Eavesdropping
Overheard at the shelter. For those of you not from around here there's a wildfire in a place called Bonny Doon, in the Santa Cruz mountains, not too far from here:
Guy 1: Have you heard about the fire in Bonny Doon?
Guy 2: No, what about it?
Guy 1: Um...well, that's it really. There's a fire in Bonny Doon.
Guy 2: (Obviously full of concern): Do you think I should grow a beard?
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Photo of the day: Ground Cover
Oh the secrets scurrying amid the leaves and stones. Coffee-colored salamanders with zipper-fast speed moving too fast for a cheap camera to focus. Small mice chattering around mouths full of fallen berries. Tiny brown birds looking suspiciously inconspicuous poking amid the leavings for worms and other delicacies. One man's fallen brush is, to another, an afternoon buffet. Champagne extra, of course.
Oh the secrets scurrying amid the leaves and stones. Coffee-colored salamanders with zipper-fast speed moving too fast for a cheap camera to focus. Small mice chattering around mouths full of fallen berries. Tiny brown birds looking suspiciously inconspicuous poking amid the leavings for worms and other delicacies. One man's fallen brush is, to another, an afternoon buffet. Champagne extra, of course.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Snow White and the 7 Cats
There are currently seven cats in our backyard. I tried to photograph all of them but two are in the shade and I just couldn't get a good shot. But I did catch five of them, including all three brown tabbies.
Two brown tabbies and the Siamese-y one.
One of the orange tabbies and the third brown tabby.
There are currently seven cats in our backyard. I tried to photograph all of them but two are in the shade and I just couldn't get a good shot. But I did catch five of them, including all three brown tabbies.
Two brown tabbies and the Siamese-y one.
One of the orange tabbies and the third brown tabby.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
The Talky Crew
I went to cat duty today. I never go on Tuesday and I think I now know why; it's the talky day. Very nice people who won't shut up. Volunteers, not customers, which is what made it so strange. All I wanted to do was hang with the kitties and give them extra love and it turned into Chatfest 2009.
There was the volunteer who kept asking me about Lola* (*All the cat names have been changed to protect the innocent.) Lola is a "red cat" who can be a real handful. She takes all your attention. So having some woman asking you, in one breath (take a big breath here and read this out loud): "How long have you been a volunteer? Do you work only with red cats? Have you worked with Lola before? How do you know what to expect? Do you shave or wax your bikini line?" (OK, I made the last one up.) But she wanted to know all about working with Lola. Which is fine....just not when I'm working withLola. Ask me later. But distracting me when I'm working with a cat known for biting the limbs off unsuspecting volunteers is not the way to endear yourself to me. To make matters worse, her constant chatter freaked out poor Lola, who then took it out on me. I had to cut the visit short, without taking her out of her cage, because she was getting so stressed from two people looking at her.
Then there was Mr. Nice Guy. Who really was nice but who also came into the rooms when I was doing one-on-one with the cats to give them some two-on-one, which sounds dirty but really wasn't. I'm not sure why he didn't just take his own cats out, but this volunteer apparently just wanted to hang and chat so he kept coming in where I was. Odd. Um, hello, there are dozens of cats that need attention so why are you ignoring them to be with me and the cat that I'm socializing? He came in when I was with Milo*, one of my favorite cats, and completely ruined my rhythm. With Milo there's a ritual. First play, then catnip, finally pets and combing. But when Mr. Nice Guy came in during catnip time Milo didn't know what to do? Do I go back to playing? Is it petting time? Who is this man and why is he here? I didn't want to be rude, but I was wondering why he didn't go get his own cat. (And before you think "hitting on you" he was about 70 and talked a lot about his wife.)
Finally there was the volunteer who told me WAY too much about herself. I mean sure, make polite small talk. Say hi. Discuss the cats. But for the love of cheese do not tell me about your divorce, your shoulder operation, your much younger boyfriend, your cat's digestive problems, and why you think your church choir director is having an affair. I mean I don't know your name and now I know how often Mr. Fluffy poops. Thanks, really needed to know that.
For me the oddest one of the day wasn't one of the volunteer's who kept trying to make conversation -- it was the looker. She kept looking through the windows of the room where I was socializing cats. When I went into one of the cat condos, she looked. When I was socializing a cat in her cage because all the rooms were busy, she looked. It was kind of freaking me out? Was my fly open? Did she think I was hot? Did she think I was going to try some weird voodoo experiment with a cat, a chicken, a black candle and some bastardized Latin?
