Fools and Horses
Not since the days when I worked in bookstores to put myself through college have I encountered such contact with the general public as I now experience as a volunteer at the shelter. I mean when I worked for IBM and Apple, the public was hardly likely to wander through the office asking stupid questions. But now I see them on a fairly regular basis and am constantly amazed by the folks I meet.

Most of them are normal human beings. They're polite and intelligent and ask regular questions about the cats. ("Can you recommend a cat that really likes to play?" or "Do you know if this cat gets along well with dogs?" kind of things.) But then you get the wackos. The ones who ask what do you have to feed cats. When I replied "um...cat food" they came back with "so you don't need to give them live mice or anything?" (Oh god, please don't let them adopt a cat.) Or the lady who asked specifically for a black and white cat and when I pointed out a particularly cute one she told me it wasn't black and white enough. (Oh, sorry I didn't know you had a ratio in mind. Can you give me numbers? Are we talking 50-50? 60-40?)

When confronted with the odd I find myself just sort of invisibly shaking my head in disbelief as to how these people function in the world. How do they hold jobs? And why, oh god why, do they breed? (Because many of the dumbest questions come from people with four or more kids in tow.) (Such as the lady who thought it would be fun to get five cats, so that each of her kids would have one to play with.) (No!!!)

But nothing tops working in a bookstore for stupid questions. For a while I actually kept a notebook with such gems as "do you have the yellow book that was on Oprah last week?" (Why yes, ma'am, we keep all our books filed by color. Please check our yellow section.) Or, one of my favorites, "has Jane Austen written anything new?" (Well, no, not since her death she hasn't.) A few more of my top idiot queries:

- Do you have that book, A Hundred Years of Solid Food? (No, but I've heard good things about A Hundred Years of Solitude?)
- I'd like that book by James and Harriet Yorkshire. (We're fresh out, how about a copy of James Herriott's Yorkshire?)
- I can't seem to find a copy of Shakespeare's "Death of a Salesman" can you order a copy? (Sure.)
- I need to read Jane Eyre for a class. Do you have any books like it, only shorter and not boring?
- Do you have any Sherlock Holmes books? -- Certainly, in the mystery section under Conan Doyle. -- No, Sherlock Holmes. That's the author's name. Do you have any books by Sherlock Holmes? (Oh yes, in our "books by fictional characters section over there on the invisible bookcase.)

And then there were the requests for such famous titles as:
- Lady Chatterley's Butler (a shocking tale of how to serve Port correctly)
- A Tale of Three Cities (the sequel)
- Uncle Fred's Cabin (which I think must be all about fishing)
- Donkey Hokey (this one gave me a moment's blankness before I led her to Cervantes)
- Anna Karimazov (finally Anna Karenena and the Brothers Karamazov together in one great novel!)
- For Whom the Bell Rises (Can I interest you in a copy of the Sun Also Tolls?)
- Sense and Prejudice (sadly, we were out of Pride and Sensibility)


And those are just the ones I remember without the aid of that infamous notebook.

Photo of the day: Frieze

It's been too rainy to take my camera out on a date. And I'm getting the itch. If I go too long without taking photographs I get all squirrelly. Anyway, in the interest of my "post one photo every day" mantra, I pulled this one out of my library. It's from the Pulgas Water Temple down on the peninsula. Courtesy of the SF Water Department. I took lots of photos of the building itself, but for some reason I love this one for the design an the beautiful grey of the stone.

Hopefully I'll be able to go shooting soon. If not, I'll have to find interesting things inside.

The Mysteries Mind of Mom
My mother's mind is a mysterious place. She just turned 87 and doesn't have much of a memory anymore. She can't remember the names of all her children and spent the afternoon calling me by one of my other sister's names. She couldn't recall which brother took her to dinner last night.

And yet...

I have satellite radio in my car and there's a channel that plays only 1940s music. I always put it on when she's in the car. Here's a woman who didn't remember the name of the street on which she's lived for the past 50 years, and yet she remembered all the words to "The Hut-Sut Song." No, really. And those lyrics don't make any sense, yet she knew every single one.

Photo of the day: A Barbed Retort

From up by the reservoir. For some reason, I think it's worth a picture.

Photo of the day: Silver Lining

The silver lining to this series of storms is that everything is green, lush, and lovely. Even the thistles look pretty.

Mourning
Some people I love have just lost someone they love. They are, of course, in my thoughts. But there's really not much one can do except remind people that you love them and do whatever small tokens you can.

It got me thinking. however, about mourning. And how it has changed over the years.

In her fascinating book This Republic of Suffering author Drew Gilpin Faust write how the massive loss of life during the Civil War colored our view of funerals and loss. She writes eloquently about elaborate rites and humble services, and how the nation dealt with losing so many of its sons and brothers.

Throughout history, humankind has handled the dead with everything from great monuments to mass graves. But the feelings of those left behind are universal. As we watch poor, tragic Haiti deal with its devastation and as I contemplate one loss to one family I love, it occurs to me how unfair death is now. Not because we handle funerals any differently, but because we handle mourning so callously.

Gone are the days when a black armband signified bereavement, signaling to the world (without words) to treat the wearer with kindness. Black curtains used to mark a house in mourning. Servants would place hay on the street so the sound of carriages and horses would be muffled, thereby lessening the distractions of an uncaring world. Women, as evidenced by Queen Victoria, would dress in black so the whole would would know that a loss had happened. And all this would make the world go gently on the survivors.

But none of that exists today. The world goes on, loud and unknowning. When you lose someone you love you find it hard to believe that the rest of the world hasn't stopped. That people in the grocery store are just as rude. That other drivers may honk at you because you're distracted at a red light. You lose someone dear to you and, because life must go on, you find yourself at the drug store for more tissues or aspirin and you don't understand why strangers aren't nicer to you. Don't they know you've got a broken heart?

No, they don't. Because outward signs of loss are no longer part of our world. The only obvious signs you see anymore are women wailing on CNN or an incomprehensible loss of life due to a natural disaster. But the simple, personal, everyday losses are ignored in the wake of the modern world.

I wish black armbands were still in fashion. I wish there was some way of knowing that the sad-looking woman at the gas station is staring unseeingly at the pump because she's just about to drive to her brother's funeral. I want to be kind to those of have lost someone they love. But I cannot recognize them.

Which seems strange. Because I know what it is to lose a loved one. And you'd think there would be some sort of unspoken kinship. A sort of I remember that look -- I saw it on my own face when I looked in the mirror when my best friend died.

I send my love to my friends. And to Haiti. And to all those who are wearing invisible black armbands. Because we should all tread gently around them.

Photo of the day: Angel

The saddest angel ever.

Rain, Rain Go Away
We've had a solid week of rain, hail, and thunderstorms. Today I spotted some blue sky and actually squealed in joy. My friends didn't believe me, so here's the proof. Taken at about 4:14 pm from my front porch.

Thunder and Cats
I did extra cat duty today, because we haven't had a lot of visits this week. During my shift there was a thunderstorm which completely freaked out the cats. When it started I was working with a shy kitten who I had finally coaxed into my lap. He was purring and happy and then this ominous roll and you could actually see the fur on his back raise up. Then he high-tailed it (literally) back into his cage and the safety of his box.

