Heat
It's hot. Not Tucson in August hot, but hot enough to be uncomfortable. I know people have this view that California is always sunshine and surf. But I'm a Northern California native, used to fog and mild temps. This minor heatwave (it's currently 83 in the house) has both me and Cipher (the World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) curled like two lumps of warm dough.

I don't do heat well. Of course I don't do cold well either, but cold is easier. A hot bath, a cozy sweater, some cocoa....there are always ways to warm up. But when you're hot, there's very little you can do. Because we get all of seven hot days a year, we don't run to AC. We have fans...but they're hardly the same. So you lay around in as little clothing as possible, in the direct line of the fan, sipping ice water and wondering if you can possibly sit through some atrocious movie because at least the theatre has air conditioning.

Poor Cipher, in her fur coat, probably has it worse. Last night she was too hot even for her nightly play session with Husband. At the moment, she's looking at me like "hey, you're god, do something." I wish I could, kitty. I'm on the floor, because it's cooler down here and because lying down is easier on my back. She's a few feet away, looking like she wish she could melt. I'm exactly the same....too hot to move, too lethargic to do much of anything but wish it were winter.

What is there about heat that just sucks the energy out of you? From the moment I got up this morning all I've wanted to do is, well, nothing. Water and lots of it. That's it. No appetite. No desire to do any of the hundred things I should do. When I got up to feed the cat a few minutes ago I saw someone jogging past the house. Who are these people? How in the world do they have either the energy or the desire to run when it's so hot out? OK, maybe to earn a milkshake at the end of it, but that's the only reason.

Oh, and this weekend marks the hallmark of culture in our sleepy little town. It's the annual Art & Wine Festival. They block off all of downtown and the place gets invaded by thousands of people wandering around looking at painted driftwood birds, customized mail boxes, and all the tedium of craftiness. Plus the nutritional gift that is Funnel Cakes, frequently bad live entertainment, plus booze. And when it's hot, the booze really flows. It's amazing how much beer people can down at these things. Husband and I rarely go to this thing -- mostly because we really don't like ugly things that pretend to be "art," but sometimes the people watching is amazing.

Have you ever marveled at the sheer unlimited number of hideously ugly t-shirts there are in America?

We'll always have....oh pass a tissue
Oh, the perfection that is Casablanca. Is there a more perfect movie? Rick and Ilsa. The problems of two little people not amounting to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Victor leading the house band in a rousing version of the French national anthem. And all the wonderful, amazing, unforgettable characters...Karl and Sascha, the "what watch?" couple, the young Bulgarians trying to win at Roulette and, of course, loyal and lovely Sam.

It's on right now, just winding down. Ilsa and Victor are just getting on that airplane and, once again, I'm a sentimental fool. I must have seen Casablanca 50 times and I still love it. I love the end when Louis orders the rounding up of "the usual suspects." I love Rick, leaning in the doorway of a French train as he realizes Ilsa isn't joining him in his exile. I love Sam singing "Knock on Wood."

Yeah, it's corny and so famous that it's almost a cliche of itself. But for sheer wonderful moviemaking, can it be beat? If you haven't seen it in ages, I urge you to do so again. It just might be the start of a beautiful friendship.

Life, the universe, and peanut butter
Sometimes the world comes down to a spoonful of peanut butter.

As loyal friends and bored readers know, I've had shit-all to contribute to the blog world for about two weeks now but "I zarfed." And "Hey, I zarfed!" Followed by "I zarfed. Then I went to ER." Thrilling, isn't it? No wonder I have all of three readers.

But today's posting isn't about that. It's about how a spoonful of peanut butter can change your day. I may do an informercial about it. You see, I'm still not eating much, but I am forcing myself to eat when I can. If I wait until I want to eat rather than when I can eat, I'll just fade away....like the Cheshire cat. So today's goal is "pack it in" well, in moderation, of course.

So I had this spoonful of PB and, in the words of The Old Book, "it was good." It was one of those "being sick teaches you to appreciate the little things in life" moments. Hardly a glorious sunset or the first bloom of spring, but a "wow, this tastes so good" kind of thing. Where you're just damned glad that you can have something as mundane as peanut butter and not have it necessitate a trip to ER. (Well, not yet, anyway.)

I've been pretty damned sick for about two weeks now and let me tell you, I'm really fucking sick of being sick. So I'm working as hard as possible to not be. And a little super chunk Skippy may not seem like climbing Everest to the rest of you, but to me it's huge. And it feels it. It's like that one spoonful psychologically symbolizes my saying "screw it, I'm willing myself to get better." Maybe it'll work, maybe it won't. But I'm trying.

It's been hard, watching all these buff, healthy, strong, amazing Olympians the past few weeks while I lie winded and shaking after a marathon trek to get more apple juice. I envy all of them those bodies that aren't letting them down (damn them!). And yet with all the inspiring performances, the athletes haven't given me the "I can be like that" vibe. But give me a bite of peanut butter and suddenly I'm a movie of the week in the making.

Maybe London will put peanut butter eating on the medal stand -- I'd be a shoe-in.

By the way, sorry to be so unbearably dull lately. I'll try to stop writing about how miserable I am.