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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- The Chinese divers are robots. Only explanation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn, damn, damn.

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

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

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

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

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

Sigh....what are we gonna do?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes there's just nothing to say...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, for something completely different...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sigh...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don't want to live that long
And This is why I think John Cage is a loon. A concert that takes 639 years? Give me an effing break.

A happy story

For years, Husband and I have supported that wonderful organization, Heifer International. This story in the New York Times is a great illustration of how a small action can produce a huge reward. It's a total warm fuzzy.

I've always been terrified of him
Gosh, aren't we ever so enlightened? The US government has just (just!) removed that known terrorist Nelson Mandela from its terror watch list. (Of course I had to find out about this from BBC news. Good lord! Why was he on there in the first place? One of this century's greatest and bravest humanists and we had him blacklisted? I am ashamed.

Photo of the day
Just back from kitten duty. (The first of 3 shifts this week.) This little guy is Kobe. He's the runt of his litter, but he's so darned cute.

Photo of the day
Cipher, The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree (tm). Making it impossible for me to read the paper.

VERY bad poetry
I can't recall where this slim little volume came from; whether I bought it for Husband or he for me. But for sheer crap, nothing beats Very Bad Poetry. Edited by Kathryn & Ross Petras, this book contains the absolutely worst poetry ever written. It's been on our bookshelves for a few years now and I still pick it up now and again and laugh at the awful rhymes, atrocious grammar, and hideous themes.

Since I have nothing else on my brain today, I thought I'd take this opportunity to share a few of my favorites. (Read on, I'll end with my absolute favorite.)

Well, to start with there's this delightful air by that most famous of authors, Anonymous:

Ode to a Ditch

Oh, ditch of all ditches
Death's storehouse of riches,
Where wan disease slumbers mid festoons of slime!
Oh, dark foetid sewer
Where death is the brewer
And ail is the liquor he brews all the time!

Where to start? First off, who the hell would write a poem about a ditch? Secondly....well....who the hell would write a poem about a ditch??? (Plus it goes on for four more stanzas.)

Dear old Anonymous also gives us a lovely piece of dental work:

My Last Tooth

You have gone, old tooth,
Though hard to yield,
You have long stood alone,
Like a stub in the field.

Awfully glad not to have the author read his own work on that one.

Missing body parts seems to be a popular theme with bad poets. Witness Cornelius Whur's contribution:

The Armless Artist

Alas! Alas! the father said,
O what a dispensation!
How can we be by mercy led,
In such a situation?
Be not surprised by my alarms,
The dearest boy is without arms!

Yes, well very nice. Thanks for sharing.

Next we have the unforgivable Bertha Moore, a Victorian "poet" who specialized in (God help us) baby talk. With apologies I share with you the atrocious A Child's Thought:

If I were God, up in the sky.
I'll tell you all vat I would do,
I would not let the babies cry
Because veir tooths was coming froo.
I'd make them born wif tooths all white,
And curly hair upon veir heads
And so vat vey could sit upright
Not always lie down in veir beds.

Makes you want to womit, don't it?

I could go on, and on (and on), but I shall have mercy and merely end with what is, in my opinion, the very pinnacle of poetic poo.

On Visiting Westminster Abbey
By Amanda McKittrick Ros

Holy Moses! Have a look!
Flesh decayed in every nook!
Some rare bits of brain lie here
Mortal loads of beef and beer,
Some of whom are turned to dust,
Every one bids lost to lust.

Personally, I think that "Holy Moses! Have a look! Flesh decayed in every nook!" is as near to perfection as possible when looking for the absolute worst opening line to a poem. Plus it rhymes.

Have a Very Bad Poetry day!

Forget policy, the question is: does he like The Stones?
You know when pop culture as crossed the line and now passes for "real" culture when presidential hopefuls make their iPod playlists public.

The ever- charismatic Barack Obama will be featured in a cover story in the next issue of Rolling Stones. Here's a sneak preview of his carefully thought out musical tastes. No Butthole Surfers. No Pansy Division. Nope, it's Dylan, Coltrane, Stevie Wonder and the Boss.

