CD Pick of the Week: Lila Downs
One of my top 3 of 2008 (so far). Lila Downs Shake Away.The delicious Mexican-American-Mixtec singer dishes up yet another seriously good release. There’s fire and fun in equal blends with a solid band and great material, everything from mystical folk-based tunes to political commentaries to covers of songs such as “Black Magic Woman.” Great guest stars. In English and Spanish. This one rocks, folks, and it’s fabulously good.

Meanwhile, back in Kosovo
What did we do before YouTube? This one cracked me up.

Ginger for President!
Need a laugh? Check out An Engineer's Guide to Voting. It'll make your day.

CD Pick of the Week: Chiwoniso
Check out Rebel Woman by Chiwoniso. This Zimbabwean/American artist is a delicious female vocalist & songwriter who is backed by mbira, guitars, percussion, horns and other wonderful sounds. Her voice is soulful, soaring, warm, lyrical and powerful and the music is fresh and captivating. Everything is so good. This one is delicious!

The cat's pajamas
Thanks to Husband I can share with you my favorite photo of Cipher, The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm. At the moment she's sleeping like a feline angel on the back of her favorite chair. In a few hours, she'll be making sure I don't get any sleep.

Song, Theme Song
With the new James Bond film set to open next month (the thickly-named Quantum of Solice), there's already hype and hoopla.

This article from the London Times about Bond movie theme songs provides some material for debate.

It's tot to be hard to write a Bond theme. There are so many expectations, and so many inescapable comparisons. I mean when you go to a Bond movie, you expect certain things from the time to sit down with your popcorn until the time the final credits run. It has to begin with an exciting pre-credits thrill. Then a catchy theme song illustrated with silhouettes of naked women dancing with guns. Then the real fun begins. Even in the more serious Bond movies (the first Daniel Craig outing was one of those films that demands to be called "gritty.), you go in knowing you'll have that opening to hold on to.

The really hard part for contemporary Bond-theme-composers is that you'll never live up to Goldfinger. I know some people might argue for Live and Let Die but to me, Goldfinger is the best Bond theme ever. You just can't beat Shirley Bassey defining "over the top" with that final note. It's got everything: a catchy sound, lots of drama, great kitsch value, a solid tie-in with the plot of the film, and just great music. The worst Bond theme is more debatable. But I vote for All Time High the hideously drippy theme from the equally drippy Octopussy.

Of course, you're hampered when the title of the movie doesn't lend itself to the title, or even the chorus, of the theme song. You really couldn't have a song called "Octopussy." (According to the article, the new film has the same problem. Nobody's gonna hum a song called "Quantum of Solace.") But considering how many films there are in the Bond franchise, there are impressively few clunkers. (One disagreement I have with the article is they put "For Your Eyes Only" in the bad category and I rather like it.)

So, what's your favorite and your least? Debate people, I need a drinkie.

CD Pick of the Week: Acquaragia Drom
People, get this one. Rom Kaffe by the Italian band Acquaragia Drom. This is feisty Italian gypsy music featuring vocals, strings, horns, clarinet, accordion, and more. It’s crazy and fun, like the weirdest circus to ever come to town. You’ll peek through the shutters of your window as they pass through the streets, playing their music. And before you know it, you’ll be part of the parade. I liked every track, each one leads to some sort of surprise. These guys must be fabulous in concert.

Get out of our politics
Yeah, Mormons, I'm talking to you. According to this San Francisco Chronicle article, out of state Mormons are being recruited for a telephone campaign in support of Prop 8.

First off, I'm just pissed that non-Californians are trying to dictate our state politics. But secondly...am I the only one who sees the irony in the Mormons (of all groups) trying to legally define what marriage is? This group was persecuted, exiled and, at times, killed for their non-traditional marriages. (Yes, I know that plural marriages was a long time ago and it is no longer part of the Mormon religion.) But the fact remains that, historically, one of the reasons why they ended up in Utah is because they got chased out of everywhere else because non-Mormons didn't like plural marriages.

And here they are, trying to inflict the same prejudice they experienced on another group.

People, don't vote for hatred. Don't discriminate against an entire section of society just because you don't "agree" with how they live. They're not asking for your approval, just looking for equality.

No on 8. Or don't you be coming back here...

Watch out for that pipe wrench!
In my ongoing attempt to embarrass myself in public, I will admit to liking the 80's A-Ha hit "Take on Me." And yeah, I like the video too. Which is why I found Take on Me: The Literal Video Version to be hilarious. (Thanks to Husband for pointing this out to me.)

In praise of Colma
One of the most pleasant film-surprises of the past year has been Colma: The Musical, a delightful independent movie filmed in, you guessed it, Colma. I recently saw it on the Sundance channel and Husband and I were both smitten.

It is a musical, with clever lyrics and delightfully inventive direction, not to mention some very strong performances. For me the stand-out was the incredibly talented H.P. Mendoza who stars as Rodel, a young gay man and aspiring writer with some serious family issues. Mr. Mendoza also wrote the screenplay and the music (don't you just hate people who can do everything?).

We finished watching it a few days ago and there are several scenes that really stick in my mind, including one beautiful number featuring couples waltzing in a graveyard and a solo number featuring Mendoza singing about his "happy place."

If you have the chance to rent, buy, or watch this one, I highly recommend it. It's especially captivating for those of us who grew up on the Peninsula and know exactly where (and what) Colma is.

Rooted
So I'm searching my family tree. It's fascinating, and harder work that you'd think. So far I've hit dead ends on both my mother's and my father's side of the family. On my mother's side I'm hampered by the fact that her maiden name is maddeningly common and that her mother's family has a last name that nobody knows how to spell (seriously, I've tried every spelling I can think of to no avail). On my father's side I can trace his maternal side to the first ones to come to the US from France, but on his father's side I can't get past my dad's grandfather. But I shall keep searching.

It's peculiar how interested I am in my family history, considering how I'm not the most familial of creatures. But I really want to know where I come from. Unfortunately my father is dead and my mother's memory isn't too sharp these days so I'm running out of people to ask for details. We have some of them written down from years ago, but nobody has done anything to document it. So I am. It's both intriguing and infuriating that each new discovery only raises more questions. For example, I found a census with my great-grandmother (on my mother's side) on it. It says she was born in Canada (but doesn't say where), that her mother was born in Ireland (doesn't say where) and her father was born in Scotland (again, doesn't say where). The big problem is that the men in my mom's family have names that are the Scottish equivalent of "John Smith." Do a search for my grandfather's name and you'll likely find a thousand men.

I'm working on Husband's family as well. In actual fact his family tree is more interesting than mine (including a great-great grandmother with the glorious name of Araminta), but here too I can only get so far. It's an exercise in patience and research (I love to research things, but I haven't much patience) and I know I'll eventually make breakthroughs (at least I hope I will). I have no visions of tracing either family back to William the Conquerer or Charlemagne, but it would be nice to have more information about who we come from.

Who says science is dull?
The Ig Nobel prizes have been awarded.

Stop presses! Fleas on dogs jump further than fleas that live on cats. String will always get tangled in knots. And something really weird about lap dancers and, well, why spoil the mystery?

Oh the horrors!
I have a very dear, living-too-far-away friend coming to stay with us in two weeks and since he's rarely here in the Bay Area there are a lot of people he'd love to see. I'm having a few of "the group" over for a brunchy-lunchy-type gathering and I'm already freaking out.

Now there are some people who are born entertainers. (By which I do not mean Groucho Marx.) I mean Martha-esque type entertaining. Many of my friends (including The Foreigner, Finny, and the Lurker) are wonderful cooks. I, on the other hand, am not.

I come by my lack of cooking talent through genetics. My mother is a notoriously bad cook. Not only can I not cook well, I don't even know where to start in terms of what to serve. I mean I realize that my friends love me anyway and certainly aren't coming over here for the food. They're coming for a reunion. But I have to serve them something. I can't just hand them a bag of chips and a Coke and say "enjoy!"

Which leaves me wandering aimlessly through recipe sites and cookbooks. And wondering why I missed getting the chef's gene. Some people (Finny, I'm talking about you.) seem to naturally be able to imagine how food will taste. "Hey," she'll say, "let's combine home-grown tomatoes with bacon and pine nuts." And voila! she's got a yummy salad/bread/main course that looks and tastes delicious. "Hey," I'll say, "I'll follow this recipe exactly and voila! it looks and tastes like doggy poopy."