Many of the other cats started pacing and looking uneasy, casting odd glances at the ceiling. Even the ones that are usually calm and relaxed got tense and uncertain. After shy kitten I went to one of our bigger cats (she easily weighs over 25 pounds) and, unlike the kitten, decided my lap was safety and leapt into it with an ease that belied her heft. She huddled into my lap, spilling out of both sides, and leaned into me like I was the second coming and she was born again. I talked to her and petted her and the thunder moved on. So I returned her to her cage. A few minutes later another boom and she pressed against the cage wall doing everything but rattling her tin cup against the bars and yelling "Attica!"

After one particularly loud crash all the dogs in the kennel area started barking like the end of days, which only made the cats more uneasy. I swear I was just this side of singing "My Favorite Things" to get them to calm down.

...

In other news, my insomnia has given rise to an unexpected problem. When I go too long without sleep I take an Ambien to give myself a respite. It works like the proverbial dream and I love knowing I can count on a good night's sleep every now and then. The problem is that I have one of the side effects of Ambien - sleepwalking. With my luck this also includes sleep snacking. I'll wake up in the morning to discover I've eaten the last of the cookies I made for book group or fixed myself some toast and left the jam out. I have also, to my extreme embarrassment, posted in my sleep to Facebook (full of nonsense and spelling errors). Now I've screwed myself big time. Apparently I've changed one of my passwords in my sleep and have no fucking clue what it is. I even gave myself a password hint, which means absolutely nothing to me.

Suddenly not sleeping doesn't seem too bad.

Photo of the day: The Moss Remembers

The name that went on this urn has long been lost to weather and time. I doubt anyone even drops by with flower for it anymore. But whoever is buried here is marked with a broken urn covered with golden lichen.

There are far worse ways to end up.

Mark Twain is My Hero
Of all God's creatures there is only one that cannot be made the slave of the lash. That one is the cat. If man could be crossed with the cat it would improve man, but it would deteriorate the cat.
- Notebook, 1894

.....
When a man loves cats, I am his friend and comrade, without further introduction.
- An Incident

.....
A home without a cat -- and a well-fed, well-petted and properly revered cat -- may be a perfect home, perhaps, but how can it prove title?
- Pudd'nhead Wilson

Photo of the day: Champagne Shadows

Because even the happiest of occasions leaves a shadow.

What did we do?
What did we do before the internet? How did we satisfy our need for instant gratification? Most specifically in my case, what did I do before instant information?

I am a total information junkie. I'm the kind of person who loves learning new things. My favorite TV channels are the Discovery Channel and the History Channel. Teach me something I didn't know and I'm happy. I'm especially fascinated by reading history and biographies. But before the wonders of the internet (thank you Google and Wikipedia) I'd have to get out an encyclopedia or dictionary. The only problem is I didn't own an encyclopedia. I used to have a little notebook in which I'd write down things I needed to learn. I'd read a book and come across a reference that I didn't know, and I'd make a note. Every so often I'd go to the library and look up everything in my notebook. (I am making myself sound like the dullest person on the planet.)

But now I can just look things up with Google and get instantly informed. No longer do I have to wait for a few weeks to find out who Rebecca Nurse was or what was involved in the Royal Baccarat Scandal. Any obscure fact, any weird item in a moment of history can now be mine just by typing in the War of Jenkin's Ear. It's a great world.

Photo of the day: Blue Hawaii

A respite from the Hawaiian heat. A small shop playing Led Kaapana on the stereo and a old native Hawaiian woman who called me "darling" and then rhapsodized about San Francisco when asked where I was from. Blue and white cloth in a traditional pattern. The scent of star jasmine. I remember that day, that shop, that woman perfectly. And I will always have this cloth to remind me.

CD Pick of the week: Rumel Fuents

As the world music director for KZSU, it's my job to listen to all the new world music CDs we get at the station. And because I listen to so much music, it's easy to get blase about it as an art form. It's not until something bops you over the head that you remember how much power music can have.

Rumel Fuentes Corridos of the Chicano Movement is a perfect example of how music can help change the world. Recorded during the late 1960s and early '70s, the 13 tracks on this release are all wonderful examples of the Tex-Mex style, featuring rancheras and waltzes backed by guitar. Fuentes has a warm, though obviously untrained voice, but it's full of passion and persuasion. The songs range from odes to heroes of the revolution (such as "Corrido de Cesar Chavez") to stories about people taking action ("Walk-Out En Crystal City") and songs that relate the history of Anglo domination (El Corrido de Reies Lopez Tierina). It's a powerful release that captures the anger and the determination of a race fighting for equality. Wonderful music.

Photo of the day: Locked Out

I have a twisted fascination with old hardware. Crystal doorknobs. Ancient locks. This particular lock isn't ancient, but it is (at least in my opinion) photogenic.

Stormy Monday
The SF bay area is bracing for a series of storms expected to dump up to 8 inches of rain in the next two weeks. All the local news agencies have been talking about where to get sandbags and listing emergency numbers in case of flooding.

The only problem is that the bay area has a history of storms not appearing. They tell you to prepare for Hurricane Sadie and you end up with a bit of a drizzle an maybe some wind. This "huge storm" was supposed to hit on Saturday. Then it was supposed to arrive Sunday afternoon. Then Sunday night. OK, last night there was wind and rain, but nothing like the Biblical deluge they were warning us about. It's rained off and on all day, but no wind and the rain hasn't ever been really hard.

Having been all doubting, though, I must confess that I hope we do get the big storm that is predicted. I love big storms. There is absolutely nothing cozier than being curled up in the world's comfiest bed with Husband lying warm next to me (He is always warm. I am always cold.) and a purring cat between us while a storm rages outside. Or sitting on the sofa under a blanket, with a fire in the fireplace and an old movie on TV. Plus, we need the rain.

We're technically in a drought, although there's been no official water rationing. But it's certain that our reservoirs could use a boost. So I'm hoping the promised 8 inches arrive. In spite of the fact that we still don't have a working garage door and I am now parking across the street -- perfect timing. The biggest storm in about 5 years is supposed to hit, and I don't have a warm, dry place to park. OK, neither does poor Husband, who always has to park on the street. But hey, I'm a delicate flower!

Photo of the day: Splash Landing

I love how birds always stick together. They fly in flocks. And when they land, they all want to land in or on the same place. There was lots of empty shoreline and rocks for this one bird to land on. But he just had to be in the middle of everyone else.

Magical

Check out Haiku Distance by Susan August. It's a beautiful, gentle gift. Her haiku offer lyrical glimpses into the world around us. She takes the commonplace, and makes it magical. You'll find yourself looking at your own world differently, trying to find the poetry of your life. Everything from the neighbor's cat to watching the sun set with a loved one becomes a small, joyful event. At times funny, at other times moving, it's all wonderful and surprising. I've been enjoying picking a page at random and reading whatever poem I come to and it never fails to make me smile. Great stuff.

Photo of the day: Mystery in Purple

No clue. But I love the purple ball thing-y with frosted tips.

Giving
I'm not sure where I developed my social conscience, because my family was never that altruistic. We didn't have much money, so I don't recall us supporting any charities when I was growing up. But to me, the best thing about money is being able to give it away to someone who needs it more. Seriously, I get the kind of high from making a donation to a non-profit that some women get from buying shoes at Nordstrom.

And yet it's amazing how there are so many people where it doesn't occur to them to give.

