Surf City, USA

I grew up in Huntington Beach. Surf City. The waves are consistent and the tans impeccable. There is a certain smell of salt and a hint of fish around the city, and the wind seems to blow the same way every day. The sun shines about 360 days out of the year, and the rain on the other five days is so refreshing. Its like rubbing chilled aloe on a sunburn; the rain amidst so much sunshine.

I was proud to be a Huntington Beach-ian. I played in the water in the never-ending summer days. I tanned. I went to the beach. I didn’t know any different. I rode my bike in the blazing street. I bleached my hair with lemon. I greased my skin with oil. I would sail down the slip-and-slide, carelessly, and end up in the too-small baby pool at the end, and nobody cared. Activities would ensue with no worries and no conflict. I would play with my friends, or not, and there was never any drama. We seemed to always just do what we wanted, when we wanted, and no one really worried about it.

My street was half filled with kids, and half filled with older people. The kids always played outside during the days, when we weren’t at school. We played together. We got along. The girls against the boys. We’d hide together and talk about the boys and giggle, and the boys would be loud and obnoxious and run by to moon us. And we’d scoff and giggle some more. All the kids went to school together and all the adults knew each other. Neighbors would deliver cookies. We’d look out for each other’s loose dogs. It was the ideal community. And the elementary school was just around the corner.

Lake View was where all my neighbor friends and I attended elementary school. Most of us walked to school, since the neighborhood was so safe. Most people left their cars unlocked, and even their front doors. I, however, was not allowed to walk to school. My mom, I guess, after the experience of raising five other kids, decided she should make sure I actually made it to school. Walking home was a different story. Until I stopped communicating clearly with my mother, I was allowed to play at the park for about an hour before the hike around the two corners and back home. We would tear that park up, until our imaginations couldn’t think of any other use for a spiral slide. No longer could we imagine the now referred to “swiss cheese wall” as a spy bunker hiding us from the enemy. It was time to go home.

As the pre-teen years crept up, we began being bused to middle school, where the kids were far less forgiving. The easy-going, nearly grungy style of Huntington Beach was no longer acceptable. It was all about name brand jeans, expensive shoes, and of course, a trendy and no less fancy shirt. Sure, surf trends were still cool, but only if they were sold on Main Street, at HB Surf and Sport or Tilly’s. I, personally, didn’t fall into this stereotype, somewhat keeping me out of the reality of teenage tensions, but it was always apparent. Sports were a prerequisite, and good grades a necessity if you wanted to fit in.

These adolescent years were spent tormenting Main Street and the beach daily. Whether it be organized ditch days, or just ditch days I took for myself, the volleyball courts would be played, the waves would be body surfed, and the sun would burn my skin to a lobster shade. All the surfer boys would be flirted with. The 10 o’clock curfew would be broken, and the police would try to scare us straight with the threat of driving us home to our parents at 10:15pm. That same smell of salt water, the sound of music and waves crashing, and the incessant need to be around everyone else drove us.

I didn’t know much past school and after school. I didn’t go to any specific church, although I’d attended many nearby. All seemingly the same; God, Christ, and the chosen relatable lesson. I played after school sports, but those were all held on school grounds. My high school, in fact, had no tennis courts or football fields. All of our home game football games were held at a nearby high school. Kind of defeats the purpose.

I’ve moved other places as my life has progressed. I’ve lived in South County. I’ve lived in Pasadena. Fullerton. All with their own wonderful aspects, but none with the nostalgia the scent of salt water and fish bring. The busy hustle of Colorado Street is different than that of HB’s laid back consistent flow of pedestrians. Fullerton’s curvaceous streets were the opposite of Huntington Beach’s graph paper like, grid layout. The surrounding mountains and greenery were found no where around the home city, except for the well-manicured lawns of public parks and libraries. Otherwise, I missed the dirty sand-trod streets. I missed the heavy air. I missed mostly, the waves crashing on the beach in a familiar and persistent form, when I was away from my nesting grounds. I wasn’t able to cruise the streets when I was distressed, because, what I found in other places was traffic and freeways. There was no easy way to the peaceful solitude of the beach. There was no possible way to drink in the moonlight in stop-and-go traffic. The relief of my hometown was miraculous in that it happened only there. The visits to my childhood home. The many nights of prayer at the Jetty. This salty, fishy, grungy, persistent, predictable, fun, easy-going, place was my home. It is my home. It is my life.