So in addition to the fact that I really (REALLY!) need to clean the house, I have a week to figure out what to cook, how to cook, and what the hell this little shiny thingy is in my utensil drawer. It's gonna we a long week...

CD Pick of the Week: Ayombe!
Ayombe! The Heart of Colombia's Musica Vallenata. Totally fresh and fabulous. Four types of music: puya (feat. lots of accordion), Merengue (upbeat & catchy), son (slower) and paseo (light & lively). Great performances throughout, you can’t go wrong with any track. Everything is SO good! Great notes too.

A fascinating look into the past
Can be found at the wondrous Daily Scrapbook. It's a glorious wander through history courtesy of the website (and book) by Jessica Helfand. I want some of these for my own collection...

Celebrate freedom....read a banned book
According to the American Library Association September 29-October 6th is "Banned Books Week". They have suggestions on how to celebrate, which includes a list of the 100 most frequently challenged books of 1990-2000. I'm sure you've read at least one, because titles include the Harry Potter series, Of Mice and Men, The Catcher in the Rye, James and the Giant Peach, and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.

And, as Sarah Palin has so frighteningly illustrated, people are still trying to dictate what we can read....so please don't take reading for granted.

When your past is on DVD
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Invasion Stanford. (I just wish I could give you the actual movie.) Turns out Husband was in a student film while a student at Stanford. He recently obtained a copy of the DVD and we started watching it last night. Actually, it's not a movie -- it's a 4-part sci-fi/comedy miniseries. Husband plays "Arthur" the apparently insane RA who has (in my opinion) the best lines in the script.

Wow....Husband at 19. With hair! Not just hair, a ponytail! It's the oddest thing seeing him on film. I mean it's one thing to see photos of someone you love before you knew them, but it's another to see them walking, talking, and being....well....a college student.

So far we've watched 2 parts and it's proven to be an amusing experience. Invasion Stanford has some clever moments, and it's VERY Stanford. It also has a spaceship that looks like the Satellite of Love from the old MST show. Plus aliens, an anti-road-reflector movement, and actual footage of KZSU. It's pretty funny...and, for me, highly surreal.

The coolest...
Last weekend Husband and I watched the classic '60s cop flick Bullitt. I hadn't seen it in years and I'm happy to say it seriously holds its coolness factor.

Was there ever any actor as cool as Steve McQueen? Those steely, ice-blue eyes. The strong, silent stare. That sexy macho-ness. In retrospect I think he had all of 10 minutes of dialogue in the movie, but it doesn't mater. His presence is magnetic. And the famous car chase just plain rocks.

I love seeing movies shot in San Francisco. It's always cool to be eating popcorn and say "hey, I've been to that cafe." Or "my best friend used to live a block from there." Well the classic chase in Bullitt is geographically impossible (from the Mission to the Marina to San Bruno Mountain) and they do pass the same little green VW bug three times, but it's just so damned cool you don't care. Tires squealing, hubcaps flying, bouncing over hills and screaming around corners.

So the plot manages to be both thin and hard to follow, it's still a great film made even better by the sexy Mr. McQueen and an uber-hip '60s score by the genius, Lalo Shiffrin.

Fictional favorites
The always-interesting Dark Party Review asked a few authors "What literary character do you find the most compelling? and, as usual, got some interesting answers.

For me, it's gotta be good old Sherlock Holmes. Sure the stories are flawed and cliched but there's just no forgetting Holmes once you read about him. The moods, the razor-sharp brain, even his rudeness are all quite distinctly him. He may not be the most likable character ever, but he's definitely compelling.

Runners up:
Pip (Great Expectations)
Jane Eyre
Don Quixote
Elizabeth Bennett
Winnie the Pooh

What is it with Target?
I don't usually shop at Target. But they have Nick & Nora jammies (which I love) at a good price and since I no longer fit into anything I own, I went to buy some jammies. That's it. Just a pair of pajamas. So why did I walk out 45-minutes and $175 later?

Target is one of those stores where every time you turn around you realized you need something. And because they sell everything, you end up spending FAR more than you intended. "Oh yeah, you tell yourself, we're nearly out of toothpaste." And into the cart it goes. Oh hey, they have sweats on sale and I don't fit into any of those either...so you pick up some sweats. And a new sports bra (in case I ever, in my life, feel like working out again). And a kitchy-cute candy holder for Halloween because it's coming up. And some new socks for Husband because he bought new shoes and his old socks are too thick. And....

...and so it goes. And all around you are similarly zombie'd out shoppers with their own weird assortment of items. Ten pounds of laundry detergent and two hideously ugly purses. A huge plastic storage container, three bags of Halloween candy, and some mouthwash. (Maybe the candy isn't for the neighborhood kids.) An enormous bag of dog food, some jeans, leopard-print slippers, and tampons.

So it's not just me. It's a Target thing. You go in for one item and come out with the most bizarre collection of things. And as you're loading them into your car, you're already thinking "what was I thinking?"

Congratulations on your ulcer
You know you've been sick for too long when the news that you have an ulcer brings out congratulations from your friends. I've been amused every since the diagnosis and the reaction from the people around me. They've stood by me for so long that, like me, they're just happy to have a name to put to the insane zarf-o-matic creature I'd become. Yesterday I went by KZSU and two of my fellow DJs were happy at the news. Mind you, I am too, I just think it's funny. I imagine if this had come out of nowhere the news that I had an ulcer would be greeted by the requisite sad faces and sympathy. But in my case, it's very nearly a party.

And frankly, I prefer it this way. I'm much happier with my congratulations card (thanks again, Mama D) than I would be with the long face. It's just so...me...that being told I have an ulcer is really cause for celebration.

Ugly as sin...
...but impressive. That's the California Condor. And I just saw one. On the onramp to 280, of all places, trying to kidnap some roadkill (yum) with an envious, but obviously overmatched crow watching from a few feet away. I'm not 100% certain it was a condor but it was huge, had that ugly red face, and definitely looked like the gargoyle pictured here. I gotta admit, I'm hoping it was a condor because if so it was a really cool unexpected sighting. If it wasn't a condor, I'm not sure what it was.

Alone time
When you're married it's always a bit odd to find yourself alone for a weekend. With Husband covering the Monterey Jazz Festial for his new blog I'm bachelor girl. this weekend.

I'm spending my time reading lots of trashy novels and, at the moment, watching football. (I'm rooting for Buffalo over Oakland because 1) I hate the Raiders and; 2) The Bills' quarterback is a Stanford grad who happens to be the brother of a friend.)

I really miss Husband, but being alone has its advantages. For example, the sofa is now a mess, covered with books, my laptop, a sweater, the remainder of the Sunday paper, two remote controls, the telephone, and a couple of magazines. The cat, while generally sweet-natured, is giving me the green look of death because I keep singing (badly) for no reason. (When I'm alone I'm Aretha Franklin.) And the house is generally a mess because there's no one here to trip over a pile of pillows, my slippers, and the part of the Sunday paper that isn't on the sofa.

Cat and I are getting along without Husband, in spite of the fact that I don't know how to play with her correctly and she pissed me off by pulling everything off of my nightstand at 5 am. But for two solo girls, it's quite harmonious. She's sleeping, I'm being lazy. I have to go down to KZSU today but just can't seem to get out of my sweats and into my car.

But it's odd. There's nobody to point out the good Sunday comics too. And my "wow, he looks just like his sister" comments while watching the game really don't seem to interest the cat. And last night, I was so desperate for entertainment, I actually watched 10 whole minutes of a really awful movie on the Hallmark Channel. (Don't worry, I recovered my sanity and switched over to a documentary on mummies.) And dinner....I have a hard time motivating myself to cook for two. Cooking for one just seems silly so I'm the Lean Cuisine Queen for the weekend. Although I'm was damned tempted to go out for Chinese but, again, just couldn't get out of the sweats. Boy I'm lazy.

Meanwhile, in Monterey
Husband's new venture, Jazz Observer is now up and running and full of wonderful (trust me, I'm not just saying this because I love the man), wonderful coverage of the Monterey Jazz Festival.