I think everyone I know can afford to skip a dinner out or a movie this month and give that money to help the people in Haiti. My favorite worthy organization in situations like this is Mercy Corps. They've already received a donation from me. And I'm sure most of my friends, if not all, have given to their favorite organizations. Red Cross. Doctors Without Borders. Whatever cause they feel like supporting.

And yet I'm sure there are some of you who might have stumbled across this blog by accident who haven't yet made their contribution. And I'm sure you won't come back because they only interesting thing I have to say today is "give." It doesn't have to be much, but I'm sure can all scrape up $10 or $20 to help ease the pain of those in need.

So please, look into your heart and do what you know is the right thing. And if you've already made your donation, thank you.

End of sermon.

Photo of the day: Button Up Your Overcoat

I spotted these winter visitors huddled against the wind. I just love how they have their beaks buried under their wings. I don't blame them, my nose gets cold in the winter too.

CD PIck of the Week: Jazz Around the World

For any lover of world music, a new Putumayo compilation is always cause for a happy dance. This latest release does not disappoint. From established megastars such as Hugh Masekela to relative unknowns such as Chantal Chamberland (who does a dishy French version of the old Bobby Darren classic "The Sea") it's a CD that hits with every track. The most unexpected track is The Kora Jazz Trio doing the Latin jazz standard "Chan Chan" on African instruments. Wicked cool!

Photo of the day: To Cipher, From Santa

Santa left a present for Cipher (the World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) on Christmas. A wand with feathers on it and these lovely little crinkly plastic bits. She loves it so much she carries it around the house, meowing. She loves licking it. (As Husband says, the feathers are apparently bird-flavored.) But she loves it so much that it's already falling apart. Little trails of plastic streamers follow Cipher's nocturnal trail through the house. And random feathers keep appearing on the floor.

She's such a goofy girl. It makes a bit of a noise when she plays with it, because the plastic bits rustle. So she'll be doing this at 6 am in the bedroom, waking us up. I'll pick it up and take it into the living room. She'll follow and then a few minutes later we'll hear her patented "I'm meowing with my mouth full" meow signifying that she's carrying something with her And back into the bedroom comes the feather wand.

Cipher is a very determined cat.

Photo of the day: When Good Bath Salts Go Bad

They turn into little rocks that catch the light. I turned this one into B & W because I thought the actual color of the salts (bright blue) made the whole photo look like a giant close up of Elmo. This way it could be anything from torn up concrete to, well, a black and white photo of clumps of bath salts. Sigh...I really must get out more.

Constant Surprises
I am a non-stop reader. I always have at least one, usually two books going at once. At the moment I'm reading a very well researched bio of Anne Boleyn. (The Lady in the Tower by Alison Weir) plus I just received the copy of White Mischief by James Fox that was recommended to me by a loyal reader (thanks Kittie!).

In turning to the pages of White Mischief I found something I'd seen before, but never understood. The mention of (and I'm making this name up) Lord Hobnobble of that Ilk. Of that ilk? What the huh? I've seen this before and finally got around to looking it up. It refers to cases where a person's surname and the title of his estates are the same. In this case, it would be Lord Hobnobble of Hobnobble. So instead of, say, Lord Harfsniffle of Fleem, we have Lord Hobnobble of that Ilk. I want an ilk!

The next surprise came from The Maltese Falcoln. There's a character in the movie played by Elisha Cook that Sam Spade refers to as "a gunsel." And from its use hard boiled detective fiction, I assumed it meant some kid who carries a gun. Turns out that Dashiell Hammet used the word intentionally, assuming that editors (or censors) would take it to mean the same as I. Imagine my surprise when I looked up the word and found a definition that was completely different. According to Wikipedia a gunsel is "a young man kept for sexual purposes." This makes perfect sense in terms of the plot of the book and the movie. An older man who has a younger protege. But it came as a total shock to find out that this word I always thought was something out of crime noir fiction was specifically used to mislead people into thinking it meant one thing when it really means something completely different.

And finally, this obscure and vaguely horrible eye-opener. A term I'd seen in many history books is a household title, the Groom of the Stool. It was apparently a position of some trust and respect in the king's household. And, finally looking it up, I discover ... ewww ... the Groom "presided over the office of royal excrement." Ohhh...you actually mean "stool." Ugh.

Photo of the day: Baywatch

Another postcard from the San Francisco Bay. When the tide is right it's a perfect egret-spotting hangout. Aside from the crazy lady with the camera, that is.

Ups and Downs. And then Up. Always Up
After a life of ups and downs our garage door died a sad and tragic death last week. It died in the up position. We can open the door, but we can't close it. At least not automatically. You can pull it down to close it. But this door remains when of the few wooden garage doors in the history of garage doors and weighs about as much as my Honda. It takes both me and Husband to close the door, and even then it's not closed all the way.

It's been like this for a week and it's amazing how annoying it is. Typically I park in the garage, which I haven't been able to do. So I park on the street. We do have a driveway, but it's nose-bleedingly steep and I live in fear of the parking brake on my 10 year old car going and Anubis (my car) rolling down the driveway, across the street, and crashing into the house across the way.

OK, so parking on the street is a minor annoyance. Except that I'm spoiled not having to carry bags of groceries up the hill, up the steps, and through the house. I'm used to being able to park in the garage and go straight into the kitchen. It's also hard going to the shelter because I have "shelter shoes" that never leave my car and, usually, I pull into the garage and close the door. Take off my shoes, leave my clothes out there, and come into the house and go immediately into the shower. Some of our shelter cats are sick and I want to do all I can to make sure I don't infect Cipher (the World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm).

I also haven't used my house key in 15 years because I come in through the garage. Last week, when I first started having to come through the front door, I actually didn't know where my house key was. I has to stand on the porch and take everything out of my purse to find it.

It's amazing, though, how dependent we become on something as obscure as an automatic garage door. Until we get a new door (and it's looking like that won't happen until next week) it's not life as usual. We have to go through the house to take the garbage out. I have to get all wet and cold heading into and out of my car on my way into the world. I'm shopping lighter because I don't want to take three trips from the street to the house carrying heavy things like a gallon of milk or a 15-lb box of cat litter.

Today a guy came by to give an estimate on the door. Here's a man who has spent his entire life installing and fixing garage doors. What an obscure way to make a living. He's in his late 60s and this is his entire business. Garage doors. Not one of those careers you dream of when you're a little kid. I want to be an astronaut. I want to be a cowboy. I want to install garage doors. And yet he seems quite happy with his business and I'm quite happy that there are people like him so that some day I can park in my garage again.

Photo of the day: Tie One On

Husband is the only man I know that wears boy ties and isn't either 90 or a pediatrician. This is one of them. It's new (since Christmas) and I just love this pattern.

Photo of the day: Cheer

Is there any flower more cheerful than a yellow daisy? It's like the Muppet of the floral world. No matter how gray the day. No matter how thick the fog. Yellow daisies always look like sunshine. When I'm in one of my cynical and bitter moods, that insistent sunniness can be quite annoying. But not at the moment.

Photo of the day: Unworn

A tacky fake coin charm bracelet left over from a fortune-teller costume.

Photo of the day: Grumpy Old Man

Meet the Jack Klugman of birds.

Photo of the day: Invasion of the Body Snatchers

No clue what kind of tree this pod grows on. Not sure if it's cool or creepy, but I'm voting for cool in that "nature is weird" kind of way.

