Photo of the day: Fresh Start

The roses in our yard look completely different as buds and in full flower. When they bud they're this delicious peach color and wound tight, as if not too sure about coming out into the world. But within a day or two they loosen up completely, holding nothing back, like the drag queens of the rose world. All but bursting into "I Am What I Am" while they strut their stuff.

Photo of the day: Crank up the Victrola

From a stash of old (ancient) records I got from my mother. These things are historical artifacts. I'd love to play them but I'm not sure our turntable can handle them...or even if they make the right needles anymore. But they're cool to look at.

Goodbye to J
One of my favorite relatives died yesterday. Before you get all "aww..." about it I must say I haven't seen her in 20 years, she was almost 90 and the "favorite relative" part is based entirely on memories of when I was a kid. So this is not a seriously depressing, soul-damaging loss.

"J" and my father were first cousins. (J's mother and my grandmother were sisters.) J's eldest son is my godfather though, like his mom, I haven't seen him since I was in high school.

J was a total character. The one with the infectiously rude laugh. The one who told mildly dirty jokes to the kids, which completely endeared her to us all. She'd drink like a fish back when all the adults at parties had "highballs" rather than just wine. She would grab any baby that came her way out of the arms of any unsuspecting mother and not give the baby back until the party was over. She drove an ancient brown station wagon like it was a Sherman tank and was one of the keepers of the family lore. Need to know how great Uncle Fred was actually related to the family (his stepfather was Auntie's M's third husband)? Ask J. Can't remember if the C family moved to Marin County before or after the 1906 quake? Ask J.

I'm going to miss J. Not in a "crying because of my loss" way but in a "she was a force of nature and the world is slightly dimmer without her" way.

So thanks to J for all the memories. For being partially responsible for giving me my first martini (at my father's funeral). For giving me a tube of waxy red lipstick for my 13th birthday. For leading the family in the Charleston at a cousin's wedding. I'm gonna miss you.

Photo of the day; Overhead, Underfoot

I love this little arch of trees over the trail up by Crystal Springs Lake. I suppose it could look kind of spooky under the right conditions, like something from Little Red Riding Hood. But here it's peaceful. No woodsmen. No wolves in granny's clothing. Just some chirping from the various birds and the distant sound of traffic, It's peaceful and, on stretches like this, wonderfully empty.

Me and My Tasty Hair
Cipher (the World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) has this thing about licking my hair. The thing is, she likes it. No, she loves it. At least once a night she'll curl up on my pillow and go to town like I'm an ice cream cone and she's Kirstie Alley. And once she starts in, she won't be persuaded to stop. Nothing. NOTHING will distract her. If I put a blanket over my head, she pulls at it (or, actually, at my head, which hurts muchly) until she gets access again. If I put my hand between the uber scratchy tongue and my hair she'll just make an end run in a move the Niners haven't seen in far too long.

Now here's the odd part....some of the cats at the shelter lick my hair too. Just today two of them went for me. One jumped up on a chair while I was sitting on the floor, said "yay, dessert!" (but only in cat-speak) and went forth with some serious tongue action. Another kitty gained access while I was carrying him. He had his head up by my shoulder and took the opportunity to indulge in an afternoon snack.

So is my hair tuna-scented or what? I just use normal regular shampoo. Nothing with fish oil. Nothing with a chicken-and-rice base. I don't condition with kibble. And yet cats the world over apparently consider me a delicacy. I am on menus in Thailand. You can order me on a stick in several Eastern European countries. In Africa I am reserved for visiting dignitaries and heads of state that don't taste nearly as well as I.

I know. you're so jealous. Ha, ha....I taste good and you don't.

Photo of the day: Hard at Work

There's something so unpretentious about an old pair of work gloves. Even if yours do nothing more than keep you from getting splinters when you close the back gate, they have a sort of dull reliability that is kind of comforting. And each crease and oil spill, every mysterious stain just makes them more interesting.

Photo of the day: A Shot of Red

I'm playing around with objects from the house. In this case, a shot glass on top of one of Husband's cast-off shirts. Nothing fancy, but I liked the contrast of red and glass.

The Cat House
I have written often about the neighborhood cats. Our yard is the flop house of choice. When you consider our half-price drinks during Happy Hour and all-you-cat-eat kippers buffet, I guess it's not a surprise. But I thought you might like to see some of the regulars so you know who I'm talking about.