I think I'll stick to my regular cat socializing days. Tuesdays are too weird.
I went to cat duty today. I never go on Tuesday and I think I now know why; it's the talky day. Very nice people who won't shut up. Volunteers, not customers, which is what made it so strange. All I wanted to do was hang with the kitties and give them extra love and it turned into Chatfest 2009.
There was the volunteer who kept asking me about Lola* (*All the cat names have been changed to protect the innocent.) Lola is a "red cat" who can be a real handful. She takes all your attention. So having some woman asking you, in one breath (take a big breath here and read this out loud): "How long have you been a volunteer? Do you work only with red cats? Have you worked with Lola before? How do you know what to expect? Do you shave or wax your bikini line?" (OK, I made the last one up.) But she wanted to know all about working with Lola. Which is fine....just not when I'm working withLola. Ask me later. But distracting me when I'm working with a cat known for biting the limbs off unsuspecting volunteers is not the way to endear yourself to me. To make matters worse, her constant chatter freaked out poor Lola, who then took it out on me. I had to cut the visit short, without taking her out of her cage, because she was getting so stressed from two people looking at her.
Then there was Mr. Nice Guy. Who really was nice but who also came into the rooms when I was doing one-on-one with the cats to give them some two-on-one, which sounds dirty but really wasn't. I'm not sure why he didn't just take his own cats out, but this volunteer apparently just wanted to hang and chat so he kept coming in where I was. Odd. Um, hello, there are dozens of cats that need attention so why are you ignoring them to be with me and the cat that I'm socializing? He came in when I was with Milo*, one of my favorite cats, and completely ruined my rhythm. With Milo there's a ritual. First play, then catnip, finally pets and combing. But when Mr. Nice Guy came in during catnip time Milo didn't know what to do? Do I go back to playing? Is it petting time? Who is this man and why is he here? I didn't want to be rude, but I was wondering why he didn't go get his own cat. (And before you think "hitting on you" he was about 70 and talked a lot about his wife.)
Finally there was the volunteer who told me WAY too much about herself. I mean sure, make polite small talk. Say hi. Discuss the cats. But for the love of cheese do not tell me about your divorce, your shoulder operation, your much younger boyfriend, your cat's digestive problems, and why you think your church choir director is having an affair. I mean I don't know your name and now I know how often Mr. Fluffy poops. Thanks, really needed to know that.
For me the oddest one of the day wasn't one of the volunteer's who kept trying to make conversation -- it was the looker. She kept looking through the windows of the room where I was socializing cats. When I went into one of the cat condos, she looked. When I was socializing a cat in her cage because all the rooms were busy, she looked. It was kind of freaking me out? Was my fly open? Did she think I was hot? Did she think I was going to try some weird voodoo experiment with a cat, a chicken, a black candle and some bastardized Latin?
I think I'll stick to my regular cat socializing days. Tuesdays are too weird.
Photos of the day: Cuteness X 2
Two charmers from the kitten nursery. These two won't be around long once they're up for adoption.
I'm skipping my radio show tonight so I can pull some extra cat duty today. The shelter is desperately short of cat TLC-ers right now (I think people are on vacation) and there are so many kitties who need the attention so I'm heading off to spend a few hours doing what I love.
Two charmers from the kitten nursery. These two won't be around long once they're up for adoption.
I'm skipping my radio show tonight so I can pull some extra cat duty today. The shelter is desperately short of cat TLC-ers right now (I think people are on vacation) and there are so many kitties who need the attention so I'm heading off to spend a few hours doing what I love.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Today in the Kitten Nursery
The usual suspects of cuteness. This guy was extra snuggly, in spite of the heat. More pictures on Flickr.
The usual suspects of cuteness. This guy was extra snuggly, in spite of the heat. More pictures on Flickr.
Sunday, August 09, 2009
The Parade Continues
The neighborhood cats continue to confound and congregate in our yard. We recently discovered that the one brown tabby we kept seeing was actually two brown tabbies. I have just discovered that they are, in fact, three brown tabbies. I tried to take a photo of the three of them, but our own little brown tabby got in the way.