Night of the Living Dead
Last night was seriously hellish. No sleep until about 9 am this morning, and a non-stop, horrid migraine that had me throwing up and actually moaning for most of the night. This morning Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) was unusually vocal and active. Turns out we had a 4.1 earthquake in the bay area. I wonder if it's true that animals can predict these things because she was most unusual this morning. Of course it was during the worst of the head pain when silence and peace is most needed -- and here's Cipher, running around, meowing, generally raising a ruckus.

During the night, before the worst of the pain, when I was already having a severe case of insomnia, I turned on the TV and turned to one of my favorite distractions, cozy British mysteries. Lord Peter Wimsey took me until about 2, but I do not blame my headache upon him. A gentleman of his calibre surely cannot bring such ill-fortune.

So, as a result, I've been slug-girl all day. I didn't do any of the things I'd planned to do and, sadly, didn't make it to cat duty. I've stayed in bed, trying not to move. I did get up for a few hours to finish a project that I'd promised to do for Husband, and I do have dinner in the oven, but other than that it's just been me, bed, drugs, and a wondering why some people get migraines and others do not.

Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I had dinner with my family last night?

Photo of the day: Right Place, Right TIme

On my way home from the shelter today I spotted two Snowy Egrets and two Giant Egrets on the bayside. Luckily I had time to pull over and grab a camera before they flew away. I was fortunate enough to catch this one right at take-off. It was a great day for bird watching. I also saw a flock of Plovers, some Whimbrels, and several cute but unidentifiable Ducks.

Eavesdropping
It's been far too long since I've shared any eavesdropping with you. It's amazing what you overhear people say...

Overheard at the grocery store
Woman to man, looking at the fish counter: Will you be home for dinner tomorrow night?
Man: Not if that's what you're cooking.

Overheard at the shelter
Woman 1: Are you a cat person or a dog person?
Woman 2: I'm a Brad Pitt person.

Overheard at the shelter
Man on cell phone: All their dogs look like lesbians.

Photo of the day: Ghost of Christmas Past

Over a dozen years ago I was given this scarf as a Christmas present by a wonderful family whom I love. They gave me sanctuary at the holidays at a time when I really needed it. I have never worn this scarf, nor will I ever give it away as it will always remind me of the generosity and kindness that can magically appear when needed.

Photo of the day: Sitting by the Dock of the Bay

More friends from yesterday's bay walk.

Photo of the day: Bay Visitor

From this morning's bay walk.

Recent Reads
It's been far too long since I've shared with you what's been keeping me up past bedtime lately.

First off, a ripping good true yarn. The Bolter by Frances Osborne. It's the story of Lady Idina Sackville who led a scandalous life in England and Kenya in the 1920s and 30s. Full of affairs, drugs, marriages, divorces, and even murder, it's a total page-turner. A fascinating glimpse into the life of a rebel and the early days of the English occupation of Africa. Al though her life seems ultimately unhappy, the adventures she lives, the men in her life, and her controversial choices make for a great read. I'm a sucker for a book about tough, unconventional women so I devoured this one in a few days.

Our most recent book group selection was my choice, My Cousin Rachel by Gothic mistress, Daphne du Maurier. It's full of misdirection and unanswered questions, which usually bothers me. But in this case it was a fun mystery that leaves you wondering if Rachel was an innocent, misunderstood woman or a manipulative killer. Full of Cornish atmosphere and some interesting plot twists, it's a good stormy night book.

Being a Northern California native, I grew up visiting Lake Tahoe on a regular basis and hearing the tragic story of the Donner Party. Desperate Passage by Ethan Rarick does a good job of showing how the historic settlers were pretty much doomed from the start. By starting late in the season, taking an untried route, and making a variety of disastrous decisions, the group piled mistake upon mistake and ended up at the infamous pass which now bears their name. There are good guys and bad guys, there is heroism and selfishness, wisdom and stupidity. Though not the best-written history book I've ever picked up, it nevertheless lays out the story clearly and seems to be well-researched.

Because of Husband's wonderful generosity, I have several books waiting for me (he totally spoiled me at birthday and Christmas) so I'll have plenty of good reads in the weeks to come.

There is one problem, though. I finished The Bolter last night and now I find myself not interested in the next book in my to-be-read pile. I received a copy of Lady Jane Grey by Eric Ives (a book I requested) but now I just can't seem to pick it up. The Bolter was full of sex, drugs, scandal, more sex, intrigues, travel, and sex. A scholarly book on Tudor history just doesn't have that sense of fun.

Photo of the day: A Piece of My Heart

One of our Christmas ornaments. Alas, the tree has to come down today. It's always a bit sad taking down the tree.

Photo of the day: Pick a Station

You have a choice of two.

Photo of the day: Waiting for the Train

Well see if I have better luck this year keeping up with my photo of the day.

Scenes from Silver Creek: My Mother the Bad-Ass

For most of my childhood the Police Chief of Silver Creek was Albert Dwyer. He was married to the biggest bitch I have ever met. Didi Dupont-Dwyer, she of the pretentious name and blue hair. She insisted on the “Dupont” part because she liked to tell people she was one of the Duponts. She wasn’t.

My mother hated Didi. OK, perhaps “hate” is too strong a word. Hate is something reserved for Klan meetings, not somebody’s whose curtains are nicer than yours. But, aside from lust, my mother felt all the Deadly Sins towards Didi. She envied Didi’s nice house and perfect yard. She coveted Didi’s blue Buick. My mother was always jealous of the fact that Didi’s house was impeccably clean and never smelled vaguely of Toni home perms.

The fact that Didi and Albert could afford a cleaning lady and a gardener, and only had two kids, never seemed to register with my mother. She was just upset that the house was nicer, there was never any clutter or weeds, and the sofas never had old sheets thrown over them to hide the Coke stains.

I hated the two Dwyer kids. In this case “hate” is not too strong a word. Barbara Dwyer played piano, had straight white teeth like picket fence, had an adorable wardrobe, and wore Avon perfume. Clayton Dwyer was a total snot. Even as an adult, when “snot” ceases to be a viable insult, Clayton was a snot. He was the kind of kid who used magnifying glasses to set ants on fire and always insisted on bringing his model steam engine to show-and-tell every year at school. I cannot tell you how many times we had to watch that frickin’ stupid steam engine with the frickin’ stupid pellets, spitting out frickin’ stupid steam.

In spite of the deep loathing my mother felt for Didi she would never (because of “Christian charity”) admit it. In fact my mother went to Didi’s house every Thursday for about 300 years to play gin rummy. And therein lies the tale.

Didi Dupont-Dwyer was a cheater. Everyone knew it. Everyone put up with it because nobody else wanted to host the gin games because they were all just slightly ashamed of how shabby their houses were compared to the Dwyer’s. But she cheated.

She would purposely inflate her score. She would get up for more punch and look at everyone’s cards. She would do everything possible to ensure that she won. And for 300 years nobody said anything. Not Mrs. Cleveland who eventually got so fed up that she invented gout, which prevented her from playing anymore. Not Mrs. Sanaletti who decided that gin was too close to gambling for her Catholicism and dropped out of the group. Not even Mrs. Klinger who also cheated, but was never as good at it as Didi.

But one day my mother, incensed by decades of crystal punch bowls, clean carpets, a Meyer lemon tree, and inflated points flat out accused Didi of cheating.