First off we have Stripeycat:

He looks like a bigger, tougher version of Cipher (the World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm). Stripeycat likes to monitor the fence. I guess he's part Marine. He's also been known to hang out in front of our house. He's a big of a longer, though has been known to pal around with a big white guy that I can't seem to photograph.

Our next contestant is Pigpen:

We call her that because she's a long hair kitty that always looks disheveled because she's a stray. She spends entire days in the side of our yard. She's there from about 10 am until the sun goes down. Unlike the other kitties, she doesn't hang in the back yard, always the side. It's odd, because it's not a very sheltered area, and you can see her coat blowing in the breeze, but she seems quite comfy curled up on the concrete looking like she desperately needs a good combing.

Mamacat is one of the breeders:

She's had at least two litters. There was another cat who looked just like her....so much so that we can't be sure if there was one cat or two that looked like this, but we think this is Mamacat, version 2.0. And, if our kitty luck holds, Mamacat will have litter number three who will probably look a lot like their father...

Lazyboy:

Aside from getting caught in the act with Mamacat, I have never seen this cat when he wasn't asleep. OK, I saw him hop over the fence once, but most of the time this is how you'll see him....lying in a puddle by the fence. I'm just hoping that when I saw he and Mamacat doing the nasty yesterday I was fast enough to render the whole thing inconceivable.

Photo of the day: A Rose by Any Other Name

The roses on this bush have the sweetest fragrance. Sort of old-fashioned, Victorian. The kind of think you can imagine your grandmother picking in her garden. They're a lovely pale rosy pinky yellow. Hard to define, harder to photograph. But so wonderful to sniff.

Coincidences
What is the cosmic rule about coincidences? There's the odd thing where, for example, you think about a song you haven't heard in years. Then you get into the car and it's playing on the radio. Or you get a craving for Chinese food and your significant other calls to say "I have a craving for Chinese food, let's get take out tonight."

Right now it's the name Pandora. Yesterday I heard the phrase "Pandora's box" which I haven't heard for ages. Then today I pick up a book and one of the characters is named Pandora. And a few minutes ago I was on Facebook and a friend mentioned the name Pandora as an artist whose music he was enjoying.

Things like that happen quite often. You'll go for years without thinking about some obscure actor like Edward Everett Horton and suddenly he's in three movies on TV on the same day. You'll wonder when X will come out with a new CD and it shows up in your mailbox. Your old friend Y (who moved to Ohio 15 years ago and disappeared from your radar) will pop into both your mind and your inbox on the same afternoon.

The thing is, you can't force it. You can send cosmic brainwaves into the universe that hope your sweetie will spontaneously pick up a pizza on his way home from work and he either shows up without dinner or with burritos. You'll wish the classic movie station will play The Big Sleep because you're in the mood to see it and turn on the TV to find they're airing a tribute to Paul Muni. You'll keep your fingers crossed that when it's your friend's turn to pick the place for lunch she'll vote for sushi and find yourself eating pasta.

There's just no rigging things your way when it comes to coincidences. I guess if you force it it's not a coincidence, it's a choice. Or an action. Sure if I want pizza I can call Husband and say "please pick up a pizza on the way home," but it's not the same, is it? It's really only magical when the universe reads your mind and gives you what you want.

I hope the universe is tuned into you this week.

Photo of the day: Bridges

There's a short concrete bridge up along the walk I took a few weeks ago. Opposite this post is a gorgeous view. So of course I took a picture of concrete.

In Expectation of Kittens
Our backyard is feral cat central. A nearby neighbor feeds them, but they hang out here. At times I've seen as many as five cats at one time lounging around like we're the Playboy Mansion. This has been going on for as long as I've lived here. I've thought about trapping them, and maybe I will, if only to have them fixed.

Because every year our backyard has kittens.

Every summer, usually around July, we'll start to notice kittens in the yard. Typically it's only one litter, but that's enough. Anywhere from two to five little furry bodies starts laying in our sunshine, curling up by our fence, and pooping on the lawn. For a while there was one kitty we called Mama Cat because she seemed to be the one that did all the breeding. We've seen others, though, but it never fails that we have one fertile kitty every summer who decided our nice, quiet, dog-free yard is the perfect place for her offspring to play.