It sounds like last night provided some great highlights and today's first feature -- on the layout and feel of the Festival itself -- provides a tantalizing taste of what it's like to be there. (And will make you jealous that you aren't.)

Check it out, you'll be glad you did.

Sisters in Arms
Currently being read, Sisters in Arms: British Army Nurses Tell Their Story by Nicola Tyrer.

I'm a sucker for history, and I especially love history about women. Nursing in times of war has been a subject of interest to me since I first read Vera Brittain's Testament of Youth. (If you haven't read this yet, I highly recommend it.)

Anyway, the current book (I'm only on chapter 3) is already proving fascinating. It's amazing how deeply courageous the so-called "fairer sex" is under pressure. (Not to mention under bombardment.) I have nothing but admiration for these women, most of them from very privileged backgrounds, who rolled up their sleeves and did the work that had to be done under conditions of extreme hardship and danger. Some were captured by the Japanese and did their best to care for others throughout their captivity.

There's no great message here, just a vague disquiet sensation that I haven't done nearly enough with my life. I certainly haven't done enough for others. No, I'm not going to join the army or become a nurse. It's just rather inspiring to read about such courageous, selfless, heroic women.

The only inspiring thing I've done lately is....uh....oh shit, I really need to go do something inspiring, don't I?

Stop the music
Pet peeve time. I hate, with a passion bordering on loathing, when good music is used for bad commercials. It's not much better when the commercial doesn't suck, either.

My latest is the 70's anthem "Get Together" (by the Youngbloods) now being used for a Luvs diaper ad. Now it's not one of the great songs of all time, but it was one of those seminal flower children songs that deserves better than to be used as a background in which a bunch of creepy, animated, diaper-wearing freakbabies frolic in a creepy, animated world. It's the kind of song that brings to mind memories of road trips, open windows blowing your hair, good friends singing along to any song they know the words to. Stopping at that stop sign at the bottom of the mountain, the scent of hot sage filling the car, and the radio cranked up.

But no....it's now the soundtrack to a diaper ad. (And, for the record, those of us who choose not to have children do not find diaper ads cute! Everybody got that? Not cute!)

There are thousands of crappy, unemployed so-called musicians around the world, many of whom would be happy to compose something just for your product for a lot less than you'd have to pay for the rights for a classic song. So stop fucking with our good memories.

(Oh my freaking god, the ad is on now!!!) I must go lay down.

Welcome to the web, Jazz Observer
Husband has launched his new website. Jazz Observer, "A Fresh Perspective on Modern Music." Although it's up an running, the real goodies will start coming on Friday when he heads southwards for The Monterey Jazz Festival. His live blogs from the festival (run on his previous website and elsewhere on the web) are the next best thing to being there. They're so good they almost make up for having to do without him for three days.

Anyway, congratulations Husband and may Jazz Observer have a long and illustrious life. It's a true gift to Bay Area jazz fans.

Traumatized!
I love my cat, Cipher. (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm.) Not "put in little outfits" love, just really love. She brings joy, warmth, companionship, and love into my world every day. Have a bad day? Nothing like a purring cat curled up into your lap to turn things around. Need a laugh? Throw an empty toilet paper roll at her and watch her turn into a Keystone Cops comedy.

But today I saw her at her most difficult. I was supposed to take her to the vet for her annual booster shot. Didn't happen. I'm not sure who is more traumatized, me or Cipher (OK, I do know, it's me) but it was not pretty. She absolutely refused to go into her carrier. Refused in a "I can turn my limbs into concrete pillars or Silly Putty at will" kind of way. In a "I know I said I love you but these claws gotta go somewhere and who needs skin anyway" kind of way. A "look, I can eject hair the way a porcupine can eject quills so much for your black shirt" way.

She squirmed. She scratched. She did everything but pull a switchblade on me. And then she ran under the bed where I couldn't reach her and refused to come out. I called and cancelled the appointment.

That was an hour ago and now (here's the trauma bit) refuses to come near me. She walks warily in a huge circle around where I am, shooting guilt out of those big green eyes in such a way as to do my mom proud. She won't let me get within 10 feet of her and I am now so wracked with guilt that I'm practically moping. I know she's eventually condescend to forgive me. (At least I hope she will!) But for now I have never wanted to hear that purr in my lap more.

I need a drink. Is liquor OK with an ulcer?

What makes people...?
Do kinda crazy thing? Kind admirable, but kinda crazy.

Last night the KZSU DJ before me casually mentioned that this weekend he was doing the Alcatraz swim. Yup, he's going to jump into San Francisco Bay sans wetsuit and swim either to or from (or, god forbid, both!) Alcatraz. (Can you tell that I can't be bothered to look up the details of this swim?

And my friend Finny, is currently training for a half marathon and ran 11 miles last weekend. Oh yes, and lets not forget Mama D, who has been known to run a full marathon (!).

How....why?

Now granted I've been sick and can't do much of anything. (Last night I returned to KZSU for the first time in nearly two months and, upon returning home, went straight to bed.) But even when/if I was healthy I would never do anything like this. I am so not physically active. Never have been. I was the archetypical kid picked last for every sport in PE. (Is it still called PE?) I grew up before girls had their own soccer teams and before everyone was encouraged to become weekend warriors. Nobody in my family played sports. (The fact that my father died of a heart attack when I was 19 might indicate that some exercise would have been a nice thing.) So I didn't grow up being encouraged to work up a sweat.

And that's carried into adulthood. I've tried various exercise kicks at various times of my life in order to not be fat. But for me it's all about vanity, not about pushing myself to achieve anything other than a smaller ass. I've never wanted to train for a marathon, compete in the Ironman Triathalon, become an Olympic anything, or even run the Bay to Breakers.

So what is it that pushes some people to push themselves while others have to force themselves to move? Is it the old nature vs. nurture question? Am I a sloth because, as a child, I lived in a family of sloths? Had I been raised by people who went bike riding on weekends and coached soccer would I now be running with Finny? Or is it because I am, by nature, a lazy slob who really, really, really hates to work out and sees nothing pleasurable or enjoyable about it except for the fact that, when I do, I don't get embarrassed running out of breath walking up two flights of stairs?

OK, it's universal
Chicken soup is universal. It crosses cultural, ethnic, geographic, even political borders.

When you're sick, if you're lucky, people offer to bring you soup. The Lurker brought me some delicious soup with matzoh balls a few months ago, and just last night The Foreigner brought me some delicious homemade chicken noodle soup. After today's test (hereafter known as "The Procedure,") I really needed some comfort food and The Foreigner's soup was the perfect solution.

Ah, comfort food. What is there about certain foods that just make you feel better - either physically or psychologically? Sometimes, when you're feeling sick, you just need that certain something. Maybe your food is toast (there's always room for toast) or perhaps scrambled eggs. When you've had a lousy day is there anything better that homemade chocolate chip cookies warm from the oven? (Or pot stickers from your favorite Chinese place?) Logically I know that homemade chicken soup has no magical medicinal properties, yet I feel so much better having just had a bowl. Perhaps it's the extra comfort of knowing that it was made by someone I love who cares enough about me to bring me a care package. But whatever it is, I suddenly feel like a new woman.

Thanks, Ms. Foreigner, you're the best.

You gotta have faith
Tonight my book group meets to discuss Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh. I haven't looked forward to a book discussion this much in ages. Why? Because Brideshead is a very important book for me. It is, in my opinion, the best book ever written about how depressing it is to be raised Catholic.

In all honesty, I think it must be the most depressing religion of them all. Its basic statement, the one told to us from when we were pups, is "Christ died for your sins." That's a serious burden to put on a small, impressionable child. I swear I grew up feeling like slime because our savior was crucified for the sole reason that I stole bubble gum from my brother. No kidding. Growing up Catholic one is washed in guilt from the first drop of Holy Water that falls onto our screaming bodies at baptism.

You fell guilty for everything. Bad thoughts. Growing breasts. Having a crush on The Monkees. Everything is sinful, everything is evil, everything is your fault. And Catholic parents know this and use it to their advantage. They don't use discipline, they use guilt. Whenever you did something bad you weren't punished so much as made to feel like shit because your parents were so disappointed in you. Disappointed is a Catholic mom's set expression. In the middle of a good fight with a sibling mom just walks by with that look .... the look...and suddently you're both silent because you feel so damned guilty for fighting and after all it was fights like that that killed Christ and I'm going to burn in hell for all eternity because I called him an idiot and I'll have to become a freakin' nun just to atone for all the evil my little 7-year old soul has done.