Now all of this is hearsay….bordering on urban legend, but I have it on good authority. (Mrs. Liebman, who was there.) Didi apparently laid down a hand with four Jacks. Unfortunately for her, mother also had a Jack. Mother, rather than calmly pointing out an overabundance of face cards decided that enough was enough and actually stood up and with a Biblical gesture that would have done Charleton Heston proud, pointed and shouted “cheater.” Pointed and shouted. My mother. The woman who let my father fill out her ballot every election, suddenly turned into Dirty Harry and accused the chief of police’s wife of being a card sharp.

There was yelling and denying. Punch was spilled on newly cleaned carpet. Didi’s hideously hideous yippy dog “Baby” ate a knocked over plate of cookies and puked on the sofa. Didi leapt from her seat and accidentally tripped over Mrs. Liebman’s discarded Dr. Scholls and fell into my mother. Both women went down and in the ensuing tangle mother poked Didi in the ear with her 5th Jack.

And Didi, being Didi, got up with great dignity, went to the phone, called her husband, and told him to come and arrest my mother for assault and defamation of character. He did not, but the gin game came to a sudden and permanent end.

Thanks to my mother, the bad-ass.

Safety FIrst
Dear fellow migraine sufferers (you know who you are).

Let's talk about Imitrex. Works great. At least for me. But my problem is how fucking hard it is to open.

It's not even in a child-guard bottle. It comes it a small cardboard envelope-type thing. You rip off this little piece of cardboard covering each individual pill and underneath is another little cardboard thing you have to sort of rip/pop/machete open. OK, it's paper and I am a sentient being with opposable thumbs. But when your head feels like it's being split open and your motor skills are are impaired, this is much harder than it sounds.

I frequently have to use some type of implement to get the second part done. Sometimes I have to push it in with a spoon (and a surprising amount of force) to break through the seal. At other times I have stupidly used a steak knife and the resulting loss of blood did not do much to improve the migraine.

The question of why comes to mind. It is not designed to protect children. It seems designed solely to annoy people in pain. Sometimes it's so hard to open that I have to get Husband to help me. "Excuse me Husband but I am so useless at the moment that I am being defeated by paper."

In other news....New Year's Eve.

Remember parties? Remember when New Year's Eve was a night when you got together with good friends and ate lots of food, had too much wine, and did crazy things?

Then all your friends started breeding, which put an end to all the parties. Or we all got into our 30s and 40s and decided that avoiding drunk drivers and not getting home until 2 am was overrated. So now your New Year's Eve plans involve staying home and maybe, if you're lucky, staying up until midnight.

Husband and I went to the grocery store today. We decided, in order to at least make a token celebration of NYE, we decided to spring for a very good bottle of champagne. Then we bought our regular weekly groceries including, in this case, a frozen pizza for those nights when neither of us feel like cooking. Se we're standing in line with a $6 frozen pizza and a $45 bottle of champagne. Because we're just that weird.

Photo of the day: Santa Cat

Still playing around with my new lens. From my mother's Christmas tree.

Photo of the day: Christmas Rose

Thank you, Husband, for the beautiful new macro lens for my birthday. I love you.

Um...define "holiday."
Today my birthday request of Husband of "let's not leave the house." We've watched movies, played games, had some yummy food, and have generally had a wonderful day.

We went to the pay per view screen of our cable company and they have a whole selection under the heading "Holiday Movies." Right. Ho, ho, ho and all that. Lovely. Let's all hark the herald angels and all that. But what in the name of Jim Morrison's pants do they mean by holiday?

Amid the expected, such as several versions of A Christmas Carol, White Christmas, and MIracle on 34th Street we have the following festive choices:

Stalag 17
The Godfather
Rocky
Three Days of the Condor
and, of course Batman Returns

What kind of freaky ass Christmas do these people have?

The Christmas Blues
No, I don't have them. But I will. For nine hours on December 26th. 9pm to 6am on the 27th Husband and I are doing our shifts on the annual KZSU Blues Marathon.

For someone who hosts a world music show I gotta make a huge confession....I love the blues. So I'm really looking forward to this. I think it's the 7th year I've participated. One year I think I did 12 hours in a row. So this year I'm getting off light with only nine. And, as an insomniac, I'm in the perfect position to stay up all night. I'm just not sure Husband will survive. He sleeps like a normal person. You know, at night.

In other news it's also the time of year for everyone's top 10 list. As the world music director, I sorta kinda have to. Here's my picks for my favorite CDs of the year. In no particular order:

Amadou & Miriam - Welcome to Mali
Andy Narell & Relator - University of Calypso
Omara Portuondo - Gracias
Vasen - Vasen Street
Zap Mama - Recreation
Le Vent du Nord - La Part du Feu
Espana - Putumayo Collection
Firecracker Jazz Band - Red Hot Band
Big Bad Voodoo Daddy - How Big Can You Get?
Ba Cissoko - Seno

I could easily have put another dozen or so on the list. The odd thing is that Husband (who is the jazz director) and I have one CD in common on our top ten list, the Firecracker Jazz Band disc.

.....

I put in some extra time at the shelter today because I won't be able to be there for the rest of the week. I might try to go on Saturday, but with the Blues Marathon later that night it's probably best if I be lazy during the day. But today it was cat central and we were crazy-busy. I think a lot of people want to adopt at Christmas. Luckily we have great adoption counselors who make it very clear that a pet is a commitment, not a present. They carefully screen potential adopters and gently dissuade those who think Tiffany would love a kitten as a gift -- but who haven't thought enough about the care of an animal. But for those who are sincere and who know what they're getting into, it's been a great week for finding homes.

.....

Tomorrow is my birthday. I'm getting near the Age of Denial, and yet being married to a man nine years younger than I also makes me feel a decade younger. (Thank you, Husband.) One of the odd things about having a birthday so close to Christmas is that occasionally I forget it myself. Today I picked up the mail and found a birthday card from my dear friend Susan the Poet. And yet as I was holding it I thought to myself "how weird, she's already sent us a Christmas card." Duh... I was actually surprised when I opened it and realized it was a birthday card. Yeah, I'm just that dim about my own birthday.

.....

We'll be spending Christmas at my mother's, as usual. I'm already anticipating the vague trauma. I must confess that it's always something of a theatrical triumph to manage a look of pleased surprise when you open a present and discover a pink fleece sweatshirt with a bunny on it or a bottle of screw-top wine from the finest vineyard in Idaho. And something tells me dinner will, as usual, be worth an entire blog post.

.....

Happy holidays to all my faithful and casual readers. May the new year bring you all peace, love, joy, and wonderful times.

The Car Full of Crap and the Truck Full of Tires


We have some great neighbors. On one side a very nice family with two little boys. The only odd thing about them is that the family never seems to have any garbage to put out on trash night.

On the other side an older couple with a 30-something son who lives at home. Son has three cars. A classic blue muscle car that sounds like a bulldozer when he starts it up. Then there's the car full of crap and the truck full of tires. If you look at the car closely you can see that the entire back seat, plus the passenger seat, is full of stuff. Old clothes. Plastic bags full of god knows what. Boxes. In the entire time we've lived here we have never once seen this car empty of crap. He drives it, but the crap never goes in or out.

The truck full of tires is just...well, a truck full of tires.