Ya gotta wonder though. Is this really the music he likes or is this what his PR crew decided would give him the most "cred?" The London Times article points out just how politically varied his choices are. Bruce Springsteen for the hardworking factory dude. Jay-Z (what? No Eminem?) for his street-smart side. Coltrane and Charlie Parker for the hipster crowd. Elton John for baby boomers (and, possibly, the gay crowd). And Stevie Wonder's classic R&B to "celebrate his blackness."

Kinda makes you wonder what "the other guy" would put on his list.

Random waves of grain
It's all about context, isn't it? Check out Requiem for a Day Off.

In a gourmet celebration of summertime fruit. The ever-fascinating Finny shares a looks-freakin-delicious cherry pie recipe.

In the "when will you learn?" category. Those no money down home loans which have left so many would-be homeowners in financial ruin are largely a thing of the past. Except if you go through the government.

Why does Arkansas have such a bad rap? Because of folks like this yabbo His crime? Kidnapping and assaulting his mother because her pet dog killed his pet skunk. (No I'm not kidding.)

Rotating skyscrapers with floors moving independently so that the silhouette is ever changing? Not as far-fetched as it sounds. Only problem is it looks like a sex toy.

Parking in San Francisco? Don't forget your spark plug-resistent windows. A decoy car parked by the SF Police showed a car broken into in 90 seconds. I just want to know how you break a window by throwing a spark plug at it.

My late Christmas present
Oh that Husband. All I did was mention that blank wall space and he goes and buys me a Monet. How much? Just a record $80.4 million. And while the papers may be filled with phrases like "anonymous buyer" and "unknown client" I'm here to tell you that it was, indeed, Husband.

It's called Le Bassin aux Nympheas which is French for "does not go with our sofa." (But one can always buy a new sofa.) I suppose I should say "oh, you shouldn't have. It's too much." But I suppose I'm worth it.

More on the kittens
Just back from kitten duty. This week I'll also be there tomorrow and Wednesday, so it'll be a major dose of cuteness for me. And work.

When there were only a few kittens it was a fairly easy job. Mix up some food, squirt it in their mouths, cuddle. Repeat. Now, however, every nursery is full and the kittens are old enough to tear up their space in between the morning and afternoon shifts. This means nearly every one needs to be cleaned and changed. Old towels out. Old newspapers thrown away. Everything moved, all kittens out. Clean the walls and floors and rebuild their space. New litter box. Fresh water and food. Plus kittens to be fed and played with. It's a surprising amount of work. Anyone who thinks kitten duty is just playing with cute little kits is in for a rude surprise.

One litter is pretty sick, unfortunately. The vet came in while we were doing our shift and said they're getting better (yay!) but it's an uphill road. (Boo!) Today, at least, we had 3 people. On Friday there was only 2 of us and it was a completely exhausting shift.

I love being at the Humane Society and doing something to help the animals. But sometimes it's sad, too. A few weeks ago two of the kittens got sick and had to be put down. And there's a separate area for unsocialized cats, many of them fresh off the streets, and they all look so confused. One bib, beautiful black girl had stitches in her head...she must have been in a fight, poor thing. And then there are all the sick cats and dogs. I just wish all of them could find safe, loving homes.

I look at Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) and am truly grateful for all the love and life she's brought into our home. Husband says she's made our little family complete. I agree (though I am continually tempted to add to our family by adopting one of the kittens. New favorite? A gorgeous little tortie named Ella.) and wish that every family with a little extra space and a little extra love could come to the shelter and make some animal's life.

And now, a vicodin, a hot bath, and then there's one more cat to feed. And she's letting me know that I'm keeping her waiting...

Got a match?
Ron Liddle in the London Times writes of books he'd like to burn. Not in a Nazi way. But in a "I can't believe I read that tripe" way.

Among the authors and titles listed were several I agree with. Robert Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, and Salman Rusdie's Midnight's Children. I would, of course, have to add anything by Saul Bellow (sorry Lurker), Ayn Rand, the drivel that is The Da Vinci Code and, of course, The Beans of Egypt, Maine.