And every year, about this time, we begin to hear, late at night, the mating call of the annoying feral cat. Part Rebel Yell (from the Civil War, not from Billy Idol) part bad German opera, and part "I think my car needs a tune-up) this call is the serenade to my insomnia. I'll be curled up, watching a movie, and from the yard I'll hear that unmistakable "yowwrrr" that tells me to start boiling the water and getting the clean towels ready. I've heard it twice in the past week and I just know someone is getting it on. I can hear the Barry White in the background. I've tried knocking on the window, turning on the light, and otherwise doing my bit to ruin the mood, but I know it won't help. They'll just go down to the basement while dad and I are at the Lion's Club Dance and do the nasty on the spare sofa. Damned kids.

I really need to talk to someone at the Humane Society about trapping the strays and getting them fixed. In the meantime, I'll start preaching abstinence because, you know, that really works.

Photo of the day: Under a Grecian Sky

Under a Grecian sky a temple rises. Corinthian columns supporting a tholos. Only it's not in Greece, it's in California. And it's a temple to water, not a god or goddess. Still beautiful, though.

Photo of the day: Choose Your Own Virgin

Mexican or African? It's your call. But I must tell you that the African one comes with assorted saints at no additional charge.

A Spot of Breaking and Entering
Both Husband and I are going through this. Breaking into one project, putting it down and entering into another. In that way, nothing gets done. It's the old cycle of a small number of things pile up which you don't have time to do. By the next week the small pile is bigger and still you have no time. Plus you've started a completely different pile someplace else and have to get to that. And so on and so forth. Until you have piles up to your ears and are paralyzed with fear and indecision as to what to get to first. So you do nothing. And that just makes it worse. And on the pile grows.

Husband and I talked about this tonight, that depressing, discouraging place you get to when the amount of work you have to do sucks the will to work out of you. And, of course in this economy, the haunting bugaboo in the back of the brain "I can't loose this job" only adds to the anxiety, no matter how you might try to write her out of the script.

We're trying a new split-team plan where I pitch in with his work because I have time and he reciprocates by actually taking time to breathe now and then.

In the meantime I ask the universe to be nice to my Husband this week. He needs some cosmic fortune cookie to go his way.

Photo of the day: Playing with Fire

I hope my brother the fire chief doesn't see this and right me up for fire safety violations. I had to go through about a dozen matches to get it right and I'm still not happy with it. Oh well...it'll come to me.

Photo of the day: Step 1

Step one, put cocoa into your cup. Step two, add hot milk. Step three, pour in a dash of Bailey's. Step four, a dash of whipped cream. Sigh...

Photo of the day: The Sacred Crystal of Zardon

I know. It looks like some cheesy prop from the original Star Trek but it's just a bookend. I like the blue, though.

Photo of the day: Thread

I always have a camera in my purse now and couldn't resist shooting some of the colors and textures I saw at a fabric store where I went to buy yarn. These spools of thread weren't the most colorful, but something about their placement appealed to me.

Sita Sings the Blues
A friend turnes us onto a lovely animated film called Sita Sings the Blues. It's quirky and delightful, full of wonderful old-time blues and jazz music. Nina Paley, the artist who wrote, animated, directed, edited and basically did it all is the creator of this beautiful, colorful film full of magic, mythology, love, cats, and wild imagination. It's hard to put into words except to say that I found it delightful.

When you visit the page you can learn more about buying a copy of the film or just making a donation to keep the artist and the art alive. I think you'll want to. We need to subsidize our geniuses.

Shoes
I bought a pair of shoes today. They look kinda like this:

I don't have that female gene that loves shoes, craves shoes, collects shoes, and all but has sex with shoes. I own nothing with a higher heel than these and I only buy new shoes when the old ones fall apart. I tend to wear only one pair of shoes during the week. I don't have a lot of variation. If they're comfy and work with jeans, I'll wear them to death. Like my last pair.

I love New Balance shoes. Not sure why. It's not like they fit better or are more comfy than other shoes I've worn, I just like them. Now I have a new pair and the old ones that I'll throw into my trunk. (I have a pair of shoes that I'll only wear at the Humane Society and I leave them in car so as not to track animal cooties in the house and get Cipher sick.)