OK, back to the book....it's beautifully written, full of great characters, and a great story. But for me, the bottom line is that the Marchmain family is just like mine....only richer, more British, and better looking.

Tell me a story
In one sentence. Check out One Sentence Stories, which challenges both your creativity and your brevity.

Go team! You suck!
I gotta admit, I love Fall. That clear, pale light that makes you know the sun is shining but it's not hot out. The stores getting ready for Halloween (OK, not ready for Christmas yet, thank you very much). And football.

Much to the amusement and confusion of my family, I like football. And while watching the Niners/Seahawks game today, I realized how, at times, it can be a lot more enjoyable when your team is losing.

Now eventually, miraculously, unbelievably, the Niners won. But for awhile there, they were sucking, big time. And it was such fun to just get out all my pent-up frustration by yelling at the TV. "How can that not be offsides?? They looked like the fucking Rockettes?" "Nice of you to clear a space so the runner doesn't get bunched up....can somebody please tackle him?" It's great. It gives you a harmless outlet for your anger and angst and is, strangely, more satisfying than hating the other team.

Sure it's fun to rag on their lame passing game. But when your team is screwing up, it's intensely cathartic to just scream out your superiority. (Yes, even I with my weak health and newly-discovered ulcer can run better than our Running Backs.)

Now, on to Steelers vs. Browns. No clue who to root for, as I really don't care, but I still have some leftover piss to get out.

An exception...
I don't usually like insult humor. But this is hilarious. Triumph the Insult Dog vs. Star Wars geeks. Thanks to Husband for the laugh...

She limps! She eats!
My friend the ever-wonderful Finny just wrote about doing an 11 mile run in preparation for a mini-marathon she's running in 3 weeks. Yeah....right.

These days I get winded walking from the sofa to the kitchen. I know I have an excuse: I haven't eaten in 18 months. I've nibbled, I've zarfed. I've eaten, and I've zarfed. I've done nothing, and still I zarf. If I were a superhero I'd be BarfGirl, the worst superhero ever. To fight crime all I'd have to do is eat a cracker then point my super self at the evil-doer and I'd throw up all over their nasty shoes. They're not going to be making a cartoon of me anytime soon.

I envy people like Finny who have bodies that work. Mine hasn't since, oh, about 1980. But the past 18 months have been a cavalcade of awful. Even though I'm not in the hospital, I'm still sick. I'm still doing the zarf tango at unpredictable moments. Today I did get all crazy and wild and went out to breakfast with Husband. I had two or three bites of his scrambled egg and one half of a half of piece of toast. Oh yeah, and a glass of milk. I eat like I'm 80.

I move like it too. I'm not limping, but I am wobbling. Most of my food this week came in an IV bag. Now that I'm unhooked, i eat very little and it feels like very much. After today's tiny breakfast I swear it felt like I'd just come from an all-you-can-eat hot fudge sundae buffet. But I'm trying to eat when (and if) I can so that I can get some strength back. Honestly this weak-as-a-newborn-kitten feeling is getting old.

So Finny's exploits have inspired me. Not to run 11 miles (who the fuck am I kidding?) but to completely appreciate how good it'll feel when this is all over. I long for the day when I can do basic things like have dinner with my husband in public. Take a walk without having to sit down every 15 feet. Do laundry without having to take a nap afterwards.

Oh the joys of not zarfing! People, enjoy your health.

Paging nurse idiot
I forgot to tell you about the idiot nurse who nearly caused me to sue the hospital on Wednesday night.

1. Instead of coming into my room for the usual "hi, the shift is changing and I'm your new nurse" at 11:30 pm, she came in at 1, when the lights were off and I was trying to sleep, for the soul purpose of introducing herself.

2. When I rang for pain meds she came in and then forgot me for nearly 90 minutes.

3. She then came back in, 20 minutes after giving me the meds (turned the lights back on) and said "I just need to do something" then stood at the monitor in my room and typed for about 5 minutes, leaving without a word, with the lights on and door open. (Up I get to close door, turn off lights.)

4. She comes back in 30 minutes later and says (Her: lights on and door open) "I've lost a piece of paper, have I left it in here?" (Me: Close door, turn off lights.)

5. 10 minutes late she comes back in (lights & door) looking for the same piece of paper. (Me: close door, turn off lights.)

6. Two other nurses come in a few minutes apart looking for the missing paper. They at least turn off the lights and close the door.

7. Nurse and supervisor come in (lights & door) and both look for it. I get up and close the door, leaving the lights on because admitting defeat is easier than being blinded every 5 minutes.

8. She comes in, not looking for anything, asking if I need more meds. I do. She goes away. I never see her again...until she comes back in at 6 and says "I found the paper in my pocket." Oh good, can I have my night back please?

She's the only nurse I've ever had who pissed me off. Every other nurse there was amazing; kind, caring, gentle, considerate, compassionate, all that good stuff. She was a disaster.

She's back...and she's got a hole in her stomach
Yeah, it's an ulcer.

I'm fresh out of the hospital and freshly diagnosed with a (apparently rather large) ulcer. The last time they did an endoscopy they noticed I had lesions but no actual hole. After Wednesday's endoscopy they found the culprit. They're not sure it's causing all my problems, but it's definitely causing some of them. I need to have another test on Tuesday where I drink something nasty and they x-ray me and follow the path. There's a chance that the ulcer is preventing food from going where it needs to go. I think that might be right considering I've zarfed up everything I've eaten today. But thank god I'm home.

I hate hospitals. Fine places full of noble, caring, hard-working people. And completely non-conducive to healing. Aside from the lovely drugs that kept me from noticing the pain in my back and tummy, the entire week was awful. I'm not exaggerating when I say I had no sleep for two of the nights I was there. Between them coming in every hour to check on my condition, getting blood drawn at between 4 and 5 every morning, and regular comings in for my vital signs -- it was nearly impossible to sleep. Add in lots of noises from the corridor, alarms going off, an uncomfortable bed, my usual pain, and missing Husband and Cipher (the World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm), I just never slept.

Yesterday when I got home at about 4 I took a bath and jumped into bed....and woke up at 9:30 last night. I got up for a while, went back to sleep an hour later and slept until nearly 11 this morning. I haven't slept that long in ages! But god did I need it. I'm still really week after having not eaten for a week, but at least I'm rested.

Anyway, not much to report. But I am relieved that, at last, there is something to fight against. I'm on drugs, might need an operation if the food isn't going to the right place, but damned glad to be home.

Thanks to everyone who called to find out what the heck happened to me. I love you all.

Catching up
Well, Labor Day Weekend has come (yay!) and gone (boo!) and I didn't do much of anything. I'm having a hard time recovering my strength after my last bout of the Creeping Zarfs ... mostly because I just don't eat enough. But I really don't have much energy these days. Luckily Husband the Wonderful took great care of me. We did get out into the sunshine yesterday with a short walk by the bay. It was glorious and SO nice to get out of the house.

It looks like tonight is the return of At the Cafe Bohemian. I asked for someone to sub for me, but nobody's stepped up so I guess I'm on the air. To be perfectly honest, I'm worried that I won't have enough energy to do the full show. If you listen, be prepared for lots of 10 minute songs in the last hour.

Today is also Cipher's (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) birthday. Two years ago today we brought her home from the Peninsula Humane Society. And yeah, it was love at first sight. Thanks for all the love, play, and sleepless nights, cat. We love you.

In other news, Husband and I watched Zodiac this weekend. The 2006 version with Robert Downey, Jr. It was....um....long. It would have been quite good had it been about 45 minutes shorter. But interesting. As someone who lived in the Bay Area during the Zodiac murders (even if I was only a kid) it was interesting to revisit the sort of the hysteria it caused. I remember the SF Chronicle carrying the front page story. The curfews. I remember the adults discussing it and warning my older siblings to be careful. Fascinating how one lunatic with a gun and a secret code can terrorize an entire region.

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.