I have also found that the black cat is two black cats. That makes:
3 brown tabbies
2 black cats
2 orange cats
1 gray cat
2 calico cats
2 black and white cats
1 siamese-y looking cat
That regularly hang out in our yard. Apparently our yard smells like free tuna.
The neighborhood cats continue to confound and congregate in our yard. We recently discovered that the one brown tabby we kept seeing was actually two brown tabbies. I have just discovered that they are, in fact, three brown tabbies. I tried to take a photo of the three of them, but our own little brown tabby got in the way.
I have also found that the black cat is two black cats. That makes:
3 brown tabbies
2 black cats
2 orange cats
1 gray cat
2 calico cats
2 black and white cats
1 siamese-y looking cat
That regularly hang out in our yard. Apparently our yard smells like free tuna.
Scenes from Silver Creek: Johnnie’s
Johnnie’s was a family restaurant owned by a friend of my father. Johnnie Cannazaro and my dad grew up a few blocks away from each other; beat each other at baseball beat each other up over girls, eventually served in WWII together. They enlisted together, went to basic together and then ended up in different parts of the war. Afterwards there was some talk of going into business together, but they could never agree on what. My dad wanted to open a garage, but for Johnnie, there was only the idea of opening a restaurant and serving the recipes of his Italian grandmother.
Johnnie’s was the kind of place where you were served massive platters of antipasto before you even ordered, and where they actually had candles in old Chianti bottles. There was no menu, just a blackboard where Miriam, Johnnie’s wife, wrote the day’s offerings in pink chalk over drawings of misshapen bowls of soup and loaves of bread.
We didn’t often go out to dinner, as it was too expensive for our large family, but when we went, it was to Johnnie’s. As a child, I loved going there because I imagined it was what a celebrity felt like. We’d be greeted with hugs, shown to the best table, and generally fussed over. They’d bring me a Shirley Temple with extra cherries, which I hated but never said because I was afraid if I confessed my detestation for cherries the drinks would stop. And after dinner all us kids got free dessert, a scoop of vanilla ice cream or rainbow sherbet in a cold, silver cup.
It was at Johnnie’s where I first heard the phrase “your money is no good here.” We’d gone there for my mother’s birthday and when my dad went to pay, that’s what Johnnie said. As a kid, I was terrified. What was wrong with my dad’s money? Was it counterfeit? How would we pay for dinner? Would we be arrested? Hell, what did I know; I’d never gotten a free meal before and had no clue what he meant.
My brother Ronnie got a job there as a busboy for two summers in high school, and I remember Johnnie catering my sister Kathleen’s wedding. I also recall my mother sending me out on cold winter nights to pick up take-out containers of Johnnie’s minestrone to which he’s always add (to my immense pleasure) a warm, foil-wrapped plate of garlic bread.
Johnnie retired when I was in high school. He and Miriam had no children and, therefore, no one to leave the restaurant to. But after 30 years of feeding the town, the Cannizaro’s decided they wanted to relax. The last night at Johnnie’s party was full of great food and good memories, and my very first glass of wine. With a “don’t tell your mother” Johnnie passed me a plastic wine glass with Chianti in it and I lifted a toast with everyone else when my father said “to good times.”
I cried when it became a southern café that served pretty good fried chicken and pretty awful biscuits. And to this day I miss that minestrone and garlic bread.
Johnnie’s was a family restaurant owned by a friend of my father. Johnnie Cannazaro and my dad grew up a few blocks away from each other; beat each other at baseball beat each other up over girls, eventually served in WWII together. They enlisted together, went to basic together and then ended up in different parts of the war. Afterwards there was some talk of going into business together, but they could never agree on what. My dad wanted to open a garage, but for Johnnie, there was only the idea of opening a restaurant and serving the recipes of his Italian grandmother.
Johnnie’s was the kind of place where you were served massive platters of antipasto before you even ordered, and where they actually had candles in old Chianti bottles. There was no menu, just a blackboard where Miriam, Johnnie’s wife, wrote the day’s offerings in pink chalk over drawings of misshapen bowls of soup and loaves of bread.