I still reminisce in the nights I stay in Huntington. I’ll do a sleepover at my parent’s. I’ll take a drive along the coast. I’ll drink in the sunlight. I’ll drink in the moonlight. The 80 degree weather in January will remain a mystery, but will nevertheless be taken advantage of. The pier, in all of its young, fleshy flare, remains harmless. A place where bums and the wealthy meet in a practically non-judgmental way. Where people can catch their dinner or elegantly dine. Where health is taken seriously, but so is socializing with a cocktail. This is where I grew up and I am still proud to call Huntington Beach my home.

Webster Has Nothing On Me

Yes, I haven't blogged in a handful of days. And yes, that's not keeping up with my resolution. As a matter of fact, the first week of my year (aka 2012) hasn't gone anywhere near the way I wanted or expected it to. But I'm not going to let that define me.

2012. My Year. Supposed to be the year of opportunity and experience. The year I learn who I am. The year I learn what I want. The year I learn what I want to surround myself with. So, how has the last week and a half gone?? A good friend suffered a brain aneurysm, and is fighting, still, to overcome it. My aunt passed away. My brother-in-law and niece and nephew got hit by a drunk driver while on a bike ride through their neighborhood. Yes, I'd say that's less than a positive start to the year. But I'm not going to let that define me.

Trying to keep a positive outlook through all of my experiences, I continually remind myself to look for the opportunity in each experience, no matter how hard it may be to see. To keep my eyes and my mind open. Because what seems like the end of the world could quite possibly be the beginning of something amazing. At least, that's what I'm choosing to believe this year. So at first thought, I think, "Dang, didn't keep to my resolutions. Of course!" But, that's not true. I have all year to try to maintain these changes; all year to keep trying to do better. Be better. So, I'm not going to let that define me.

I've decided that as I see myself slipping back into the norm; into what's easy and comfortable, that I'm not going to see that as a failure. Instead, I'm going to notice myself doing these things and...wait for it...CHANGE THEM. It's a minor setback, not a way of life. I refuse to let this define me.

So now, I vow, again, to push myself harder and make the resolutions I set become habitual. I vow to make myself the best I can be in 2012. I vow to, even when I feel like I might break, to push on. Which brings me to something I've held onto since the last time I attended church.

Preface: I consider myself to be a Christian. Not a hardcore Christian. Not a Bible-thumper. Not a Jesus-freak. Just a Christian who is spiritual. I believe in God. I believe in ethics. I believe in the Bible. I don't attend church regularly; not because I don't want to, but just because I don't feel like it's imperative to go to church every week to have a relationship with God. Although, I do think it's important to get to church once in a while to be a part of a congregation.

Anyway, the last time I went to church, I was in a hard place. So, accordingly, it seemed as if the sermon was constructed completely around me. What I remember the most from it, was something along the lines of God wants you to push yourself to the point that you feel like you might break, so that in that moment you realize you didn't, in his grace, and you will have proved your faith and become a stronger person. Again, I'm not well-versed in the Bible, but that's what I got out of it. To not quit. To keep pushing, even if you feel you might break. To not let the struggle define you.

At first, I engulfed myself in the message. I repeated it again and again on mile 6 and 7 of Sunday uphill runs. I repeated it when it seemed like there were no answers. I repeated it when I thought I might break. And I felt so amazing when I pushed through the struggle, only to realize that wasn't the end for me, whether it be the run, the fight, the story. There's more. And recently, this message has crept back into my mind. Not as dramatic or extreme, but subtle. The way I think I need to hear it right now. Saying that just because I haven't run in a while, or because I haven't pushed myself to breaking in boxing, or I haven't exhausted myself detailing my home, doesn't mean that I've failed to keep my resolutions. I will not let that define me.

I will, however, let the fact that I am renewing my faith in myself and in God; that I will change today and hold true to who I want to be, define me. I'm determined. I'm optimistic. I'm faithful. I will make sure, no matter what happens, that 2012 will be my year. My year of years to come. I will not give up, and I will push past that breaking point, and prove to myself and everyone else that I can do it. I will prove I can do anything. This is what will define me.