I want my own parking space
At the emergency room. Yup, back we went. Thursday night. 8 days between ER visits...I can't recall if that's a new record or not.

My wonderful friend the incredible Finny has spent the past week waxing lyrical about her home grown goodies and her farm share crop, her general gourmetitude (complete with fabu recipes). Meanwhile, I've had Husband forcing me to eat Cup of Soup and take spoonfuls of Jell-O. (They lied, there isn't always room for Jell-O.) Oh where or where has my appetite gone, oh where, or where can it be?

In other news, this is the closing weekend of the Olympics and after watching 900 hours of coverage, and in the absence of anything of actual importance to say, i have these observations, questions, and peeves.

- How come male beach volleyball players can compete perfectly well in shorts and tank tops but female players need a bikini for full range of motion? Come on folks, talk about sexism! Either give the ladies shorts or put the guys in Speedos.

- Who decides that we need to see every frickin' point of every frickin' volleyball game by every frickin' country, but we can't spare 10 minutes of screen time for archery, shooting, judo, fencing, modern pentathalon, or various other "obscure" sports.

- The same question applies to men's basketball. We can see men's basketball 47 months a year -- we get to see archery once every four years and I think it got like 15 minutes at 3 am.

- Is anyone else sick of hearing Rhapsody in Blue in those creepily animated United Airlines commercials? The Gershwin estate has a lot to answer for.

- Bob Costas is worth every penny NBC is paying him. And the more tired he gets, the funnier he is.

- Years ago it seems Olympic coverage was padded with endless athlete profiles featuring every hardluck shot-puter whose deaf grandmother fled a locust hoard and started a roadside fruit stand in Ethiopia. Now they've gone completely the other direction and haven't bothered really to tell us about anyone. A middle ground would be nice. I don't need all the sob stories, but it would be nice to be able to recognize someone other than Michael Phelps.

- The Chinese divers are robots. Only explanation.

- Why is rhythmic gymnastics a sport and yet they're getting rid of softball. That just sucks. And BMX racing? That's what suburban kids do outside of the local Subway sandwich shop -- it's not a sport.

- Who knew there were so many things you could do on the water? Kayaking. Canoeing. Skulls. Various numbers of participants. Flat and fizzy water. The 500 meter mixed 9-men, 3-women Perrier Swan Boat obstacle course was especially interesting.

- Which brings me to the only Olympic sport I can compete in. I could be a coxswain. I could sit in a boat and yell at people while they row their guts out.

Back to bed....Cup of Soup, anyone?

Would you like fries with your bowling ball?
I'm in the "forcing myself to eat because every time I stand up I get dizzy and develop the kind of shakes that makes the neighbors think I'm on methadone" phase of recovery. Yesterday's dietary toll: one half cup dry cereal, one cup of less-than-stellar matzoh ball soup, one cup of juice. Call Jenny Craig. Yeah, that's it.

Today I daringly added milk to the cereal and had a real, old-fashioned, all-American bowl of Cheerios for breakfast.

And can I tell you that it feels like I just ate a bowling ball? No, really. I had less than a cup of cereal and about 1/4 cup of 2% milk and here I am still feeling it sitting like concrete in my not-used-to-food-at-all tummy.

I know that I have to eat. I know that my biggest problem right now is that I have absolutely no strength and feel like I'm going to faint if I do more than one thing per standing up trip. (I can get juice OR I can answer the phone. I can't do both.) But the problem is that I just have no appetite and when I do eat a little it feels like I've gorged on half a wildebeest with fries.

Oh dear, and now I need to go lay down (lie down? I never learned the rules on that one) because I am, you guessed it, too weak to be sitting up any longer.

Damn, damn, damn
Today we cancelled our grand tour. Damn.

I was so sick this weekend that the concept of being well enough to count on two weeks of good health seems impossible. The last day to cancel was upon us, and I just couldn't commit. I dreaded the thought of being offshore of some exotic port and being too sick to leave the cabin. Between my bad back and my unpredictable ability to actually eat for two whole days in a row, it just seemed like a bad idea.

The bottom line is that I wasn't looking forward to it. I was actually kind of dreading it because I kept thinking "what if I get this sick in Turkey?"

Well, at least we no longer need to stress about what we're going to do with the cat.

Damn, damn, damn.

That darned cat!
So Husband and I have to finalize payment for our Grand Tour this week....and how lame are we that we're still upset about the prospect of leaving Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Disagree tm) for two weeks?

No, really, we are. Every time we think about our trip and look in those sweet green eyes we just melt. As Husband just said "we're gonna be tied to this house for the next 15 years without ever taking another vacation."

The problem is that she loves us. When she realizes that we're in a different room than she, she immediately gives out with a "where are you" meow and comes to find us. It's completely endearing....and heartbreaking when we think of her meowing in an empty house for two weeks.

Yes, we could put her in kitty boarding but:
a) we hate the thought of her being in a cage for that long
b) it's bad enough for her to misplace her people, without having to lose her familiar, cozy home
c) we've heard enough horror stories about cats getting sick from other cats in the boarding facility

My sister has volunteered to come in every day to feed her and clean her box, but that's only 15 minutes of human contact a day; not nearly enough for a cat as social and loving as Cipher.

Sigh....what are we gonna do?

Words as art
LOVE this! It's Wordie where you enter words (whatever strikes your fancy) and it turns it into art.

I made a short list of world music artists and created the above. Too cool!

Meanwhile, back in ER
Yeah, me. For the record, Wednesday morning at 6 am is the perfect time to go to Peninsula Hospital's ER. We walked right in, the doctor arrive as I was still tying up my ever-so-fetching-the-opening-goes-in-the-back gown, and we were home by 8:30.

I was up all last night with my patented mixture of excruciating back pain and nearly non-stop vomiting. (I'm hoping it's just a coincidence that I spent yesterday with my mother.) Luckily tomorrow I have an appointment with my wonderful massage therapist, Michael from PUSH Therapy and he's really helped me. And if he can't, the ER doc gave me a small prescription of Delaudin (or however it's spelled) which I will dole out like gold for those night, like last night, when I'm in pretty bad shape.

Anyway, once again the amazing folks at the ER made me feel better. And once again the amazing Husband puts his own life on hold to stay by my side, hold my had, pick up prescriptions, bring me juice, and remind me that in spite of all the pain and illness crap I deal with, I'm still the luckiest woman I know.

The great mother-daughter insanity continues
Please someone tell me that eventually you get over having a crazy mother.

Most of my Fabulous Female Friends have, or had, good relationships with their mothers. Me? Not so much. It might have something to do with the fact that I was raised in the 20th century by a 19th century woman. Unlike my other friends, whose parents took it for granted that college was in their future, my mother expressly did not want me to go to college. (Why bother to go to college when all you can hope for is marriage and motherhood?)

Literally since I've been able to think for myself I've thought "how do I be the exact opposite of what they want me to be?" And it hasn't been easy. Oh sure, sometimes, there are wonderful "don't let this happen to you" role models. When faced with a difficult decision, just ask "what would X do?" and then do the opposite. But most of the time it's uncharted water and when faced with extended periods of time with my mother, her unguarded mouth, and extremely weird viewpoint, I find myself desperately in need of some tequila, a hot bath, and a big ego boost. ("You really haven't done much with your life, have you?")

The one great consolation in all of this is that many of the aforementioned FFFs are raising equally fabulous daughters....who they are teaching to be strong, brave, proud, and ready for anything. The only problem is I'm secretly jealous of all these kids for having such amazing moms.

Hip deep in archers, fencers, and rowers
Yeah, Husband and I are total Olympic gluttons. We'll watch all 97 hours of coverage a day. (Oh the wonders of TiVo!) We especially like those sports you never see or hear of outside of the Olympics. We couldn't care less about basketball (Kobe who?), beach volleyball (why do the men get to wear shorts and tank tops but the women have to compete in two-piece bathing suits?), or soccer. Nope, we love the obscure sports. Give us more archery, fencing, or shooting.

Sure we'll watch the A-list sports (except for the above mentioned, we fast-forward through those). But we like swimming and track. But the "little" sports are just more interesting. Unfortunately, they get very little coverage. A network will show all 2-hours of a basketball game, but give you 10 minutes worth of shooting (basically the round that decides the winner), if they show them at all. It's annoying, but there it is. If it weren't for the US women's Epee team taking all three medals, I doubt we'd have seen any of that -- and all they showed was the gold medal round.

