I scream, you scream . . .

Today's L.A. Times carried the obituary of Irvine Robbins, who, along with his brother-in-law Burton Baskin, founded the Baskin-Robbins 31 Flavors ice cream stores. Nowadays there are lots of specialty ice creams around, featuring plenty of exotic flavors (along with astronomically high fat content), but for me, starting when I was a kid, 31 Flavors (as I've always called it) has remained the definitive ice cream shop. Not only did they have lots of flavors (I was partial to coffee, butterscotch ribbon and lemon custard) but they made ice cream cakes, some of which graced the birthday parties of my two boys.

This evening, I walked down to 31 Flavors in the E Street Plaza to buy a cone and raise it in tribute to Mr. Robbins. When I got there, the place was mobbed, the line stretching out the door. While I'd like to think this crowd was due to everyone having had the same idea as I, I have a feeling it had more to do with the warm evening. Not willing to stand in that line, I walked home coneless. But I'll be back.

Water baby

My synagogue held a fund-raiser a few weeks ago, and I ended up being the high bidder for a one-month membership at the Davis Athletic Club ($30—woo hoo!), so yesterday morning I activated it and went to the 8 a.m. aqua aerobics class. I'd been to it before, a few years ago when I was a regular DAC member, and my body has been wanting to get back to it.

This early-morning class is taught in what DAC calls the functional therapy pool. It's considerably smaller than the lap pool and—much the best feature—the water is warm; yesterday the announced temp was 88 degrees. So even if the air is chilly, entering the water feels wonderful. And you can get a good workout, or at least you can if you're not chit-chatting with your classmates the entire time; that element hasn't changed since I was last there. Clearly, some people see the class as a chance to catch up on their friends' lives and fill them in on their own. I know several of the women (and most of the class is female, though there are a few men), and I'm sure they think I'm antisocial because I don't engage with them when they greet me, but I don't want to multi-task during a workout, and besides, I'm concentrating too much on following the instructor (who is quite good and has the patience of Job; if I were she, I'd banish all the talkers to the far corner of the pool and tell 'em to yak out of the way of other people who are there to actually exercise. Harrumph.).

On the other hand, it's a good place to get your head on straight regarding body image. Like many women, I've spent a good deal of my life being critical of various parts of my body—legs too big, breasts too small, upper arms too flabby, blah blah blah—the only variations on the theme being the parts currently under the microscope. But spend some time watching older women emerge from the locker room and enter the pool. Talk about your variations in size and shape. As you might expect, given the time of this class, nearly all the students are "mature"; i.e., well into their 60s, some in their 70s, maybe a few 80-year-olds. Looking at them, with all their lumps, veins, and bulges, I felt simultaneous relief and humility. Relieved that despite my less-than-ideal weight and fitness level I'm in way, way better shape than most of them, and humbled (and a bit ashamed ) to think that I'm so damned vain. Good time to get over myself.

P.S. As promised, here are a couple of pictures of the results of Sunday's planting spree:

Salvia (foreground), Moroccan mint and lavender
(non-working fountain visible in background)

The herb pot
(basil, parsley, oregano, chives)
Blue Moon lobelia

Babz' Bistro

Dust Bowl goes green

Well, a little bit green, anyway. Time was, I had a lot of plants growing in pots and planters on my deck, but over the past few years, for reasons circumstantial (my landlord tore the deck off to fix the leak in the ceiling of the flat downstairs and it didn't get rebuilt for nearly 18 months) and whimsical (I had no energy for it), I've let it languish. Seeing all those pots out there, many half-full of bone-dry planting soil, began to get to me, and I've been promising myself that I'd get something in them soon.

Today was the day. I went to Davis Lumber and picked up little pots of basil, parsley (curley and flat-leaf), chives, oregano, and mint; a pony pack of Blue Moon lobelia, and two 4-in. pots, one holding a salvia, the other a lavender plant, along with two bags of potting soil. The herbs (except for the mint) went into a strawberry pot I've had for years; the lobelia I stuck in the small places around said pot. The mint got its own pot; ditto the salvia and the lavender.

This doesn't sound like much to plant, and if you just think about the number of plants, it's not. But I had to empty dirt out of each pot into a big plastic tub I brought upstairs for the purpose (being upstairs has its drawbacks), mix new potting soil in with some old, refill the pots after cleaning them up, shlep unused pots to a less conspicuous spot on the deck, sweep up dirt and other various bits, move the newly filled pots to where I want them, move them again when I decide that's not the place, after all, fetch water from the kitchen sink in a gallon milk container (no hose upstairs), repot a couple of languishing succulents and hope for the best, futz with decorative fountain that seems to be clogged (probably by pine needles) and will need to be taken apart, just not today, sweep some more, haul excess dirt downstairs and dump in alley . . . well, you get the idea. Luckily, the Giants-Phillies game was on, and my portable radio had fresh batteries, so it was pleasat, if tiring, work. Would have been more pleasant if the Giants had managed to win, but so it goes.

By the time I was done, it was time to shower and get ready to go to the Woodland Chamber Singers spring concert in Woodland (it was terrific!), so there wasn't time to take any photos. But I'll do that tomorrow and post them then. Tonight I'm just uttering small prayers that it all survives.