When I bought the shoes today it was a big thing for me. For two reasons. First, I don't like spending money on anything other than books or music. Secondly I hate to shop for anything clothing-related. And we're not talking about dropping $500 on a pair of Italian heels. These shoes cost less than $50 and still I felt bad for spending so much money.

And, of course, after convincing myself that the shoes are a necessity and not a luxury I find I'm in for another expense. Anubis (my car) decided to crack his muffler pipe and now my car sounds like a souped-up muscle car. The poor thing does have 180,000 miles on it and is 10 years old...so I guess it's forgivable. But I just know we're talking big, expensive repair here. Since I'm not working we're a bit tight on money and I could really do without a couple of hundred bucks in car work. But it's so loud I felt conspicuous driving home on El Camino.

So here I am, feeling guilty for dropping $50 on shoes and just knowing the repair is going to make me wince. I'm thinking about selling my plasma.

Photo of the day: The Air is Full of Spices

When cooking around here you throw in some spices and then throw in twice more than you did the first time. Flavor is the goal and you cannot have too much taste in your spaghetti sauce or chicken soup. We go through a lot of spices, Except for fennel, which just sits there, fossilizing in the jar.

Photo of the day:The Gates to the Afterlife

Even in death the wealthy can one-up us poor dead folk. They can raise tombs to rival the pharoahs. These gates are what the sphinxes are guarding for eternity. I can see why, they're beautiful.

Big Thick Shakes
When I was in high school there was a hang-out spot called "Lyons." A 24-hour coffee shop with waitresses in actual uniforms and 5-page laminated plastic menus. Everything on the menu had a description. It wasn't just a hamburger, it was a "Fresh-Grilled Hamburger Sandwich Deluxe." Or you could get "Hot Pancakes." Because who wants cold ones? My favorite menu description was the milkshake, listed as "Big Thick Shakes in Tall, Shiny Shakers." My best friend, Steve, would always order one exactly like that. "I'd like a big, thick shake in a tall, shiny shaker, please." It would come in a tall parfait glass with the remainder in a frosty cup that ran condensation down onto the formica tables.

We'd sit in orange plastic booths and, at seventeen, feel grown-up ordering coffee. (Remember, this was before there was a Starbucks on every corner and 6-year olds sucked down lattes on their way to French school.) True to stereotypes, the local cops would come in and sit at the counter, downing slices of cherry pie or eating club sandwiches with those colored toothpicks holding them together.

There were plastic flowers in plastic planters and a plastic smell to the no-doubt asbestos-filled carpet. The really only safe things there were hamburgers and fries. Anything else was highly suspect. The fried chicken should have come with its own defibrillator paddles. The mysterious chicken fried steak (is it steak? is it chicken?) came in a lake-full of gravy you could swim in. And every breakfast tasted like fish. Everything. Eggs. The aforementioned hot pancakes. Not sure how they managed to make bacon taste like fish, but they did.

There was a "banquet room" where the local Kiwanis would meet and where we the drama department of my high school had an end-of-year dinner complete with speeches and trophys. Lyons even had a bar attached which I never went in. First because I was too young. Then because the place stopped being anyplace I would go. We used to joke about sneaking in and ordering martinis. A bit of alcohol made have made the fake rock-paneled walls and mystery carpet look more appealing and less like a waiting room for purgatory. There was always something dingy and vaguely moldy about the spot that, at times, seemed intriguing. But that was only because we lived in suburbia and were too young to know better. Once we all got driver's licenses we branched out and found new and better places to get our 2 am breakfasts and salt-and-grease-with-a-side-order-of-fries.

Lyons sadly closed ages ago and was torn down circa 2003. A Walgreens now stands at the place where we went for breakfast after grad night, burgers after band practice, and big, thick shakes in tall, shiny shakers. I don't miss the place, but I will always miss the place.

Cat of the week: No cat
I have decided to discontinue my Cat of the Week feature. Oh don't worry, I still have one, but for a variety of reasons I won't be posting them any longer. There are PHS rules about what volunteers can and cannot post on the internet and I don't want to violate those rules and, therefore, get canned. But if any of you are thinking of adopting a cat from PHS and want advice, please let me know. I get to work with them every week and would be happy to tell you more about the wonderful kitties they have.