I know it's hard to compete with Michael Phelps, but it's sad that Olympians who work just as hard at their sport as he does get no love from the networks. Still, I'm loving having something to watch at 3 am other than informercials. Being able to turn on the TV and see Eventing Dressage (that involved horsies, for those who have no clue what I'm talking about) or women's skulls (which has nothing to do with anatomy) just makes me so happy.

And I love rooting for the underdog. The US will take home a passel of medals...I'm a sucker for the one swimmer from Tunisia or the first equestrian team from Israel. I'll cheer for them every time.

In other news, wish me luck....for the second week in a row I'll be doing kitten duty alone. It's freakishly hard on my back -- you wouldn't think taking care of kittens would be so physical, but it is. So no doubt tonight will find me in a Vicodin heap on my back and forcing poor Husband to take care of dinner. But it's worth it. I love taking care of the little guys until they're old enough to go to loving homes. Horray for kittens!

Missing culture
I just finished watching a fascinating documentary on PBS entitled A Yiddish World Remembered. It looked at Jewish life in Eastern Europe before WWII, featuring the memories of eyewitnesses about life in both small villages and large cities.

In spite of the poverty faced by most and tragedy and hardship faced by all two things struck me about these wonderful old people: how proud they were of their culture and how fondly they remembered their long-ago communities and rituals. Old eyes would light up at the memory of mother's latkes and and the preparations for Sabbath. Each had some wonderful memory to hold on to of being Jewish. And it struck me, once again, how much I wish I had a culture.

I'm a typical American mutt, a mix of French, Basque, Scots, a bit of Irish and (rumor has it) a tiny tiny bit of Native Canadian. But I have no culture. I was raised Catholic but no longer believe. And anyway, Catholics don't really have a culture, just guilt (which, unfortunately, I've kept). I'm not enough of any one national culture to have grown up with Scots folk dancing or Basque ... uh ... whatever it is that Basques do (besides herd sheep). I don't look forward every year to any kind of annual festival that celebrates my identity and I don't belong to any community besides where I live and my family of wonderful friends.

And sometimes I do feel like I'm missing out.

I've mentioned before how much I envy those of my friends who have a culture, or who have cultural traditions that they celebrate. I have no such touchstones in my life. Oh I have memories, sure. But nothing that I can share with people outside of my family. Once when I was in college I introduced two people who were friends of mine but who had never met. They both had Irish last names and within minutes where trading stories of step dancing classes, fiddle lessons, and debating whose mom made the best soda bread. People from different cultures can have similar discussions. At a Greek Festival once a Japanese friend and a Greek friend started commiserating at having their parents insist on traditional dress for certain occasions. All I could contribute was a story about how my mother would always try to get me into a dress for Easter.

There is a certain sense of rootlessness I feel at times. Sure we celebrate Christmas and Thanksgiving, but neither has a sense of continuation about it, though I do hang on tightly to what few rituals I do have regarding these occasions. For instance, I insist on a real tree. I always have to watch White Christmas while trimming the tree. And I don't consider Thanksgiving complete without the traditional food.

But sometimes I wish I had traditional dress or ancient dances, remembered prayers or a larger community with whom to celebrate occasions. Husband has no culture either so we share this desire. Although raised in the African American community, he feels to desire to start celebrating Kwanzaa or start wearing dashikis in public. I guess he and I are just destined to remain rootless mutts.

Sometimes there's just nothing to say...

Ta-da!
Behold the finished (well, nearly finished) music office! It's our new favorite room in the house and turned out better than we could have hoped. The photos are a bit dark, but the room is just plain gorgeous. The orange walls really set off our new furniture; especially the gorgeous CD case and new table. We splurged on a hideously expensive and equally hideously comfortable glider chair, and the new stereo arrives later this week. All we need to do is hang the art, get rid of a stack of empty boxes, and start wearing out the chair. I'll never see Husband again...

The music room
Finally! The painting is done. Behold our beautiful "Desert Orange" music room, complete with gorgeous new CD cabinet that handy Husband put together (with a little hindrance from the cat) last night. The new bookcases are stained and drying in the garage and we should be able to move everything in this weekend. At last!

Of course I was less than useful, having been sick last week and again on Wednesday. But we're done with the majority of the work and really looking forward to getting our books and Husband's music out of boxes and accessible once again.

More from the "you gotta be kidding" department
Just what every brainwashed child needs Armor of God jammies. (No, it's not a joke, alas.)

In a similar theme, check out this little item I know people think Apple is a religion, but this is carrying it a bit far.

CD Pick of the Week: Gaelic Storm
You just gotta love What's the Rumpus?it's crazy-good wild Celtic music with energy and talent for days. Acoustic instruments, great vocals, and serious fun. Contagiously catchy, delicious lyrics (with a surreal sense of humor) and a slice of everything from African drums to Irish bagpipes. Every track is so good!

When the cat wants to help
Today Husband and I started painting what will be his new music office. Unfortunately Cipher, The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Disagree (tm) wanted to help. She always wants to be where we are and that meant wandering around, near and, ultimately, through the paint. She didn't get too paint-y, but enough that we realized this was never going to work. We closed the door but as someone once observed, "a closed door is that thing that a cat always wants to be on the other side of." So she sat outside the door, meowing piteously (and effectively cutting off the Dinah Washington CD we were using to inspire our inner Picassos.)

When my back started to hurt (after a whole 15 minutes of painting) I went out with her, leaving poor Husband to toil all alone. But that's not enough for Cipher; she hates being kept outside of anything. So she's still sitting outside the room, meowing. She is one unhappy kitty. Maybe we should have waiting until she fell asleep.

Delayed grief. Again.
When my best friend died of AIDS in the mid-90s, and again when his partner died two years and two days later, I "inherited" some of their things. I put the word in quotes because there were no formal wills, just a division of memories among survivors.

At the time I was really not prepared, or even equipped, to deal with more heartache. So the boxes of mix tapes, the old photo albums, and the shoeboxes of birthday cards and letters, went into "the Closet of All Mysteries." The CoAM is the closet it our spare room. Perfect place to store things like this. It's inside the house so I didn't need to worry about the heat and dust of the garage. But it's a place I rarely, if ever, go. The only thing in there is my "interview suit" (OK, not a suit, just a good jacket that I wear when job hunting) and a few additional items of clothing that I never wear but can't bring myself to get rid of.

But with the project of turning the spare room into a music office well in swing, I've put off the closet excavation long enough. Today I started and within five minutes was already floored. I found "the world's ugliest shirt" I bought for Steve at Salvation Army. We wandered into one of their stores with 20 minutes to kill before a movie and we had to buy for each other the ugliest shirt we could find (or at least find for under $5). I won, and Steve had to walk into the film in this hideous polyester thing with green and brown polka dots on it. Truly freaking ugly, something no one would ever wear, and yet I can't bring myself to throw it into the donation pile.

I found a small bag full of cassette tapes full of the original Broadway casts of shows no one has ever heard of. "Big River?" (Note to the Lurker: Yes, you know what it is. Yes, you used to have the tape yourself. Yes, you can sing the love theme. Yes, we love you in part because you know this crap about obscure musicals.)

So what exactly is the Statute of Limitations on sorrow? Here I am, more than 10 years later, still unprepared to deal with getting all nostalgic at hideous shirts and crappy tapes. Is it because I didn't do it and get it over with right after I lost them? Or will I always be snuffly when I come across the letters I sent them when they lived in Chicago and which they kept all those years? (For the record, I am an incredibly dull correspondent.)

Luckily for me, however, not everything in the CoAM is emotionally booby-trapped. I came across the ugly lamp I had in my office when I worked for CrApple. I found a copy of the collected works of Tennyson that looks like a Soviet May Day parade ran over it. I found my tax returns from 1997, an old Halloween costume, and an old Spanish army jacket I bought at an antique store. And how have I survived all these years without easy access to my VCR copy of "Favorite Monty Python Bits."?

Me and my deep and abiding hatred...
...for ants. Hate, despise, and loath. Spiders I'm fine with. Snakes (not that you'll find them in my house) are cool. Hate (like all right thinking people) cockroaches (again, you won't find them in my house). But ants are the one thing that drives me crazy.

