Tag Archives: spring

Spring Has Sprung

20 Mar

It’s the first day of spring, and things are crazy out there. There was an insane rainstorm this morning, and then it passed, and the sun came out, and the wind started up, and the clouds are scuttling across the sky and the lake is full of whitecaps. 

And everything feels wild and free out there. 

It’s almost my birthday, and I love my birthday. I don’t care how the day goes– I’ve had crappy birthdays, and amazing ones, and the last three years, they were pretty low-key, as I was in San Diego and didn’t exactly have designated birthday celebrants with me– I mean, my family wasn’t there, and friends are great but it was always sort of a question of a) will I have something to do b) who will I do it with c) what will it be and will anyone show up. I mean, there’s something magical about receiving packages from your family in the mail on the exact day of your birthday (my dad’s all about paying for great timing) but there’s something sort of lonely (but still sweet) about putting your sister on speakerphone as you unwrap them in your apartment by yourself. 

Whereas here, my sister’s obligated to show up for my birthday, so that makes one, and her boyfriend too in a less required but still necessitated way, so that’s 3 and that’s already a party. So then I get to just choose what to do and tell people and let them show up or not, and all of a sudden there are so many other people who are coming, and I really, really feel like I have people again. 

But my point is: it doesn’t matter how my birthday goes– it always feels like a day that belongs to me. I don’t know if it’s because we have to recite our birthday so many times in so many ways– to the doctor, and for taxes, and all those various forms that make up life– but that day, and even a little bit the whole month of March: it really really belongs to me. 

Also I freakin’ love presents. We’re present-givers in my family, which I actually love about us. It’s not one-sided; I like giving them too. I don’t think people who are bad present-givers realize how much it feels like thoughtlessness, like a lack of generosity of spirit, a lack of paying attention, to people who are good present-givers. I’ve heard that argument, “I’m just not a good present-giver,” the way that some people claim to be bad at remembering names. My jury’s out on both of those. I mean, ok, I suppose you could actually be bad at remembering names, but it sort of just feels like you don’t think I’m important enough to try to remember my name. And presents: sure, sometimes you have to guess, and you mis-hit, or you don’t have the time or money to get the gift you’d really like to give. 

And yes, it takes a little thought and effort. But if you’re paying attention to someone, it’s not usually that hard to find something that at least makes sense to give them. Right? Like, you don’t give a cat a tennis ball, unless you happen to know that cat is really, really into tennis balls. Don’t give a giraffe a stepladder. Don’t buy me bourbon. 

If it was apocalypse and I was tending to wounded who were stumbling into my house and the biological weapons had contaminated all the antiseptic soap and we’d run out of hydrogen peroxide days ago and the people were screaming and bleeding from giant gashes in their legs and begging for solace and comfort and I was desperate for some form of sanitizing their wounds as I ripped t-shirts and sheets into bandages and used sticks to create makeshift tourniquets….then bourbon would be a really, really thoughtful gift.

But other than that, probably not. Unless I accidentally time traveled and met a Scottish prince who spontaneously took me home to meet his father, the King of Scotland, and I happened to have your gift of bourbon on me, and I was able to present it as a host gift, and it gave him a great impression of me, saving him from killing me for being a witch. But that wouldn’t even be bourbon, would it, it would be scotch. So that would probably make things worse. So again: terrible gift. 

I’m going to go shake my presents and if I hear any sloshing, I’m probably going to cry about my imminent death. Thanks a lot. I just wanted to live to see another spring, you guys! There’s so much to live for! Can’t you hear the wind, pulling us out the door into the wild wild world?


Dear Spring (and also making out)

18 Mar

Dear Spring (and also making out)

I live in San Diego, which means the weather doesn’t really change from season to season. Still, there’s definitely been a shift in the last two weeks. We went back on (or off? I don’t know) daylight savings time, and now it’s light out when I get done with class, which makes me want to go drink fancy cocktails on some porch overlooking the ocean every night. I don’t because:

A) there aren’t actually that many places to do that in San Diego, and

B) liver.

And there are flowers blooming.

