que bueno

I may have finally discovered the home of the best burrito in the Napa Valley: La Luna Market & Taqueria, a small Mexican grocery with a short menu of hot food, a whole bunch of piñatas hanging from the ceiling (yes, even a Miley Cyrus piñata) and two rickety picnic tables out front.

Met a friend for lunch there today. We both ordered super burritos sin carne. (I love how people are always shocked when I tell them to hold the meat -- they look at me like I'm crazy. But the truth is, I find it much easier to tell if a burrito is good or not when I can actually taste the beans, salsa and everything that's in it -- no meat to mask the flavors.) We also got a gigantic bag of tortilla chips (freshly fried -- they were dripping oil -- it was amazing), homemade salsa and some Arizona Green Tea. And this cost us about $19 total.

And man, was this a good burrito! The tortilla was perfect -- not rubbery, not cold, not dry. Good beans, really good salsa, good guac and good sour cream (not too thick, not too runny). Yo quiero mas ...

los pequeños milagros

Just as I finished reading the last sentence of a deliciously trashy YA novel, the doorbell rang.

And there on the doorstep, in the growing dark of a hot summer night, stood a man and a woman. The man carried two large coolers. The woman said: "Would you like to buy some tamales?"

And I thought, Yes, there is definitely a god.

the mark of insanity

Thursday is my cross-training day, so after work I met Jessa in the Mission to check out the new BurnSF workout -- classes that blend Pilates, weights and a ridiculous amount of jumping (I believe the official term is "plyometrics"). I found myself barefoot and attached to some very large springs, sweating profusely to Madonna dance remixes and wondering when it would be time for dinner. (Blame this on the fact that halfway through the workout, the room was overcome by the scent of toast. Torture, anyone?)

Friday is a run day, so Jessa and I hung out again. (We are both training for marathons, although she is Ms. Boston Qualifier, while I am Ms. I-Hope-I-Don't-Get-Carried-Off-On-A-Stretcher.) This time, we tackled the trails at Helen Putnam. I would like to write a letter to the Sonoma County Board of Supervisors and request they rename this park "Big Bitch of a Hill That Mocks Your Pain Park." The entire first part of this run was one gigantic hill (and it sneaks up on you -- from my photo above, it looks like a gradual incline that ends at the horizon, but no, once you round the corner, the ascent continues, steeply, for probably half a mile), followed by a quick downhill and then a flat section, and then the biggest Mother Bitch of a Hill Ever. (I couldn't even run all the way up this last hill. And my breathing was so hard you could've heard me in Novato.) And we did this loop twice.

Then I worked at the wine bar until 1 a.m. (and remember, I worked my day job yesterday as well). I was so exhausted that I could barely squat down to get the bubbly out of the cooler. And you would've been seriously concerned about worker's comp if you saw me climbing up the ladder to pull bottles off of the retail wall.

So now I am hobbling around the house. I am opening a packet of something called Biofreeze (why does this remind me of an Austin Powers movie?) and rolling up my pajama pants so I can tell my calves that I really do love them, despite the abuse.

And I am realizing there is a red wine stain on my leg that runs from knee to ankle.

WTF.

where there are whiskers

This evening's run: 5.17 miles around downtown Chickenland.

Every run begins with a body scan. Does anything hurt? How's that right arch doing? Are my shoulders tensing up? Was the pre-run pizza slice a bad choice? (I'm telling you, proper nutrition is one of my biggest hurdles. Also challenging: My hydration belt, which continually rides up and is the bane of my existence, yet I desperately need it or someone will be scraping me off the sidewalk.)

And after the body scan, Breathe. And begin to settle into a pattern, a rhythm.

Which, for me, means counting: The seconds between steps, the timer on the crosswalk, the minutes on my watch.

And cats. I cannot run without counting cats. This has become a ritual (or perhaps another manifestation of my slight OCD -- you decide).

Tonight there were five cats, most of them calicos. And I was thrilled to see my favorite, the one who suns herself on Keokuk Street. She makes me break the rules, momentarily stop the counting. I will pause my watch so I can scratch her belly. She reminds me of my own cat, my little girl who hides in the warm laundry.

the state neckwear is the bolo tie

Which I did not purchase.

Instead, souvenirs from this weekend's trip to Phoenix included a very dark tan, excess calories (due in large part to heavy intake of free breakfast croissants and spicy Bloody Marys), a newfound expertise in calling in noise complaints (our resort had been overtaken by the Beta Theta Pi 170th annual convention) and a sore right arm (Wii tennis injury).

Overall, good fun in 111-degree weather.