Insert Cheesy 90s Love Song Title Here

I love to cook. I'm a professional chef, in my own MoonsandCookies world. I know how to mix and use raw spices and herbs. I know my way with practically every Henckles knife known to man. And, therefore, I like to challenge myself. I try almost every recipe that crosses my path. I sometimes have to google certain ingredients, but I never let anyone know that! Needless to say, I base my grocery list on a compilation of recipes I hunt down in the endless array of cooking and lifestyle magazines that float through my mail slot. To start off 2012, I started going through the gigantic stack of magazines, looking for the perfect grouping of recipes to feed my family for the next two weeks. As I got through the first four, with a mounting grocery list, I came across my Women's Health magazine. I figured now was as good a time as any to go through these magazines and purge them to make more room for recipes. Then, as engulfed as I've ever been in Women's Health, I came across a picture of a woman and a man cuddled together, about to kiss, on the cover of the "Sex and Love" section. And in my spastic mind, it brought me back to something I was actually still awake to see on the NYE countdown.

On the Dick Clark special, they put together a bunch of different Top 5's as compiled from Facebook statuses. One of these were the Top 5 New Year's Resolutions as discussed on the social networking site. You know what beat "lose weight?" "Get into a relationship" beat it. I was flabbergasted. Why would someone resolve to be in a relationship?? Is society made up of a bunch of dependent and co-dependent people so desperate to be in a relationship that they would make that more of a priority than healthy eating and adequate exercise? I don't get it. Maybe it's because I have had nothing but bad luck in relationships. Maybe its because I'm very independent and stubborn. Maybe it's because I have kids and they take up all of the time I might be spending daydreaming about Prince Charming, had I not had kids.

And of course, this is when I really started to break it down and over-think things! The people in the picture looked like they were in love. They looked like all they wanted, in that moment, was to be next to each other forever. Yes, I know its a photo staged with professional models, whose expressions are meant to compel the reader not only to read the article, but also to believe every word as if it were written on stone by God. But, hypothetically, if that was real sentiment, I want some. I, after much consideration, would love to share that feeling with someone. I would love to have someone in my life who supports me 100% and shares real love with me.

I was in love once, I think. I felt like I always wanted to be with him. The drama and passionate fighting was never enough to make me second guess if I wanted to be with him or if there was someone else out there for me. You know, if the grass was greener. I never even looked at another male. I was in love. Of course, I was also 18. Still a baby, even though I could change the world through a hole punch on a ballot. I could get pregnant. I could choose to blacken my lungs to death if I wanted to. But I'm pretty sure we all know 18 is a little immature for love. Still, I was with him for over a little over 5 years. I got a ring. And then, I left. He chose other hobbies that didn't fit into my life and I was forced to end it. I cried for a year straight. And finally, I healed.

I've been in other long term relationships, none in which I was nearly as enamored, all just as drama filled. So obviously, I've pretty much ruled out love as a real thing. I figure, you find someone you can basically deal with, and go from there. Do your own thing. Take care of the kids. Sleep. Eat. Live another day. I've believed that there's no such thing as the love you see in magazine photos or Shrek trilogies. That's fantasy, like Puff the Magic Dragon, Harry Potter, or The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Stories. Stories that you can feel. Smell. Taste.

But now, after much deliberation, I think I want to find that too. I want to feel, smell, taste that kind of magic. I want to be the girl in the picture. And if it's not real, what do I have to lose? And if it is?? In essence, the whole idea mimics that of spirituality and religion. It's all about faith, and living all the time you don't know for sure to the fullest. So I've banished the idea that love and the desire for a relationship is only for the dependent and weak minded, and I've now added it to my list. Not a list of resolutions, because it's silly to resolve to do something mostly out of your control, but on my list of what I want. What I want to know is real. What I want to be positive about. I hope that you, too, stay positive, whether you are in a loving relationship and just trying to get over that hump of struggle, or if you're like me and have just had bad luck/judgment/series of unfortunate events. Cheers to 2012!