Mrs. Murphy and the Catnip High
One of my favorite shelter cats is a sweet little brown tabby named Mrs. Murphy. She's a total warm fuzzy cat that just wants a lap of her very own. Even when I don't have a lot of time I always make it a point to stop by and talk to Mrs. Murphy for a bit.

She's a MIss Marple cat. I can picture her sitting next to a sweet old lady, batting at a ball of yarn, sleeping in a sunbeam.

She's gentle, affectionate, calm, and all around a wonderful little companion.

Until you give her catnip. And then she turns into Psycho Kitty.

I give out two kinds of catnip. The first are socks. I take infant socks (yes, new) put in a few tablespoons of catnip, tie a knot, and voila...instant toy! The kitties love batting them around, licking them, rubbing their face against them, and generally blissing out.

I also have loose catnip. I'll put a pinch on a towel and they'll eat it up like it's a hot fudge sundae. For a while I was out of loose catnip, so all I had to give out were the little socks. To my knowledge, Mrs. Murphy has never had a pile of fresh catnip until today.

She became Sybil. Instant personality change. From a lazy, purring little bundle she became an active, squirmy, hyper, trouble-seeking, trouble-finding, trouble-making junkie. All this happened in her cage or on my lap as all the socialization rooms were full, but as soon as she inhaled a few pinches of kitty pot she just went crazy. She grabbed my arm and did that little rabbit-kick thing with her back legs that cats do. She began to lick my fingers. She made a noise that was a cross between a purr, a growl, and someone singing along to Wake Me Up Before You Go Go. She tried to swallow her towel. She shredded the newspaper at the bottom of her cage. She curled into her shoebox, tummy upwards, and squirmed as if some invisible hand was stroking her tummy.

I have never seen such an instant, or such a dramatic reaction to catnip. And from Mrs. Murphy, of all cats. My go-to mellow cat. The kitty I visit when I'm tired and stressed and my back aches and I just want something warm and purring to love.

Who knew?

Scenes from Silver Creek: Christmas

When I was growing up, Christmas in Silver Creek was about as predictable and exciting as the Andy Williams Special.

The Silver Creek Lions Club had the best tree lot in town. The city would put up the same tacky decorations on the weekend after Thanksgiving. (Red and silver tinsel tree-like things hanging from all the street lamps.) There was always a tree lighting ceremony with the big tree in Grover Park that featured a combined church choir sing-along and the Friends of the Silver Creek Library selling hot cocoa with mini-marshmallows.

McFielding’s Men’s Clothier’s would do a window display that was Silver Creek’s answer to 5th Avenue. Mrs. McFielding had majored in art at Vasser and her sole use of her degree was the annual window. They were usually completely inappropriate for anything except the display of McFielding’s stock but so odd that the unveiling usually drew a bigger crowd than the tree lighting ceremony. One year, for instance, there was a Christmas Carol theme with an Ebenezer Scrooge mannequin (in a gray checked suit, red bow tie and matching pocket square) sitting in an armchair. Marley’s ghost was half in and half out of a “window” and was the most nattily attired ghost ever in a full tuxedo. When you were in the store, you got to see Marley’s butt and legs. The ghost of Christmas Past was represented by a male mannequin in drag with a blond wig and long white nightgown. “She” carried a half unwrapped box from which erupted a rainbow selection of men’s socks. I do not recall that part of the book.

Another year she did Santa’s workshop. Apparently it was Santa in a relaxed moment in green plaid pajamas, a blue plush robe, and leather bedroom slippers. He was, most unexpectedly, reading Jane Eyre. We never did figure that one out. Why bother with a naughty-or-nice list when you can read Bronte? He was surrounded by toys (a tie-in with Hopgood’s Toys), and little boy mannequins standing in for elves. You could tell they were supposed to be elves because they all had pointed green elf hats. The hats did not, however, match well with the blue jeans, corduroy jackets, or black dress shoes.

By far my favorite of all the windows was the “Christmas of the Future” window that was a cross between The Jetsons and Dante’s Inferno. It featured a silver suit made out of aluminum foil. Sort of what the Tin Man would wear to a job interview. Nuclear “snowflakes” hung suspended on strips of black electrical tape. They were shaped like kidneys or livers for the most part and were made from some weird reflective material in a sort of Three Mile Island greenish-blue shade. Surrounding the Tin Man were other mannequins wearing normal McFielding’s stock, only with freakish accessories such as a kitchen colander as a hat, a tie made out of yellow plastic, or glow-in-the-dark shoes. There was also a pile of discarded machine parts and tools – apparently the Tin Man’s spaceship had crashed, so in the corner of the window, behind a pyramid of brown and black wingtips, was an odd collection made up of an old car bumper, some nuts and bolts, a faucet, and windshield wipers.

Closer to home, Christmas was typically tacky. Every year dad would hang blue and red (why blue and red?) lights around the house and my mom would make a new wreath. Being mom she couldn’t be all normal and have a nice round, festive decoration with pine boughs and ribbon. She would, instead, buy a Styrofoam ring and staple to it various “decorations” depending upon her mood or what was in our junk drawer.

Once she scotch taped Christmas images salvaged from the previous year’s cards. A nice idea, but after the first rainstorm it turned into a multi-hued cardboard mush that bled all over the door and left cement-like deposits of paper poop on our welcome mat.

Another year she got the idea of covering it with food. Getting out her old friend, the glue gun, she made a design of carrots, celery and cherry tomatoes. The resulting ant trail left me freaked out for days.

Inside we would have our tree in a stand hand-made by my paternal grandfather. It was a huge white paper mache mountain with a small mirror for a lake, little houses on the side of the snow-capped peak and, of course, a small cave as a manger. As it typically does not snow in Bethlehem, the always confused me. But we would always put it up and my mother would always set up the manger scene. Sadly it was made up of pieces from three different manger scenes so the scale of figures was never right. We had oxen that were about 9-inches high and a Mary that was about the size of my little finger.

My mother would get furious with me when, in a fit of pre-holiday boredom, I would pull out my brother’s little green army men and mount an assault on the Three Wise Men.

Ho, Ho, Huh?
Husband and I went to the grocery store today and all the employees were wearing Santa hats. OK, very festive. But we had a silver lame Santa hat. A San Francisco 49ers Santa hat. And a pink breast cancer awareness hat.

Nothing against the Niners, but is Santa really a football fan? And, if so, why the Niners?

I think it's great when people get the holiday spirit. I'm all about people being nicer to each other, giving to charity, and peace and goodwill. I'm just not really a huge fan of 8-foot inflatable snowmen. In the San Francisco bay area. Um...folks, it has never snowed in our town. Ever. We might get an inch or two dusting the higher peaks in the greater area, but our elevation here is 25 feet. Snowmen? Not so much.

One of our neighbors has red and green blinking lights wrapped around two palm trees. Sure you gotta work with what you got, but palm trees? What makes this especially amusing to me is that they also have a perfectly shaped little pine tree in their yard that got nothing. They actually have what looks like a Christmas tree growing in their yard and it has no lights, no star, no decoration. But their palm trees? Lousy with the lights.

I recall years ago visiting Husband's folks in New Jersey during the holidays. Now they live in garden gnome central. I think they were the only family in the neighborhood without fake deer, plastic wishing wells, concrete geese, or those horrible little jockey figures. One home had a yard paved in concrete and then studded with plastic flowers in pots. It's December and they have plastic daisies and daffodils blooming in their yard.

