The Marvelous Mud Run

On Friday I was immersed in french fabric, vintage notions, sparkling baubles and gleaming antique bronze chain with the aroma of brewed jasmine tea surrounding us.

On Saturday I was immersed in Torre Pines, the multi green hues of coyote scrub brush, gritty sand and the stinging salt air of a storm rolling off the grey blue ocean. 

On Sunday I was standing in my heavily duct taped tennis shoes, coated in sunscreen, slapping a red striped beach ball in the air and cheering with a multitude of hundreds for the San Diego Mud Run to begin! I was pumped to see the mud fly in all directions!

Jay, Miranda and Jake were there to witness my personal feat: run a 5K obstacle course through 30 mud pits that traversed through holes as deep as 4ft 8inches, steel drainage pipes, camouflage nets, vertical uphill inclines and six firemen water hoses. Some of the mud pits were thin gravy and others were super thick sludge. Hence the duct tape on your shoes so that you would not lose it in the mud pit...theoretically speaking of course. I saw a lot of one shoe runners out there on the course as well as limping, staggering, and lopsided runners too.

"Three, Two, One"....we were off and as we ran through the parking lot, everyone was laughing  as we got our first hit of the fireman's cold water hose. Around a curve was the first mud pit and most of the women took it very tentative while the men charged down the middle yelling their war cry. By the third mud pit, everyone was slimed in mud all over and were more concerned about keeping their shoes on.

Half way in the race it became an obstacle course of 15 condensed mud pits. The designer of the course must have had wicked delight in creating high sloping mud pits which forced you to drag your bottom down into the mud and try to scamper up the other slippery side. It was all hills and valleys of mud in the shape of a figure 8. They even threw in crawling on hands and muddy knees across a steel drainage pipe down into some more gooey muck.

It was while I was "jogging" up the vertical hillside that an amazing thought came into my head:

"I am so happy to be alive!"

I kid you not. I really did think that. It felt so incredibly good to be alive, participating and shouting encouraging words to other runners. It didn't matter I had to walk when I reached the top of the hill to catch my breath. It didn't matter that I had small pebbles and rocks in the bottom of my slushy shoes. It didn't matter I had mud oozing out of every orifice on my body. It was fun to be celebrated for being so gloriously caked with mud!

I felt blessed to have a husband shouting along my side as I trudged through a mud pit,

"Come on Pimentel. Get in there. Get Dirty Pimentel. You Can Do It Pimentel." 

as he was videotaping.

It was sweet to hear the words,

"Go Mom! Go! Yeah, Mom! Lookin Good Mom!" and I knew they came from my daughter, Miranda, who stood among the colorful flags offsides with her digital camera trying to catch a muddy image.

I would hear Jake yell,

"Yeah, Lisa! Goooo Lisa!" while he held bags stuffed with water bottles, clothes, sunscreen,  baseball hats and a huge smile on his face.

As we finished the race emerging from the last mud pit, we all looked like creatures from the Black Lagoon but happy. I was handed a yellow tag that read, "45 minutes, 15 seconds". I raised one brown fist in the air and gave my last war cry for the day. The smiling entourage of my family circled me with hands held aloft and many congratulations spoken. I was surprised they could even recognize me through the disguise of my lagoon creature. We headed home after another cold blast of water to "rinse off", donating the tennis shoes that made "it" happen and a frosty mug of root beer. We are already talking about bringing a huge roll of duct tape, towels for after the "rinse off" and wearing swim caps and goggles for next year.

There is nothing like trudging and sloshing in mire, muck, slop, and slush as it oozes and slimes all around your body! Its divine!

Worship Chicken

There are vibrations all around me in the car. My son is humming the last song played at church. He is playing a righteous guitar in the air. My daughter is singing the words in her soft tenor voice and kicking the back of his seat to the beat. My husband is adding his deep, rich baritone voice and clapping his hands while barely missing my nose with his long, neatly clipped fingers. I sit wedged happily in the midst of all the cacophony and wish the ride home was 30 minutes instead of only 8 minutes long.

Arriving home,  I push a button that infuses the house with  new music. The fluid, rhythmic notes of Santana start hips swaying and arms raised to twirl or dip. Opening the fridge, I pull out the plump roasting chicken and while my husband is clipping fresh thyme, rosemary and sage in the garden, I rinse and pat the chicken dry. Throwing the fresh cut up herbs in melted butter, the music has now switched to the Beatles and everyone is now singing with great gusto the words to "Let It Be". The chicken is now saturated with the butter herb mixture, stuffed with lemons inside its cavity and set to roast in the oven for the afternoon.