It's interesting the way that books take on a marketing life of their own. So often so-called blockbusters are total crap (again, The Da Vinci Code) that sell like hotcakes because of word of mouth. Conversely, there's a huge range of amazing novels that people ignore because they have the reputation of being difficult to read or, worse, dull. One of the reasons why I adore Husband is his complete open mindedness when it comes to books. I think that his list of top ten would include two books that many people avoid: Moby Dick, and Don Quixote. (As an aside, one of the critics mentioned in Liddle's article lists the Cervantes epic as the worst novel ever written!)

Over the years our book group has read many a tome that I have enjoyed flinging across the room in disgust; But very few would I burn (Bellow, Rusdie, The Beans, and Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow being the exceptions). But then again it's too hot for a fire right now.

In praise of Thelma Ritter
One of the reasons why I love classic movies is because of all the wonderful character actors lurking in the background, thanks to the studio system. And my ultimate all-time most favoritest character actor of all time is the wonderful Thelma Ritter.

In every role she played, no matter how small, she was truly unforgettable. And it takes something to steal a scene from Bette Davis (All About Eve). She was one of those natural talents, both comedic and dramatic, that made every line she delivered seem utterly effortless and completely effective.

The one thing that makes me love her so much is that in all of her movies there's one moment -- one scene or one perfect line -- that you remember long after you see the film. In Pillow Talk it's her drinking Rock Hudson under the table. In the Fred Astaire/Leslie Caron musical Daddy Long Legs it's her nagging her boss into reading his ward's letters. And in the Hitchcock classic Rear Window it's as the bossy nurse telling Jimmy Stewart to stop spying on his neighbors.

She was too average looking to be a leading lady, but her talent was undeniable (6 Academy Award nominations) but her sassy, brassy, bossy wisecracking second banana roles were alone worth the price of admission.

They don't make 'em like that anymore. Pass the popcorn.

What's age got to do with it?
I was looking for some pure, unadulterated trash to read and I remembered an author mentioned by a dear friend (a.k.a. "the Lurker"), so I checked out the writer Jennifer Crusie. The book I picked up is called Anyone But You. It was nicely humorous, had a sexy hero, and had a dog as one of the main characters (a plus in my book). But there was one big problem with the book as far as I'm concerned: the issue keeping the heroine from jumping into the arms of the hero was the fact that he was 10 years younger than she.

Husband is 10 years younger than I and it never, for one moment, occurred to me that he was too young/I was too old. The heroine in the book (Nina) just turned 40 and the hunky young ER doctor downstairs just turned 30. That's pretty much exactly the ages Husband and I were when we started dating. Nina was all freaked out because she had 40-year old breasts and didn't want to date "a child." Am I really weird that this never bothered me?

Perhaps I'm dreadfully immature. Perhaps Husband is unusually mature (he is -- but still delightfully goofy). But I honestly never notice the age difference. Even now the only time we notice it is when we compare notes about childhood cartoons and songs that remind us of high school.

Husband is also of a different race than I. And from a completely different background. I'm the youngest of 5 of a typical mom and dad family, solidly middle class, thoroughly suburban. He was raised by a single mom with very little money in Philadelphia. On paper, it would seem unlikely for us to be friends, let alone spouses.

And yet he is perfect for me. I knew it on our first date when he knew all the words to I'll Be Glad When You're Dead You Rascal, You. That was also the day I found out that he was 10 years younger. And I experienced not one moment of "oh god, he's just a puppy!" Not for one minute did I hesitate to jump with both feet into wherever that crazily wonderful first date was leading.

So I just couldn't understand the heroine's angst about how young he was. It was completely foreign to me. I'm not sure if that makes me odd, well adjusted, or just not concerned about other people's opinion. (It was probably that last one ... I'm notorious for not caring what people think.) But it's also amusing, in a way, because the whole younger woman-older man thing is still more common and, therefore, more acceptable to society. But hey, if society wants to think I'm robbing the cradle, so be it. I don't mind. After all, I'm the one with the Husband who knows the Frankfurter Sandwiches song...

Book of Crap
It's hot. The kind of hot that makes watching National Treasure: Book of Secrets on pay-per-view seem like a good idea. Here's a tip....it's not. I blame the fact that we sat through the whole mess on the fact that we were too stupified by heat to hit the off button. Oh my lord is it bad.