We live in an old house with lots of weird holes into the outside (or at least into the inside of the walls) and we have ants. Not a huge infestation, but they are there. A few random spies in the bathroom. Well, we trace under the rug, find what we think is the source, plug it up, spray, and move on. Then, again randomly, a few wandering in the living room. No clue where they come from since we can't find a trail. But we kill, vacuum, and they seem to go away.

Today it was the kitchen. Four or five explorers near the sink that I kill. Then, about 10 minutes ago, I go into the kitchen for some grapes and there's the beginning of a swarm. OK, maybe only 20 or so, but that's enough for me to get the willies. I go into serial killer mode. I lose reason, a passionate desire to kill fills my brain, and I can't kill them fast enough.

There are really few things that I fear (Oompa Lumpas being at the top of the list) and I do not, in fact, fear ants. I just hate them. I can take one or two but the thing that just creeps me out is when there are hundreds of them. Honestly, after a killing spree to rid myself of a swarm like that, I swear I can feel them walking on my skin for about an hour afterwards. It's one of the things in life that just get to me. I hate, hate, loath and again, fucking, hate ants.

I wanna be 20 again....
But only because it takes me forever to get over being sick these days. When I was 20 I could get the flu, spend 48-hours at death's door, and by ready to go dancing on the weekend. (Oh like I ever went dancing!)

Now it takes me a week to get over whatever the creeping zarfs throws at me. I was sick Wednesday-Friday and here I am on Monday and still feeling like the cat has more strength than I. (Hell, she probably does.)

I'm trying to eat, to get my strength back, but it's a slow process. Some dry cereal. A nap. Some juice and oooh....a nap. It's like I'm a baby again, only I don't think I slept this much as a baby. I was supposed to do my regular shift at the Humane Society today but knew it would be impossible. I'm supposed to fill in for someone there tomorrow. Again, unlikely. And I have my show tomorrow night. That's more likely as it's less physical work but, again, I'm not sure if I'm up for it.

Poor Husband. Last week he took the week off so that we could, among other things, paint the spare room and turn it into his music office. We got as far as cleaning out most of it when I got sick and the process stopped. Now our garage is full of boxes, new bookcases, and our soon-to-be-gorgeous new CD cabinet. And my car is exiled to the street for the duration. I feel awful (as opposed to sick) because by now we'd hoped to have the room painted and the things moved back in.

Our book group meets tonight. One of the highlights of my month. Luckily the house isn't too dreadful (since it's doubtful anyone will look in our office). But I still wish we were done. Sorry, Husband. This is one of the side effects of being married to Sick Girl.

In sickness and in....well, sickness
I've been feeling incredibly guilty for not doing AIDS Walk this year. It's tomorrow. It's also the first time in 16 years that I haven't signed up to walk. But I didn't think my back would be up for it. Now I don't feel guilty any more because guess who hasn't eaten since Wednesday? Anybody? That's right, me.

The creeping zarfs are back. I was sick all night on Wednesday (hey, sleep is overrated), a bit better on Thursday, and sick again yesterday. OK, I have eaten....I had a cup of soup on Thursday. And that's it. So I don't think a 10k walk is possible even if I had signed up. Thankfully my dear friends Jess and Andy are walking. They are two of the greatest people you will ever meet in my blog.

Back when I was a manager, Andy worked for me. He was so amazing I not only wanted to promote him and give him every possible raise, but I wanted to clone him, adopt him, and knit him sweaters. Truly one of the coolest guys ever. (Now he works with Husband. Well, he will for another two weeks or so. Sorry, Husband.) Jess is his gorgeous, fabulous wife and she has taken up the AIDS Walk banner. Thank you, Jess, you rock.

Now, for something completely different...

If you need a good laugh, check out The Ridiculous Race by Steve Hely & Vali Chandrakekaran, two TV sitcom writers who challenged each other to a race around the world (sans airplanes). Think Around the World in 80 Days meets Animal House. I'm only on page 30 and I've already laughed out loud more than I have in any book I've read all year. It's a truly hilarious, quirky, eye-wateringly funny account of travels, travails, and triumphs.

This you won't believe
Some insane yabbo named Brent Rinehart is running for Oklahoma County Commissioner and has produced a comic book (in pdf) which, among other things, stresses his condemnation of "homosexual preferences." It's scary, but it's also hilarious. My favorite is the image of a toga-clad scout leader dragging poor little Timmy into the woods to molest him.

I do not dance when I have my period
What is it with advertisers and women's products? I mean come on ladies, when you get your period do you dress entirely in white and do ballet moves on the beach? When you buy a new razor do you immediately put on your bikini and shave your legs by the pool? It's just plan silly.

I realize they want to suggest their products are so miraculous that you'll forget you have drop-dead painful cramps and can't fit into your favorite jeans. But really? Dancing? Hell I've even seen ads with women skipping. Yes, skipping down a busy street, pausing to admire their own reflection in a window. I've lost count of the times I've done that, complete a with Mary Tyler Moore-worthy spin of "I'm invincible. I'm spunky. I'm menstruating!" abandon. Oh the sheer joy of having a feminine hygiene product that turns the average women into an extra in Swan Lake.

There's one ridiculous razor commercial that states "every woman is a goddess of something." Uh, yeah, right. Apparently I'm the Goddess of Low Tolerance for Being Treated Like a Twit. I use a razor to scrape hair off my legs, not to lift my spirits to the point that cocaine seems dull. How lame are you if a new razor is the highlight of your day?

As an aside to this are cleaning product ads where the most anal retentive housekeepers have the most disgustingly dirty houses on the planet. Here's some woman claiming that protecting her family from dirt and germs is like a calling from God and then they show her bathtub which looks as if a bunch of frat boys have been mud wrestling in it. And why, oh why are we still being shown that women are the keepers of the house? I don't know of any modern marriage where the guy doesn't pitch in with the laundry, cooking, or general cleaning. And yet it's still the perkily perfect wife and mom (always a mom, that's key) who is the one that actually smiles as she mops her kitchen floor. I have never in my life smiled while mopping a floor. Perhaps if I mop the floor when I have my period I'll be doubly inspired and start jetee-ing across the room.

Too exhausted to write
I had good intentions of writing something pithy and/or witty tonight but I'm too tired. Today was Day 1 of "Let's Turn the Spare Room into Something We Can Actually Use" and I am just plain pooped.

So until I get my mind and my energy back, check out The Museum of Bad Art. Be afraid...

Home improvements
Husband and I are bravely undertaking a bit of a home improvement scheme. Since we're only renting it's not as if we're learning how to re-tile a bathroom or put a jacuzzi in the kitchen.

Nope, just paint a few new pieces of furniture and a buttload of cleaning out. It's that last part I dread.

We're turning our former guest room, current store room, into a music office for Husband. He just ordered a gorgeous new CD cabinet that supposedly holds 1400 CDs. This should hold most of his collection, probably all if he thin-packs more of his music. That will also free up some storage space in the CD rack in our living room so I can finally have my CDs organized as well. We're also planning on adding two new bookcases as well, which should eliminate the piles of books that carpet the floor of the room.

The only problem is where to put the stuff that currently lives in our spare room. You see, that's where we (OK, I) put all those things that I don't know where else to put. The two big fans that only come out during heatwaves. Our luggage. Extra blankets and pillows. Leftover fabric from various projects (mostly pillows). And things that I keep because I don't want to get rid of them. High school yearbooks. Photo albums of long-gone friends. Old Halloween costume bits (because you never know when you'll get the urge to dress up like Mary, Queen of Scots and go to Safeway). There are two old dressers in that room and I happen to know every drawer is filled with something I'll either need to toss in the name of space economy or find a new home for in a home that has no room left.

I'm beginning to understand why people rent storage lockers.

We do have a loft in our garage where we can keep some things. The fans, for instance. But it's hardly a conducive space for storing photos or clothing. Plus it's a pain in the ass (and a two person job) to get everything up there and down again when you need them. I also have boxes of things from when I used to have an office or cubicle. I love to have a highly decorated space to work in so I have probably 3 or 4 boxes filled with postcards, fabric, toys, tchockes, pen holders, posters, and a bodily fluid clean-up kit (don't ask). Again, don't want to dump them.