Frisbee golf, reading, walking on the beach or cleaning, occupies everyone's interest and time as the aromatic smells of roasting chicken waft through the house and neighborhood. Windows are opened, fresh air comes in as rosemary pungent smells escape out of the house. Dogs and cats are weeping because they know their lips will never touch this food!

Potatoes are roasted, green beans are nestled in a green ceramic bowl, and fresh strawberries are sparkling from the light dusting of sugar. The chicken is pulled out of the oven and rests on a blue Italian plate throne. The table gets draped with a yellow  vintage quilt, set with blue chintz dishes and mismatched red floral napkins are laid by the silver cutlery. White pitchers filled with fresh water are sweating from the thick chunks of ice floating on top. Pewter candlesticks with ivory candles are set by the vase of hand gathered flowers of pink roses in the middle of the table. Dinner is ready...

"Come to Dinner!"

There is no need to yell it, scream it or hunt down any family member. The smells and activity in the kitchen have enticed everyone to hover close by for the call to dinner. We all gather in a loose circle, some hands are squeezed harder than others, bodies are jostled, legs get tangled and toothy smiles are easily seen. Reaching inside his heart, my husband gives the unscripted message of thanks for food, family and God's blessings in our lives. As "Amen" passes our lips, laughter erupts as we all dash for the table and grab the serving spoons to serve up some culinary delights.

Dinner is usually followed by games...Cranium, Perugo, Spades, Apples to Apples, The Great Dalmuti and more. I always think of Sunday dinner as "Worship Chicken" because it starts with church and ends with chicken. In between there is laughter, memories to be shared, stories to be told and the sweet savoring of time with my family. I hope we are cooking "Worship Chicken" for a long time...

Hair Puffs & Poofs

My two beautiful daughters had been encouraging me for years to try a new hair stylist for fun, for something new and to experience the head massage with the haircut phenomenon. This is the big year of stretching way out there and so, I made the appointment after reaching the point that you are sick-to-death-don't-let-me-near-razors-scissors-yard-clippers-hair.

Annika, my daughter, wanted to join in the fun and made the appointments at the same time in her favorite salon. The anticipation of a new look, new style, new me was building and I secretly hoped that our chairs would be next to each other as our hair got snipped, artistically crafted and spritzed into place.

Arriving early, we slipped on the satiny robes (the color looked good on us!); were handed some hot herbal tea and sank into the salon cushion chairs, ready to be remade into vivacious, gorgeous women. Annika had already coached me to what I needed to say:

"You can cut my hair anyway you desire. You have total artistic freedom with my hair."

I did my job and then watched the stylist do hers. As she made little snips here and there, I thought she might need some encouragement, and so I gave her helpful insight into my personality.

"I love fun and sassy hair."

"I love short and bouncy hair."

"I love cuts that make my fine hair look not so wimpy."

None of this was apparently getting through because at the end of the haircut, I had little puffs and poofs of hair on the top of my head and the bangs were slicked down on the side.  She had trimmed a little bit off the end of the hair and blowed dried it all straight. Inside I was screaming,

"&*%$, she gave me an old lady haircut. What the *&^%! I look like those old Armenian ladies from Fresno that I see in Pottery Barn all the time."

Outside I say,

"Could you please trim my bangs? I don't usually blow dry them straight and I really need my bangs trimmed."  

Off goes a little of the bangs by the stylist and I am once again staring into the mirror and feeling very, very ugly. I look like a hag and feel like a hag. I glance over to my daughter who is getting a kick-butt cute haircut. Her hair is bouncing, happy and sassy. She is glowing from the all the cuteness that is shimmering out of her pores! She looks amazing! It makes me want to slump down in my salon chair even more and get the heck out of that place.

To add to my dismay, she even shellacs my puffs, poofs into place and tells me that I am all done. I am done with this place.

Ripping out of the satiny robe, I try one more time to look at my hair in the bathroom, heave a huge sigh and realize there is no escaping my butt-ugly hair style. Walking over to Annika, I watch her being finished up....her stylist whisks off her extra cape, walks Annika over to their makeup display and using a big makeup brush, dusts off the last wispy hairs off her neck. She then uses two different shades of lipstick and  applies luscious color to her lips as the finishing touch! I hope I remembered to close my wide open gaping mouth of shock.

Feeling numb, I pay for my haircut and even tip her! I feel sick inside and turn down Annika's offer to do something fun. The only fun I want is to hide out at home. Luckily Annika's chatter is distracting to the depression I feel about my hair until we get home and then we both critique my hair, especially after my son sees it and says,

"What happened?"