We didn’t often go out to dinner, as it was too expensive for our large family, but when we went, it was to Johnnie’s. As a child, I loved going there because I imagined it was what a celebrity felt like. We’d be greeted with hugs, shown to the best table, and generally fussed over. They’d bring me a Shirley Temple with extra cherries, which I hated but never said because I was afraid if I confessed my detestation for cherries the drinks would stop. And after dinner all us kids got free dessert, a scoop of vanilla ice cream or rainbow sherbet in a cold, silver cup.
It was at Johnnie’s where I first heard the phrase “your money is no good here.” We’d gone there for my mother’s birthday and when my dad went to pay, that’s what Johnnie said. As a kid, I was terrified. What was wrong with my dad’s money? Was it counterfeit? How would we pay for dinner? Would we be arrested? Hell, what did I know; I’d never gotten a free meal before and had no clue what he meant.
My brother Ronnie got a job there as a busboy for two summers in high school, and I remember Johnnie catering my sister Kathleen’s wedding. I also recall my mother sending me out on cold winter nights to pick up take-out containers of Johnnie’s minestrone to which he’s always add (to my immense pleasure) a warm, foil-wrapped plate of garlic bread.
Johnnie retired when I was in high school. He and Miriam had no children and, therefore, no one to leave the restaurant to. But after 30 years of feeding the town, the Cannizaro’s decided they wanted to relax. The last night at Johnnie’s party was full of great food and good memories, and my very first glass of wine. With a “don’t tell your mother” Johnnie passed me a plastic wine glass with Chianti in it and I lifted a toast with everyone else when my father said “to good times.”
I cried when it became a southern café that served pretty good fried chicken and pretty awful biscuits. And to this day I miss that minestrone and garlic bread.
Saturday, August 08, 2009
Friday, August 07, 2009
Eavesdropping
Overheard at the grocery store
Mother to child: Potato chips are not a vegetable.
.....
Overheard at the shelter 1
Man 1 (in a hideous blue and red Hawaiian shirt): That cat keeps staring at me.
Man 2: Maybe he's afraid of your shirt.
.....
Overheard at the shelter 2
Little girl to father: Why can't I touch the kitties?
Father: Because they might bite you.
Girl (pointing to me): They aren't biting her.
Father: She works here.
Girl: Doesn't she taste good?
Overheard at the grocery store
Mother to child: Potato chips are not a vegetable.
.....
Overheard at the shelter 1
Man 1 (in a hideous blue and red Hawaiian shirt): That cat keeps staring at me.
Man 2: Maybe he's afraid of your shirt.
.....
Overheard at the shelter 2
Little girl to father: Why can't I touch the kitties?
Father: Because they might bite you.
Girl (pointing to me): They aren't biting her.
Father: She works here.
Girl: Doesn't she taste good?
Reality
In the sheer joy that comes from being a volunteer at an animal shelter it is easy to forget the harsh reality that not all animals make it. I had a reminder of that yesterday and it upset me. It made for the only day where I didn't come home with a smile, but it caused me to wake up this morning more determined to keep doing what I'm doing.
I put in an extra hour today because there are just not enough volunteers to give the cats the time, attention, and love they deserve. Every time I told myself "OK, last cat of the day" I'd spy some new little face peering hopefully through the bars of their cage and I'd take him or her out for a play. I'm going to try doing longer shifts from now on because they need it so much. And, quite frankly, so do I.
Yesterday also reinforced my respect for everyone who works or volunteers with shelter animals throughout the world. These beautiful, needy, helpless animals need our care, love, and attention. They need people with big hearts (and open checkbooks) to make sure they are healthy and happy or to decide, sadly, that they are suffering and their pain should be ended.
When I walk through the shelter and see so many beautiful, loving critters who just want someone to love, it breaks my heart. And every time I see someone walking out the door with a happy dog on a leash, or a purring kitty in a box, it unbreaks my heart a little. Through no fault of their own these animals have come to us with no other resource, and we do our best to make sure their stay with us is full of love and care until they find their forever homes. My contribution to this is but a tiny part of the whole, and I live in admiration of those who do this day in and out, for years. They are my heroes and I want to be just like them.
This is, as I have said, the best thing I've ever done.
In the sheer joy that comes from being a volunteer at an animal shelter it is easy to forget the harsh reality that not all animals make it. I had a reminder of that yesterday and it upset me. It made for the only day where I didn't come home with a smile, but it caused me to wake up this morning more determined to keep doing what I'm doing.
