Amy: I had a dream last night and you starred as yourself, but as my witty bartender friend at a fancy midtown bar. Your dealer (you had a dealer!) gave me two edibles: one was super tame and one was supposed to be divided for a group. In a "hilarious comedy of errors," I took the wrong the one.
Me: Your subconscious doesn’t think much of me. I love how you blamed it all on my dealer.
Amy: Wasn't my dealer.
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We went to the San Ysidro Ranch for dinner last night. It's still one of the loveliest hotels I've ever seen. The Stonehouse restaurant is too fancy; instead we go to the Plow & Angel pub, where you can sit on a gorgeous terrace, weather and space permitting. Adam remarked that there were no cocktail menus on the tables, and I reminded him that I took care of that particular situation with an email to the GM in 2015:
You have a wonderful property—it's truly exquisite. My husband and I dine at the Plow & Angel whenever we're in town. (We have a house nearby, although now that we've listed it, we may be more likely to return as hotel guests.) But every single time we're seated, we marvel at the laminated cocktail menus on every table. ("Margarita Madness"?) Is what you gain in sales worth the loss of dignity? Please reconsider them: They are a tiny thing that makes a big, tacky impression.
The next time we went, they were gone.
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Overheard at the pool where I swim: "I tell ya, they’re out there. I have one of the largest collections of UFO books."
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Feeling antsy, and trying to get more walking in, I went down to the mailbox this afternoon. (Our street's mailboxes are all grouped by the main gate, about ten minutes away.) Along the way, I passed a housekeeper—she was wearing an apron—dragging a big, wheeled garbage bin from the street up to the house. She was having a rough time of it, because the owners had recently had their driveway re-graveled; as you can see below, they didn't stint on the gravel. I'm sure they never thought about how much harder they made her job, and I felt powerfully her inability to tell them.
P.S. A week or two ago, Adam and I drove by a house where the housekeeper was outside the gate, polishing the "protected by" alarm sign. You just knew that the owner made her do it.
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As I mentioned, we've officially joined the Newcomers group for transplants to the Santa Barbara area. Adam immediately signed us up for three events: a wine-and-cheese tasting that we were waitlisted for (and didn't get in); a dinner at someone's house, and I think we're supposed to help with the cooking; and a hike with the Young Professionals. I pointed out that, despite my youthful joie de vivre, we aren't what the Young Professionals—or anyone, really—would consider young. ("I know, but maybe they can actually hike," he said.) Then the leader of the group emailed to welcome us, explaining how to be part of the WhatsApp group chat, among other things. I thought we were heading toward a Younger situation, but then Adam fessed up.
"Young Professionals is really for anyone at all (no matter what age)," replied the leader, "but we focus on people that are still working."
Does that include me? I feel like it does; I'm just on a break. But the other day, in the locker room, an older gentleman was blocking the swimsuit-drying machine. When he noticed me waiting, he said, "I'll get out of the way. You probably have to go to work." I just kind of shrugged.
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Butterflies are magical. So is hiking above the fog line.
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