I keep it together for awhile, let Annika try to "fix it" by putting bobby pins in it, spit and after turning her head in a 90 degree angle "proclaiming it better" attempt; I finally put my head under the spigot and wash the disaster away. Feeling a little bit better and younger, I compliment Annika on her sassy and chic haircut. Only when she has gone, do I cry. A wave of disappointment crashes over me and a sweet sister in law and family help me to smile and laugh again...later.

After all, I don't have purple or cheetah spotted hair. It was not sheared off and clumps were not removed. I just still need a haircut. A stylish, chic, sassy, vivacious, fun hair style. Is it possible? I don't know but I am trying again this afternoon!

What the heck....life is for the dangerous living!

Farmer's Market

Grabbing our cups of coffee, wiping the last wisps of sleep from our eyes, and making sure our clothes are decent for the public, my husband and I head out to Farmer's Market to see friends, smell the herbs and squeeze some ripe melons. 

It's our Saturday morning ritual and can take place between 8am through 10am, in sunshine or dewy fog, the yellows of spring with strawberries or the golds of fall with spaghetti squash. As we find a place to park, it is random and slow as we dodge the little old ladies pushing their wire carts full of vegetables and pink carnations.

We lope over to our favorite strawberry guy, Willy, who always has a big, white smile and a hand ready to shake with my husband.

"How is your family?" we always ask.

Willy has a huge extended family that cooks and plays soccer together every weekend. We love to hear what he is throwing on the BBQ and it usually inspires us for own dinner that night. From Willy we buy strawberries, cilantro and carrots with their tops still on.

Across from Willy is our tomato lady, Sharon. Her tomatoes are always displayed in neat, tidy rows and look too red and perfect to be real. I glance at her little handout notes for new tomato recipes but nothing sparks my interest except to see her tomatoes at home drizzled in olive oil, fresh basil and sitting delicately on top of a thin piece of bread. Delicious!

A laugh bursts out loud in the quiet ebbs and murmurs of the chatter between friends, farmer to customer and children wanting to nibble an orange slice. Seeing a little girl making an orange slice smile for her brother, it reminds me that we need some of those rich in Vitamin C jewels for our family. Tom, the farmer, extends a slice of orange to us with his prongs. 

"Oh, I already know how wonderful your oranges taste. We will take your biggest bag, please."

Over my shoulder, my husband adds,

"I would love a piece though Tom! I have coffee breath and this will help."

Tom hands him a piece of orange and a 10lb bag of oranges while I pay him. Our hands are getting full but we have more friends to greet and vegetables to gather.

My husband is already making his way to one of his favorite stops of the morning. He is heading over to the nuts, dried fruit canopy and Stefan. Stefan is one of his special friends not only because he is extremely tall like my husband, but because of his faith and mutual passion for ministry. They are kindred spirits when it comes to ministry and ways to help those in need. I will usually let them talk while I grab the last of the vegetables; chard from a sweet, Portuguese organic farmer; leeks from two sisters farming in Nipomo; salad greens from a teenager that helps out her Dad every weekend; apples from Mike who grows vintage variety types in See Canyon; sweet onions from a lady who lives across from the Mission; and flowers from a couple that pick them fresh out of their garden at 5am.

As I make my way back, I am distracted by all the textures and shades of brown wicker baskets that people are carrying. The vivid colors of the fruits and vegetables against the neutral browns make it look like an artistic rendering of a still life picture.  I return to Stefan and my husband, get a kiss from them both and waving goodbye, we go back to our car with healthy food while holding hands. The happy feelings continue as we drive home to our children where we will place the flowers in a white ceramic pitcher, make pancakes, homemade berry sauce and squirt lots of whipping cream on top. As the whipping cream sticks to our faces, we realize how lucky we are to live in this bountiful area, be able to share this with our children and create this family memory. 

First Rejection Letter

It's never good to see an envelope in your mailbox, especially in the early morning too, with your handwriting on it. Whenever I have had to do those SASE type of deals, its always so that you get to throw away more money on something you already mailed off therefore throwing away money in the first place.

I knew who it was from, the Funny Times people in Ohio. I had submitted my story about the bride with the big bazooka's because everyone thought the story was "hilarious", "laugh-out loud", and "extremely funny". I even was smiling as I stuffed the envelope with high hopes, tingling finger tips and soulful exuberance! Ha! Ha! Ha! 