Photo of the day: Choices

Every door is a choice. A choice to open the closet door or the linen closet. To open the kitchen door and take out the trash or open the door to the music office and get some reviewing done. I think there are entire horror movie genres about opening doors. Behind one the monster that will eat out your entrails. Behind another the option to be chased in your underwear through a snake-infested forest. Then there are the metaphysical, philosophical doors. Quitting a job is closing a door. Starting college again is opening one. But for now, I'm being literal. This is the knob to a door. My closet door, to be exact, Keeper of robes and jammies. Of jeans and boots. No monsters (unless you count the sweater I got from my mom for Christmas) but no model of fashion glory. Which is why the outside of the door is more attractive than the inside.

On the trail

Up at Camp Sawyer Road the weather was perfect for a walk. Lots of bird, squirrels, lizards and, best of all, deer.


We also wandered along shady walks with trees curling overhead in suitably photogenic arcs.

With random flowers poking red heads out of green leaves. Looking more like Hawaii than California.

We even passed the tree of love and, in spite of our anniversary, refrained from adding our names to the roster.


I took about 50 more pictures. which I will spare you, but I urge you to up there sometime. Stand still, and watch the deer come out for lunch. It's magic.

Photo of the day: Saints

I love stained glass. It's hard to photograph, and I'm not real happy with this one. But the colors make up for it. From a local Catholic church.

Nine Years
Nine years ago today Husband and I had our first date. Actually it was a few weeks before our previously scheduled first date, but fate intervened. I was doing a Saturday morning radio show at that time and he came to the station to hang out. And that was it. We said hello at about 10 am that morning and said goodnight at about 2 am that night. I woke up single and fell asleep in love.

It's been a great ride. We moved in together a few months later and we've been madly in love since that first day. Although it took him a few years to talk me into marrying him we have always been truly happy. Trust me, I know how rare that is and how lucky we are.



Neither of us ever wanted kids but both of us wanted a cat and, again, we got extremely lucky when we adopted Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) and our little family of three is thriving.

Thanks, Husband, for nine wonderful years. For putting up with me at my worst and still loving me in spite of myself. For killing ants, opening jars, teaching me about jazz, sharing your amazing family with me, and not minding that cheesesteaks make me sick.

Photo of the day: Just This Side of Delphi

It's an oracular view, isn't it? With the sun peaking out from the column. You'd think Greece rather than California. But you'd be thinking wrong. This one is a tribute to my Classical education and my love of the Corinthian column.

Self-Portrait in Water Fountain

I don't do portraits. I just don't have the knack of photographing people. I wish I did. And I certainly don't do self-portraits. Mostly because I don't like having my picture taken. But this one appealed to me. I'm so shiny!

Photo of the day: Springtime in Suburbia

Springtime in the SF Bay Area. California Poppies and white picket fences. Blue skies with clouds kicked around by the sweeping wind. Weather that tempts you to wear short sleeves at your peril as it always looks warmer than it really is.

Nights in White Satin
What is sexy? And why is one thing sexy for one person and totally silly for another? Then there are the stereotypes, the icons of sensuality that society has placed on a platter and served up for our carefully programmed titillation.

Eons ago I spent the night at a friend's house. He wasn't there, it was a last-minute thing with me staying overnight with his dog who was recovering from surgery (don't ask). Because the friend hadn't been expecting me to spend the night his house hadn't been friend-proofed. I didn't care about the gay porn at the bedside or the sex toys on the bathroom counter. But the satin sheets drove me crazy. Don't get me wrong, the were clean and fresh -- it wasn't that which bothered me. It was the fact that I, quite literally, slid out of bed twice. No, really. It was like sleeping on Crisco (which, for all I know, might be an actual fetish).

But the stereotypical setting for seduction, the no-doubt costly satin sheets, were a hilarious disaster. How do people actually have sex on those things? Maybe the friction holds you down. All I know was that sleeping there was almost hazardous to my health.

There are other things that are almost comic-book sexy that I've never seen the attraction of. I don't, for instance, do sexy underwear. Victoria can keep her damned secret. I have no desire to squeeze into a bustier or put on stockings with garters. Garters, for god's sake! And why would I want to torture myself with a bra designed by the Spanish Inquisition? I'm sure men like it, and no doubt Husband wouldn't object if I owned something other than cotton, but I just can't see myself spending money on lingerie that I could be spending on books or music.