What’s amazing to me is how internal seasonal shifts are. Even though the temperature hasn’t changed drastically, I know it’s spring, because I’ve been feeling slightly crazy (stir crazy and otherwise) and a little bit antsy, and generally unable to concentrate or sit still or care about the thing that’s in front of me. I’m like, Can we barbecue? What about the park? Who wants to go to the park? An open window! Let me look out it! Oooh, colors (in the sky, in that dress, on my shoes, over there).

Also I have this urge to make some bad decisions. Spring quarter at my undergraduate college usually involved convincing our professors to let us have class outside, napping on the quad for an absurd number of hours, refusing to wear coats when it was definitely still cold outside, eating ice cream, playing beach volleyball on the random court that was on our campus— and oh yeah, getting involved with someone I normally would not have thought was a good idea to get involved with.

Like the red-headed Jewish friend-of-a-friend I made out with twice before he “dumped” me while he was high on 4/20. I rolled my eyes. We weren’t dating. I had just been planning to ignore him the next time he called me instead of having a whole “talk.” (Boys are more dramatic than girls are.) He followed up by asking if he could still come to the party my roommates were throwing that night. I so did not even care about the whole thing that I said yes.

Or the guy in my Tupac class (yeah, I took a class on Tupac) who just straight-up never called me back one night. Literally. School ended, he left on a road trip, I found out I had mono and didn’t go to Europe because I wasn’t allowed to fly in case various of my internal organs spontaneously combusted, he came back and I called him and told him about the mono (I am responsible, y’all). He said, “Oh, that sucks. No, I feel fine. I’ll come take you out for ice cream.” Then he said, “Hang on, my friend’s calling, I’ll call you right back.” AND HE NEVER DID. I’m pretty sure he’s still alive. Although I suppose I don’t know that for sure.

There was the nineteen-year-old Mormon (I was 21), who was being a really bad Mormon, because we first kissed when we were drunk at a party. (I SAID, I WAS 21, MOM.) He’d just broken up with a girlfriend, who was in high school (see: people I wouldn’t normally think it was a good idea to get involved with). Shortly thereafter, he spent a whole night arguing with me about how my major was “bullshit” because “no one knows what your acronym stands for and everyone knows what ME stands for, therefore my work is more valid than yours” while I made chocolate chip cookies and tried to turn the music up loud enough to drown out my own impulse to argue with such inanity. That ended on Cinco de Mayo, when he said he was going to hang out with his buddies and would call me later. He never did. I didn’t follow up. I yelled about it for a second though.


I’d list more, but then you guys would think I’m a slut.

Speaking of which, who wants to go make out on the grass?* IT’S SPRING AND IT SMELLS NICE OUTSIDE.



*This is not a real offer. Stay away, creepers.

Dear Nice Things

1 May

Dear Nice Things,

You were quite the strong  presence on my walk with the dog today.  To be fair, she is a very nice dog and it is a very nice day.

I passed 2 schools just letting out for the day, complete with droopy-flagged elementary-aged crossing guards.   I passed approximately 11 dogwoods in full bloom, one lilac tree, dozens of those crazy green alien flowers that I’ve never seen before this year, one girl riding on the handlebars on her dad’s bike over the grass in the park, one little boy complaining about having to wear his shirt, and I saw no crows even though it is trash day.

In the background, I could hear the metallic clink of bats busy batting.

On 1 shady porch slept a father with a newborn baby in his arms, feet propped up on a wicker stool.

And 1 little girl ran up to her white picket fence just as I was passing and said:

“When you jump, you fly a little bit.”

Which is a very nice thing indeed.



Dear Leafblowers

22 Apr

Dear Leafblowers,


It is a lovely, cold, rainy spring day, and I am TRYING to visualize myself back to yesterday, or forward to some imaginary day in the future when I will again see blue sky…and tulips swaying in the wind…soft breezes making the ice in my water dip and clink…the bright design of a beach towel draped over my arm…I can almost smell the grass under my feet…


OFF damn thing, OFF I say.

This, actually, goes for all seasons.  And yes, I can still hear it idling.  All the way, you can do it, come on little guy, you don’t need your big bad noise-making machine to be a man…Just think what big arms you could have if you used a RAKE!  And then we could call you a rake, too, if you wanted, just like Rhett, and wouldn’t that be sexy.



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