Drinking my words

Enough with all this tedious chitchat about work. Let's talk tea.

Growing up with an English mum, I've always lived with a full tea cabinet. But unlike most Brits, our mom—or "Ma," as we call her, with that long American a—drinks it weak and plain, without milk or sugar.

My earliest kitchen memory is learning how to make a cup for mom: Pour the boiling water, dunk the Lipton teabag about three or four times, toss the bag, add some cold water. As you might imagine, this horrifies all our Yorkshire kin. That's not tea.

But much like my mom's fondness for Rene Junot (terrible white plonk that she thankfully doesn't buy anymore) shaped my early perception of wine, this light-brown liquid always meant "tea." I wouldn't touch it.

My stubborn refusal lasted until college. The first day of freshman year, I made a fantastic friend named Kate. She tried fruitlessly to woo me to the tea side for months, giving me boxes of tea and sprinkling tea all over birthday presents, etc. A valiant effort, and I still love her for it. But it didn't work.

Sophomore year, I was chained to my desk during finals. I'd figured out how to avoid tests by writing endless essays, all due at once. I kept a running page tally on my door. It pretty much turned me into a lunatic for two weeks each semester. Friends knew to stay away when they heard snarling inside.

Then my buddy and hallmate Kipp managed to find himself an Earth Mother girlfriend who didn't know any of us that well. She floated by sometimes and said hi, but she's the last person I expected to knock on my door when I hit page 70 or so and my last few brain cells.

"Here," she said, handing me a steaming mug. "You need this." Best thing I'd ever tasted.

She was so right, and Kate was so right, and I was so wrong. Almost every day begins and ends with tea now. I even leave the empty mugs all over the house, just like mom (but I still won't touch Lipton—there are limits).

Put on the kettle, luv, and we'll 'ave a nice cuppa.

Frog gigging

Just when you think you have a decent vocabulary, along comes a niche hobby you know absolutely nothing about—but millions of other people do, and they have their own language.

Copyeditors traditionally make a style sheet for each project we handle. We turn it in with the edited files to let our clients know we don't just gloss over any words we don't recognize. Like good corporate citizens (and obsessive word freaks), we look them all up and list them neatly.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the world of RVing, courtesy of Moon Florida Camping.

adventurist (n)
aquacize (n)
Biketoberfest
bonsai-like (adj)
bunco (n)
camo (n)
cathole (n)
chautauqua (n)
chickee hut (n)
Choctawhatchee beach mouse (n)
cobblestoned (adj)
Coggins test (n)
Disneyesque (adj)
eco-tour (n)
fifth-wheel (n)
first-magnitude (adj)
Flagler, Henry
frog gigging (n)
Good Sam Club
gorp (n)
inflatables (n)
honeywagon service (n)
houseboating (n)
junebug worm (n)
jungly (adj)
long-termer (n)
melaleuca (n)
moo-head (n)
motorboating (n)
motorcoach (n)
motorhome (n)
nasties (n)
noddy terns (n)
paddler (n)
palmetto pounders (n)
parimutuel betting (n)
pétanque (n)
pileated (adj)
pine flatwoods (n)
poisonwood (n)
pokeno (n)
pop-up (n)
powerboater (n)
RaceTrac
riverine (adj)
roadmaster (n)
RVing (n)
RV port (n)
sabal palm (n)
salvor (n)
sandhill (n, adj)
sand pine scrub (n)
saw grass (n); sawgrass (adj)
sheepshead (n)
shellcracker (n)
shell-rock (adj)
sinkhole-like (adj)
“6/6” plan (n)
skeeter (n)
slideout (n)
snorkeler (n)
sooty terns; sooties (n)
Spring Breaker (n)
stern-wheeler (n)
stormproof (adj)
sunbaked (adj)
tenter (n)
Tin Can Tourists of the World

hop on board, roadmasters

Clear signs

I worked about 12 hours yesterday and 11 so far today, drove home in a daze, and tried to open the front door of my apartment by pressing the car-door button on my VW key. Repeatedly.

You could do the research, but I'm pretty sure that means I need a vacation. Good thing I'm taking one.