It now seems the joke is on me! Those guys and girls in Ohio are a tough crowd to make laugh. Wow! I have been told by my fellow writers that I should frame my first rejection letter. Where do you put a framed rejection letter? Above the toilet seat? In the garage by the dart board in case your aim "slips" and the dart skewers the rejection letter? Do you even put glass over the rejection letter? Does it hang above your computer where you do all your writing so it makes you work harder, sweat longer and swear more colorfully?

I read that Dr. Seuss was rejected 10 million times before they published him. Then there is C.S. Lewis, Faulkner, and Hemingway who had lots and lots of rejections before somebody retrieved the thrown out manuscript from the trash, thought to themselves, "This stuff is so weird it probably is brilliant and I think I will publish it after all."

 So, if that is the case, I have many more rejections to look forward to and I had better start clearing five walls in the house to make room for all those framed rejection letters. Whopeeeeeeeeee!

Bishop's Peak with Graeme

"Hey Mom, do you want to come?"

Those are heavenly words coming from my son! I am in shock that he wants me to join him and the fact he thinks I can actually pull off the physical test of hiking up Bishop's Peak. Inside my head I am doing my "little happy dance" and quickly respond in case he changes his mind.

"Sure, I would love to come."

We drive up to the beginning of the trail and because my son was born under a lucky star, there is one parking space open at a spot closest to the trail head! All the other spots were filled as the road snakes its path down the hill for one mile! A good sign for the start of our hike. Maybe I won't fall off the edge or bust a knee cap....

We leave our water bottles behind because we don't want to carry the weight (which is later regretted of course) and start following the well worn marked path leading up the mountain. We pass wood fencing, barbed wire fencing until it is open pasture with signs dotted along the way to warn hikers to stay on the path and preserve the natural habitat. Hikers coming down the mountain look a little breathless and sweaty but are smiling and laughing as they dodge the rocks, muddy puddles and wild purple heather sprouting by the side of the path. Graeme and I give the customary friendly nod of greeting as we pass them and keep heading up the trail.

At a break in the trees, we look down the mountain at an incredible view. We are looking at nature's paint store for the color green: moss, olive, celadon, asparagus, hunter, kelly, emerald, viridian, tea, jade, persian,pine, lime, forest, and sage greens! It was breathtakingly beautiful in a 360 degree kaleidoscope of living color! Due to the visual feast, we periodically stop along the way to enjoy it from different angles.

The last part of the hike is in full sun and the switchbacks get more serious along with the intensity of the sun. Where is our water...oh, that's right, back in the car. Great. At the top, Graeme wants to climb to the top of the biggest rock and my view is cast over to the nice, quiet, wooden bench two steps away. He convinces me to accept his challenge and I didn't want to look weak and namby-pamby, so, taking a breath I look up to where I needed to place my feet. Hoping the gum I stuck on the bottom of my shoes would work miracles, I climbed vertically up rocks to get to the top of the world...it was one of those moments. A moment where you thank God for living and for living it with your son.

On the way down, we passed more people who looked like we felt, happy to be alive and appreciating nature's color palette. It was amazing to see so many people outside and their eyes not locked on computers, TV or video games. It looks like the earth's stewardship is in good hands with the younger generation.

It was a sweet moment with my son. I will remember it forever. I am also very lucky that he wants to do things still with his mother. My walk with Graeme was a gift, and I will treasure it in my box of memories I am creating as I move thru life now.

Falling Off the Grid

I have fallen off the grid. Since losing my job due to budget cuts last November, I have fallen off the grid and despite many attempts to reconnect, it just ain't happening. The term in its purity means: disconnecting from socialized utility companies, self sufficiency in agriculture, education and human based needs and living outside an urban landscape. I define the term in regards to myself as being disconnected from social activity in a job situation via the phone, person or Internet. Let me tell you, it can be a lonely place.

Now I find myself talking to people for extended lengths of time while waiting in line. I will never pay my bills on line since this will jeopardize my social life! I will step into the longest line possible at any store and soak up all the people, their conversations and what they are wearing or any body art that is interesting. If any of these places were robbed, I could give the FBI detailed descriptions of everyone in the store so they could easily apprehend the fugitive. If I actually step into line where I know someone...Alleluia! Now I have tons more verbal data to expound upon and I could probably write their biography by the time we are checking out with our milk, eggs and bread.

What is the lesson in falling off the grid? It's allowing God's will to unfold. It's redefining the word patient. It's knowing that you are in God's hands and He will always hold you close to His heart. I don't know where my life is headed and if I will ever get back on the grid. I am taking another one of those leaps, a leap of faith that I am meant to be in those long lines, maybe to bring some laughter, compassion and comfort to someone who needs me.