Take part in an entirely different spring break experience (153 Cong. Rec. E593)

We of the non-childbearing clan typically view holidays as a reason for couple vacations, not family celebrations. But we of the non-childrearing clan sometimes lack the foresight to plan such trips. TJ got a whopping two days off for spring break -- a hard hit after at least a week as teachers -- and still I, the teaching assistant, cut our potential trip time even shorter. When I looked at the schedule for my online class, I didn't calculate that although the last day for students was the Monday before, I would have to grade essays nearly into Good Friday. 

So while TJ went on a ridiculously long run on Thursday that week, I did a marathon rubric-checking and plagiarism-catching session of my own, so we could at least claim a three-day respite. But of course, we hadn't made any reservations for a busy weekend, so we had to get creative -- and desperate. I was so brain-dead from grading that I actually agreed to spend the day as a passenger on TJ's motorcycle, a used Honda Nighthawk 250, which is promoted as a commuting bike, not a cruising one.

I was nervous because as a bicyclist myself, I understand the importance of balance, and as many of you know, I haven't had the best of luck with staying upright lately. I definitely did not want to be the cause of any accident during our first tandem trek. But after a few spins near the storage locker, TJ seemed to think I was up for the challenge, so he sped us out to the Otay Lakes area, where it was trial by fire on all sorts of terrain: busy roads, windy roads, steep roads, and even bumpy roads. Through it all, I trusted TJ completely. Although apparently I shouldn't have, as he didn't tell me until halfway through our trip that he alone hadn't gone any farther than the areas we had practiced in.

But how can you argue with a guy who looks like he's straight out of Grease 2? He's the one on the left who actually looks like a "cool rider," complete with his euro motorcycle jacket. Me, I'm the one on the right who's not pulling off that leather jacket and who prefers sitting on a curb to perching on the back of the bike -- and that's before we took our "shortcut" home on an unpaved, rutted road, as if my butt weren't already numb enough.

Besides, I probably instigated more danger the next day when we fixed a flat on our way to Palomar Mountain. Awhile back, when TJ got a flat on his car, we discovered that none of his jacks was actually big enough to crank the chassis high enough to change a tire. Considering this, our first stop on the way to Palomar was an auto-parts store, but it didn't have a large enough size either. So of course, along an 8-lane highway, we had a blowout (which, by the way, TJ maneuvered through as excellently as he steered the motorcycle).

It was my suggestion that we borrow not one but three small, wooden stakes from along the berm -- sorry, California Department of Transportation! -- so we could boost the jack high enough to get the spare on (the decimated tire came off like butter). The ever-more-safe TJ then decided we would immediately proceed to the nearest tire store to buy a complete new set, as this was the third of five tires to go bad. And still, we made it to Fry Creek Campground well before sundown so I could squeeze in a hike and TJ a run. There was even time for TJ to grill a delicious tri-tip over the campfire for dinner.

Still in training, TJ needed to do a longer run the following day, so we decided to head down the mountain, so he could run up it (yes, I agree that this is even crazier than riding a motorcycle). But first, we stopped by the Palomar Observatory (left), home of the Hale telescope (right), which until the '90s was the largest in the world. Despite its lack of record status now, the Caltech researchers that operate the telescope are still making major discoveries, such as Eris, a dwarf planet that added to the argument that Pluto is not a planet. From the top of the same mountain but without a telescope, we spied our own great discovery: snow-capped mountains in the distance (below).

From the summit, we wound our way down to Oak Grove Campground, a much more enjoyable ride with separate seats and without a helmet. TJ went out for a three-hour trek, and Sage only lasted for about a half-hour climb in the heat before he wanted to turn back. But first, I managed to take a picture of the trail we had come up (left). Sage and I both were completely content to hang out for the remaining two hours at a campsite, him sleeping and me reading, until TJ returned from his run (right).