The first National Secrets film we saw in a hotel room in Portland. (We're married, we don't have wild hotel sex anymore.) It was mildly amusing. The sequel was more than mildly annoying. The plot (such as it was) made no bloody sense at all. Especially Ed Harris as the bad guy. He spends a large chunk of the movie shooting at Nicholas Cage. (Oh if only his aim was better!) Then, at the end, he spends a large chunk of time saving Cage, Cage's sidekick, and Cage's love interest. For no apparent reason. Just saving them. Then he tries to kill them again. Again, for no apparent reason.

Cage breaks into the Queen's private study in Buckingham Palace and kidnaps the president, all so he can prove some dead ancestor of his was not part of the Lincoln assassination plot. Seems like a lot of felonies to go through just to show a completely couldn't-care-less world that Uncle Dead Guy was innocent. Oh, and how the hell did they get Helen Mirren to agree to be in this disaster? Do the producers have blackmail photos of her?

My favorite line of the movie was something like: "he's a professional mercenary and a dealer in antiquities." I told Husband I want that on a business card.

The scariest thing about the movie is that it completely set up National Treasure 3: Written by Baboons. If they actually make that film I think they can use it in Gitmo as a way of torturing suspected terrorists. Geneva Convention be damned!

Send my brother to Baghdad
Most people in Iraq are trying to get out. My brother is trying to get in.

I had lunch with him today and he told me of the friendships he'd struck up through the Adopt-a-Unit program. Regardless of your feelings (or mine) about the war, I think it's pretty cool of him to want to go. Actually, I'm jealous. I'd love to go myself but I look awful in a burka.

It was weird having lunch with my brother. In spite of my mother's delusional belief that we're The Waltons I find we're more like The Osbornes. (Or some other famously dysfunctional family. The Medicis? The Borgias?) OK, we've never poisoned anyone (and I can hear all those jokes about my mother's cooking) but we're still not all love and Hallmark. The brother I lunched with was estranged from our family for about 20 years. Nobody ever told me why. Now he's back. He's a pretty cool guy and I'm proud of him for being fire chief and all the other good stuff he does. It's just kind of strange to sit down with a relative stranger who is, in reality, a strange relative. (No, he's not strange I was just going for the interesting parallel construction.) I think I like him, though, which is good. I just hope we get to know each other better.

Sometimes I envy people who are really close with their family. I know The Lurker counts her sister as probably her best friend. And my friend H comes from a truly remarkable family that genuinely love and like each other. In my family....uh....not so much. Despite being the youngest of five I feel, in many ways, like an only child. An only child who kinda raised herself. By the time I came around (as one of those notorious Catholic accidents), my folks were pretty much over with being parents and spent a large chunk of my childhood going off on their own for weekend trips. My eldest sister and my eternally crabby grandmother would watch over me, but mostly I read and took care of myself. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't neglected -- just kinda not noticed.

It worked out in my favor in many ways. I'm more independent and stronger than my sisters and it made me really enjoy my own company. But when my four siblings get together it's like listening to an entire different family talk. I don't share their memories. I don't have the same stories in my history. They recall names that are unfamiliar to me and reminisce about times before I was born. On the flip side I have memories that no one shares. It makes for a sense of detachment when I'm around them. I feel duty but I'm not always sure I feel love. (This is beginning to sound like the summary of a Chick Lit book. I see myself in a cartoon sketch, on a pink cover, walking a white poodle.)

I'm gonna bunny hop my way across America!

A 61-year old British grandmother has just spent the past 4 1/2 years running 20,000 around the world. Her reason? To "raise awareness about cancer after the death of her husband from prostate cancer." OK, noble. But I gotta ask....why???

What prompts people to do things like this? What weird gene kicks in that makes biking across Finland or circumnavigating New Zealand in an inflatable canoe seem like a smart thing to do? I mean when my best friend died of AIDS my first thought was not "I'm gonna publicize the AIDS epidemic by riding a yak across South America."

Do gesture like this really inspire people? Would you read this news story and think, "you know, I haven't had a mammogram this year." I don't. Mostly I read about such events and just shake my head. Perhaps I'm just not adventurous enough. I'm sure this woman met all sorts of interesting people (including some crazy guy with a blood-stained axe) and no doubt has a lifetime of stories to tell. ("Every hear about the time I was running across Siberia and all my fillings froze and cracked?") But this really does not appeal to me.