I put in an extra hour today because there are just not enough volunteers to give the cats the time, attention, and love they deserve. Every time I told myself "OK, last cat of the day" I'd spy some new little face peering hopefully through the bars of their cage and I'd take him or her out for a play. I'm going to try doing longer shifts from now on because they need it so much. And, quite frankly, so do I.
Yesterday also reinforced my respect for everyone who works or volunteers with shelter animals throughout the world. These beautiful, needy, helpless animals need our care, love, and attention. They need people with big hearts (and open checkbooks) to make sure they are healthy and happy or to decide, sadly, that they are suffering and their pain should be ended.
When I walk through the shelter and see so many beautiful, loving critters who just want someone to love, it breaks my heart. And every time I see someone walking out the door with a happy dog on a leash, or a purring kitty in a box, it unbreaks my heart a little. Through no fault of their own these animals have come to us with no other resource, and we do our best to make sure their stay with us is full of love and care until they find their forever homes. My contribution to this is but a tiny part of the whole, and I live in admiration of those who do this day in and out, for years. They are my heroes and I want to be just like them.
This is, as I have said, the best thing I've ever done.
Thursday, August 06, 2009
Scenes from Silver Creek: Games
Summertime in Silver Creek meant playing until the early evening; taking advantage of the late sunlight to play one more round of freeze tag or hide-and-seek. The telephone pole in front of the Carter’s house was always home base, no matter what the game, and anything past the Rubison’s house was out of bounds.
We actually had an ice cream truck that patrolled the neighborhood and we would happily break for fudgesicles or root beer popsicles. Occasionally Mrs. Murchison would call us all down to her house and she’d slice open a homegrown watermelon. She’d put it in a cooler in the afternoon, covered with ice. By the evening it was teeth-tingly cold and full of juice that ran in pink rivers down our chins.
Sometimes we’d sit on her porch and spit seeds onto a newspaper and she’d tell us stories about her travels around the world. Other days we’d gather at someone’s house, the windows and doors wide open, and we’d lie on our stomachs in front of the TV and watch Wild Wild West or the Wonderful World of Disney.
On really hot days we’d run through the sprinklers, shrieking as the cold water hit our pale, overheated skin, and all the kids and local dogs would turn up dripping wet at some poor mother’s house, begging for towels and juice.
Frequently we would make up games. Or, rather, I would. I was usually the instigator in the making up games game. The others were more the follow the rules type. But I liked coming up with my own fun. I think my favorite invented game was “Movie Star Tag.” If you were “it” you had to tag someone. They had 10 seconds to scream out the name of a favorite movie star. If they did, you were still “it.” If they didn’t, they became “it.” I loved that game but often got in trouble because I was the only one of the group who watched old movies. They’d tag me and I’d call out “Clark Gable” and there would be howls of protests that he wasn’t a famous movie star because they’d never heard of him.
We also had a mass war once, worthy of Tolstoy. It was Barbie vs. the world. All the girls got their Barbies and Kens and Midges and Barbie campers and such and would hold the hedge between the Carter’s house and the Hilliard’s place. All the boys, and I, mustered our G.I. Joes and little green army men and our armored division of Tonka trucks and attacked at the weak point, by the zinnias.
It was epic. Shannon Carey cried when her favorite Barbie became a casualty of war, having its head bit off by the McConnel’s dog, Barney. Our side took Valerie Bloch’s little brother, Terence, hostage. We were going to ransom him for brownies but gave him back when he told us he could throw up on demand and threatened to prove it on us. Mikey McConnel’s Tonka dump truck did some serious renovation to a Malibu Barbie beach house and I’m pretty sure a rogue Delta Force G.I. Joe molested someone’s Barbie.
We’d play until the sun went down or until someone’s mother yelled from the front porch to come home. The day of the great war it was a draw, with the official armistice declared by my mother who informed all of us it was past time we all went home and had a bath.
Summertime in Silver Creek meant playing until the early evening; taking advantage of the late sunlight to play one more round of freeze tag or hide-and-seek. The telephone pole in front of the Carter’s house was always home base, no matter what the game, and anything past the Rubison’s house was out of bounds.
We actually had an ice cream truck that patrolled the neighborhood and we would happily break for fudgesicles or root beer popsicles. Occasionally Mrs. Murchison would call us all down to her house and she’d slice open a homegrown watermelon. She’d put it in a cooler in the afternoon, covered with ice. By the evening it was teeth-tingly cold and full of juice that ran in pink rivers down our chins.