I realize that turn-ons are a very personal thing. And I logically understand that people have all sorts of interests that just fail to interest me. Some things I get, even if they don't "do" me. I see the sexiness of a Playboy centerfold, the playful sensuality of the Petty girl, the romance novel setting of candles and music. But I also get that if I walked into a room lit with candles, with fuck-me music on the stereo and rose petals scattered on the bed, I'd probably burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all. Sorry, I just happen to find spontaneous bursts of lust to be far more enticing than a stage set, no matter how carefully choreographed.

It's like Valentine's Day. I can't be extra in love just because the calendar tells me to be. And I can't get in the mood if I'm sliding off the damned bed.

Little Head, Big Window

Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) loves to sit in our front window and watch the world go by. Whenever we walk or drive up to our house and see her in the window it always melts our hearts. There's just something so winsome about that little tiny head in the big window that is amazingly cute. Yeah, I know, crazy cat parents. But even without being smitten with the kitten, I think this is a cute picture.

Photo of the day: Post and Wire

Keeping me out? Keeping the wildflowers in? Keeping the deer from road or the bicyclists from the dirt? Whatever the reason, this post and barbed wire does the job. Makes a cool photograph too.

Photo of the day: What the hummingbirds liked

Someone with an greener thumb than I could no doubt tell you what this is in both English and Latin. I was just lucky to get it in my sights while I took this week's walk. Rather harkens back to that first theme when yellow was my nemesis. The one would have filled the bill nicely. It's growing lovely in the hills along the trail.

Eavesdropping...
Only one item this week.

Overheard on Camp Sawyer Trail

"They're trying to get her into some sort of special Montezuma school."

...

Photo of the day: Sorrow

People really used to know how to mourn.

Death has lost some of its ritual in contemporary society. No black armbands or windows with the shades drawn. It used to be the whole world knew you had lost someone. The trappings of sorrow marked you out and, in some ways, helped the world to treat you with gentleness. Now there is no way to tell when someone is grieving.

Monuments, too, have lost their monumentality. When my father died in the early 80s the cemetery he was buried in had already instituted a rule against standing memorials. Only flat stones. Ease of groundskeeping had taken precedent over art and tradition. No mausoleums. No tombs. No weeping angels or vigilant cherubs. Just a stone flush against the grass.

But back then, people really used to know how to mourn. As this sorrowful shot attests.

In the land of the rosary
I was raised Catholic. A strong Catholic family. Eight years of Catholic school. First Communion. Confirmation. Confession. Holy days. I received ashes on Ash Wednesday, got my throat blessed on St. Blaise Day, took palms on Palm Sunday and said the rosary when anybody died.

I stopped going to church in high school and honestly don't think I ever believed. But one thing I did like was rosary beads.

I never liked saying the rosary. All those endless Our Fathers and Hail Mary's. Kneeling for half an hour on uncomfortable wood. And it was always some sort of depressing occasion. But I loved the beads. When I was little I thought they were so beautiful. All the different types of beads, the colors and textures. Like jewelry. I wanted to wear them around my neck but was forbidden. They were sacred. Special. Not to be played with in spite of their enticements. And it seemed everyone in my family had a set that was so fitting to who they were.

My grandmother, the ascetic, had strong black beads, no-frills. Almost masculine in their holy simplicity. She kept them hanging from the post of her bed. Her room was just this side of a medieval chapel anyway, with a solemn wooden crucifix on the wall and a holy water holder hanging by the door. Every so often, when we went to church, she'd fill a small glass bottle with blessed water from the font at the door and use it to replenish the supply in her room. She would say the rosary on long road trips and once a week or so, sitting bolt upright in bed. Not the warmest of women, my grandmother.

My mother's set was blue. Fake crystals that shone in the light, with a silver crucifix hanging below. Hers were kept in her jewelry box. A white leather case filled with costume necklaces and earrings. The only real jewelry my mother owned, and still owns, is her beautiful wedding and engagement ring. Her beads were in a little velvet bag that nestled nest to her "aurora borealis" necklace and the green plastic clip-on shamrock earrings she wore once a year to our church's corned beef and cabbage dinner on St. Patrick's Day.