When my friend died, what I did do was volunteer at an AIDS organization where I helped train others to be caregivers. I thought that was a practical way of taking my pain and doing something positive with it. And while I know for certain that I did have an effect on others, should I wonder if I would have had more of an effect with the yak and South America? I was only able to help dozens of people -- the running lady was on The Martha Stewart Show. Well I can't compete with Martha. But again, does being sandwiched between a recipe for Foofyberry Tartlets and a feature on how to turn old cashmere sweaters into pot holders really make that big a difference in raising awareness about cancer?

And again, how much awareness do we need? Is there anyone who hasn't heard of cancer? (OK, maybe those natives in the Amazon they just terrorized with a helicopter.) Is there any woman who doesn't know she needs to get a mammogram? Any man who doesn't know about prostrate screening? Anybody who doesn't know that smoking is bad for you? So what, exactly, am I supposed to learn from a 61-year old woman who just ran around the world?

The only thing I've learned is that she's in much better shape than I.

Today is a wonderful day
I can't stop thinking about all the incredibly happy same-sex couples who have finally been allowed to get married in California. Those two handsome men are my best friend, Steve, and his partner, Stephen. Madly in love and never allowed to marry. It's too late for them. AIDS stole them from us more than 10 years ago. But they're looking down from gay heaven with two megawatt smiles on their faces.

I will always mourn the fact that I never got to be Steve's "Best Lady" when he married Stephen. I wanted to hold the ring, to stand by his side as he and the love of his life took their vows. So there's a bittersweet air to my celebration today. But then I look at all those wonderful photos in the paper and watch all that love on the news, and I cannot help but smile.

Ignoring all the brain-dead zealots who are protesting this "travesty of marriage," I find myself actually proud of my home state today. They have made so many people happy. So many families who for years have been bonded by heart are now finally, finally, bonded by law. Yes, there are still battles to be fought. And who knows what the conservative right will make of this (something awful, no doubt). But for now this is a historic day for all of us who are in favor of love, in whatever form it takes.

In many ways this is so monumental that it's hard to give it the awe it deserves. Marriage. For same-sex couples! It's something we hets take for granted. Hell, Pamela Anderson has been married 17 times in the past two weeks. But for two men or two women who love each other madly and who want to build a life together, it's always been a question of denial. I'm sorry, but Domestic Parter is separate and unequal. Nothing less that full marital equality is what's deserved of the thousands of same-sex couples in the US. And i hope this is the first step towards giving them the right to love.

Oh, and one more thing. I am fucking sick to death of all those conservative yahoos who say same-sex marriages aren't "real" because marriage exists solely for the procreation of children. To which I can only say: bullshit. Husband and I are straight. Husband and I are married. Husband and I have no intention of having children. We got married not so we could reproduce, but because we love each other and wanted to spend forever together. Does the fact that we're not going to have children completely invalidate a marriage? Should all intentionally childless straight couples be denied marriage? What about those wonderful couples you read about who get married in their 70s? They are obviously not going to be cranking out the kidlets, so why should we allow them to get married?

And I hate the phrase "starting a family." Husband and I started a family the day we got married. You don't need to add to the surplus population to consider yourself a family.

The best legs in the business
The beautiful, glorious, glamorous Cyd Charisse has died at the age of 86. I always thought she was stunning and, oh my god, those legs! In both Singing in the Rain and The Band Wagon she has moments of sheer jaw-dropping sexiness. (Husband will back me up on this.) But beyond that was her grace as a dancer and her underrated acting abilities. She was definitely of the old school of Hollywood and I am truly saddened by this news.

Love triumphs!
I cannot say anything more than I AM SO HAPPY!!!

Oh if only my beloved friends The Steves were around to see this. They would have been first in line. Oh frabjous day!

In praise of free speech
According to this BBC news story arrests of bloggers who dared criticize their governments or who exposed human rights abuses are at an all-time high. Which makes one (or at least it should make one) take the time to celebrate free speech.

