I’m en route to the Hillcrest Farmers Market. I need ginger juice and a three-pound bag of organic mesclun. I need to eat more at home when the kids are gone. Other people plan menus. I have food issues. I scan Prevention for quinoa recipes, but will I make them? When I was raw vegan, I tried massaging fresh kale with Braggs vinegar and goji berries, but even I couldn’t eat that. So back to Amy’s frozen Saag Paneer I went.
The Peace Pies guy at the market sells handcrafted kale, and it’s good. Ten bucks a pound. Nope. I may be neurotic, but I’m not stupid. He does unbake a brilliant raw fig newton, and that I’ll buy. I hope he has some left.
I’m running late. I had trouble leaving the shower.
Lately my own hot shower is my favorite place. It’s not so luxe. I know prettier tub surrounds. Mine is fiberglass, scuffed, not sexy. When I bought my condo in 2002, I didn’t renovate, which is too bad. I’ve done my time in slab yards; granite turns me on. Yes, it would be nice to stare at Blue Pearl in the steam. But today I have equity. Show me five San Diegans in a row with equity.
So I go into the shower, and I stand in hot water, and I stay. My kids freak about the planet. I care deeply, too, but not right now.
I am not a big shampooer. So in this shower time, which is happening at least twice daily, I’m not trapped in an OCD vortex of lathering and rinsing. For thick and wavy Jewish hair like mine, with a coarse outer layer, I advise Bumble and Bumble Creme de Coco every two days. I have tons of hair, and I spray it with Tonic every chance I get. A menthol mood elevator.
Under hot water, not depressed per se.
And missing people.