Sometimes we’d sit on her porch and spit seeds onto a newspaper and she’d tell us stories about her travels around the world. Other days we’d gather at someone’s house, the windows and doors wide open, and we’d lie on our stomachs in front of the TV and watch Wild Wild West or the Wonderful World of Disney.
On really hot days we’d run through the sprinklers, shrieking as the cold water hit our pale, overheated skin, and all the kids and local dogs would turn up dripping wet at some poor mother’s house, begging for towels and juice.
Frequently we would make up games. Or, rather, I would. I was usually the instigator in the making up games game. The others were more the follow the rules type. But I liked coming up with my own fun. I think my favorite invented game was “Movie Star Tag.” If you were “it” you had to tag someone. They had 10 seconds to scream out the name of a favorite movie star. If they did, you were still “it.” If they didn’t, they became “it.” I loved that game but often got in trouble because I was the only one of the group who watched old movies. They’d tag me and I’d call out “Clark Gable” and there would be howls of protests that he wasn’t a famous movie star because they’d never heard of him.
We also had a mass war once, worthy of Tolstoy. It was Barbie vs. the world. All the girls got their Barbies and Kens and Midges and Barbie campers and such and would hold the hedge between the Carter’s house and the Hilliard’s place. All the boys, and I, mustered our G.I. Joes and little green army men and our armored division of Tonka trucks and attacked at the weak point, by the zinnias.
It was epic. Shannon Carey cried when her favorite Barbie became a casualty of war, having its head bit off by the McConnel’s dog, Barney. Our side took Valerie Bloch’s little brother, Terence, hostage. We were going to ransom him for brownies but gave him back when he told us he could throw up on demand and threatened to prove it on us. Mikey McConnel’s Tonka dump truck did some serious renovation to a Malibu Barbie beach house and I’m pretty sure a rogue Delta Force G.I. Joe molested someone’s Barbie.
We’d play until the sun went down or until someone’s mother yelled from the front porch to come home. The day of the great war it was a draw, with the official armistice declared by my mother who informed all of us it was past time we all went home and had a bath.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
I Didn't Just Knock Over My Food
Just an extra dose of cuteness as I stumble my way through the night.
My One Superstition
I am not a superstitious person.
I have walked under mirrors. I don't freak out if I spill salt. And, as i have noted in annoying detail, I love cats of all colors. So a black cat crossing my path makes me smile, not cringe.
But there is one superstition I will not break. I will not watch the movie Jaws. Because when I do, people die.
Not the hapless people in the movie, but real people. In my life.
I was watching Jaws when I found out my father had died. I was watching it at the exact moment my grandmother died. I tried to watch it again and received a phone call that a dear friend had AIDS. So I don't watch it no more. Nope. Never. I've learned my lesson the hard way. Now I get nervous if I even see an ad for it. If I'm channel surfing and land on it, even for a few seconds, I'm convinced someone I love will break a leg or catch pneumonia. I'm even a bit cautious around the Discovery Channel's annual Shark Week programming. It's this week and while I have watched one program I urge all those I love (you know who you are) to be extra careful this week.
Anybody else have any weird taboos or superstitions? Please tell me I'm not alone in my lunacy.
I am not a superstitious person.
I have walked under mirrors. I don't freak out if I spill salt. And, as i have noted in annoying detail, I love cats of all colors. So a black cat crossing my path makes me smile, not cringe.
But there is one superstition I will not break. I will not watch the movie Jaws. Because when I do, people die.
Not the hapless people in the movie, but real people. In my life.
I was watching Jaws when I found out my father had died. I was watching it at the exact moment my grandmother died. I tried to watch it again and received a phone call that a dear friend had AIDS. So I don't watch it no more. Nope. Never. I've learned my lesson the hard way. Now I get nervous if I even see an ad for it. If I'm channel surfing and land on it, even for a few seconds, I'm convinced someone I love will break a leg or catch pneumonia. I'm even a bit cautious around the Discovery Channel's annual Shark Week programming. It's this week and while I have watched one program I urge all those I love (you know who you are) to be extra careful this week.
Anybody else have any weird taboos or superstitions? Please tell me I'm not alone in my lunacy.
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