I don't recall mine as a child. I do know I have a set still hanging around. Two sets, actually. One of tiny pinkish beads in a small silver case. I have no idea where it is, but I do know I still own it. The other set is plain and cheap. I have no idea where it came from but I do know it lives in my sock drawer.

The last time I said the rosary was with this last set of beads. Husband's grandmother was raised Catholic. When she died I couldn't attend her funeral, which was not a Catholic mass. While the family gathered back east, I walked down to the local church. The same church where I had been baptized all those years ago, and said the rosary in her honor. She would have wanted someone to do that for her. So there I knelt, the old familiar beads in hand, and said the ancient words while my knees, once again, ached.

Cat of the week: Oslo

This week's CoTW is such a little heart-stealer that it's all I can do not to bring her home myself. Oslo is a tiny bundle of purr-fueled love. She can't snuggle close enough to suit her. She is small, cuddly, sweet, everything you'd want in a kitty. She's 2-years old, though she's so small you'll think she's a kitten. And so irresistible.

Oslo (ID #A442657) is one of those cats that just melts your heart. She looks at you with her big yellow eyes, purrs like a steam engine, curls into you and you become a puddle. Snatch her up before someone else does because this one is tremendously special.

You can find out more a the Peninsula Humane Society & SPCA website.

I love this girl.

Photo of the day: The Easy Shot

Sometimes you just have to shut off your inner photographer and go for "pretty". Not that there's anything wrong with pretty, it's just not usually my style. But this view of Crystal Springs Reservoir on a beautiful day doesn't need any special effects or additional explanations. It's just a beautiful view, and one of the 8 million reasons why I love living in the Bay Area,

Hidden view

Hidden view, originally uploaded by DeccasWorld.

Taken through the trees up on the reservoir.

Lost and found
The universe create black holes in every home. Places where things appear and disappear. One moment you're turning the house over looking for your car keys, the next minute they're sitting in plain sight, right there on the table where you left them. Where you looked for them first, but they weren't there. Now they are. How does that happen?

Elves? Magic? No, as I said, black holes.

Black holes eat the book you are currently reading -- moving it from your bedside table, where you are sure you left it, to the top of your dresser, where it has no place to be. Black holes steal your shoes, vanish your checkbook, and have a particular fondness for magazines.

At times these black holes are extra mischievous. You will give up looking for green sweater and wear the blue one instead. Days later, when you are not looking for a sweater at all your green sweater will suddenly appear on the back of a chair.

When more than one person (or one person and one cat) share a home, it is easy to blame these disappearances on the other person. "What did you do with the scissors?" You will ask, only to be met with a blank stare and an assurance that the last time the scissors were used they were dutifully put back in the drawer where they belong. But from long experience I can attest that the other person is rarely at fault. It's the black hole.

After a week of looking for one particular book that I had all but given up on, I found it entirely unexpectedly on top of a bunch of other books -- where I am positive I searched days ago.

Damned black holes.

Photo of the day: Overhead

Taking the back way up to Sawyer Camp Road I crossed under the 280 bridge. This is what it looks like from the underside. It was a great day for walking and photos. I took nearly 300 at the reservoir. I tried to capture a hummingbird and got dozens of shots of blur. I tried to photograph a group of dear and got several pictures of brown blobs with ears. Sigh...

Photo of the day: Roots

Sometimes you just have to go back to your roots for inspiration. Go WAY back and I'm in France, Scotland, Canada. But come about the 1860s and my great-grand parents are in San Francisco. My grandmother lived through the 1906 quake. My grandfather was a San Francisco fireman who died on duty. My father was born in the city, went to high school, worked there, left for the army from there, came back and met and married my mother. The first place was in San Francisco, on Leavenworth and Clay. My elder siblings were born in SF. I went to college there, spent most of my college life there. Now I'm back in suburbia, but sometimes you just need to touch base with the city you respond to. For me, it'll always be SF.

In praise of the 21st century
I’ve been rewatching The Tudors on Showtime. Lovely eye candy. I mean it’s historically, well, hysterical. But the men are yummy to look at.

The other night I was thinking about what it would have been like to have lived back then and decided I was happy to be a 21st century woman. But today cemented it.