Husband, with his usual flair for perfection has measured the space, measured the furniture, and made a computer model showing where everything will go. It's lovely. But there's no extra room. If I clean out the closet (again, tossing or moving to....where??) I can probably store some of my absolute treasures that I can't bear to lose. But I know that in the next few days I'm going to on a monumental sort out. It'll be good to de-clutter, I know, but why is it always so hard?

Once we get the room painted (we bought a gorgeous shade of orange...trust me, it'll rock!) and get everything set up it'll be a wonderful room for Husband to listen to, review, and write about music. But I cannot help but wish it were twice as big and had room for me to keep everything I want.

It's amazing how attached we get to property, isn't it? I have many items that belonged to my beloved best friend who has been gone for over 10 years now, and yet still I can't bring myself to throw away his tacky Hawaiian shirt or the coat he gave me and that Husband hates so much. (OK, I'll never get rid of that....sorry Husband. But I promise never to wear it around you.) Then there are books that I know I will never read again that I just can't put in the Salvation Army box.

Oh god, it just hit me....Christmas! Where am I going to put all my Christmas shopping? I always put it in the spare room because Husband never goes in there. (Why should he? The only thing in there is clutter and the cat box and cleaning the cat box is my job.) But my eternal Christmas shopping drop zone is going away!

You'd think two people living in a 3 bedroom house with have plenty of room but you'd be wrong. Our house is actually quite small. In fact, when everyone in our bookgroup shows up for a meeting our living room is crammed to the gills. But when you have two people who cannot seem to stop acquiring new books or music, space fills up pretty quickly.

Maybe I can accept that I'm a lousy cook, insist on take-out for the rest of our marriage, and use our oven to store my summer clothes.

Confessions of a lousy housekeeper
Yeah, I confess. I'm bad. I am so far removed from Donna Reed that I don't even bother to put on pearls and a housedress when I dust. Sad, isn't it?

Now in my own defense I will remind readers that I have a bad back. This makes chores like scrubbing the bathtub or mopping the floor painful, difficult and, well, stupid. I can do it, but I'll need at least 8 hours of recovery and several vicodins to recover. Is it worth it to have a pristine white bathroom? I'm am dubious. But the end result is that our house is most often a mess.

Poor Husband tries. I know he gets fed up with the clutter, especially since he's hard at work at the Bad Place all day while I'm at home with Cipher, the World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree (tm). You'd think that I'd feel so guilty at being "kept" that I'd be a veritable demon with broom and mop. But, alas for poor Husband, while I do feel guilty I don't exactly do anything about it.

However tomorrow we have friends coming over for dinner (The Lurker and Mr. Lurker), which means, if nothing else, I have to at least clear a layer off the dining room table.

But the problem is, and this is really what keeps me from tidying up on a regular basis, there's just no place to put anything. You'd think 2 people living in a 3 bedroom house would have plenty of space for stuff. But you'd be wrong in our case. Our two main clutter items, books and CDs, take over every available flat space we have. And we're fresh out of official storage for both. Every bookcase is crammed, ever CD rack is full. And yet we acquire more. From where I sit I can see 13 books on the dining table, that's 13 brand-new books, none of which we have room for. So where the heck am I gonna put them?

The "spare room" is full of pile upon piles of books already. Not to mention boxes of CDs. We have this grand plan of turning the room into a music room for Husband, complete with comfy chair, nice stereo, and a place to write. But in order to do that we'll have to find a place for the piles to go. Which means more bookshelves. And a new CD rack. And (as confessed before) since I'm not working we really should be watching our finances -- so buying new furniture is really not the best idea for our 1-income family.

So I pick things up and move them around. This pile goes here (at least for now), that shelf can hold two or three more books if I lay them horizontally on top of the other books. We can probably put all these CDs in a new pile since they haven't been listened to in about a year and oh look, I wondered where that was.

Honestly it's enough to make me want to say "Hey Lurker, mind if we do this at your beautiful, always have enough room, larger than ours by quite a lot house?"

Sigh...

Nope, not scared
This morning I watched Rosemary's Baby, which I haven't seen in ages. I recall it being very creepy. Today, not even a shiver. Of course it was broad daylight, 80 degrees in the house, and not at all an atmosphere conducive to the creeps. But the fact is that when you're an adult and you watch a movie that scared you as a kid you very rarely (if ever) feel that thrill of fear again. Oh it's still a good film (although it gave me the giggles at the end when Ruth Gordon what shouting "hail Satan!") but I was completely unmoved.

What I find fascinating is how different the experience is when it's about a book. If I ever happen to pick up a book that I loved as a child, I find that the same book still enchants and delights me. And quite often when I pick up a book that I was forced to read in high school, and hated, I find that as an adult it's a completely different animal entirely.

I wonder why that is? Why is a childhood memory of a book still true and a childhood memory of a film so false? While wandering through a bookstore recently I came across a children's book that held fond memories for me. Turning the pages I was still charmed and it was all I could do to resist buying it. And yet a few months back I watched a movie that I recall as being hilarious as a child and was stunned at how entirely un-funny it was.

Very strange thing, the mind, ain't it?

Postcards from abroad
Perhaps it's the child in me, but I love, love, love to get postcards from friends who are traveling. In today's world where the personal letter is a thing of the past, it's really the only type of personal mail that still exists. It's especially wonderful when you didn't know that the person who sent the card was out of the country.

Yesterday's mail brought a postcard from Ireland, where the Belle of Belfast City is on vacation in the land of her ancestors. The Belle is a wonderful woman; beautiful, smart, funny, loyal, the type of friend that anyone would love to have. I am, however, luckier than most in that there's a whole host of women like the Belle who add color and warmth to my life. The Lurker. The Foreigner. Mama D. The Haiku Queen. SdeM. I'm not sure what wonderful things I may have done in my past life to deserve such great friends, but I'm very grateful that I did them.

Anyway, back to the postcard. It's such a minor thing. I mean I know how it is. You stop at some little shop and by a dozen cards. Then you spend an evening writing them all to friends and family, struggling to find a way to fill up three inches of white space. But it's so wonderful to receive one. Like small gifts. Amid the bills, catalogs, and junk mail there's this small cardboard scrap of humanity.

I know, I'm all soppy. But I do so love to be reminded how lucky I am. Thanks, Belle.

Shakespeare dreams
Lately, for some reason, Shakespeare has been on my mind.

A long time (another lifetime ago?) I was an acting major with dreams of performing all the grand female roles. Although I never saw myself as Juliet. She was too soppy. I am too plain. But ah, the others. Portia. Rosalind. And my absolute favorite, Beatrice.

But reality got in the way. In spite of being a damned fine actress I came nose-up against the glass wall that decrees that talented men who are less that gorgeous can still be cast in a role. But talented women without beauty cannot. Relegated to best friend, servant, and comic relief parts, I gave up my dream; realizing that my fragile ego was no match for the cruelty of casting.

Yet lately Shakespeare has regained his place in my brain. Perhaps it's having just watched season 2 of the Showtime series The Tudors. All that pre-Elizabethan history no doubt shook some dust off of old memories and vanished dreams. Snatches of long-ago monologues sneak into my brain as I fold laundry or drive down the highway.

I do fear thee, Claudio, and I quake lest thou a fervent life should entertain and six or seven winters more respect than a perpetual honor. (That's Isabella from Measure for Measure in case you're wondering.

And now, like an odd TV omen, I channel surf ahead of insomnia and find a repeat of the fascinating documentary In Search of Shakespeare. At the moment, Michael Wood and his dulcet British tones is in a timbered school that Shakespeare attended as a boy. I remember the first time I went to Stratford-Upon-Avon and attended a production by the Royal Shakespeare Company. I thought I was in heaven. My acting days were not long behind me and I had marvelously harmless daydreams of being up on that stage. I walked by the river, under trees drooping with green leaves, and wandered into the church where the Bard is buried. It was like a pilgrimage.

But the 17th row is about as close as I'll ever get to performing Shakespeare again. And yet, at odd times....while waiting for a light to change or standing in line at the grocery store...I'll smile to myself at the memory of those days, long ago, when I was a Shakespearean heroine.