Those of us who had the good fortune to have been born in America don't think about free speech much. We don't have to think twice before writing "George Bush is a poopy head" on our blogs. Just think for a moment of how amazing that is. We have the freedom to make statements that openly criticize the President, his entire administration, and government in general and don't have to be afraid of a knock on the door in the dead of night. However, with the so-called "Patriot Act" there are probably some things it's best not to say.

I'm not a real political person (to my shame.) Yeah, I hate the Bush administration. I think Gitmo is a crime. I think the war in Iraq is wrong. I think the past 8 years have done serious damage to the US, both internally and to our international reputation. But I hate that in the name of national security, some people have seen fit to tamper with our essential rights to free speech. I guess all I can do at the moment it continue to be a member of the ACLU and keep celebrating freedom by writing "our President is an idiot" with a big ol' smile on my face.

Great minds...
Today Husband and I celebrated 5 years of marriage. The only thing missing, according to Husband, was the plastic deer. (We got married at Ye Olde Wedding Chapel in Tahoe and they had plastic deer and bunnies in the garden. Very romantic.)

We didn't really do much, since poor Husband hasn't had a real day off since the Hoover administration. But we did go to our favorite used record store and our favorite book store. We exchanged cards, but not gifts, this morning and decided that while at the record store we would each pick up a present for the other.

You know how as some couples age they begin to look alike? Husband and I are just morphing into one taste in music.

While wandering through the World bins I picked up a classic CD by the delightfully named Sol Hoopi. He was a Hawaiian performer (singer and ukulele) in the 30s-50s. But I put it down because -- well, actually, I'm not sure why I put it down.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, Husband picked up, and put down, some classic Ray Charles. So what did I buy for Husband's gift? Classic Ray Charles. And what was his gift to me? Sol Hoopi. Talk about weird coincidence. We each bought for the other something we had considered getting for ourself. I guess it's meant to be.

Then it was off to the bookstore where, for the first time in my life, I didn't buy anything! Really, I think someone should check my pulse. It wasn't that I didn't see anything I wanted it was just that everything I wanted was in hardcover. Really big, very heavy hardcover. I find that the older I get, the less likely I am to purchase hardcover books for the simmple reason that you can't read a hardcover comfortably in the bathtub. (My favorite place to read.) But there are a few exceptions. I just bout Jacqueline Winspear's latest "Maisie Dobbs" novel in hardcover because I just can't wait for it to come out in paperback. I'll also buy anything by Elizabeth Peters/Barbara Michaels in hardcover. And, of course, Danielle Steele. (Yes, I'm lying about that last one. Ewww.)

CD Pick of the Week: Tango Negro Trio
Cool and feisty Latin jazz and tangos from noted Argentinian singer/pianist/composer Juan Carlos Caceres. It’s sharp and sophisticated, extremely well played and with some delicious vocals as well with a husky, lived-in male voice.

Gay people buy dryers
When I moved into this house (good lord, 14 years ago!?!?) there was an ancient dryer in the garage. Ancient, but functioning. Two weeks ago Old Man Dryer started making a noise like there was a rabid guinea pig stuck in the works (there wasn't -- don't call PETA). So it was time to replace him/it.

Off Husband and I go to OSH. There was a sale. They were white and boring. We bought one. But as he and I compared capacity and tried to figure out what various knobs did, it hit me: this is what marriage really is.

Forget moonlight and roses and happily ever after. Marriage is spending Sunday afternoon shopping for appliances. I mean really, does anything make you feel more married than buying something as dull and as necessary as a dryer?

Lately the California papers have been full of news about same-sex marriages. (About bloody time!) And, of course, those brain-dead zealots who use religion as an excuse to try and force their beliefs on an exhausted from fighting about it world, have been yammering on non-stop about: one man, one woman -- that's marriage. To which I say: that's bullshit.

Marriage has nothing to do with gender and everything to do with purchasing large appliances. It's not about sex; about who puts what where. It's about paying your bills, taking out the trash, negotiating rights for the remote control, and dealing with the fact that dryers (and ovens, sofas, coffee tables, etc.) wear out and need to be replaced.