I woke up with a killer migraine this morning. I’ve been sick all day and only started to feel better about an hour ago. Serious pain. Nausea & vomiting. Swirling colors when I close my eyes. The cat walked across the bed and I cringed because the movement hurt. There was a blue jay in a nearby tree that I swear I would have shot had I been a member of the NRA. Eventually a few doses of Imitrix kicked in and I’m currently just OK. Still the fringes of a migraine. Still weak and wobbly. But nowhere near the pain I was in earlier. Sadly I had to cancel my St. Patrick’s Day special on KZSU, which sucks because I was looking forward to it.

But all I can say is thank god I live in a world with modern chemistry. With hot baths and penicillin. With shampoo and tampons and clean sheets and aspirin. I’m not talking about the luxuries (Ok, clean sheets are probably not one of life’s necessities, but they aredamned important.). But about the things in life that make life bearable. Thank god I don’t live in a time when a migraine would lay you in bed for a week while they bleed you because there was nothing else to do. When your mother would die in childbirth for lack of sanitary conditions. Where a minor flesh would could kill you due to infections that couldn’t be treated.

How lucky we are to live when and where we do. And how incredibly tragic that there are still places where these medieval conditions still exist. Where infant mortality is staggeringly high. Where poverty forces children to work in order to survive. Where simple things that we take for granted, like inoculations and dental care, are unbelievable luxuries.

How did we get so lucky?

Photo of the day: On the Fringe


Sometimes fringe is new. It swings when you brush by it. It might move when you do, or make a slight sound as beads knock against beads. It's fun. The swirl of a flapper dress. The accent on a tacky lamp.

But sometimes fringe is old. It is marble, immobile, serious. It adorns an angel or hangs in perpetual melancholy over plinth bearing a name and two dates.

First National Bank of Stupid
Now we all know banks are, especially these days, not known for their brilliance. But there's something going on with our bank that just makes me shake my head.

We'll call it the First National Bank of Stupid (or FNBS).

When Husband's beloved grandmother died, Husband was named as executor of her estate. To pay for estate costs, he opened an account at FNBS with our home address in the name of "The Estate of Greta Garbo". (No, that was not his grandmother's name, I'm just using it as an alias.)

So the only connection between our house and his grandmother's name was this account "The Estate of..." Now correct me if I'm wrong, but "Estate of Greta Garbo" means that Greta Garbo is dead. RIght? So why does FNBS keep sending credit card applications to Greta Garbo at our house?

Is this one of the reasons why banks are so seriously fuck up? Because they keep issuing Visa cards to the deceased? If I were of a larcenous bent I'd get the card, go on a spree, then inform FNBS that Greta is no longer with us, obviously did not apply for a card, and why are we responsible?

But I won't because I'm basically honest and definitely a coward.

But hey, FNBS "Estate of" means "not in a position to apply for a Visa card."

Photo of the day: Catspaw

From yesterday's Sphinx comes the paw of the beast. I really need to go back to Cypress Lawn when it isn't freezing and do more exploring.

More photos from the kitten nursery

By popular demand here are a few more shots of last year's residents of the first kitten nursery at the Peninsula Humane Society & SPCA. It was such a success that we'll be doing it again this year and I can't wait to get back to it.

It'll take some doing to fit my regular cat duties in with taking care of kittens, but totally worth it. So I'm planning on spending probably 3 days a week there this spring and summer.

I look at these adorable guys and wonder how they're doing. If their people love them as much as we did. If they're still being fun and crazy. Did the curious little one grow up to be a great Discoverer? Is the shy girl still a bit tentative around new people? Is Butch, my favorite, even now trying to bring down paper towel rolls twice his size.

Training for the kitten nursery is starting soon. If you are in the SF Bay Area, you can find out more at the PHS website. Or you can make a donation to keep these and other valuable programs going,

And yes, I promise lots of new kitten photos once the nursery opens.

Photo of the day: The Original Riddler

Another cemetery trip today. Well, you know me and cemeteries. I cut it short because it was bloody cold up there. I'd actually gotten into the car and was heading out when Husband spotted this Egyptian tomb. I may add more photos later today for but now I'll just tease you with one of the guardian sphinxes. Impressive how money can make death so artistic, isn't it?