Two words: Kyoto. Beijing.

Just as soon as the wave subsides.

Comme d'habitude

For as long as I can remember, I've meant to volunteer more. Aside from the occasional shift during KQED radio pledge drives, my day job + freelance + Canteen lifestyle doesn't leave much room for good works.

It's a poor excuse—there are plenty of busy people who volunteer. It's just hard to fit it all in while maintaining some kind of sanity and balance. Also it's nice to sleep now and then. Still, the intent is always there.

This weekend, I finally got to act on it at a Habitat for Humanity project in Daly City. Windy, chilly, foggy Daly City.

The project site includes 12 basic, sturdy homes slated to take about a year to complete. There's an onsite staff of five or so, plus 10 to 30 volunteers on any given day. We had a big crew, including a dozen nice older folks from the Church of the Innocents (I almost wound up in their group photo by accident—had to excuse myself with, "Oops, I'm not one of those.").

The few volunteers with actual carpentry skills scampered up the scaffolding to shingle, side, and trim things, while the rest of us attacked cleanup. The houses run along the top of a small hill that was covered with construction debris: wood, rock, rebarb, plastic, plywood, insulation, and lots of trash. The crew chief—a wiry, tough, smart woman about my age who could destroy all of you one-handed—said it was only three weeks' worth.

For about six hours, we lifted and hauled and sorted and stacked and discarded. It didn't feel like symbolic charity; it felt like manual labor. It was a long, cold, satisfying day. We got really dirty. I came home depleted, took a fantastic shower, and slept for 10 straight hours.

My back and shoulders aren't too happy with me, but good intentions don't make your muscles sore. Only action can do that. I should remember more often.

End of an era

In 1999, I worked in a little office at Sansome and Lombard. There were only a few other businesses in the building, and I never saw anyone in the halls who wasn't a colleague.

Except for one sunny day in late summer, when I came back from lunch to find an impromptu sidewalk sale. The guy behind the blanket said he was hocking things for an artist who was moving her studio somewhere else. My miniature salary didn't lend itself to impulse buys, but there was a nice green mug on the blanket, so I paid $5 for it and went back to my desk.

It's been my office mug for eight years, and today I'm officially retiring it. Green mug, loyal friend, you've traveled with me to four jobs in as many cities, and you're as sturdy as they come. But even the soapiest scouring can't clean you now. It's time.

Also it turns out you were really from Pier 1, and not lovingly crafted by a dotcom artisan—but I didn't find out until a year ago, so we can pretend it didn't happen. Rest well. All is forgiven.

we hardly knew ye . . .

The DJ who lives in my brain is fired

Songs stuck in my head today:

1. Rock Me Amadeus
2. Hard to Handle
3. Dites-Moi Pourquoi
4. Electric Avenue
5. Pore Jud Is Daid
6. Baby, Baby

I should probably confess that Amy Grant has been on my default mental playlist since around 1992, along with "Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend" and the gross childen's song "Baby Bumblebee."

Or maybe this kind of information is best kept to myself.

Veggie quandary

A few of you have asked what I'm holding in the photos below. Let me set all your curious minds at ease: It's an avocado.

The best reaction so far came from my mom, who said she could tell it was an avocado, but wasn't sure it was a real one. "I thought it might have been a fuzzy toy avocado."

'Cause, you know, I keep a lot of those around the house.

Some days are stagnant, some are like this.

I went outside with no shoes and no jacket today. All my bedroom windows are open.

Yoga class felt like 15 minutes instead of 90, and there was a parking space right in front of the library. I spent a couple of hours at the café, reading and drinking jasmine tea. If you think I might have eaten a cookie, you'd be right.

Walking home from the market, I finished writing the chorus to a blues song in my head. It's been brewing for a week or two. There's fresh basil on the counter downstairs. The Kyoto guidebook I ordered should be here next week, and the Netflixers just delivered a shiny new season of West Wing, bless their anonymous red-enveloped hearts.

Long and short of it is, I feel good. How good? I just registered for another half-marathon.

If it rains tomorrow, please remind me that everything is easier the second time around.