And you will know us by the trail of salt

When life hands you limes, make margaritas. When Costco hands you limes, they’ll be in a 5-pound bag, which allows some practice. After researching diligently, I’ve finally come to an acceptable mix of tequila, Cointreau, and lime juice (2-1-1, with a dash of sugar if you’re so inclined). No scurvy here! But not much ambition, either. It may be time to switch to pie.

Soothing the savage beast

Researchers recently announced that listening to music for half an hour daily can significantly lower blood pressure. At first this made intuitive sense to me; then I started thinking about all the music that would raise my blood pressure. The patients in this study listened to classical, Celtic, or raga music. Maybe if they’d been hearing death metal, the outcome would have been different.

“What are you thinking about?” my massage therapist once asked me midsession. “You’re so tight; I can tell your mind is working.” I confessed that I was thinking about how much I hated the new age music she had on. She promptly shut it off and let me choose another CD. Cassandra Wilson it was, and the rest of the massage was a success. (I come by this honestly; my mother once marched me out of a clothing store that was playing Kenny G, which I believe she called crap.)

Next time I fill out the form at the doctor’s office, I’ll be watching for any new questions among the standard ones on allergies and family medical history. Do you have a strong aversion to pan flutes? Elvis: young and sultry or fat and fried? And why do fools fall in love?

Just leave it on the dresser

My economic stimulus payment showed up, but I don’t feel stimulated, just dirty. I want to pretend I never got it. But if I don’t spend it, am I letting the Keynesians win?

How many security guards does it take

…to clear a vehicle without a DoD sticker to go on post? Depends on the vehicle.

Family sedan: One.

Delivery truck: Two.

Chick on a Harley: Three. Plus chatting.

The road to home

The drive to Lawrence had an inauspicious start; I’d forgotten how loud hail can sound from inside the car it’s pounding on. On another day I might have turned back, but I had a ticket to see Steve Earle, so I pressed ahead.

Several miles down the road, the sky cleared. Between the post-storm sun and the new green growth, the countryside almost glowed. In one pasture, I saw a little calf away from the rest of the herd, frolicking for reasons known only to him. In the distance was the fattest rainbow I’ve ever seen.

The show was as good as expected -- better, in fact -- and it was after 11 when I started home. This trip wasn’t as scenic, but just as enjoyable. Too cloudy for stars, but the skies to the north were brilliant with sheet lightning. I was driving too fast to have the windows down, but did keep the sunroof open to smell the electricity and feel the temperature dropping. I briefly considered closing it, thinking it might improve my chances of surviving a rollover if I hit a deer hard enough, but at that point, living life with all senses seemed more important. No regrets, although I might be singing a different tune if the Great Prince of the Forest had bounded into me.

The narrow and winding road was empty, the car was running well, and the only time I slowed was for a huge bird -- I’d guess an owl, at that time of night -- to fly low in front of me. It was one of those drives that I wanted to go on for hours and hours, and at another time in my life, it would have. But I have a job to show up for, and a cat to feed, and a sweetheart who’d worry about me. So I stayed on the road to home and didn’t mind at all when I arrived.

And print it!

On this day 25 years ago, Cubs manager Lee Elia offered an, um, impassioned defense of his players to the press. Others might say he lost his shit.

The audio is here, but if you’re at work, have kids around, or are easily offended, please, please don’t click. “Profanity-laced tirade” doesn’t really do it justice. And that’s why it cracks me up every single time.

A whole life

Today I relived a day of my old life. Sorta kinda.

Back in my cozy, progressive, most urban of Chicago suburbs, I was within walking distance of several places to get decent coffee, three good bookstores, and a Whole Foods Market, which some friends call Whole Paycheck, but is known to me as The Place Where You Can Carry 60 Bucks’ Worth of Groceries in One Hand.

Now I’m within walking distance of…not as much. But that didn’t deter me! Sidney was out of town this weekend, and I was the wild single woman on the loose. So what did I do?

I did walk to get coffee. Inexplicably, a Starbucks satellite has opened in the grocery store nearest our house, and the weather was nice enough to walk the mile-and-some round trip. In our town, nearly everyone on foot outside the historic district is (a) unable to hold a driver’s license, (b) crazy, or (c) both. So I usually cross paths with someone interesting (as in: I have my pepper spray in my hand just in case) when I’m out walking, and today was no exception.

Fueled by a grande latte, I decided to trek into the Kansas City suburbs to Whole Foods. I mapped out my destination, and through agency I might ascribe to the divine, there was a Borders in the same shopping center. I poked my head in long enough to buy a few things (they carry Mojo!), then headed to the grocery store.

I really only went in for limes, but recognized that I would stroll every aisle and come out with more than that. Somewhere along the way, Whole Foods turned into destination shopping akin to the Mall of America instead of the place I’d stop for a few things on my way home from work.

The biggest difference was that on my drive home through a swanky burb, I saw an estate sale and I didn’t stop. Back in the day, it wasn’t unusual for me to plan a weekend around attractive-sounding sales. I couldn’t resist poking through other people’s stuff for a great find, and since I was planning to die ancient and alone in my apartment among stacks of unread newspapers, I didn’t think twice about buying anything I liked. In this new peripatetic life, though, I’m paring down.

As I headed into our house with 60 bucks of groceries in one hand, I had another confirmation of what I’ve been slowly realizing: I do miss my old life sometimes, but that doesn’t mean I want to go back to it. In five minutes, I can be riding my motorcycle through horse country; in 40 minutes, I can be in either a good-size city or an awesome college town. I loved the community aspect of my old condo building, but I don’t miss my insane upstairs neighbor stomping around at 3 a.m. Most of all, though, I now have someone I’m looking forward to sharing a life with. And although we’ve agreed we like it here and don’t want to move, move we shall. Wherever the Army sends us, we’ll find more things we love and hate, but we’ll be finding them together. That’s a trade-off I’m happy to make, even if it means no weekly stops for $24-a-pound cheese.