But my absolute favorite was the house with a huge manger scene. The figures were probably life sized. But what made it truly magical is that a whole flock of pink plastic flamingos was kneeling down honoring the baby Jesus. Really. Pink flamingos on bended knee worshipping a plastic Christ with a glowing head. It was one of the most bizarre sights I've ever seen and I've always been tempted to recreate it.

There's one long street in our town that has a lot of very nice (as in big and expensive) houses and many of them go all out at Christmas. For the most part it's tasteful. Lights around the roof, maybe a wreath, a few well-placed lights amid the shrubs or on the trees. But one house has purple blinking LED lights on the house (that don't all blink at the same time, a nice touch), a 10-foot plastic "snow globe" with Santa inside. Santa is also on the roof, with four reindeer. And Santa 3 is on the lawn, with about a dozen reindeer. And waving from the window (with no reindeer, because they're hard to housebreak) is Santa 4. And, just in case we've already forgotten Santa, Santa 5 is outlined in lights on the garage door. As if that weren't enough, every tree, bush, shrub, weed, and pile of dog poop in the yard has lights. In about a dozen different colors. One tree entirely in red. A green bush. A mailbox wrapped in blue. Yellow posts on the porch. It's like someone poured ugly all over the house.

The words fa-la-la-la-la do not come to mind.

Photo of the day: What the Hell...?
A mystery planet? A slide from your high school biology class. Art?

Photo of the day: Tree Three




From Sawyer Camp Trail. I was trying to take a picture of the incredibly cute squirrel but he was camera shy and all I got was the tree.

However, all is not lost. Here's a photo of my favorite warning sign from the animal shelter. Beware the giant squirrel.

Dragon in the....Holy Cats!
Husband participated in NaNoWriMo. I did too, but I only wrote about 12,000 words before the flu turned me insane and I started cranking out total crap.

But he not only finished, he kicked ass. His book Dragon in the Snow is now available at blurb.com and I gotta say, I love it. Now of course I'm bias, but even if I weren't madly in love with him, I'd love the book. It's a page-turning, totally compelling, funny and exciting adventure romp that blew my socks off. I mean I know it sounds insulting to say to someone "I can't believe you wrote this!" but that's what I said.

He's always been a great writer, but being a jazz critic is a lot different than writing fiction. But not only did he write a book in a month, but it's a completely fun book.

I finished the second half in one marathon session today where I couldn't turn the pages fast enough and felt like I was reading a cross between The Thin Man and The Maltese Falcon. I think I hate him.

In Which We Discover that Switzerland is the Capitol of France
I took my mother to the doctor the other day. It was a 4-hour appointment from which I may never recover. We spent a great deal of time in the waiting room and then into other, smaller rooms for various tests, and then back to the waiting room. Unfortunately my mother didn't bring a book and wasn't interested in Sports Illustrated, People, or Highlights, the only magazines they had. Really, what kind of doctor's office has such a limited selection of magazines? In an attempt to distract her I grabbed a People at which point she announced loudly to the office that the cover had a photo of Tiger Woods with a white woman. Thanks mom.

Mom has trouble hearing, so she speaks extra loud. Her mind also has gone west a bit so she rambles, forgets things, and then just plain pulls crap out of thin air. Out of the blue she said "You know my father was born in Switzerland. That's in France." Um, yeah. My grandfather was born in Illinois.

Then she told the office I was looking a little fat, asked if I'd finally found a job, and then told me what I was getting for Christmas. (In case anyone is curious I'm getting a coffee mug with a kitten on it.)

Wrapping and Realization
We have a lot of people to buy presents for. And luckily I'm organized enough (or anal enough) to get it done early. And the reason why I do this is because I always seem to forget someone.

I wrap all my gifts early too so that when I have a nice stack of gifts at hand, I can take stock and realize "oh crap, I forget to get something for X." And, sure enough, I forgot to get something for X. I mean I have something, but when compared to what I got for everyone else, I don't have anything.

And the reason why I have not a whole heck of a lot for X is because I have no idea what to get for X. If I did have an idea, I would have gotten something earlier. And you know, putting it off isn't getting it done. I still have no idea.

The Chia Spongebob is beginning to look better and better.

My Deep Personal Relationship with my Mailman
My mailman and I have a thing going on.

This will be news to Husband.

I don't even know his name, but for some reason he's decided I'm his pal. He calls me by my first name (since it's on my mail it' not hard to figure it out). He comments on how beautiful Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) is. (She sits in the front window watching the world and when he comes up the front steps he says "hi kitty.")

Today as I was leaving to go to the shelter I was just backing out of the driveway and he pulled up and honked at me.

"Lisa, I'm so glad I caught you!" he said, as if we were old friends. He had a few packages for me and I got out of my car and he handed them to me. We chatted about how busy he was and he showed me a picture on his cell phone of the diamond earrings he's giving his wife for Christmas. We talked about football. He noticed the Amazon box and asked me if I read a lot. After asking about Cipher he told me about his dog, Lobo, and pulled out his cell phone again. Cute dog. Meanwhile I'm trying to figure out why this guy has decided we're bonding.

He's a very nice guy. And there's nothing inappropriate about it. I mean he's not hitting on me or anything, he's just chatty and has picked me as his favorite customer on the block.

When Sitcoms Were Funny
Husband and I have recently started watching Barney Miller on "retro night" on WGN. And it's still hilarious.

It all works, the great writing, the impeccable comic timing, the acting and the quirky characters. But it does give rise to the question of when did sitcoms stop being funny. When was the last time you laughed out loud at a modern sitcom?

We watched three episodes tonight and each had at last one huge laugh. And often at the base of it was racial humor. It wasn't racist -- just racial. Something else which has gone by the wayside. I didn't find any of these jokes offensive, jut observational. Like one witness saying "hey the colored guy saw the whole thing and Japanese guy saying I'm colored, he's just black, everyone else is blank." The dead-pan delivery made it funny, but also anachronistic. People don't make jokes based upon skin color ever more. Which is probably for the good. But in some ways political correctness has made humor less biting.

There's no point to this, just rambling at nearly 3 am.

Blues, blues, blues
The annual KZSU Blues Marathon is on the calendar. 30 hours, starting at midnight the night of Christmas and running all day the 26th and into the 17th. As usual, I'll be on the air.

But it looks like I'm on the air for a 12-hour slot, from noon to midnight on the 26th. Our blues director wants me to do a world blues show, a "he said, she said" tag-team show with Husband where he plays all those "she's a cold hearted bitch" songs and I reply with "he's a no good mean mistreater." Then I'll be doing a solo show of what I like to call "bathosphere blues" the blues that are deep down, low down, down and dirty. Then Husband will do a jump blues show. After which, we will both be exhausted.

I always look forward to the Blues Marathon. I really love playing the blues, especially the classic artists: Howlin' Wolf, R.L. Burnside, B.B. King, Lightnin' Hopkins, give me a guitar and a sad story and I'm set. And what better day to play the blues than the day after Christmas, when you have to go on with life knowing you didn't get a pony from Santa.

Photo of the day: Return of the Tree

Well I made it almost an entire year with my photo of the day. Then I got sick, got sicker, got better but still lethargic, then gave up all hope of ever being well again and retired to my fainting couch to have a moan.

I guess I'm better now.

You'll Love This Crap!
The phrase "makes a great gift" in a TV ad marks the guarantee of something that you would never give nor, most emphatically, would you want to receive.