In the end, this final foray into the wilderness was probably the greatest risk of the weekend, even more so than our initial motorcycle ride and improvised tire jack, because after he took off, I saw signs about a mountain lion sighted in the area, so "hikers should not go out alone," as both of us had just done. Although not born to be wild, we are just destined to walk on the wild side, I guess.

Like a blindfolded child at a piñata party (157 Cong. Rec. H817)

A while back, we had a party. The public purpose of said fete was the fact that we needed to share the homebrews we made at the end of last year, lest we become alcoholics. Privately, it was a way to assuage our guilt for not hosting a fiesta sooner, considering that we are one of the few single couples with a house and that I had requested a larger table under the guise that I needed it for social events. 

But as it turned out, there were many other occasions that it could have commemorated. We could have celebrated the fact that I had just started my new job at the consulate. We could have shown a good time to some friends from A-100 training who were in town as part of a consulate exchange (but, sadly, they got lost on the way to our house, and since I didn't have my cell on me, they couldn't get through to get directions; sorry, D and K!). We actually did mark the birthday of one of the attendees, whose husband brought a piñata as a surprise for her. After breaking two sticks, we finally beheaded the Little Mermaid to get at her delicious innards.

Later, I would come to find out that we also could have mourned the death of my mom. Had I known it was the seventh anniversary of her passing, I probably wouldn't have selected that date for the party. And how could I not have known, you might ask? In fact, I have to look up the obituaries for her and my brother every year, so I remember the dates of their deaths (although never again, as I have now added them to my Google calendar). 

I do tend to have a vague sense of dread as Easter and Thanksgiving approach, as I vividly remember their deaths' effect on these holidays. I clearly recall taking the phone call about my mom as I was on my way to drop off a friend at the airport for spring break; right after I deposited him curbside, I raced to my apartment, packed a few things, and drove through darkness (in a startlingly short amount of time) from Virginia to Ohio. The phone call for my brother came right ahead of finals before winter break my sophomore year in college; not only did I actually take all my exams, but that very night I headed to a kegger.

But since the exact dates of spring and winter breaks move every year, I am often totally unaware of the anniversaries of their deaths until they pass. I only discovered the coincidence about the party when I thought I should probably check in with my dad on the day of my mom's death. By then, my condolences would've been quite belated. A couple weeks earlier, I had told him I was having a party that day; I certainly hope he didn't think it was to revel in her death.

When I discovered my lapse, I immediately blamed a raging headache from our party on karma from my lack of respect for my mom and lack of sympathy for my dad. The night started out great with some unique-tasting mead, an expertly-gassed English pale ale, and my favorite pumpkin ale of all time (even if one bottle lacked bubbles because it didn't ferment enough). It got even better with the help of some homemade tortas, including three meats perfectly seasoned and grilled and four salsas aptly created and blended by TJ (seriously, he could open a store, based on the guards' rave reviews).

The cranial pulsing and pounding began about the time I started watching videos of a baby dancing like Shakira and Bill Cosby doing his Noah routine. By the middle of the piñata-candy poker game, I could barely follow the betting and raising of bubble gum and lollipops. So I had to call it a night even though there were still guests gathered around our (much bigger) table. Surely this social shame was punishment for not even thinking about my mom that night, right?

But the truth is, I channeled her spirit all that day, as I do every day. Without her, I wouldn't even be here, and I don't mean living in this world, I mean in Tijuana. She gave me a love to travel adventurously that makes giving directions to "turn at the second Oxxo" seem like a perfectly normal statement. This is a woman who cycled across Ohio, Florida and New York well into middle age. She also gave me a need to cultivate camaraderie that makes piñata-candy poker seem like a perfectly acceptable Saturday night. This is a woman who attended a going-away party for myself while she herself was undergoing chemo. 

And to think I could barely soldier through a migraine. But I made it through most of that night, as I make it through most of my days, with her implicit inspiration pushing me forward. Now that I have the date duly recorded, I think I'll party on every anniversary of her death. I just wish she could've been at this particular fiesta. She would've loved that piñata.