Gays and lesbians are not fighting for the right to legalize the joining of their naughty bits. They are fighting for the right to go to Home Depot and order a sink. They want to have the same options as heterosexuals when it comes to buying a home, dealing with paperwork for their kids, and having visiting rights in the emergency room. They do want to get married, they want to be married. They want to say "I'd much rather go see the new Indiana Jones movie, but we really need to buy a new fridge this afternoon."

So, brain-dead zealot, get your mind out of the bedroom. Gay people are going to have gay sex whether you like it or not -- whether we make it legal or not. All they want is to be able to stay home on a Friday and wait for the delivery guys.

Spitting in church
For art historians (you can't see me but I'm raising my hand) there are various places of pilgrimage that are just this side of church for us. The Prado. The Met. The Hermitage. The Uffizi. And, our version of St. Peter's, The Louvre.

The headline of this BBC story tells it all: Duran Duran make Louvre history.

Oh good. The one thing lacking from the glorious architecture and atmosphere of the Louvre has been 80s pop has-beens singing in the background. I'm sure contemplating the wonder of Caravaggio's Death of the Virgin is made infinitely more meaningful when one can hear Hungry Like a Wolf.

In addition to this musical sacrilege, they go on record as wishing harm to one of the world's most famous work of art: "Singer Simon Le Bon said he hoped the show had "put a smile on the Mona Lisa's face". Good lord, I hope not.

When life disappoints
Two of my favorite bloggers have recently written great posts about being disappointed. Husband writes of his dissatisfaction with the Discovery channel's documentary about the space race, When We Left Earth: The NASA Missions.

Meanwhile, the ever-hilarious Finny details her long-anticipated visit to Sunset Magazine's open house.

For me, my most recent disappointment was PBS's Mystery, usually one of my favorite TV shows. But this past season they redid some of Agatha Christie's wonderful Miss Marple stories to star the delightful Geraldine McEwan. She was, as usual, great. The adaptations, however, were dreadful.

Mind you, they had a lot to live up to. The definitive Miss Marple stories have already been done, in my opinion, in the series starring Joan Hickson, pitch-perfect as the spinster sleuth. Those productions were stylish, fabulously acted and directed, and faithful to the novels. The latest round of stories, however, featured plot devices that would have made Christie blush.

One cannot help but wonder why they would take a character as beloved and well known as Miss Jane Marple and then screw big time with the books. Not only is this guaranteed to piss off diehard Christie fans (such as I) but it's hardly likely to draw new fans. If this was one's first introduction to Agatha Christie, you'd get the impression that she couldn't write a decent plot to save her life. They were awful. Plus they stupidly redid some of the ones that were done previously with Hickson. I have all the Joan Hickson Marples on DVD and can happily watch them repeatedly. The new ones I could barely sit through once.

There were characters that never appeared in the original novels. In fact one threw in two additional Christie characters, the charming Tommy and Tuppence. The problem was that T&T weren't in that particular novel and instead of the stylish and playful couple of the 20s and 30s, they were old, tired, 50-ish, and Tuppance was an alcoholic. What a way to ruin the unwritten future of some beloved characters!

Some of the changes were just baffling. Why change the name of one character from "Charles" to "James?" Is there an embargo against the name Charles? Why take a very-much-in-love newlywed couple (in the book and the Hickson verson) and change it to an engaged woman, her never-to-appear-on-screen fiance, and a guy who's just a pal but ends up getting the girl in the end? What exactly does that add to the story?

I think part of the charm of Christie is the coziness of the stories. Sure each one is about a murder....but it's a tidy murder. In a tidy society. But the latest versions decided that the one thing lacking from Christie is a sense of grittiness. (And Christie is SO the anti-gritty!) So they added suicidal main characters, closeted homosexuals, and even a horrid back story which gave Miss Marple a married lover in WWI.

OK, so Husband's dissatisfaction has the benediction of scientific superiority. And Finny at least got out in the world. Me? I'm just bitchy because my mystery wasn't cozy enough.

Sigh...even my rants are lame.

I'm a goner
Yesterday I returned to kitten duty after two weeks off due to ill health. And I have a new favorite kitten. Behold the adorable "Butch." (So named in honor of Husband's uncle.)

Truly an amazingly cute kitty. And SO tremendously sweet. It was all I could do to put him back into his nursery after I fed and played with him. The returning of said kitten was made even more difficult by the fact that he callously and with malice aforethought fell asleep in my arm.