In the past week I have been told that the following makes a great gift:
- A Spongebob Squarepants Chia Pet
- The Clapper (They still make them?)
- An edible arrangement. (A fruit centerpiece that looks like flowers. Oh good, I want fruit that was cut up two days ago and has been sitting on a table for 4 hours.)
- Windshield wipers. (No. Really. Personally I think it marks grounds for divorce if your spouse gives you windshield wipers for Christmas.)
- A Snuggie. (Now don't get me wrong. I know people who own them. But really? Giving one as a gift?)

Meanwhile, on the other end of the spectrum are the Acura commercials. Who gives a new car as a present and can I get this person to adopt me? The other pressing question on these Acura ads is where would you go to get a car-sized bow? Seriously, I've always wondered. There is always a big-assed red bow on the car, sitting beautifully in the driveway of a gorgeous house. (These people have WAY too much money.) I've been shopping for Christmas wrap recently, I didn't see any car-sized bows. Does Acura sell them? Does it come free if you buy a car in December?

The other day I wrapped presents in order to get my gift mailing done early. And, as I sat amid the books and CDs, sweaters and DVDs I thought to myself what a boring gift-giver I am. Not only is no one, not even Husband -- who deserves it, getting a brand new car with a big red bow, but nobody is getting a clay pot shaped like a cartoon character from which you can grow vaguely creepy mystery grass.

My family is so unlucky.

News of the Random
For some reason, this story just made me shake my head. This jerk showed up at a British Remembrance Day parade with a huge and impossible chest full of medals. Experts have looked at the medals, but it doesn't take anything more than eyes to tell this guy is a fake.

I just don't get people who pretend to be military heroes, and there are a lot of such folks out there. But this guy takes the cake. I mean if you wanted to march in the parade and make people thing you were an actual veteran, wouldn't it have made more sense to try and actually carry it off? Pick one or two medals that make sense and blend in. Don't put on so many medals that everyone who sees you is bound to think "this lunatic is an impostor." Did he actually think nobody would question him?

Meanwhile, Back at Target
With me being an unproductive member of society, we're trying to do Christmas on the cheap this year. (By "we" I mean me because I do all the shopping for my family and Husband's family and he just shops for me). I finished up today at that bastion of good taste, Target.

I started Christmas shopping last summer. I always try to be done by Thanksgiving, but this year I started earlier to spread out the Visa bill in less terrifying chunks. We have 12 people to get gifts for, not counting each other, so it can add up unless you shop carefully.

At Target today I bought the last of the gifts (two sweaters and a purse) and then when to the Christmas aisle for gift wrap. They had some quite nice paper, actually, but one weird display of paper obviously meant for children. It had cartoon and movie characters on it. Most of it was typical, but cute. Piglet hanging a wreath on Pooh's door. Santa Mickey giving a bone to a grateful Pluto. And, of course, that most Christmas of all movies -- Star Wars. Yeah, they had paper with Darth Vader, Luke Skywalker (complete with light saber) and the gang pictured as animated characters on red and green squares. Because, you know, nothing says Christmas quite like an intergalactic war.

Also seen and/or overheard at Target:

- A woman with three kids under the age of 5 who is pregnant again. Have these people never heard of birth control?
- A woman telling her boyfriend, "Target is fine for your mom but I expect something from Nordstrom."
- A man with a shopping cart with 3 24-packs of toilet paper and a 25-pound tub of cat litter. Apparently no live thing in his house does anything other than go to the bathroom.
- Two hip-hop wannabes with pants around their thighs buying the Josh Groban Christmas CD
- A Target employee in the bedding section asked what the difference was between "King" and "California King". Her reply: "They're the same, it's just these sheets are only available in California."
- A man who must have weighed 300 pounds wearing a pink sweatshirt with a pony on it in glitter and a 49er cap.
- The woman who ate an entire bag of chips in the store. And not one of those lunch-sized bags. A full-sized bag of Ruffles. I saw when she opened them and began munching and when I saw her in line the bag was empty. She paid for it and asked the clerk to throw the empty bag away.
- A man talking on his cell phone in the menswear section "Is Bob a large or an extra large? He's an extra-extra large? Got I can't believe my sister found someone fatter than she is!"

Ah....life on the A-list.

Anticipating Trauma
Sigh....it's time for Annual Trauma Day. Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) has an appointment on Monday for her annual physical and shots.

And I'm already a nervous wreck because the event will involve Cipher's nemesis The Carrier. Cipher is deadly afraid of the carrier. She knows when she sees it that bad is about to happen. She is about to be snatched from her happy home, put into a cage, thrust into a huge car and then taken to a cold steel table where a strange man will put a thermometer up her butt.

Can't say I blame her for being terrified of the whole process.

She'll handle it fairly well -- better than I, in fact. And once she gets home and has her favorite tuna for dinner she'll settle down and be fine. For but the hour and a half the whole thing takes she's a very uncertain and unhappy kitty and I feel like I'm sending my baby off to war.

Yeah, I'm a crazy cat lady.

The Look
One of the reasons why I think I have the best-paying "job" in the world is "the look."

There is a look that you get from animals (if you're very lucky) of absolute trust. It's this look in their eyes that says "I know you will never hurt me." I get it from Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) right before she falls asleep with her nose touching mine. It says to me that she's willing to completely unguarded around me because she knows that she's safe.

I get it from certain cats at the shelter when they curl into my lap and settle in for a good snuggle. These cats barely know me and yet they are trusting enough to believe that they are in no danger from me. The big high is when you eventually get it from a cat that you've had troubles with. The shy cats or the aggressive ones. The ones that for the first 10 visits hid under the chair or hissed whenever you approached. But with the love and patience of the volunteers, they slowly begin to relax and get used to the attention. They don't hide in the corner. They don't try to use your hand as a chew toy. They come closer, give out with a rusty purr, and rub their cheeks against your hand.

And then, if you're very, very lucky, you one day get "the look." And that makes all the scratches and all the hard work worth it.

I love "the look."

Thanksgiving Update
For those of my friends who know how truly white trash my family is, and how traumatic holidays can be, I give you this year's highlights of hell:

- How is it possible to screw up munchies? Stale crackers and tasteless cheese are the key.
- Much drinking of cheap jug wine. One sister got so hammered she lost all sense of personal space, got hiccups while trying to tell a story and ended up sounding like a comedy routine from the 70's with the cheesy drunk. At this point my mother got off the line of the night by turning to her and asking "how much wine have you had???"
- Husband's ass got grabbed. By one of my sisters.
- He also got a tit-flash from the other sister. He is currently lying down with a cold compress.
- My family making a big deal out of the fact the pumpkin bisque (which I made my request) was called "bisque". Oooh...it's not soup, it's bisque! Then it was pretty much ruined by the fact that it was dished into bowls and left to sit on the table for about 7 minutes while drunk sister dished up the mashed potatoes. Because soup and mashed potatoes must be served together. So we had cold soup and then we had cold mashed potatoes.
- Actually, everything was cold. Potatoes. Veggies. Corn casserole. Gravy.
- We're the only family in the US that doesn't have pie on Thanksgiving. I've been jonesing for apple pie since Finny took pictures of her orgasmic-looking pie. And what did we have for dessert? Chocolate-covered cereal lumps.

And how was your holiday?