. Not the next night. Not until 10 days later, when the family decided the humane thing, the right thing, was to remove life support rather than have her awaken in this painful and wretched state. Her legacy was that fight, against her past, against anyone she suspected might take advantage of her, even against a force of nature than destroyed her body. I'm determined to honor that legacy by telling her story.

There is another side of my grandmother's story, one I understand as little about as I did this woman. My Portuguese heritage is something of an afterthought. I've always been American first and Portuguese by birth. I don't speak the language. I don't get the nuances of attitude and interaction that are part of the national identity. It's impossible to reveal the life of my Vovó without exploring the richness of the culture in which she was raised. The food, the music, the vibrant and comical and puzzling customs of a people few outsiders understand. It's a nation of idiosyncrasies, at once baffling and beautiful. The story of my grandmother is the story of Portugal.

So this is the challenge I set for myself: To uncover a woman and a heritage. To research what I know of her life and to discover the wonders and mysteries of a people. Like the legendary black rooster that sits in every Portuguese kitchen, there is a story of survival against all odds, of strength in the face of tragedy, of joy found unexpectedly, of redemption born of fire.

An old bird can be plucked, roasted, counted out and still rise to sing out once more.

Update: I've started a blog to capture the life of Vovó Flora, My Dead Grandmother.

Killing the Blues

Some days are just born bad. A night of hot still air and fitful sleep led to a morning that broke far too soon. I could hear Adele calling from her crib but didn’t want rise and face the day. I felt too fragile, too close to cracking. Why? I don’t know. I just know that mixture of sadness and fear always ends with an explosion. Or tears. Or both. I managed to get the coffee going before it hit. Lucas misbehaving with no sign of remorse, me trying desperately to keep calm. I managed not to scream, to stay firm and in control, but it took all I had. By the time Philip got up I was close to a breaking point. Why? What makes me feel like this, like I can’t even move across the room without losing it altogether? And why today?

Philip tried to help, and did help, though it made me feel worse somehow. Pushed me from that boiling anger into all-consuming sadness. But I didn’t give in. I picked myself up and went on with my day. My goal this morning had been to work out while Lucas was at preschool and then run errands in town. Already it was an hour later than I had hoped, but no matter. I put on my running clothes, buckled Adele into the car seat and hit the road. I still felt weak, but also proud of myself for shaking off the mean reds and plunging ahead. It wasn’t until I pulled up at the trail head that I realize I didn’t have the stroller. Here I was facing my fear and desperation, all geared up to run, and it wasn’t going to happen. I tried to console myself. Really, was it that bad? I have a great life. The fortune of having free time to go running, to have beautiful happy children, to even own a stroller to begin with. That only made me sink lower, reminding me how I had no right to feel the way I did. And yet I did feel that way. And it’s painful.

I didn’t break down though. Philip helped again, responding to my woe-is-me text by advising I let it go and get coffee and a pastry. I went on with my errands, giving myself credit for trying to go ahead with the day when all I wanted to do was crawl back under the covers and stay there. Adele was a bubbly antidote to a heavy heart as we stood in the returns line at Home Depot and shopped for baby wipes at the drug store. Without much to show for the day besides good intentions we fought nasty beach traffic up the mountain, fetched Lucas from preschool, and came home.

The afternoon is nearly over. It’s 97 outside but breezy. When Adele wakes up we’ll head to the pool. My life is good. Very good. No worries. No outside demands.  A loving and understanding husband. Kids that, while demanding, are really very well behaved and good-natured. A wonderful new house that is in fine shaped to be ignored for a while. So I guess that just leaves me. Some days are fine. And some are just born bad.