I mean how do you resist that? I completely want to adopt this cutie. Speaking of which, the first litters of kittens that were put up for adoption were all adopted on the first day! Wonderful news! Having loved and fed these little ones it makes me so happy to know they're going to good homes. But oh, I do SO want to adopt little Butch.

Shut up and drink the Kool-aid
Today Saint Steve of Jobs gave his Sermon on the Mount at the Apple Developer's Conference. Gee, and I missed it. How will I endure the shame? (For the record, I refuse to link to any news item about this.)

As a proud ex-Apple employee (for the record, I quit -- I was not fired) I cannot tell you how frickin' happy I am to not have had to listen to his drivel again. Every keynote speech he gives is simulcast to the Apple "campus" where hoards of badge-wearing, Kool-aid drinking, brain-washed zealots cheer every lame joke, every new announcement. It's completely terrifying, really. From an anthropological viewpoint it's actually a fascinating example in the herd mentality. For me, it was a great excuse for people watching as I'd stare, bored out of my non-brainwashed-brain, at the rapt expression on the faces of the masses.

I was completely not an Apple person. I didn't think the iPhone was equivalent to the Second Coming. I did, however, think it was an awful place to work. Bad environment. Complete lack of creative freedom. And a ridiculous waste of talent. They'd hire wonderfully inventive, totally creative minds and then refuse to let them have any individual thought whatsoever. Only a few people there were allowed to have ideas. The rest of the drones were simply there to do the work that other people came up with. It didn't matter if your idea was better -- if you weren't on the hip kids bench, you were basically equivalent to doggy poopy.

But the keynotes were especially painful because they were sad. Tragically so. You see, people at Apple actually think this stuff matters. They lose sleep over it. Hell, they lose marriages over it. Completely removed from reality, they believe getting the next iGizmo out the door is the most important item on the universe's agenda. Forget global warming. AIDS. Starvation. War. All of that pales in comparison to making sure we don't make the world wait one more minute for the next product.

Don't get me wrong. I'm a dedicated Apple user. I'm typing this on my PowerBook G4. Husband has his own Apple laptop, and we have an Apple desktop at home. We also have several iPods between us. But people, it's just technology! It's not a religion! And I am so, so, so glad to be out of there. And free to not have to watch another self-servingly smug keynote e very again.

Pass the popcorn
Husband and I are both lovers of old movies. The TCM channel might just be our favorite channel, and we're never happier than when we're watching Bogart or Stewart, Garbo or Stanwick. This past evening we watched a minor bit of fluff called Love Crazy starring William Powell and the beautiful Myrna Loy.

At one point in the lunacy, Husband turned to me and said "I love the studio system." Yeah, me too. The classic days of contract players at MGM or RKO resulted in some of the most amazing films of all time. And allowed them to pair together male and female leads who actually had (gasp!) that illusive quality of chemistry. Of course most people know Powell and Loy from the Thin Man series of films the did together. But as Love Crazy illustrates, those weren't the only paring from these two.

Of course Myrna Loy (who I've always thought was stunning) was such an incredible talent she'd be able to act as if she had chemistry with a brick, but when matched with the wise-cracking, whip-crack comedic timing of William Powell, it was magic. Love Crazy makes very little sense, but it's great fun. And, as with all movies made during the era of the studio system, everyone from the elevator boy (Elisha Cook, Jr.) to the overbearing mother-in-law (the stern prow of Florence Bates) was shining. I think that's what I miss most about the studio system. Back then the bit players were as funny or as memorable as the stars. OK, maybe you need to be an old movie nut like I (or Husband) to know them by name, but any movie that has Thelma Ritter or Eric Blore in it is worth seeing. And I love watching those films and saying "hey, that cop is the hotel bellboy from that Cary Grant movie we saw last week."

Modern movies just don't have that quality of having been made in the small town of Hollywood. With global film studios, location shots, the demise of the studio system and the rise of the superstar, it's no doubt gone for good. Thankfully, though, there are DVDs and the Turner Channel to remind us of just how glorious the glory days were. And I'm proud to say that I will always rather watch a James Stewart film than anything with George Clooney.